A FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION; THE SAFE, REMARKABLE HAVEN OF LITERATURE
GREAT WRITERS WHO SURVIVED GREAT EVENTS
I WAS IN A SORT OF HALF SLUMBER, HALF DREAMLAND RAMBLE, TUMBLING HEAD OVER HEELS, DOWN THROUGH A SPARKLING SPRING MEADOW. IT WAS EARLY THIS MORNING, WAKING INITIALLY, AFTER SOMEONE HAD ALLOWED OUR CAT "CHUTNEY," INTO MY ROOM. THERE'S NOTHING LIKE A KNEADING CAT, ON YOUR CHEST, TO INTERRUPT A PLEASANT DREAM. THE DREAM? BEYOND MY FOLLY IN THE MEADOW, IT WAS ABOUT AN OLD BOOK. NOT A RUN-OF-THE-MILL OLD BOOK EITHER! IT WAS IN REGARDS TO A 1709 GERMAN BIBLE, I ONCE OWNED, BACK IN THE EARLY PART OF THIS NEW CENTURY. IT WAS A JEWELL BACK THEN, IN WHAT I CONSIDERED A PRETTY FAIR COLLECTION OF ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS.
IT WAS THE SECOND OF TWO VOLUMES, AND IT HAD BEEN RESTORED, AFTER BEING BADLY DAMAGED IN A FIRE, HAVING A TIGHTLY STRETCHED GOAT SKIN, THAT, BECAUSE OF ITS DRUM-SKIN SEAL, WAS ACTUALLY CORRUPTING THE BOARDS, GIVING A SLIGHTLY BOWED APPEARANCE. I PURCHASED THE BOOK FROM AN IRISH-CANADIAN WOMAN, WHO USED TO LIVE IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHO AS A MATTER OF PROFESSION, HAD WORKED FOR MANY YEARS AS A BOOKBINDER AT "HUNTER-ROSE," A COMPANY WELL KNOWN IN THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY, AND ESPECIALLY FOR THEIR QUALITY HAND CRAFTED BINDINGS.
SHE WAS WORKING, IN SEMI-RETIREMENT, AT THIS POINT, AS A FREELANCE BOOKBINDER, BASICALLY TO PAY FOR GROCERIES. I NEEDED A BOOK RE-BOUND, AND I BROUGHT IT TO HER ALICE STREET APARTMENT. WHEN I RETURNED SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, SHE HAD COFFEE READY FOR ME, AND WE HAD A NICE VISIT, AND OF COURSE, A CHAT ABOUT THE WORLD OF OLD BOOKS, OF WHICH SHE HAD PERSONALLY BOUND AND RE-STORED MANY THOUSANDS. SHE STUDIED ME PRETTY CLOSELY, AS IF SHE HAD A QUESTION TO POSE, BUT WAS A LITTLE UNCERTAIN ABOUT MY GENUINE INTEREST IN OLD BOOKS. THE MORE WE TALKED ABOUT OUR MUTUAL INTEREST IN OLD BOOKS, SHE FINALLY TURNED AROUND TO A BOOK SHELF, BEHIND HER CHAIR, AND PULLED DOWN A THICK TEXT, IN A BLOND SKIN COVER, AND HANDED IT ACROSS THE TABLE, SO I COULD HAVE LOOK AT WHAT SHE CONSIDERED A GEM. IT WAS. I WAS IN AWE, HAVING AN EARLY 1700'S BOOK CRADLED IN MY HANDS. THIS BOOK, WAS PUBLISHED BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR IN AMERICA AND A HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE THE NAPOLEONIC WARS. IT WAS PUBLISHED ONLY A HALF CENTURY AFTER THE JESUITS WERE MURDERED IN HURONIA BY THE IROQUOIS, AND THE MISSIONS BURNED THE GROUND. I WAS THINKING OF ALL THE HISTORY IN EUROPE, THIS BOOK HAD SURVIVED THROUGH, TO ARRIVE IN CANADA AND ONTO ANOTHER NEW CENTURY. TODAY THAT BOOK IS 305 YEARS OLD. I CONTENTED MYSELF, RUBBING MY FINGERS OVER THE PAGES, ENJOYING THE SENSATION OF THE IMPRINTED LETTERS, WHICH HAD BEEN SET BY HAND, LETTER BY LETTER, IN THE PRINTER'S SHOP.
