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A VISIT FROM AN OLD NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUE - I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT ALL THE FUN WE USED TO HAVE - SOME SAY, TOO MUCH
WE KEPT THINGS LIGHT, WHEN NEWS COVERAGE GOT A LITTLE HEAVY
HE CAME INTO THE SHOP, PRECARIOUSLY BALANCING THREE OVER-FLOWING COFFEES. I'D SEEN IT BEFORE. MANY TIMES IN FACT, WHEN SCOTT MCCLELLAN WOULD OFFER TO DO THE COFFEE RUN FOR THE NEWSROOM. I GOT USED TO HIM HANDING ME MY STEAMING HOT JAVA, STRETCHED OVER THE KEYBOARD OF OUR OLD "MDT" TERMINALS, SPLASHING THE HOT LIQUID EITHER INTO THE ELECTRONICS, OR OVERSHOOTING, AND SCALDING MY CROTCH. HEY, IT WAS THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTED. THE COFFEE WAS WHAT KEPT US TUNED-IN TO A THANKLESS, LOW PAYING JOB. AS SOON AS I ROUNDED THE CORNER OF THE SHOP, THIS MORNING, SHORTLY AFTER ANDREW TOLD ME THAT AN OLD FRIEND HAD COME TO VISIT HIS "MOM AND DAD," I RECOGNIZED THE SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE WINDOW. GEEZ, THAT COVERS A LOT OF TERRITORY, AND HONESTLY, THERE ARE SOME OF MY OLD CRONIES I DON'T WANT SUZANNE TO MEET UNEXPECTED. I WAS A WEE BIT OF A RASCAL IN MY YOUTH, AND HUNG OUT WITH SOME REAL CHARACTERS; YOU KNOW THE ONES. THE PARTY-TILL-DAWN TYPES, AND THOSE WHO LIVED WITH "HAIR OF THE DOG" REMEDIES, AS A REMEDY FOR LIVING LIFE TOO HARD FOR THEIR (OUR) OWN GOOD. ADMITTEDLY, I WAS ALONG FOR THE RIDE, BUT ALWAYS IN THEIR SHADOW. COULD THIS BE ONE OF THOSE PARTY LADS, INFORMING ME, OR MY WIFE, THAT I OWED AN UNPAID BAR TAB, FROM WAY BACK WHEN; OR FINDING OUT THAT A SIGNIFICANT-OTHER SUDDENLY CONFESSED THAT I HAD ONCE PINCHED HER BUM. SO WHEN I GOT A GLIMPSE OF OUR "BEST MAN," BALANCING PAPER COFFEE CUPS WITHOUT LIDS, IT WAS ONE OF THOSE "THANK GOD" MOMENTS. SCOTT AND I HAVE A PACT, YOU SEE, THAT WE WILL NEVER CONFESS OUR SINS, OR SUNDRY OTHER TRANSGRESSIONS, AS LONG AS ONE OR THE OTHER IS STILL ALIVE. AFTER THAT, WHO THE HELL CARES? CHANCES ARE, ANY ONE WHO WAS INVOLVED IN SAID DEBAUCHERY WILL BE LONG GONE BY THEN .
