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| The Musician as An Artist; Andrew's depiction of our paddle up Smoke Creek |
THE BOOK FROM THE HOMESTEAD RUINS - AUTHOR, ROY STANNARD BAKER, MADE OUR DAY
INFLUENCES OF "THE FATHER," ON FAMILY LIFE, FOR BETTER OR WORSE
WHEN YOU'RE PUTTING TOGETHER A PERSONAL BLOG LIKE THIS, AND ALL THE COLUMNS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT FAMILY TIMES, NEPOTISM IS BOUND TO SHOW UP, A LITTLE ON THE UGLY SIDE, AND EVEN READ AS OUTRIGHT BRAGGING. IT CAN START LOOKING LIKE THE STYLINGS OF A WRITER WHO BELIEVES "MY FAMILY IS BETTER THAN YOURS." IF YOU READ ENOUGH OF MY COPY, YOU WILL FIND THAT I MAKE FUN OF THEM A LOT TOO, AND IF THEY HAD THEIR CHOICE, I WOULD HAVE FOUND ANOTHER HOBBY; ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. THEY DON'T READ MY BLOGS, OR NEWSPAPER COLUMNS, AND NEVER HAVE, AT LEAST, AS FAR AS I KNOW. SO IT'S NOT LIKE I'M TRYING TO BOOST THEIR EGOS OR ANYTHING. IT WOULD BE WASTED ON THEM IF I DID, BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T EVEN QUOTE FIVE WORDS FROM LAST NIGHT'S BLOG. I LIKE IT THAT WAY. BUT IT IS CERTAINLY NOT THE CASE THAT I BELIEVE WE'RE GOD'S GIFT TO MUSKOKA, AS SOME OF MY CRITICS SEEM TO THINK. THE FACT WE FUSS-UP WHEN WE PERCEIVE THERE'S A SKUNK IN OUR MIDST, IS JUST WHAT YOU'D EXPECT FROM ANY ONE, CONCERNED ABOUT THE WELFARE OF THE PLACE THEY LIVE. THE ONLY WAY YOU'RE GOING TO KNOW HOW HUMBLE WE ARE, IS TO GET TO KNOW US A LITTLE BETTER. WE'RE PRETTY APPROACHABLE. CONTRARY TO SOME WHO FEAR US, WE HAVEN'T EATEN EVEN ONE TOWN COUNCILLOR, OR MAYOR DURING OUR RESIDENCY HERE. I THINK ALL THE BIA DIRECTORS HAVE SURVIVED OUR INTERACTIONS, WITH NARY A SOUL LOST. OUR NEIGHBORS ARE ALL ACCOUNTED FOR, DESPITE A FEW SCRAPS OVER PROPERTY LINES. YUP, WE'RE A GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR WOLVES, ONLY TO FIND FUZZY PUPS. IT IS TRUE, GRANTED, MY WIFE'S PIONEER DESCENDANTS WERE KNOWN AS THE THREE MILE LAKE WOLVES, FOR SOME OF THEIR CONFRONTATIONAL WAYS, A WAY BACK WHEN. BUT THE BOYS HAVEN'T FOLLOWED IN THAT PARTICULAR FAMILY TRADITION.
THOSE WHO KNOW ME WELL ENOUGH, TO PLOP DOWN HERE ON THE STUDIO SOFA, AND BEND MY EAR, WHEN I'M NOT BENDING THEIR EAR HARDER, BELIEVE I'M WELL INTENTIONED ENOUGH. THOSE WHO HAVE WORKED WITH ME, IN THE PAST, KNOW THAT I CAN BE A PUSHY, OVERBEARING SON OF A BITCH. AS AN EQUAL PARTNER, THEY KNOW I CAN INVADE THEIR SPACE AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE. MY CRITICS ARE NUMEROUS, AND RATHER UNFORGIVING. THEY, POSSIBLY ENOUGH TO FORM A BATTALION OF OPPOSITION, REPRESENT A MUSTERING OF THOSE WHO DISLIKE THE FACT, I MAKE MY OBJECTIONS PUBLIC; WHEN IT WOULD BE SO MUCH LESS ABRAISIVE TO THE GENERAL SENSE OF COMMONPLACE, TO EQUIP ME WITH A GAG OVER MY MOUTH, MY HANDS AND FINGERS TIGHTLY WRAPPED, TO KEEP ME FROM TYPING ANYTHING. YOU SEE, WHETHER READERS, OR THOSE I ENGAGE IN CONVERSATION, AGREE WITH ME, OR DETEST MY POINTS OF VIEW, I HAVE NEVER PENNED A SINGLE PIECE IN MY LIFE, THAT WAS ONLY AIMED AT BEING SOCIALLY AND POLITICALLY CORRECT. WHILE I'VE NEVER WRITTEN ANYTHING, WITH THE PLAN TO HURT ANYONE'S FEELINGS, I HAVE BEEN MADE TO FEEL THIS WAY, BY SOME POLITICALLY IMBEDDED INDIVIDUALS, WHO WON'T ADMIT THAT THEY HAVE STRONG TIES, HOWEVER HIDDEN, WITH THE VERY ADMINISTRATION I MAY BE CRITIQUING. SO THEY FEEL COMPELLED TO SHUN ME, BECAUSE I'VE HIT A NERVE. THEY CAN'T OR WON'T REFUTE AN OPINION, OR COULD THEY FIND THAT I WAS WRONG WITH MY OVERVIEW. BUT THERE ARE A LOT OF AREAS OF SOCIAL AND POLITICAL CULTURE, IN A SMALL TOWN, YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO MESS WITH, OR ELSE. I'VE BEEN FACING THE "OR ELSE" SINCE 1979, WHEN I CUT MY TEETH AS A Y NEWBY, IN THE VILLAGE OF MACTIER, AS A CUB REPORTER. I WAS THREATENED THERE, AND EVERYWHERE ELSE I'VE WORKED SINCE. YET THE OFFENDED PARTIES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A TINY SEGMENT OF THE POPULATION, THAT TRUTH BE KNOWN, WOULDN'T LIKE ANY EDITORIAL OVERVIEW OF WHAT THEY DEEM TO BE OFF-LIMITS. FOR THEM THAT COVERS A LOT OF TERRITORY.