"A WOMAN CAME TO ME ONE DAY, WITH THREE BOOKS SHE HAD RECEIVED AS HEIRLOOM PIECES, FROM HER PARENTS' ESTATE," THE BOOKBINDER SAID TO ME, AS I BEGAN LOOKING THROUGH THE PAGES OF THE OLD BOOK. "YOU SEE, THEY NEEDED TO BE RESTORED, AND WHEN THE WOMAN CAME BACK, SHE ONLY HAD ENOUGH MONEY, TO PAY FOR TWO OF THE THREE BOOKS. SO SHE LEFT THIS BIBLE BEHIND, AND SAID SHE WOULD COME BACK FOR IT, BUT NEVER DID. THAT WAS TWO YEARS AGO, AND SHE STILL OWES ME FIFTY DOLLARS FOR THE WORK." SHE TOOK A SIP OF COFFEE, SET IT DOWN CAREFULLY ON THE TABLE, NOT WANTING TO SPILL A DROP AROUND THE OTHER BOOKS SITTING ON THE SURFACE. "IF YOU LIKE BOOKS WITH A STORY ATTACHED, THIS IS ONE OF THEM," SHE SAID. "CAN YOU SMELL IT." WELL, IT SMELLED AS IF IT HAD BEEN IN A FIRE. IT WAS AS IF IT HAD BEEN KEPT NEAR A FIREPLACE FOR CENTURIES. "THE STORY OF THIS BIBLE, IS THAT IT WAS A LUCKY SURVIVOR OF A BOOK BURNING, SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE; BUT I DON'T THINK IT WAS GERMANY." SHE SAID, THE WOMAN WHO HAD BROUGHT THE BOOK IN FOR REBINDING, CLAIMED THAT IT HAD BELONGED TO HER GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDPARENTS, AND IT HAD BEEN SAVED FROM A COMMUNITY-ORDERED BOOK BURNING, BY AN ACT OF COVERT BRAVERY; THAT RESCUER WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE GRAND PARENTS, WHO WAS ONLY ABLE TO SAVE ONE OF TWO VOLUMES OF THE 1709 BIBLE. I WAS IN AWE. BUT AS I DON'T READ GERMAN, (EVEN THOUGH IT IS MY ANCESTRY) AND I BARELY HAD ENOUGH MONEY TO PAY FOR THE REFURBISHING OF MY OWN BOOK, I STRUGGLED A LITTLE BIT WITH THE PURCHASE. AS IS MY TRAIT, I DID, AFTER EXCESSIVE PONDERING, PURCHASE THE HISTORIC BIBLE. IT WAS A SMALL PART OF A MUCH BIGGER HISTORY, AND I HATED THE FACT THAT TO MAKE MONEY, IT EVENTUALLY HAD TO BE SOLD, TO PAY DOWN THE MONTHLY MORTGAGE. IT WENT TO A BOOK COLLECTOR, WHO HAD A SMALL NUMBER OF GERMAN BIBLES FROM THAT VINTAGE. I FELT IT HAD TO GO TO A GOOD AND APPRECIATIVE HOME, AFTER ALL IT HAD BEEN THROUGH IN ITS PRINTED LIFE.
HAVING MY COFFEE THIS MORNING, I GOT THINKING ABOUT THE OLD BIBLE, AND A LITERARY PASSAGE WRITTEN BY WASHINGTON IRVING, THAT ALWAYS REMINDED ME, OF MY BRIEF OWNERSHIP OF THE BOOK. AS I AM ALWAYS IMMERSED, THESE DAYS, AND IN SOME INSTANCES, SWALLOWED WHOLE, BY OLD BOOKS, AND STILL AS EAGER TO BUY TEXTS WITH PROVENANCE ATTACHED, I HAVE INCLUDED A PORTION OF IRVING'S EDITORIAL ON OLD BOOKS, TOLD THROUGH HIS CHARACTER TRAVELLER, MR. CRAYON, VIA THE WELL KNOWN, "SKETCH BOOK," CIRCA 1819.
I BEGAN MY DAY, SILENTLY STANDING SENTRY ON OUR LANE, IN THE LIGHT SNOW OF EARLY SPRING, WATCHING THE COUNTRY CROWS OF SOUTH MUSKOKA, DARTING ACROSS THE BRIGHT SKY; THEN HAVING SETTLED THEIR TERRITORIAL ADVANTAGE, CAWING AND COMPLAINING FROM THE HUGE BOWED BRANCHES OF THE TALL PINES, DIRECTLY ACROSS FROM BIRCH HOLLOW.
I SAT IN THE CAR FOR A FEW MINUTES, BEFORE HEADING OUT TO WORK, LOOKING OUT OVER THE SNOWY, BLUSTERY, FIRST DAY OF SPRING, LISTENING TO VIVALDI'S "FOUR SEASONS," PLAYING AT THAT MOMENT ON CBC RADIO 2. I REMEMBER LODGING IN A CHARMING COUNTRY INN, IN PENNSYLVANIA, BACK IN THE MID 1990'S, AND SITTING BY THE FIRE IN THEIR GREAT HALL, LISTENING TO THIS SAME SOOTHING MUSIC, WHICH HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY REFUGE OF SUDDEN CALM, IN THE SANCTUARY OF A PRECIOUS MOMENT. I WAS STILL LISTENING TO THIS DELIGHTFUL PIECE, WHEN I, FOR NO REASON IN PARTICULAR, OPENED THE "SKETCH BOOK," THAT I WAS BRINGING TO THE STUDIO THIS MORNING. THE PASSAGE BELOW CAUGHT MY ATTENTION. IT SEEMED TO FIT THE SCENE AND THE MUSIC, AND THE DRIFTS OF SNOW SPIRALLING OVER THE BOG.
"I KNOW THAT ALL BENEATH THE MOON DECAYS, AND WHAT BY MORTALS IN THIS WORLD IS BROUGHT, IN TIME'S GREAT PERIODS SHALL RETURN TO NOUGHT, I KNOW THAT ALL THE MUSES' HEAVENLY LAYES, WITH TOILS OF THE SPRITE WHICH ARE SO DEARLY BOUGHT, AS IDLE SOUNDS OF FEW OR NONE ARE SOUGHT, THAT THERE IS NOTHING LIGHTER THAN MERE PRAISE." (DRUMMOND WRITING ABOUT HAWTHORNDEN)
"THERE ARE CERTAIN HALF-DREAMING MOODS OF MIND IN WHICH WE NATURALLY STEAL AWAY FROM NOISE AND GLARE, AND SEEK SOME QUIET HAUNT, WHERE WE MAY INDULGE OUR REVERIES, AND BUILD OUR AIR CASTLES UNDISTURBED. IN SUCH A MOOD, I WAS LOITERING ABOUT THE OLD GRAY CLOISTERS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY, ENJOYING THAT LUXURY OF WANDERING THOUGHT, WHICH ONE IS APT TO DIGNIFY WITH THE NAME OF REFLECTION; WHEN SUDDENLY AN IRRUPTION OF MADCAP BOYS FROM WESTMINSTER SCHOOL, PLAYING AT FOOT-BALL, BROKE IN UPON THE MONASTIC STILLNESS OF THE PLACE, MAKING THE VAULTED PASSAGES AND MOULDERING TOMBS ECHO WITH THEIR MERRIMENT," WROTE WASHINGTON IRVING'S CHARACTER TRAVELLER, GEOFFREY CRAYON GENT., IN HIS CIRCA 1819 TEXT OF "THE SKETCH BOOK."