SCOTT MCCLELLAN, HIS WIFE KIM, AND THEIR TWO DAUGHTERS, LIVE IN AUSTRALIA, WHERE THEY HAVE BEEN FOR MANY YEARS NOW. I WORKED WITH BOTH OF THEM, BACK WHEN THEY WERE STILL DATING. KIM WAS A WRITER FOR THE SUMMER SEASON EDITION OF "THE MUSKOKA SUN," WORKING WITH EDITOR BOB BOYER, AND SCOTT WAS MY ACE REPORTER, TAKING UP RESIDENCE WITH THE REST OF US GNARLY NEWS HOUNDS, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE HERALD-GAZETTE. THIS WAS BACK IN THE EARLY TO MID 1980'S. SCOTT WAS A RECENT GRADUATE OF THE JOURNALISM PROGRAM AT CARLETON UNIVERSITY IN OTTAWA, AND IT TOOK US QUITE A WHILE TO BEAT THOSE PROTOCOLS OUT OF HIM. ONCE WE EVEN DUKED-IT-OUT, IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN WE CARRIED THE DEBATE ABOUT JOURNALISM, AND COMMUNITY NEWS, PAST THE JUGS OF DRAFT AT THE PRESS CLUB (OUR TABLE AT THE TAVERN), TO THE ADJACENT TARMAC. HE HIT ME ON THE END OF MY HONKING BIG NOSE, AND IT STARTED TO BLEED, SO I INVOKED THE MERCY RULE, BEFORE HE COULD HIT ME A SECOND TIME. AS WE WERE ALL ABOUT GETTING EVEN IN THOSE WONKY DAYS OF SMALL TOWN NEWS REPORTING, TO RETALIATE WITHOUT FISTICUFFS, I USED TO DISAPPEAR FROM THE HOLIDAY HOUSE BAR, AFTER BEEFING UP THE TAB. SCOTT WOULD ASK FELLOW REPORTER, BRANT SCOTT, WHERE "TED" HAD GONE, AND HE'D SUGGEST, "I DON'T KNOW, BUT I'LL GO AN SEE IF HE'S IN THE BATHROOM." YOU'D HAVE THOUGHT THAT AFTER THE FIFTH TIME OF STICKING HIM WITH THE BAR BILL, HE'D HAVE FIGURED THIS OUT. BRANT AND I WOULD THEN AMBLE OFF TO ANOTHER WATERING HOLE BY THIS POINT. WE LOVED WORKING WITH GREEN REPORTERS. AYE, SCOTTIE WAS A GOOD SPORT!
SCOTT WAS ONE OF OUR AMAZINGLY TALENTED WRITERS, WHO MADE THE EDITOR, ME, LOOK GOOD ALL THE TIME. HE GOT A LOT MORE PRAISE THAN I EVER PASSED ON TO HIM.....WHICH WAS ANOTHER REASON NOT TO SMACK THE EDITOR ON THE NOSE. HE WAS THOROUGH, AND INVESTIGATIVE, AND COULD SMELL A STORY, CLEAR THROUGH THE THICK BLUE HAZE OF THE WHITE OWLS WE WERE SMOKING. THE ONLY TIME I HAD TO EDIT HIS COPY, AND SPIN A NEWSPAPER-SURVIVAL STORY AT THE SAME TIME, CAME WHEN HE REVIEWED A PLAY BEING PUT ON BY MUSKOKA FESTIVAL. MUSKOKA FESTIVAL, BACK THEN, SPENT MANY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS, ADVERTISING WITH OUR NEWSPAPER AND THE MUSKOKA SUN; SUCH THAT, TRUTH BE KNOWN, THEY WERE ACTUALLY FUNDING HIS EMPLOYMENT, WHICH AT THAT POINT, WAS WITH THE MUSKOKA SUN INITIALLY. HE HAD REFERRED IN HIS COPY, TO THE PLAY BEING AS AWFUL, AS THE MISSISSAUGA TRAIN DISASTER HAD BEEN DISRUPTIVE. IT WAS A BIT OF TRIAL BY TORTURE, EXPLAINING TO HIM, THAT NOT BEING A DAILY PAPER, WITH THE ADVANTAGE OF HUGE NATIONAL ADVERTISING, WE HAD TO COURT ALL THE SMALL BUSINESSES TO KEEP OUR PUBLICATION IN PRINT. MUSKOKA FESTIVAL HAD A LOT OF PARTNER SMALL BUSINESSES, THAT SUPPORTED THE SUMMER THEATRE SCHEDULE, AND IF THE MANAGEMENT OF THE FESTIVAL GOT MAD AT US, WE COULD LOSE THE ADVERTISING