EVEN AS A KID, I WAS NEVER THWARTED, WHEN MY MOTHER, DURING THE YEARS WE LIVED IN BURLINGTON, WOULD WARN, "DON'T GO NEAR THE LAKE." SHE KNEW WHEN I CAME HOME FOR DINNER, THAT I HAD BEEN CLOSE TO THE LAKESHORE, BECAUSE I'D SMELL LIKE DEAD FISH. BUT SHE NEVER STOPPED WARNING ME, AND I NEVER STOPPED HEADING, AS SOON AS I COULD, TO WHERE RAMBLE CREEK EMPTIED INTO THE WIDER LAKE ONTARIO. SO IF BEING INTRUSIVE, OVERBEARING AND SOCIALLY AGGRESSIVE IS A CHARACTER FLAW, FIRST OF ALL, I'VE HAD IT SINCE CHILDHOOD; SECONDLY, I'VE LEARNED TO LIVE WITH IT, AND TAKE THE SHUNNING ON THE CHIN.
ANDREW, JUST THIS MOMENT, HAS BEGUN BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF A DRUM SET, IN THE STUDIO, WHILE ROBERT IS TRYING TO GET A BALANCE FOR PURPOSES OF ADDING PERCUSSION, TO A SONG HE IS TRACKING FOR ONE OF THEIR CUSTOMERS. I THINK I SAW MY HEART TRYING TO LEAP OUT OF MY CHEST, EVEN THOUGH THEY WARNED ME IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN; THE DRUM CADENCE THAT RIGHT NOW, IS VIBRATING MY KEYBOARD, AND SHAKING THE ART WORK ON THE WALL. NOW THIS IS ACTUALITY, MAN! YUP, THIS SURE AS HELL BEATS THE OLD NEWSROOM, I'M USED TO. BACK THEN THERE WAS JUST THE TYPICAL YELLING OF REPORTERS, ARGUING WITH THE ADVERTISING MANAGER ABOUT SPACE ALLOCATION. AND THE OCCASIONAL PISSED OFF READER, WHO WAS GOING TO SUE US INTO THE NEXT ICE AGE, FOR REPORTING ON A FAMILY MEMBER, BEING CHARGED FOR DRIVING UNDER THE INFLUENCE. OR CHARGED FOR A NUMBER OF BREAK AND ENTERS, SAID TO BE A TRUMPED UP CHARGE, BECAUSE THE FUZZ HAD IT OUT FOR THEIR FAMILY. SO TRADING THAT FOR THIS STUDIO, IS CERTAINLY REFRESHING AND ALWAYS UPBEAT, AND WE'VE HAD VERY FEW DISGRUNTLED MUSICIANS COMPLAIN ABOUT ANYTHING, EXCEPT THAT SUZANNE'S HOME MADE COOKIES HAD RUN OUT. I HAD TO INFUSE THIS DRUM ACTUALITY, BECAUSE STRANGELY ENOUGH, IT FITS INTO THE BLOG; BECAUSE, AS A FORMER, LONG TERM, MR. MOM, I GOT USED TO THESE SUDDEN, UNEXPECTED MUSICAL INTERLUDES, WHILE HOLED-UP AT BIRCH HOLLOW. THEY'D BANG-ON AND STRUM ANYTHING TO MAKE THEIR SOUNDS. ANDREW AND ROBERT WOULDN'T ALWAYS WARN ME, AS THEY DID A FEW MOMENTS AGO; AND WHEN THEY'D START MAKING THEIR MUSIC, I'D BE WEARING THE COFFEE TIPPED NERVOUSLY FROM MY HAND. THE FIRST TEN SECONDS WAS WHAT WOULD HAVE BROUGHT ON THE HEART ATTACK, IF I WAS GOING TO HAVE ONE. IT WOULD ALWAYS GET PROGRESSIVELY MORE INTERESTING. AFTER THIS, IT COULD GET SO AGGRESSIVE THAT I'D HAVE TO STRAIGHTEN OUT ALL THE PICTURES ON A DIVIDING WALL, JUST LIKE WE WILL HAVE TO DO LATER IN THE ANTIQUE SHOP, LOCATED JUST ONE WALL OVER. YOU JUST GET USED TO IT, AND I REALLY DO ENJOY THE DIN, AS LONG AS I HAVE PUT MY COFFEE DOWN FIRST.
THE REASON FOR ME MAKING MENTION OF THIS, IS BASED ON THE SAME THEME AS MY OPENING TODAY. I HAVE BEEN A VERY INTRUSIVE PARENT, WITH A LOT OF AGGRESSIVE OPINIONS. I'M CONFIDENT, THAT AT MANY TIMES IN OUR FAMILY YEARS, I WAS SEEN AS THE OGRE OF SEGWUN BOULEVARD, WHO WAS ALWAYS SELLING SOME NEW PLAN, THAT NOT EVERY ONE AGREED WITH, OR EVEN WISHED TO TALK ABOUT. I WAS DETERMINED TO OFFER THE BOYS ALTERNATIVES, THAT I NEVER HAD AS A KID; BECAUSE UNFORTUNATELY, WE WERE BROKE MOST OF THE TIME. I DID GO OVERBOARD TRYING TO MAKE UP FOR WHAT I PERCEIVED AS LOST OPPORTUNITIES FOR ME. I SUPPOSE IT WAS MORE THE CASE, THAT I, AS A MATTER OF CONTRARY PHILOSOPHY, TO WHAT I HAD GROWN UP WITH, INSISTED THEY SEEK OUT THE EVASIVE LAKESHORE; INSTEAD OF WARNING THEM NOT TO EXPLORE TOO FAR. I ADMIT IT. WHEN I WALKED INTO BRACEBRIDGE'S PRECISION MUSIC THAT CHRISTMAS SEASON, I SAW SOMETHING BEYOND THE EXCITEMENT OF THE WHOLE SANTA-COMES-THROUGH SCENARIO. IT MAY SEEM CRAZY ON MY PART, TO THINK IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF THE REST OF THEIR LIVES, BUT AS I SIT HERE LISTENING TO THIS MUSIC ALL AROUND ME, I CAN'T HELP FEELING PRETTY GOOD ABOUT WHAT SANTA CAME UP WITH THAT YEAR. BY THE WAY, I BOUGHT THOSE STARTER GUITARS ON SALE, AND EVEN THEN, IT TOOK ME SIX MONTHS TO PAY DOWN THE DEBT. IT WAS A SMALL DEBT TO PAY, CONSIDERING WHAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE.