"I SOUGHT TO TAKE REFUGE FROM THE NOISE BY PENETRATING STILL DEEPER INTO THE SOLITUDES OF THE PILE, AND APPLIED TO ONE OF THE VERGERS FOR ADMISSION TO THE LIBRARY. HE CONDUCTED ME THROUGH A PORTAL RICH WITH THE CRUMBLING SCULPTURE OF FORMER AGES, WHICH OPENED UPON A GLOOMY PASSAGE LEADING TO THE CHAPTER-HOUSE, AND THE CHAMBER IN WHICH DOOMSDAY BOOK IS DEPOSITED. JUST WITHIN THE PASSAGE IS A SMALL DOOR ON THE LEFT. TO THIS THE VERGER APPLIED A KEY; IT WAS DOUBLE LOCKED, AND OPENED WITH SOME DIFFICULTY, AS IF SELDOM USED. WE NOW ASCENDED A DARK NARROW STAIRCASE, AND PASSING THROUGH A SECOND DOOR, ENTERED THE LIBRARY."
IRVING, WRITING THROUGH HIS TRAVELLER, MR. CRAYON, REPORTS, "I FOUND MYSELF IN A LOFTY ANTIQUE HALL, THE ROOF SUPPORTED BY MASSIVE JOISTS OF OLD ENGLISH OAK. IT WAS SOBERLY LIGHTED BY A ROW OF GOTHIC WINDOWS AT A CONSIDERABLE HEIGHT FROM THE FLOOR, AND WHICH APPARENTLY OPENED UPON THE ROOFS OF THE CLOISTERS. AN ANCIENT PICTURE OF SOME REVEREND DIGNITARY OF THE CHURCH, IN HIS ROBES, HUNG OVER THE FIRE-PLACE. AROUND THE HALL AND IN A SMALL GALLERY WERE THE BOOKS, ARRANGED IN CARVED OAKEN CASES. THEY CONSISTED PRINCIPALLY OF OLD POLEMICAL WRITERS, AND WERE MUCH MORE WORN BY TIME THAN USE. IN THE CENTRE OF THE LIBRARY WAS A SOLITARY TABLE, WITH TWO OR THREE BOOKS ON IT, AN INKSTAND WITHOUT INK, AND A FEW PENS PARCHED BY LONG DISUSE. THE PLACE SEEMED FITTED BY QUIET STUDY AND PROFOUND MEDITATION. IT WAS BURIED DEEP AMONG THE THE MASSIVE WALLS OF THE ABBEY, AND SHUT UP FROM THE TUMULT OF THE WORLD. I COULD ONLY HEAR NOW AND THEN, THE SHOUTS OF THE SCHOOLBOYS FAINTLY SWELLING FROM THE CLOISTERS, AND THE SOUND OF A BELL TOLLING FOR PRAYERS THAT ECHOED SOBERLY ALONG THE ROOFS OF THE ABBEY. BY DEGREES THE SHOUTS OF MERRIMENT GREW FAINTER AND FAINTER, AND AT LENGTH DIED AWAY. THE BELL CEASED TO TOLL AND A PROFOUND SILENCE REIGNED THROUGH THE DUSKY HALL."
ONE OF MY FAVORITE PASSAGES, IN "THE SKETCH BOOK," HAS TO DO WITH THE GREAT BOOKS FOUND IN THIS ROOM OF STRANGE SOLITUDE. HE WRITES OF THEM, AS FOLLOWS: "I HAD TAKEN DOWN, A LITTLE THICK QUARTO, CURIOUSLY BOUND IN PARCHMENT, WITH BRASS CLASPS, AND SEATED MYSELF AT THE TABLE IN A VENERABLE ELBOW CHAIR. INSTEAD OF READING, HOWEVER, I WAS BEGUILED BY THE SOLEMN MONASTIC AIR AND LIFELESS QUIET OF THE PLACE, INTO A TRAIN OF MUSING. AS I LOOKED AROUND UPON THE OLD VOLUMES IN THEIR MOULDERING COVERS, THUS RANGED ON THE SHELVES, AND APPARENTLY NEVER DISTURBED IN THEIR REPOSE, I COULD NOT BUT CONSIDER THE LIBRARY A KIND OF LITERARY CATACOMB, WHERE AUTHORS LIKE MUMMIES, ARE PIOUSLY ENTOMBED, AND LEFT TO BLACKEN AND MOULDER IN DUSTY OBLIVION.
"HOW MUCH, THOUGHT I, HAS EACH OF THESE VOLUMES, NOW THRUST ASIDE WITH SUCH INDIFFERENCE, COST SOME ACHING HEAD - HOW MANY SLEEPLESS NIGHTS! HOW HAVE THEIR AUTHORS BURIED THEMSELVES IN THE SOLITUDE OF CELLS AND CLOISTERS; SHUT THEMSELVES UP FROM THE FACE OF MAN, AND THE STILL MORE BLESSED FACE OF NATURE; AND DEVOTED THEMSELVES TO PAINFUL RESEARCH AND INTENSE REFLECTION! AND ALL FOR WHAT? TO OCCUPY AN INCH OF DUSTY SHELF - TO HAVE THE TITLES OF THEIR WORKS READ NOW AND THEN IN A FUTURE AGE, BY SOME DROWSY CHURCHMAN, OR CASUAL STRAGGLER, LIKE MYSELF; AND IN ANOTHER AGE TO BE LOST EVEN TO REMEMBRANCE. SUCH IS THE AMOUNT OF THIS BOASTED IMMORTALITY. A MERE TEMPORARY RUMOR, A LOCAL SOUND; LIKE THE TONE OF THAT BELL WHICH HAS JUST TOLLED AMONG THOSE TOWERS, FILLING THE EAR FOR A MOMENT - LINGERING TRANSIENTLY IN ECHO - AND THEN PASSING AWAY, LIKE A THING THAT WAS NOT!"