CONTRACT, TO THE COMPETITION, WHICH AT THAT TIME WAS THE BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER. IT MIGHT HAVE MEANT HIS JOB WOULD HAVE BEEN LOST; NOT BECAUSE HE WAS WRONG ABOUT THE PLAY; BECAUSE IT WAS AS BAD AS HE HAD NOTED. BUT, HAVING THEIR ADS PULLED, BECAUSE THEY WERE OFFENDED BY THE REVIEW, OR THAT THEY COULD HAVE RIGHTFULLY CLAIMED ATTENDANCE HAD DECLINED, AS A DIRECT RESULT, PUT ME IN THE AWKWARD POSITION OF HAVING TO INSIST THE CRITIQUE BE TONED-DOWN. IT WAS THE ONLY TIME I HAD EVER BEEN FORCED TO DO THIS, AS AN EDITOR, AND I HATED MYSELF, FOR HAVING TO CUT THE PROVERBIAL LEGS OFF MY OWN STRICT BELIEF, IN FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. AND THE PRESSURE CAME FROM THE ADVERTISING MANAGER, WHO MADE IT CLEAR, SOME ONE WAS GOING TO BE VACATING THE BUILDING UNLESS THERE WAS A RESOLVE TO THE ISSUE. HE MADE IT CLEAR, HE WASN'T LEAVING. SO THAT LEFT SCOTT AND I, AND AT THAT POINT, WELL SIR, MY RENT WAS IN ARREARS BY MONTHS....NOT "A" MONTH. SO IT WAS THE FIRST OCCASION THAT I HAD TO NEGOTIATE ACCEPTANCE OF THE "MERCY RULE," AND IT WAS TO SPARE BOTH OF OUR JOBS. SO WE SPENT ABOUT AN HOUR, TRYING TO FIND AN ACCEPTABLE ALTERNATIVE TO "TRAIN DISASTER," SO THAT HE WOULD FEEL THE MESSAGE WAS THE SAME, JUST WITHOUT THE JAGGED EDGE. IF IT HAD BEEN A NEWS STORY, INSTEAD OF A THEATRE REVIEW, I WOULD HAVE DEFINITELY FOUGHT THE ADVERTISING MANAGER, SUGGESTING IT WASN'T HIS RIGHT TO INTERVENE; REGARDLESS WHETHER ADVERTISERS WOULD HAVE BEEN UNHAPPY OR NOT.
SCOTT AND I COULD ARGUE ABOUT JOURNALISTIC INTEGRITY TILL THE COWS TOOK FLIGHT, AND STILL NEVER ARRIVE AT A COMMONPLACE. THE ONLY MIDDLE GROUND, WAS A TAVERN TABLE, AFTER WE HAD PUT ANOTHER ISSUE "TO BED" (WHICH MEANT IT WAS OFF TO BE PRINTED). WE'D START TALKING ABOUT THE STORIES OF THE WEEK, UNTIL THE OPPOSITION PRESS CORP WOULD SHOW UP, AND THEN WE JUST STARTED TALKING ABOUT HOW CRAPPY IT WAS, TO BE AN UNDER-PAID JOURNALIST TRAPPED IN A SMALL TOWN. THE ONLY OTHER TIME SCOTT AND I HAD A SIGNIFICANT DISAGREEMENT, WAS WHEN HE TOLD ME, "TED, YOU'LL NEVER MAKE IS AS A WRITER IN A SMALL TOWN." SO I PUNCHED HIM IN THE EYE. SO HE HIT ME ON THE END OF THE NOSE AGAIN. SEC0ND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST. HE WAS JUST ADVISING ME TO GET A JOB AT A DAILY PAPER, TO OPEN UP SOME DOORS IN THE WRITING INDUSTRY. I LIKED LIVING IN MUSKOKA. I WASN'T GOING TO MOVE. THE JOB WOULD HAVE TO COME TO ME INSTEAD. IT WAS THE NUMEROUS PINTS, THAT LET TO ME HITTING HIM, AND SCOTT STRIKING BACK. SO BY GOLLY, WHAT DO YOU THINK I DID NEXT. I ASKED HIM TO BE MY BEST MAN. WHAT A COUPLE OF ODD DUCKS. BUT I DRAW BACK TO THE FACT HE WAS A FINE WRITER, AND DURING OUR YEARS OF ASSOCIATION, HE INSPIRED ME TO MORE FINELY HONE MY CRAFT. AS AN EDITOR, I WROTE A LOT LESS THAN OUR REPORTERS, BECAUSE PART OF MY JOB WAS EDITING THEIR WORK. I'LL NEVER ADMIT IT TO THE GUY, BUT