I HAVE INFLUENCED MY SONS TO PURSUE CAREERS IN MUSIC. I WAS THE MOVER AND SHAKER WHO ENCOURAGED THEM TO OPEN THE STORE HERE ON GRAVENHURST'S MUSKOKA ROAD, TEN YEARS AGO. I'VE BEEN THE VOICE BEHIND EVERY EXPANSION SINCE, INCLUDING THE GROWTH INTO THE ANTIQUE SHOP, TWO YEARS AGO. I CAN NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU, WITHOUT YOU SEEING MY TORTURED FACIAL EXPRESSIONS, JUST HOW DIFFICULT IT HAD BEEN, CONVINCING SUZANNE, THEIR MOTHER, HOW THE MUSIC BUSINESS, UNDER THE RIGHT CONDITIONS, COULD GROW HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. NO FAULT OF HERS, BECAUSE IT HAS BEEN SUZANNE'S JOB, TO KEEP US FINANCIALLY SECURE. I'VE ALWAYS HAD A TOUGH TIME WITH BEAN COUNTERS; EVEN THE ONE I MARRIED. BUT SHE HAS DONE A TERRIFIC JOB, WITH VERY LITTLE REWARD. I'VE ALSO BEEN THE ADVOCATE FOR FAIR PLAY, HERE ON THE MAIN STREET, WHERE BEING OUTSPOKEN, HAS CERTAINLY MADE THE BOYS' JOB, GETTING-ALONG, A LOT MORE CHALLENGING. AS I HAVE HOPEFULLY BEEN A SOURCE OF CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT, I HAVE ALSO BEEN A BURDEN TO THE BOYS; WHO HAVE ALSO HAD TO ENDURE SOME OF THE BACKLASH, FROM MY EDITORIAL PERSPECTIVES. AS IT IS TOUGH BEING GREEN, SO SAYS KERMIT THE FROG, IT HASN'T BEEN ALL THAT EASY BEING A CURRIE KID, WITH A FATHER WHO JOUSTS, AND JABS HIS WAY THROUGH THE POLITICS OF THE DAY. THEY DON'T SEE THEIR OLD POP AS A WHITE NIGHT, OR A JOHN WAYNE, AND DON'T NEED ME TO FIGHT THEIR BATTLES, IF THE NEED ARISES. THEY ARE THEIR OWN MEN NOW, AND ARE LEADING THE WAY FOR OUR FAMILY, ESPECIALLY IN BUSINESS. I AM A DIMINISHED ELEMENT OF THE OLD FAMILY WAYS, AND I'M PLEASED TO SEE ANDREW AND ROBERT, STEPPING OUT AND UP, WITHOUT FEELING ANY TITHE TO THE EDITORIALIST. THEY HAVE THEIR OWN WAY OF DOING THINGS, AND THEY DON'T NEED MY APPROVAL TO MAKE CHANGES. SOME MAY DISBELIEVE I'M NOT MORE INTIMATELY INVOLVED, AND I'M FLATTERED BY THIS. BUT AT THIS POINT, I'M JUST THANKFUL THEY'VE INVITED ME TO WORK AROUND THE BUILDING, AND PLAY AT THE ANTIQUE THING, WHICH IS NOW RUN BY SUZANNE. I'M A WRITER AND AN ANTIQUE PICKER. THAT'S IT. SOME MAY SEE ME AS A SVENGALI OF SORTS, BUT THOSE WHO FREQUENT THE SHOP, SEE ME QUITE THE OPPOSITE; THE LITTLE OLD FELLOW WHO LIMPS AROUND THE BUILDING CARRYING A HALF CUP OF COFFEE, TRYING TO REMAIN RELEVANT IN A FAST PACED, EVER CHANGING ENVIRONS. THERE GO THE DRUMS AGAIN. GOSH, THAT'S LOUD. MY PANTS ARE INFLATING WITH THE BEAT OF THE DRUM. IT'S LIKE BEING WITH THE ARTILLERY ON THE HILLSIDE OF GETTYSBURG. THIS IS MY LIFE AND WORK NOW, AND I LOVE IT!
SUZANNE HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE MELLOWING INFLUENCE, THE VOICE OF REASON, AND THE ONLY PERSON ON EARTH, WHO COULD REALLY SWEAR ON THE BIBLE, THAT CONTRARY TO PUBLIC OPINION, HER HUSBAND IS A TRUE PACIFIST; AN AT-HEART POET, LOVER OF MOZART, AND AN ALMOST TRAGIC DREAMER, WHO HAS NEVER LEARNED FROM LIFE'S SETBACKS. WHEN I WAS BURNED BY THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS THAT I ADORED, AND WRITE SO MUCH ABOUT THESE DAYS, I SPENT A DECADE LIKE WILLY LOWMAN, FROM THE BOOK, "DEATH OF A SALESMAN." I WASN'T READY TO RETIRE FROM WRITING AS MY OVERLORDS FELT WOULD HAPPEN, ONCE DISMISSED FROM THE WEEKLY REGIMEN OF PUTTING OUT A NEWSPAPER. SO I BECAME AN EDITORIAL CONTRIBUTOR, WHICH I'M PROUD TO SAY, HAS CONSUMED THE REST OF MY LIFE. OUTSIDE OF SOME FOR-HIRE PROJECTS, TAKING UP A MINIMUM OF MY TIME, I WRITE FOR SEVERAL PUBLICATIONS, IN RETURN FOR A SMALL ADVERTISEMENT BELOW, OR BESIDE MY COLUMNS. I DON'T GET PAID. I DON'T EVEN ASK FOR ANYTHING IN RETURN, BUT KINDLY PUBLISHERS, BLESS THEIR HEARTS, INSIST ON GIVING ME SOMETHING. I HAVEN'T TAKEN A PROFIT FROM WRITING SINCE THE SUMMER OF 1990, WHEN I WALKED AWAY FROM THE BUSINESS OF NEWSPAPERS. I DON'T STICK AROUND WHERE I'M NOT APPRECIATED. EVEN IN THIS STUDIO, I'M NOW GETTING THE BUM'S RUSH, BECAUSE THERE'S A GROUP OF MUSICIANS WHO HAVE BOOKED-IN THIS AFTERNOON. THE BOYS ARE KIND WHEN THEY ASK ME TO LEAVE, SUGGESTING THERE'S LOTS OF ROOM IN THE BACK. SO FOR THOSE WHO HAVE DECIDED THAT I AM THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE IN OUR SMALL BUSINESS, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, I'M SORRY TO INFORM YOU TO THE CONTRARY. I'M THE MOST SENIOR "JUNIOR" PLAYER WORKING IN THIS BUILDING. BUT I'M HAPPY OF THE INFLUENCES THAT HAVE GOT US THIS FAR. THE BOYS APPRECIATE THIS, AND SUZANNE REMINDS THEM, WHEN THEY SOME TIMES FORGET. SHE HAS TO REMIND ME TOO, WHEN I BEGIN WONDERING ALOUD, WHETHER IT MIGHT BE TIME TO RETIRE THE KEYBOARD, AND TURN TO POLITICS INSTEAD. GOD FORBID. SUZANNE MAKES THE SIGN OF THE CROSS.