IRVING WAS NOT THE FIRST TO SENSE THE EDITORIAL OPINION OF A LONG FORGOTTEN BOOK. IT SPOKE TO HIM. WITHOUT BEING AUDIBLE TO OTHERS. HE DEFINES IT THUSLY, IN THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH: "WHILE I SAT HALF-MURMURING, HALF MEDITATING THESE UNPROFITABLE SPECULATIONS WITH MY HEAD RESTING ON MY HAND. I WAS THRUMMING WITH THE OTHER HAND UPON THE QUARTO, UNTIL I ACCIDENTALLY LOOSENED THE CLASPS; WHEN, TO MY UTTER ASTONISHMENT, THE LITTLE BOOK GAVE TWO OR THREE YAWNS, LIKE ONE AWAKING FROM A DEEP SLEEP; THEN A HUSKY HEM, AND AT LENGTH BEGAN TO TALK. AT FIRST ITS VOICE WAS VERY HOARSE AND BROKEN, BEING MUCH TROUBLED BY A COBWEB WHICH SOME STUDIOUS SPIDER, HAD WOVEN-ACROSS IT; AND HAVING PROBABLY CONTRACTED A COLD FROM LONG EXPOSURE TO THE CHILLS AND DAMPS OF THE ABBEY. IN A SHORT TIME, HOWEVER, IT BECAME MORE DISTINCT, AND I SOON FOUND IT AN EXCEEDINGLY FLUENT CONVERSABLE LITTLE TOME. ITS LANGUAGE, TO BE SURE, WAS RATHER QUAINT AND OBSOLETE, AND ITS PRONUNCIATION WHAT IN THE PRESENT DAY WOULD BE DEEMED BARBAROUS; BUT I SHALL ENDEAVOUR, AS FAR AS I AM ABLE, TO RENDER IT IN MODERN PARLANCE.
"IT BEGAN WITH RAILINGS ABOUT THE NEGLECT OF THE WORLD - ABOUT MERIT BEING SUFFERED TO LANGUISH IN OBSCURITY, AND OTHER SUCH COMMONPLACE TOPICS OF LITERARY REPINING, AND COMPLAINED BITTERLY THAT IT HAD NOT BEEN OPENED FOR MORE THAN TWO CENTURIES; THAT THE DEAN ONLY LOOKED NOW AND THEN INTO THE LIBRARY, SOMETIMES TOOK DOWN A VOLUME OR TWO, TRIFLED WITH THEM FOR A FEW MOMENTS, AND THEN RETURNED THEM TO THEIR SHELVES."
IRVING WRITES, "WHAT A PLAGUE DO THEY MEAN,' SAID THE LITTLE QUARTO, WHICH I BEGAN TO PERCEIVE WAS SOMEWHAT CHOLERIC; 'WHAT A PLAGUE DO THEY MEAN BY KEEPING SEVERAL THOUSAND VOLUMES OF US SHUT UP HERE, AND WATCHED BY A SET OF OLD VERGERS, LIKE SO MANY BEAUTIES IN A HAREM, MERELY TO BE LOOKED AT NOW AND THEN BY THE DEAN? BOOKS WERE WRITTEN TO GIVE PLEASURE AND TO BE ENJOYED; AND I WOULD HAVE A RULE PASSED THAT THE DEAN SHOULD PAY EACH OF US A VISIT, AT LEAST ONCE A YEAR; OR IF HE IS NOT EQUAL TO THE TASK, LET THEM ONCE IN A WHILE TURN LOOSE THAT WHOLE SCHOOL OF WESTMINSTER AMONG US, THAT AT ANY RATE, WE MAY NOW AND THEN HAVE AN AIRING."
THE BOOK SAYS TO THE GOOD MR. CRAYON, IN SUMMATION, "SIR, I WAS WRITTEN FOR ALL THE WORLD, NOT FOR THE BOOKWORMS OF THE ABBEY. I WAS INTENDED TO CIRCULATE FROM HAND TO HAND, LIKE OTHER CONTEMPORARY WORKS; BUT HERE I HAVE BEEN CLASPED UP FOR MORE THAN TWO CENTURIES, AND MIGHT HAVE SILENTLY FALLEN A PREY TO THESE WORMS, THAT ARE PLAYING THE VERY VENGEANCE WITH MY INTESTINES, IF YOU HAD NOT BY CHANCE, GIVEN ME AN OPPORTUNITY OF UTTERING, A FEW LAST WORDS BEFORE I GO TO PIECES."
AFTER A LENGTHY DISCUSSION BETWEEN CRAYON AND THE LITTLE BOOK, HE WRITES, "I WAS JUST ABOUT TO LAUNCH FORTH INTO A EULOGIUMS, UPON THE POETS OF THE DAY, WHEN THE SUDDEN OPENING OF THE DOOR CAUSED ME TO TURN MY HEAD. IT WAS THE VERGER, WHO CAME TO INFORM ME IT WAS TIME TO CLOSE THE LIBRARY. I SOUGHT TO HAVE A PARTING WORD WITH THE QUARTO, BUT THE WORTHY LITTLE TOME WAS SILENT; THE CLASPS WERE CLOSED; AND IT LOOKED PERFECTLY UNCONSCIOUS OF ALL THAT HAD PASSED. I HAVE BEEN TO THE LIBRARY TWO OR THREE TIMES SINCE, AND HAVE ENDEAVOURED TO DRAW IT INTO FURTHER CONVERSATION, BUT IN VAIN; AND WHETHER ALL THIS RAMBLING COLLOQUY ACTUALLY TOOK PLACE, OR WHETHER IT WAS ANOTHER OF THESE ODD DAY-DREAMS TO WHICH I AM SUBJECT. I HAVE NEVER, TO THIS MOMENT, BEEN ABLE TO DISCOVER."
I HAVE SO KINDLY BEEN ENVELOPED BY BOOKS AS WELL.
THE COMFORTS OF GOOD BOOKS FOR THE HEART AND SOUL
Every now and again, here at the shop, I will enter into some discussion with a patron, about shared interests in old books. Occasionally, I will run into someone of my own ilk, who as a die-hard bibliophile, filled his or her home with a plethora of vintage texts, on a variety of shelves and cases, almost totally compromised by examples of printed history. On the other hand, and sometimes just as frequently, I will meet others who think the world would be a better place without books. They remind me how many trees have paid the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of printing yet another book. Better to read books electronically, they argue, to save the environment for resident critters instead. I get their point, but because I sell older books, many printed a century or more before electronic readers arrived on the market, I offer a belated apology for the handiwork of our forefathers, and mothers, in the writing and print industry. I will never see these books as any less than treasures, although, of course, there are many in this number I will never read, or for personal reason, don't approve of in my reading rotation. It doesn't mean I won't offer them to sale, for those who do approve of their content.
I've engaged myself in many lengthy debates about old books, with major collectors, and authors, and there are lots of areas to agree and disagree, that may not seem obvious points of discussion. But most of us agree, that there is something powerfully uplifting, being in the company of these books; whether in an archives, university or public library, or in a home collection. There is a sensation of history and great insight, just sitting amongst these relics of scholarly and literary enterprise. I am happiest at home and work, being positioned somewhere in the vicinity of these mountains of books. I recall my old book collecting friend, Dave Brown, asking permission to sleep down in my archives, because he felt at home, with the smell of old paper wafting about the room. Dave had over a hundred thousand books in his own collection, when he died, just before the turn of this present century. Even though the couch was too short and narrow for this large chap, Suzanne couldn't persuade him to sleep anywhere else in the house, better suited to slumber-time comforts. He needed the books, because he was perpetually homesick for his Hamilton abode, but this is the only way he'd subtly admit it! Knowing he was within days of death, he asked to be taken to one of his favorite old book shops, as a sort of last request, where he found one he didn't presently own. "You never know when you're going to need an old book," he said to his friend. It was the last book he acquired. I've used his quote to describe my own relationship with books, and print, to commemorate my almost forty years being a bibliophile.
Thanks so much for joining me today. It was a snowy one, for the arrival of spring. But there's no denying, we have crossed the line between seasons, so the best is yet to come.
A LITTLE HELP FROM THE OTHER SIDE - NEVER HURTS
ROAD TRIP FINDS MAKE ME WANT TO TRAVEL MORE OFTEN - ACTUALLY, ALL THE TIME
I WON'T TRY TO SELL YOU ON RELIGION. I AM NOT A REGULAR CHURCH GOER, AND MY GRANDFATHER STANLEY GAVE UP ON CHURCHES ALTOGETHER, AFTER HE BUILT ONE IN TORONTO, AND GOT STIFFED FOR HIS MONEY, BY THE UNCHRISTIAN CONGREGATION. YUP, HE SWORE-OFF CHURCHES FROM THE DEPRESSION YEARS ONWARD. IT DIDN'T MEAN HE WASN'T SPIRITUAL, AND I KNOW HE BELIEVED IN GOD. GOD MUST HAVE BELIEVED IN OLD STAN, BECAUSE HE BROUGHT HIM HOME, ON THE FRONT STEPS OF A CHURCH IN ST. PETERSBURG, FLORIDA. SO THERE'S A WEE BIT OF BLARNEY AND IRONY IN THE CURRIE / JACKSON CLAN; SO WHEN I WRITE ABOUT THE AFTER-LIFE, AND THE INFLUENCES OF SPIRITS MINGLING SOCIALLY, AMONGST US, IT'S NOT TO TRY AND INFLUENCE YOU INTO BELIEVING THERE ARE REAL-LIFE, EVERY DAY, STRANGE INTRUSIONS BETWEEN THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED, AND THOSE WHO STILL WANDER THE EARTH, IN LIFE.
YOU CAN ALWAYS CONJURE UP MY "MUSKOKA AND ALGONQUIN GHOSTS" BLOG, IF YOU'RE INTERESTED IN OUR FAMILY'S ONGOING ENCOUNTERS WITH THE SPIRIT-KIND. AS FOR THE STORY I'M ABOUT TO RELATE, IT IS JUST ONE OF HUNDREDS OF PARANORMAL ENCOUNTERS, WE ROUTINELY EXPERIENCE OUT ON THE ANTIQUE HUNT. YOU DON'T HAVE TO BELIEVE IN GHOSTS. I DON'T GET MESSAGES FROM GHOSTS. I GET THEM FROM THOSE WHO HAVE CROSSED OVER. SPIRITS NOT APPARITIONS. I'VE BEEN COMMUNICATING WITH AN ARRAY OF FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHO HAVE PASSED, FOR DECADES NOW, AND I'M NONE THE WORSE FOR WEAR. AND I HAVEN'T BEEN HAULED OFF FOR THERAPY EITHER. I TOOK MEDIUM JOHN EDWARD'S ADVICE MANY YEARS BACK, AND BEGAN VALIDATING THOSE WHO HAD CROSSED OVER……AND REGULARLY ACKNOWLEDGING THEIR PERCEIVED SIGNS TO US, THAT THEY STILL HAVE THE ABILITY TO COMMUNICATE…..WHEN IT'S NECESSARY, TO THEM, TO PASS ON A MESSAGE. THIS IS WHEN FOR EXAMPLE, THEY WISH TO REMIND YOU OF SOMETHING IMPORTANT IN LIFE, AND INSPIRE YOU, BY VAROUS MEANS, TO RECOLLECT EVENTS AND OCCURRENCES OF THE PAST. THERE'S NOTHING SCARY ABOUT IT. NOTHING WORTHY OF EVEN A SHIVER. THE SIGNS ARE SUBTLE BUT INTERESTING. YOU'VE PROBABLY HAD LOTS YOU'VE MISSED, ESPECIALLY IF YOU DENY SUCH EVENTS TO OCCUR IN THE FIRST PLACE. I OPENED MY MIND TO POSSIBILITY AFTER THE FIRST DOZEN PARANORMAL EXPERIENCES, LIVING IN AN OLD AND VERY HAUNTED RESIDENCE.