THERE HAS BEEN ONE CONSTANT IN MY LIFE, THAT HAS BEEN WITH ME, SINCE I OPENED MY FIRST ANTIQUE SHOP, IN THE LATE 1970'S. I STOLE IT OFF THE HALF-FALLEN BOOK SHELF, IN WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE FORMER PARLOR, IN THE MIDDLE OF A TUMBLED-DOWN MUSKOKA FARMSTEAD. MY GIRLFRIEND, GAIL, AND I, HAD SKIED BACK TO THE SITE OF AN OLD FARM, NOT FAR FROM THE MUSKOKA RIVER, IN BRACEBRIDGE. IT WAS AT A TIME, WHEN I WAS DISCOVERING ANTIQUES, AND FINDING THAT I HAD A GENUINE INTEREST IN BECOMING EITHER A COLLECTOR OR EVENTUAL DEALER. COMING UPON THIS BEAUTIFUL OLD HOUSE, TUCKED DEEPLY WITHIN THE SNOW-LADEN EVERGREENS, OF THE HILLSIDE, I REMEMBER STANDING THERE IN AWE FOR A LONG TIME. GAIL WAS ALREADY UP THE LONG LANE, RISING GRADUALLY TO THE BASE OF THE STILL UPRIGHT PORCH, AT WHAT WAS THE PRONOUNCED FRONT OF THE HOUSE. IT WAS A HAUNTED HOUSE OF HISTORY. I GOT A VIBE FROM THIS BUILDING THAT HAS NEVER DIMINISHED OVER THE YEARS, AND IT HAS TURNED UP, AS A REFERENCE, IN HUNDREDS OF COLUMNS AND FEATURE ARTICLES I'VE WRITTEN SINCE. IT WAS A SAD, LONELY, VULNERABLE PLACE, THAT HAD SUCH AN AMAZING STORY TO TELL. IT WAS AS IF IT NEEDED ME, AND I REQUIRED ITS PLACE IN MY PYSCHE. THE VISIT OCCURRED AT THE PERFECT TIME. I WAS STARTING TO GET INTERESTED IN LOCAL HISTORY, AND PLAYING AROUND WITH SEVERAL IDEAS FOR NOVELS. I HAD A SMALL COLLECTION OF ANTIQUES ALREADY, AND GAIL DROVE US AROUND TO HUNDREDS OF LITTLE MOM AND POP ANTIQUE SHOPS, IN SOUTHERN ONTARIO. HER FATHER, GORD, WAS A COLLECTOR OF OLD OIL LAMPS, AND I GOT HOOKED SEEING THEM ILLUMINATED IN THE WINTER EVENINGS. I COULD VISUALIZE COAL OIL LAMPS IN THE WINDOWS OF THIS LONG ABANDONED FARMSTEAD, AND IT BECAME A SORT OF CENTER OF MY UNIVERSE, AS FAR AS WRITING AND HISTORY WENT. I BECAME HAUNTED BY WHAT I SAW. I HAVE BEEN FOREVER INFLUENCED BY A BOOK I STOLE OFF THE SHELF AS A KEEPSAKE. I DIDN'T TAKE IT ON THE FIRST TRIP WITH GAIL.
I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE MANY TIMES IN THE NEXT FIVE YEARS, UNTIL FINALLY, I TOOK THE WATER DAMAGED OLD BOOK I WANTED, BECAUSE IT WOULDN'T HAVE SURVIVED FOR MUCH LONGER. THE HOUSE DID CAVE IN THE NEXT WINTER.