THIS IS A LONG INTRODUCTION, JUST TO TELL YOU FOLKS, THAT I TALK TO DEAD PEOPLE, AND THEY SEND BACK SIGNS TO ME. AS A WRITER, IT IS A CRITICAL RELATIONSHIP I USE ALL THE TIME. IN THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE FIELD, I STILL DRAW ON THE WISDOM OF MY COLLECTING BUDDY, DAVID BROWN. I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MY DOZENS OF CROSS BORDER CONVERSATIONS WITH DAVID BROWN. ACTUALLY, THEY'RE KIND OF ONE SIDED CONVERSATIONS. HIS MESSAGES BACK TO ME ARE LIKE PUZZLE PIECES, THAT JUST KEEP SHOWING UP, UNTIL I GET THE WHOLE PICTURE. FOR SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS, AND ALSO VALIDATES THOSE WHO HAVE CROSSED OVER, THE STORY I'M ABOUT TO TELL, WON'T INSPIRE TOO MUCH SHOCK AND AWE. IN PARANORMAL CIRCLES, MY EXPERIENCES ARE ABOUT A TWO OUT OF TEN. BUT THE COINCIDENCES THAT WE EXPERIENCED TODAY, ARE STILL PRETTY NEAT, AND A GOOD EXAMPLE OF THE KIND OF LIFE WE LEAD IN THE INDUSTRY OF BUYING AND SELLING OLD STUFF. SO HERE GOES.
AS I WROTE PREVIOUSLY, ABOUT SPIRITUAL INTERVENTIONS, IN THE WAY OF SIGNS, AND WITH PARANORMALLY ENHANCED ANTIQUE PIECES…..THAT MAY CARRY A GHOSTLY HITCH-HIKER, MY FORAY INTO ANY ANTIQUE SHOP OR MALL, IS LIKE WALKING INTO A TERMINAL OF ANXIOUS ENTITIES. I'M USUALLY HIT BY THIS IN THE FIRST FIVE MINUTES, AND I GO WITH THE FLOW. I DON'T BLOCK THEM OUT OF MY MIND, OR REFUSE TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE POSSIBILITY, THAT ONE OF THESE AT-LOOSE-ENDS SPIRITS, WOULD LIKE MY ATTENTION. AS I ONLY HAVE SO MUCH TIME TO WORK THE AISLES, I START EACH QUEST WITH THE SAME QUESTION TO DAVE BROWN……(WHO IS DECEASED BY THE WAY), TO POINT ME TO THE HOLY GRAIL, WHICH FOR ME IS EITHER MUSKOKA RELATED COLLECTIBLES, OR INTERESTING PIECES OF ART. DAVE USED TO SLEEP IN MY ARCHIVES ROOM, HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, SO HE KNEW MY PASSION FOR CANADIAN ART. WHETHER OR NOT I CAN COMMUNICATE WITH THE DECEASED ISN'T IMPORTANT. LIKE A GOALTENDER WHO HAS TO TAP EACH GOALPOST THREE TIMES, ON EACH SIDE, BEFORE THE NEXT FACE-OFF, OR THE BATTER, WHO MUST TAP HIS BAT TO HIS CLEETS TWICE EACH FOOT, I HAVE MY OWN SUPERSTITIOUS OPENING STATEMENT, BEFORE I TRAVEL MORE THAN A FEW STEPS IN THE BUILDING. "DAVE, OLD BUDDY, SHOW ME THE WAY."
THERE WERE TWO THINGS I WAS LOOKING FOR TODAY, WHEN WE WENT ON A ROAD TRIP TO BARRIE, TO BOTH THE 400 ANTIQUE MALL, AND THE BARRIE ANTIQUE MALL. I WANTED ANY "SLEEPER" CANADIAN ART, WHICH WAS PRICED BELOW VALUE, AND MUSKOKA RELATED BOOKS…..ESPECIALLY COOKBOOKS, AS WE ARE WORKING TO ESTABLISH OUR COOKERY HERITAGE RESOURCES, FOR OUR GRAVENHURST SHOP THIS SUMMER. WE WANT ALL MUSKOKA RELATED COOKBOOKS. TWO MINUTES INSIDE THE DOOR, SON ROBERT CAME RUNNING BACK TO THE DOOR TO MEET SUZANNE AND I, DEMANDING THAT WE FOLLOW HIM TO A GLASS CASE IN THE FIRST BOOTH OF THE HUGE MARKET. THERE IT WAS. A 1943 COPY OF "MUSKOKA RECIPES ……. OLD AND NEW, AS COMPILED BY THE WOMEN'S ASSOCIATION OF THE PORT CARLING UNITED CHURCH, PORT CARLING, ONTARIO." NOW WHEN YOU CONSIDER THE IMMENSITY OF THE 400 ANTIQUE MARKET, AND THE TRILLIONS OF ITEMS ON DISPLAY, FINDING A SMALL, STAPLE-BOUND VINTAGE COOKBOOK, FROM PORT CARLING, SEEMS LIKE THE "NEEDLE," FOUND IN THE PROVERBIAL "HAYSTACK." TWENTY BUCKS. SEEING AS THIS IS GOING TO BE IN OUR PERMANENT RESOURCE COLLECTION, WHICH WE WILL SHARE WITH PATRONS, TWENTY DOLLARS WAS AN INCREDIBLE VALUE. I HAVE SOLD PORT CARLING COOKBOOKS IN THE PAST, FOR THIRTY DOLLARS EACH. SO WE GOT A BOOK WE HAVE NEVER HAD BEFORE….AS THIS ONE IS THE ELUSIVE 1943 ISSUE, AND IT ONLY TOOK SEVERAL MINUTES TO MAKE THE WHOLE TRIP WORTHWHILE. IT GETS STRANGER.