THE BOOK SURVIVED, AND I BECAME CLOSELY LINKED TO THE ADVICE OF AUTHOR DAVID GRAYSON. THE WELL KNOWN BOOK, IS ENTITLED "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT," FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1909. DAVID GRAYSON WAS THE PEN NAME CHOSEN BY AMERICAN JOURNALIST, RAY STANNARD BAKER, OF MICHIGAN, WHO WAS BORN IN 1870, AND DIED AT THE END OF WORLD WAR II. PHOTOGRAPHED ABOVE TODAY'S BLOG, IS THE BEATEN OLD COPY OF STANNARD'S BOOK, WHICH HAS BEEN MY CONSTANT CHAIRSIDE GUIDEBOOK, SINCE THE LATE 1970'S; GETTING ME THROUGH MORE CRISIS PERIODS, AND LIFE STALEMATES THAN I CAN COUNT. IT HAS BEEN MY SOURCE OF INSPIRATION, AND WITHOUT QUESTION, THE POSITIVE INFLUENCE FOR OUR FAMILY, EVEN UP TO AND INCLUDING THE PRESENT. SO IF I AM CONSIDERED AN OGRE, A PUSHY, OVERBEARING SOD, FULL OF UNPLEASANT ENQUIRY, AND INTRUSIVE BAD JUDGEMENT, FOLKS, I GIVE YOU THE INSPIRATION BEHIND THE BEAST. IF YOU HAVE EVER WONDERED WHAT MAKES US TICK, AND OPERATE THE BUSINESS IN SUCH A LIBERAL, RELAXED STYLE, WITH NO ASPIRATION TO MAKE OUR FIRST MILLION, AT THE EXPENSE OF GETTING ULCERS, ALWAYS HAVING FRESHLY BAKED COOKIES ON SATURDAYS, WELL, HERE IT IS. IT'S WHAT GOT OUR FAMILY INTO CANOES, AND KEPT US PADDLING DEEP INTO THE MUSKOKA AND ALGONQUIN WILDS, AS RURAL THERAPY; EVEN AS GROUPIES, TO THE SIMPLE SHOPPING EXPERIENCE, OF ROBINSON'S GENERAL STORE, IN DORSET....BECAUSE OF HOW WONDERFULLY RURAL IT WAS TO US SEMI-URBANITES. THE RURAL SENTIMENT! IT IS WHAT MADE US WILD ACTIVISTS, WHEN A FORMER TOWN COUNCIL IN GRAVENHURST, WANTED TO SELL OFF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD WETLAND, FOR RESIDENTIAL LOTS, A FEW YEARS BACK; WITH NO FUNDAMENTAL RESPECT FOR WHAT A WETLAND DOES FOR ENVIRONMENTAL WELL BEING.
FROM PLAYING GUITARS AROUND AN ALGONQUIN CAMP FIRE, TO ALL THE CANOE OUTINGS ON LAKE ROSSEAU AND LAKE MUSKOKA, IT DOES COME DOWN TO OUR GENTLY SHARED FAMILY PHILOSOPHY, GARNERED IN PART, FROM THE DOG-EARRED PAGES, OF THAT BEAT-UP OLD BOOK, TAKEN FROM A CRUMBLING HINTERLAND HOMESTEAD. I STOLE IT. IT'S MY ONLY REGRET. I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE BEEN GIVEN IT, BY SOME THOUGHTFUL READER, WHO ASSUMED I MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN ITS CONTENT.
I'D LIKE TO SHARE A LITTLE BIT OF THIS BOOK WITH YOU, JUST IN CASE YOU'VE NEVER HAD THE PLEASURE OF ITS MESSAGE. I WILL CARRY IT OVER A COUPLE OF BLOGS THIS WEEK. MAYBE IT WILL GIVE YOU A LITTLE BETTER INSIGHT, ABOUT OUR BUSINESS PLAN HERE, AND WHY WE CAN NEVER ABANDON THE PHILOSOPHY THAT "LIFE'S TOO SHORT" TO WEIGH SUCCESS BY MONETARY GAIN ALONE. IDEALISTS? OF COURSE WE ARE. BUT WE LIVE WHAT WE PREACH, AND THIS ISN'T MY DOING.....BUT THE WAY IN WHICH WE HAVE SUBSCRIBED TO MENTORS, LIKE DAVID GRAYSON AMONGST SO MANY OTHERS, FROM THOREAU, TO OUR OWN KENNETH WELLS, OF "OWL PEN" BOOKS, FROM THE MEDONTE AREA OF ONTARIO. A LOVE FOR NATURE AND HISTORY HAS GOTTEN INTO OUR LIVES. SORRY, THERE'S NO GOING BACK. MAYBE "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT," WILL PUT A SUNNY PERSPECTIVE ON WHAT HAS BECOME ONE OF THE HARSHEST, LONGEST WINTERS, IN MODERN HISTORY. TODAY, WITH FULL SUN, YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, MUSKOKA IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE TO BE!
AN INTRODUCTION TO DAVID GRAYSON, AND A BETTER WAY OF LIFE CIRCA 1909
The old book is fragile. It is missing the back cover, which was badly damaged by water, in the ruins of the old farm house. It has been, for long and long, a sort of good luck charm. I fear it will fall apart entirely in the near future. So I want to capture its essence while I still can; before it turns to dust almost as cliche, and returns to the soil as subtly and quietly, as did the old homestead, on the hill; as I may also choose one day, to leave this mortal coil without a fuss.
"I came here eight years ago, as the renter of this farm, of which soon afterward, I became the owner. The time before that I like to forget. The chief impression it left upon my memory, now happily growing indistinct, is of being hurried faster than I could well travel. From the moment, as a boy of seventeen, I first began to pay my own way; my days were ordered by an inscrutable power which drove me hourly to my task. I was rarely allowed to look up or down, but always forward, toward that vague success which we Americans love to glorify," writes Grayson, in his introduction.
"My senses, my nerves, even my muscles were continually strained to the utmost of attainment. If I loitered or paused by the wayside, as it seems natural for me to do, I soon heard the sharp crack of the lash. For many years, and I can say truthfully, I never rested. I neither thought nor reflected. I had no pleasure, even though I pursued it fiercely, during the brief respites of vacations. Through many feverish years, I did not work: I merely produced. The only real thing I did was to hurry as though every moment were my last; as though the world, which now seems so rich in everything, held only one prize which might be seized upon before I arrived. Since then I have tried to recall, like one who struggles to restore the visions of a fever, what it was that I ran to attain, or why I should have borne without rebellion, such indignities to soul and body. That life seems now, of all the illusions, the most distant and unreal. It is like the unguessed eternity before we are born; not of concern compared with that eternity upon which we are now embarked," wrote Grayson.
"All these things happened in cities and among crowds. I like to forget them. They smack of that slavery of the spirit which is so much worse than any mere slavery of the body. One day - it was in April, I remember, and the soft maples in the city park were just beginning to blossom - I stopped suddenly. I did not intend to stop. I confess in humiliation that it was no courage, no will of my own. I intended to go on toward success; but fate stopped me. It was as if I had been thrown violently from a moving planet; all the universe streamed around me and past me. It seemed to me that of all animate creation, I was the only thing that was still or silent. Until I stopped I had not known the pace I ran; and I had a vague sympathy and understanding, never felt before, for those who left the running. I lay prostrate with fever and close to death for weeks, and watched the world go by; the dust, the noise, the very color of haste. The only sharp pang that I suffered was the feeling that I should be broken-hearted and that I was not; that I should care and that I did not. It was as though I had died and escaped all further responsibility.