THE MENTALIST, WELL SORT OF, BUT NOT QUITE
Those who have hunted antiques with me, in the past, would admit that I withdraw from social intercourse, once the adventure begins in earnest. I wouldn't call it channeling, but by golly, I turn on to what I'm most interested in, that particular day. It changes of course, and can depend on the shopping list we have for customers back home. We often have "want lists" to work from, when we're heading off to some antique sale or shopping adventure. I can't hunt and converse that's for sure. I might talk to the dead, but not to the humans, because I wind up losing my focus. It's sort of like witching for water, except I'm looking for antiques and collectibles. So today we started off with a bang. Usually it will take hours for something like this to manifest, and it is always under the strangest circumstance. Such as dropping an invoice from your pocket, and while picking it up, you happen to notice the bottom book shelf, in a vendor's booth, and discover three or four significant Muskoka books. The boys have this happen constantly with vintage vinyl and guitars. Something inadvertently, draws them into a booth, and all of a sudden, they've found elusive records, and highly desirable musical instruments, from banjos, drums, cymbals to guitars. They just laugh about the coincidences, because they happen with such frequency now, that thinking about the paranormal connotation isn't necessary……for them to know and appreciate its handiwork. Robert found his own Holy Grail this afternoon, when he found the elusive Frank Zappa album, "Weasels Rip My Flesh," by Zappa and the "Mothers of Invention." He'd been looking for this record for a long time. So he found us a cookbook we needed, and had a bonus find for himself. Naw, I don't think the Zappa find was a sign from the great beyond, unless from Zappa himself, as a vote of thanks to a loyal fan.
Today I wasn't having my usual banner exploration and discovery. Suzanne was finding a few bric-a-brac items, and vintage cookbooks which we are always looking for, but I just wasn't picking up the slightest vibe one way or the other. At one point, I blurted out "Dave, please show me what I'm missing here." Suzanne looked at me and said, "Dave's working for me today." Dave Brown loved antique hunting, especially old books and logging artifacts. He would have been there with us, if it had been humanly possible. Now in the afterlife, our meetings are kind of abstract, and based on him providing me with signs……and a little encouragement to search just a little more…..with added patience, which I'm usually short of by this time in the hunt. Unless of course my arms are laden with big finds. Today I would have taken a small find as a good sign. On the second last aisle, of our mall experience, I spotted a wooden crate on the floor of a booth on my right. As is common, this rather unremarkable box, and the collection of frames inside, beckoned me to look more closely. Now for some reason, even after begging for Dave's help, I didn't pay close attention on the first walk by, and that is surprising. I'm habitual with these kind of "come hither" vibes. I didn't stop in, but I said to myself, I bet there was something in that box Dave wanted me to see. Anyway, Suzanne and I went down the last aisle, and had to endure a terribly high pitched alarm, caused by a water leak in the bathroom. Apparently there was a wired-in sensor, to detect a flood of water, and it couldn't be disconnected. So we walked quickly by the restrooms, and decided at the end of our tour for the visit, to take a venture back up the same aisle we had visited a few moments earlier. I didn't need that sound in my ear again. I really wanted to find something. I was on the right track. When we dawdled our way up to the last few booths before the sales counter, it's as if my head was being twisted by forces unknown. I looked at that box with the picture frames in it, for the second time, and I knew it was necessary for me to explore. Now only seeing the outline of frames from a distance, I had the name "Owen Staples" hitting from one side of my sensory perception to the other. "Wouldn't that be nice," I muttered to myself, leaving Suzanne asking what I wanted. Were you talking to me," she asked. I didn't answer. I dove into the box with anticipation, a holy grail was hiding there. It took ten seconds, for me to extract an engraving of University of Toronto's "Hart House," by……well, Owen Staples. He was a highly accomplished Canadian artist, and I have sold a number of his engravings in the past, all for considerable money.
I said, "Dave did it again Suzanne. You're never going to believe what I just found." All she saw was the picture from about ten feet away, and stated, "It's an Owen Staples isn't it?" "Yes it is," I answered happily. "You know what the building is in the picture?" "It's Hart House, right," she replied. "It's where we had your book launch; you see I do remember?" She was referring to the book Muskoka photographer Tim DuVernet, and I, wrote back in the early 1980's, entitled "Memories and Images." Tim's mother, Sylvia, a well known writer, connected to the University of Toronto, booked Hart House for us, for a special Toronto book launch. I was so proud to take Suzanne, my soon to be bride. Now Owen Staples was a legendary character in Canadian art, and a mainstay as an illustrator for University of Toronto yearbooks. The well conserved and framed engraving, was priced at $45, which was an amazing bargain. The art value of this depiction will be around $250, based on the size of the picture. So yes, this was a "sleeper" piece of Canadian art. Okay, it gets stranger than this.