"I even watched with dim equanimity my friends racing past me, panting as they ran. Some of them paused an instant to comfort me where I lay, but I could see that their minds were still upon the running and I was glad when they went away. I cannot tell with what weariness their haste oppressed me. As for them, they somehow blamed me for dropping out. I knew. Until we ourselves understand, we accept no excuse from the man who stops. While I felt it all, I was not bitter. I did not seem to care. I said to myself; 'This is unfitness. I survived no longer. So be it!' Thus I lay, and presently I began to hunger and thirst. Desire rose within me; the indescribably longing of the convalescent for the food of recovery. So I lay, questioning wearily, what it was that I required. One morning I wakened with a strange, new joy in my soul. It came to me at that moment with indescribable poignancy, the thought of walking barefoot in cool, fresh ploughed-furrows, as I had once done when a boy. So vividly the memory came to me - the high, airy world as it was at that moment, and the boy I was, walking free in the furrows - that the weak tears filled my eyes, the first I had shed in many years. Then I thought of sitting in quiet thickets in old fence corners, the wood behind me rising still, cool, mysterious, and the field in front stretching away in illimitable pleasantness.
"I thought of the good smells of cows at milking - you do not know, if you do not know! I thought of the sights and sounds, the heat and sweat of the hay fields. I thought of a certain brook I knew when a boy that flowed among alders and wild parsnips, where I waded with a three-foot rod for trout. I thought of all these things as a man thinks of his first love. Oh, I craved the soil. I hungered and thirsted for the earth. I was greedy for growing things. And thus, eight years ago, I came here, like one sore-wounded, creeping from the field of battle. I remember walking in the sunshine, weak yet, but curiously satisfied. I that was dead lived again. It seems to me then with a curious certainty, not since so assuring, that I understood the chief marvel of nature hidden within the story of The Resurrection, the marvel of plant and seed, father and son, the wonder of the season, the miracle of life. I, too, had died; I had lain in darkness, and now I had risen again upon the sweet earth. And I possessed beyond others, a knowledge of a former existence, which I know, even then, I could not return to."
I will continue on this journal of discovery, in tomorrow's blog, so please come again for one of my favorite stories....from one of my old books; that still reminds me of the house in which it used to reside. I stole it. I confess. But it has had a good home, these many years.
IT HAPPENS - OF COURSE IT DOES - AS TIME GOES BY, MEMORIES FADE
TRUTHFULLY, I THINK I DECIDED TO BECOME AN HISTORIAN, JUST SO THAT I COULD, AS A FRILL OF PROFESSION, KEEP REPEATING THE PAST, IN PRINT, SO THAT IN A SMALL WAY, I COULD KEEP IT ALIVE. I AM HOPELESSLY MIRED IN THE NOSTALGIA OF THE HISTORY I'VE LIVED; AND IT GOES WELL BEYONG THIS. AS I KEEP DREAMING ABOUT BEING IN AN ENGLISH PUB SOMETIME IN THE 1700'S, I'M ASSUMING IT HAS A LOT TO DO WITH THOSE OTHER LIVES I'VE LIVED. I'M A ROMANTIC AND A SENTIMENTALIST, BUT MOST OF ALL, I'M ARDENT IN MY BELIEF, THAT SOME ASPECTS OF HISTORY, I FIND OF CONSIDERABLE IMPORTANCE, ARE BEING LOST SIMPLY BECAUSE OF IGNORANCE. I KNOW, I KNOW, THE WORLD DOESN'T ANSWER TO A GUY LIKE ME.
FOR EXAMPLE, IT ALWAYS BOTHERED SUZANNE, WHEN A FORMER TEACHER PASSED AWAY, AND MANY OF THE YOUNGER TEACHING STAFF.....AND THE STAFF GENERALLY, DIDN'T KNOW WHO THE PERSON WAS ANYWAY. I ALWAYS FELT IT SHOULD BE NECESSARY TO KEEP UP ON THOSE BIOGRAPHIES, LONG INTO RETROSPECT, DESPITE THE FACT A TEACHER HAS RETIRED. IT REALLY, AND PROFOUNDLY BOTHERED ME, THAT WAYLAND DREW'S PASSING, DIDN'T RAISE MORE ATTENTION IN THE MUSKOKA SCHOOLS AT THE TIME. IT BOTHERS ME EVEN MORE TODAY, THAT MOST TEACHERS IN THE SCHOOL BOARD, DON'T RECALL HIS NAME AT ALL, OR THE BOOKS HE WROTE, WITH LEGENDARY CANADIAN PHOTOGRAPHER, BRUCE LITTELJOHN. "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," IS ONE OF THOSE LANDMARK BOOKS, THAT IS IN REPRINT FOR A REASON......AND THAT WOULD BE THE RESULT OF ITS OVERALL EXCELLENCE IN COVERING ITS TOPIC.
IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS, IN OUR LITTLE ANTIQUE SHOP CONVERSATIONS, WITH SOME HISTORICAL ENTHUSIASTS, I'VE BEEN CONFOUNDED BY THE FACT THESE "LOCALS" HAD NO KNOWLEDGE OF WAYLAND, KNOWN TO HIS FRIENDS AS "BUSTER," OR THE FACT THAT HE HELP FOUND THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM. HE TAUGHT FOR QUITE A FEW YEARS AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, AND HE INSPIRED HUNDREDS OF STUDENTS TO PUSH THEMSELVES TO ACHIEVE GOALS IN HISTORY, ENGLISH AND NATIVE STUDIES.....AND NEVER TURNED HIS BACK, ONCE A STUDENT GRADUATED..... REMAINING INTERESTED IN HOW THEY HAD FARED IN CONTINUING EDUCATION AND ONWARD IN THEIR CAREERS. HE WROTE NUMEROUS NOVELS, INCLUDING "HALFWAY MAN," AND "WABENO FEAST," AS WELL AS A BOOK WITH MR. LITTELJOHN ON THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER. HE HAD MANY FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES DURING HIS PROFESSIONAL LIFE, AS FAR OFF AS HOLLYWOOD, WHERE HE WROTE BOOKS FROM MOVIE SCRIPTS......SUCH AS "WILLOW," AND EVEN "CORVETTE SUMMER," IF MEMORY SERVES. HE WAS A GIFTED WRITER AND INCREDIBLY VERSATILE.