When we drove north to the Barrie Antique Mall, we had been looking around for about fifteen minutes. I was still thinking Owen Staples, and unconsciously I suppose, thanking David for insisting that I look through the box of framed art work. We went into a crowded corner room of the antique mall, and I've got to tell you, there were thousands of pieces for sale in a small, small room. Every time I go to this mall, the room I'm describing, is the one place in the whole building, where I find a lot of treasures. We have similar tastes in art, books and artifacts. Suzanne was deep into a pile of old books, looking for any cookery titles. She yelled across the room, "Ted, come here. You are not going to believe this." She held open a scrap book with news clippings glued inside. She had opened the page to a 1936-37 collection of articles, the top one pasted to the upper left, was headlined, "Owen Staples, Great Artist, Fifty Years With Telegram, Marks Seventieth Birthday." Out of a sea of collectibles, and miles of antique wares, on two floors, the first book she actually opens in the Barrie Antique Mall, contains a brief biography of the artist, of the engraving, I just purchased at the very end of our tour at the 400 Market. Weird? Coincidental. The odds? Staggering, that this could happen as such. As a bonus bit of weird. I was standing at the counter, while Suzanne paid for our purchases, and something on the wall kept commanding my attention. There were many vintage business signs nailed to the wall, and I guess Dave was getting mad that I was missing what he wanted me to see. Moments before I was to head down stairs, I took one more glance at the wall to my left, heading out the door. There it was. A business sign for "Sunshine Uniforms," of Toronto……a laundry service that my father Ed worked at, as a driver, before he married my mother. His boss, who he adored, was Joe Sunshine. Shortly before Ed died, I remember talking with him in the hospital, about his days working for Joe, and the trucks he had to drive that didn't have any heaters in the cabs. Coincidence. Maybe. Message from the other side? Dave and my dad are teaming up to keep us Curries on the straight and narrow.
Getting back to the article on Owen Staples, here are a few lines from the published biography dated Septemeber, 1936. "Owen Staples, O.S.A. for fifty years a member of the staff of The Evening Telegram, is today celebrating his seventieth birthday. One of Toronto's best known and best loved artists, Owen Staples, was born in Stoke-on-Hamdon, Sumersetshire, England, on September 3, 1866, and came to Canada at the age of six years. From his boyhood he loved to paint and in his youth he studied under famous teachers in Rochester, New York City, Philadelphia, and Toronto. His first canvas was exhibited at the Powers' Art Gallery, Rochester, when he was but thirteen years of age, and to his delight it was deemed worthy of a prize.
"As a young man he joined the staff of The Telegram, and for many years worked on the John Ross Robertson collection, of Landmarks and on newspaper cartoons. Later he devoted his time to larger paintings and his works of old Toronto and 'Muddy York,' which hang in the City Hall, which have for years been a centre of interest and admiration. Mr. Staple's pen has sketched hundreds of pictures for the John Ross Robertson historical collection in the Reference Library, College Street." As a sidebar to this, I have the original published list of the John Ross Robertson Collection, that includes listings for many of Mr. Staple's historic sketches. I just can't find it. I kept it by my desk here at Birch Hollow, because it contained a great deal of reference material on historic Muskoka sketches, by Mr. Harolow-White, dating back to the 1870's. The book went missing just before Christmas. Maybe if I ask Dave to help me find it, the book will appear sometime in the next two weeks. Most likely found when the cats at play, knock down a pile of books…….and there it will be in all its glory.
"Owen Staples was elected a member of the Ontario Society of Artists in 1902. He has exhibited pictures at the Chicago World Fair, the Pan American Exhibition, the St Louis Exposition, the Art Gallery in London, and in various cities in Canada and the United Stares during the past forty years. Many Toronto public buildings have been enriched by the paintings of Mr. Staples. In 1919 he presented to the Danforth Avenue Baptist Church a large mural in memory of the men of that church who lost their lives during the Great War. Two large murals hang on the east and west walls of the RCYC. A life-size portrait of the late John Ross Robertson, presented by the staff of The Evening Telegram to the trustees of The Telegram, which hangs in the office, was painted my Mr. Staples. Owen Staples has many other interests besides his art. he is a member of the Canadian Author's Association, the Rose Society, and the Arts and Letters Club. He is a lover of music and has been a member of the first tenor section of the Mendelssohn Choir since its inception."
Yes, it was an interesting day…..yet still quite commonplace for us. If I can have this kind of good fortune, talking to the dearly departed, whether it's possible or delusional on my part, I'm not going to stop what has become a tradition of asking the spirits for their kind assistance…..if they're not busy being guardian angels elsewhere. It's somewhat the same, as the story about the mother who had a boy who thought he was a chicken. When a friend asked her why she just didn't confront the boy with the truth, that he was definitely not a chicken, she answered, "Well, I would, but we need the eggs." Whatever works for you! By the way, and in case you are wondering, we never ask for help when picking lottery numbers. That would be cheating, me thinks.
Bless you for coming to keep me company. I have lots of road trip stories upcoming in you're interested. As for big finds out there……trust me, it's like digging for gold, in a gold mine. Don't believe those impatient folks, who will tell you all the good antiques are gone. It just isn't so, and a lot of collector / dealers, are coming up with major finds every day of the year. Finding an Owen Staples engraving guaranteed this was a good day in the antique profession. The fact that I got to spend another day on this beautiful old earth, with my wife Suzanne, and sons Andrew and Robert, was a divine pleasure. I love our antique adventures. It's history. Family history too. See you again soon. Drive carefully out there. It's almost March…..the boys of summer start the exhibition season this week. Oh glory, the spring is just around the corner. And an early Easter holiday as well. Lots to look forward to!
BREAKING NEWS: WHEN I TOLD SUZANNE ABOUT THE FURTHER COINCIDENCE OF OWEN STAPLES WORKING ON THE J. ROBERTSON COLLECTION AND MY MISSING BOOK SHE SAID "YOU MEAN THIS ONE?" I SAID " THAT IS THE ONE!" SO THIS IS MY POINT. PARANORMAL IS COMMON PLACE IN OUR LIVES.
No comments:
Post a Comment