I REFUSE, DURING THE REMAINDER OF MY LIFE, TO LET NAMES LIKE HIS, SLIP INTO THE QUIET OBLIVION, OF THE COMMUNITY HE HELPED IN SO MANY WAYS. IF HE PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER, MY GOSH, THERE WAS NO GREATER HONOR, THAN IF I HAD, JUST THEN, BEEN HANDED AN ORDER OF CANADA. HIS SUPPORT WASN'T GIVEN WITHOUT WHOLE HEARTED ENTHUSIASM, AND THERE WERE MANY TIMES, I WANTED TO BESTOW CONGRATULATIONS BACK TO HIM.....BUT I FELT IT WASN'T RIGHT.....THAT AN INFERIOR SHOULD DO SUCH A THING.....THAT IT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED INSULTING TO HIM. OF COURSE I WAS WRONG. VERY WRONG. I THINK NOW, IT WOULD HAVE MEANT A LOT TO HIM.
WHEN HE CONGRATULATED TIM DUVERNET AND I, AFTER THE PUBLICATION OF OUR BOOK, "MEMORIES AND IMAGES," IN THE EARLY 1980'S, IT WAS, FOR ME, AS IF WE HAD JUST SOLD OUT EVERY COPY. I JUST DIDN'T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE, BECAUSE I WAS IN SUCH AWE OF HIS WRITING ACCOMPLISHMENTS. I FEEL BAD NOW THAT I DIDN'T HONOR HIM WITH THESE FEELINGS, WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE....BECAUSE IT IS WHAT WAS IN MY HEART.
I'VE WRITTEN THIS NOTATION, MANY TIMES IN THE PAST, BUT I FEEL, THAT SOMEHOW I CAN MAKE UP FOR WHAT I DIDN'T DO THEN, BY ACKNOWLEDGING HIS INFLUENCE ON MY WORK TODAY. IF I'M WANDERING THROUGH THE BOG, ON THESE AUGUST NIGHTS, I PONDER WHAT HE WOULD SEE AS INSPIRATION, OUT ON THE MISTY MOOR, THAT HE MIGHT SCULPT INTO SHORT STORY, OR DESCRIPTIVE OVERVIEW. I TRY AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, TO PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT IS HAPPENING AROUND ME, AND THE SOUNDS OF THE FOREST......THE WIND WHISPERING THROUGH THE EVERGREEN BOUGHS; THE BIRDS STILL CHIRPING IN THE OVERHEAD BRANCHES......AND WHAT HIS INTERPRETATION WOULD BE OF THIS SCENE AS ONE OF POETIC SOLITUDE; OR PLACE OF SPIRITUAL REVITALIZATION......OR JUST A BEAUTIFUL SOJOURN IN THE BOSUM OF NATURE.
I WILL NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR INSISTING THAT PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME, KNOW ALSO OF THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE INSPIRED ME.......TO QUEST THIS WORLD FOR BEAUTIFUL THINGS, AND ETHEREAL PLACES, AND THEN WRITE ABOUT THEIR REALITIES, MODEST OR PROFOUND.......GOOD OR BAD.
I OFTEN HEAR ABOUT WRITING ASSOCIATIONS HERE IN MUSKOKA, AND THERE ARE TIMES, WHEN I CASUALLY PONDER IF IT MIGHT BE WORTHWHILE VISITING SOMETIME. THEN I WILL THINK BACK TO THE TUTORING I RECEIVED, FROM SOME VERY TALENTED WRITERS, LIKE BUSTER DREW, AND HONESTLY......I COULD NEVER CORRUPT WHAT I HAVE AS PURE EXPERIENCE......FOR FEAR THAT ONE OF THE MEMBERS WOULD NOT KNOW HIS NAME......AND I WOULD IMPLODE UPON THEIR MEETING, AN UNFORTUNATE TIRADE OF BIOGRAPHICAL PROTOCOLS, AND HISTORICAL PRECEDENTS; AND LIKE GETTING KICKED OUT OF CUB SCOUTS WHEN I WAS A KID, GET ASKED TO LEAVE.....ON ACCOUNT OF BAD BEHAVIOR.
THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS I SEE TODAY, THAT ARE UNFORTUNATE SIGNS OF THE TIMES.....AND THINGS YET TO COME. I READ A COLLEAGUE'S COLUMN IN THE LOCAL PRESS TODAY, THAT IS ONLY THREE PARAGRAPHS IN LENGTH.....WHEN, FOR COMMUNITY CONTENT, (THAT IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN DEDICATED) , IT ALWAYS WARRANTED EVERY WORD THE WRITER FOUND NECESSARY TO IMPRINT ON THE KEYBOARD. PRETTY SOON, THE COLUMN WILL BE WHITTLED, BY EDITORIAL SAVAGERY, TO JUST A HEAD-SHOT OF THE WRITER, AND NOTHING ELSE. WELL SIR, I CAN SAY, THAT I READ IT THOROUGHLY THIS WEEK, BUT HAVE TO ADMIT THAT IT WASN'T QUITE AS FULFILLING AS IN THE OLD DAYS, WHEN WE ALL HAD FIFTEEN OR MORE PARAGRAPHS OF THE COLUMNIST'S WORK TO ENJOY. CHANGES. WHAT CAN YOU DO? WELL, FOR ONE THING, KEEP HISTORY ALIVE TO MAKE UP FOR WHAT WE DON'T HAVE TODAY!
What I learned from author-historian Wayland Drew
I believe it was the winter of 1978. The first meeting of the soon-to-be Bracebridge Historical Society, was unofficially held at the home of well known Canadian author Wayland Drew. It was a meeting between a citizen, this writer, who was interested in preserving an historic building in the Town of Bracebridge, (an octagonal home constructed in the 1880’s by former woolen mill owner Henry Bird)……and the second party, at the informal meeting, Mr. Drew, was in my mind, a writer-historian of considerable national reputation, (eg. the landmark text entitled, “Superior, The Haunted Shore.”) That’s correct. I’m so very proud to write that Wayland and I made up the first full planning meeting of the soon to be elected historical society. As an aspiring writer, I was in awe that he would give me a private audience to discuss the possibility of forming a local historical society, to implement a conservation strategy to save Woodchester Villa (the Bird House). I had been attempting to drum up support for a citizen-driven initiative to create a community museum, and Wayland must have thought I had at least a spark of credibility to follow through on the project. He called me over to his house for a discussion about all the possibilities of saving this particular Victorian era home. We worked well together and our plans merged to give rise to a new historical preservation group, and eventually, with a huge commitment of citizen involvement, a newly restored town museum would open on that pinnacle of land above the cataract of Bracebridge Falls. My first position was “Recording Secretary,” which I conducted poorly, but rebounded some years later as President and then site manager. Much of the credit goes to Wayland for negotiating so well for the Historical Society generally, and always being its ambassador.
This editorial segment is not a biographical study of my writer-associate, Wayland Drew, or a re-telling of the work of the Bracebridge Historical Society. There is a story about Wayland I have often repeated in environmental presentations ever since, about the importance of listening and learning from expertise. And while we might all believe we’re the best experts we’ve ever met, I was to learn up close and personal how little I knew about the bigger picture of conservation. This is a story that’s of great importance to this on-line inventory of blog editorials because it is at the root of every entry in one way or another.
Several years into the museum’s operation, a situation arose with the town about the necessity of removing numerous large trees lining the old laneway at the front of Woodchester. If memory serves, the problem was that if any emergency vehicle had required access to the building, via this riverside route, the narrow artery would not allow safe, unobstructed passage particularly for the larger fire-fighting equipment. It probably was the case as well that the large border trees would cause great difficulty for snow removal, important for emergency vehicle access as well. The town public works department had recommended the removal of those trees that limited the width of the driveway, and the recommendation did not sit well with Wayland and several others. At the time Wayland was no longer a director of the Historical Society, but was part of a delegation that attended to object to the cutting.
I sat as a voting director.
As I recall now, Wayland made a sensible, balanced, gentle argument to spare the trees by making accommodations with a rear parking area, offering adequate clearance for the larger emergency vehicles. I don’t remember all the details of that lengthy afternoon meeting, except that I acted as the part of “ass” very well. I shot down Wayland without mercy, suggesting that emergency services access to all corners of the site greatly outweighed the scenic splendor of a few large evergreens to be expended. He wasn’t against making provisions for emergency services in numerous other ways, including carving out some of the embankment, all alternatives being well thought out and workable I might add. He was adamant the trees, having been there for a good part of a century, and being an important part of the Woodchester and Muskoka ambience, deserved to be spared the teeth of the industrial strength chainsaw.
I have no idea now what really generated my opposition to alternatives that would spare the trees. I know it was largely a case of ignorance on my part, and a general immaturity, that I would ever have challenged someone who made such a sensible, researched, community minded presentation. I can still recall the shocked look on his face when I cast forward a resounding reprimand for even thinking about any compromise that would limit entrance to the property; and that afterall, “they’re just trees…..they’ll grow back.” I had shown great disrespect to a person who I had always admired in both historical preservation and conservation of the environment. I voted against the conservation of those trees but the good news is my position wasn’t on the winning side. I believe a compromise was reached and although some trees may have been removed, (I don’t remember exactly the reduced cull), Wayland’s argument made sense to the group at large. Although Wayland never said a word about my indifference to the matter of Woodchester’s natural heritage, he didn’t have to say anything at all. It was an awkwardness in our conservations from that point on but always the result of the unfortunate weight of my own conscience. I should have been wise enough to realize that if Wayland Drew had thought it important enough to interrupt his busy day to discuss several trees in peril, it must be a landmark situation deserving the most clear thinking appraisal in response.
A short time before Wayland passed away, after a lengthy illness, we found ourselves both sitting comfortably in the cool shade of a perfect summer day, during a writer’s gathering held ironically at Woodchester Villa. It was a modest, unplanned homecoming to Woodchester, dealing with writing this time, not history, with nary a chainsaw rattle within ear-shot. I took a turn at the podium to read one of my short stories and following the presentation, Wayland left his seat to congratulate me on the subject of my recitation, a fellow writer, (and student from Bracebridge High School) named Paul Rimstead, well known Toronto Sun columnist who had died a short while earlier. It seemed Wayland and I agreed upon the great talent of the “Rimmer,” and that the world would be disadvantaged without his daily barbs and insights.
At the time Wayland knew his life was being seriously shortened, and as it turned out this was the last time I would talk to this amazing, talented gentleman. I can remember wanting so badly to offer a sincere, belated apology for the great tree-debate of once but foolish pride got in the path of an honest, heartfelt regret. I let him walk away without clearing my conscience about a ill-conceived, childish stubbornness that very nearly cost this beautiful tree-lined property even more of its historic, natural charm.
I have attempted many times since Wayland’s death to make amends with the issue, as if expended ink can make up for what I didn’t accomplish in person. Wayland’s passionate appeal for environmental conservation did however, over so many decades of re-consideration, generate within this writer the first and enduring interest to get involved, and speak out about the reckless destruction of forests, the infilling of wetlands, and the damning realities of urban sprawl across the entire Muskoka hinterland.
I wish I had listened more patiently to the sage advisories of the good Mr. Drew. He wasn’t wrong, and his concerns were just as valid then as today. I seldom if ever visit a Muskoka woodland for a hike, that I don’t tribute the experience and enjoyment, in some way, to the inspiration I received from a true friend of Muskoka. My only wish, as a writer, is that I could one day be as effective and enlightened an author, as the man who challenged me to take up the pen in the first place.
Thank you Wayland Drew. The experiences you shared have not been forgotten, the lessons you taught have not diminished; your passion to protect the environment, is the passion now carried forth by your students.
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