HE SHAMED ME INTO WORKING HARDER AND LONGER, TO BE BETTER AT MY WRITING; AND TO KNOCK OFF THIS STATUS QUO CRAP, AND TAKE SOME CHANCES. I CAN'T SAY THAT I BECAME A SUCCESSFUL WRITER STAYING HERE IN MUSKOKA, FOR ALL OF THESE YEARS. FACT IS, I MADE MY MARK IN THE ANTIQUE INDUSTRY MORE SO, AND WRITING BECAME THE POOR COUSIN. I WILL NEVER TELL HIM HE WAS RIGHT ABOUT THIS, TO HIS FACE, UNLESS HE BRINGS US A NICE BAKERY CHELSEA BUN, WITH HIS NEXT DELIVERY OF COFFEE. HE LEFT CANADA, WITH HIS BRIDE, KIM, AND HE BEGAN A SUCCESSFUL, LONG TERM CAREER IN MARKETING; WELL BEYOND THE DAY TO DAY WRITING GRIND, TO MAKE A LIVING. IF WE KNEW THEN, WHAT WE KNOW NOW, WE MIGHT NEVER HAVE STRUCK EACH OTHER, AFTER LONG NIGHTS AT THE PRESS CLUB....WHICH BY THE WAY, IS NOW AN EMPTY LOT, ON BRACEBRIDGE'S MAIN STREET, OPPOSITE THE FORMER TRAIN STATION. I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT THERE SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN HISTORIC SITE MARKER, ERECTED ON THE PROPERTY, TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT THE BRACEBRIDGE PRESS CLUB, HAD MET THEIR REGULARLY, DURING THE HALCYON DAYS OF THE 1980'S; TO DECIDE WHAT THE PUBLIC WAS GOING TO READ THAT WEEK, THAT MONTH, THAT YEAR.
SCOTT AND I WERE CANOEING PARTNERS, IN A NUMBER OF RACES, HERE IN MUSKOKA, DURING THIS SAME TIME PERIOD. WE EVEN WON OUR DIVISION (FOR THOSE HUNG-OVER COMPETITORS), OF THE ANNUAL MUSKOKA SHIELD CANOE RACE, BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S. WE LATER FOUND OUT, THE PERSON WHO WAS TIMING US, HAD MADE A CLERICAL ERROR, AND WE HAVE ACTUALLY FINISHED CLOSER TO LAST PLACE. THEY LET US KEEP THE TROPHY AND RIBBON, BUT ASKED THAT WE NEVER, EVER, ENTER COMPETITIVE RACING AGAIN. WE DIDN'T LISTEN TO GOOD ADVICE, AND THE NEXT TIME WE TRIED, I NEARLY DROWNED IN THE MUSKOKA RIVER, WITH MY SOON-TO-BE BRIDE, SUZANNE. SCOTT AND KIM WERE IN ANOTHER CANOE, AND NEARLY RAN ME OVER, WHILE I WAS TRYING TO REMAIN UPRIGHT IN THE RAPIDS. IN FAIRNESS, THEY WERE IN NO POSITION TO RESCUE US. DANNY LACROIX AND HIS DAUGHTER ANGIE, WERE CLOSER TO US, AT THAT MOMENT, SO I FORGIVE THEM FOR HEADING TO THE FINISH LINE. "YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO LET ME FORGET THAT, ARE YOU," HE SAID, HANDING ME A MUFFIN AND A LIDLESS HOT COFFEE, SLOPPING OVER THE RIM. "GOOD TIMES," I SAID. "GOOD TIMES."
SCOTT HAS COME HOME FOR A BIT, TO VISIT WITH HIS PARENTS IN KILWORTHY. IT WAS GREAT RELIVING SOME OF THOSE GOLDEN MOMENTS OF OUR YOUTH, AND RECOLLECTIONS FROM SOME OF THE HOCKEY GAMES WE PLAYED, AND LOST MISERABLY, AS MEMBERS OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE RINK RATS. WE WERE TWO OF THE FOUNDING MEMBERS OF THE CLUB THAT IS STILL ON THE ICE ALL THESE YEARS LATER. BUT THE COLUMN I WAS GOING TO WRITE, NEVER MADE IT TO THE SCREEN THIS MORNING.....SOMETHING ABOUT RUSSIA INVADING THE CRIMEA. I SOFTENED, YOU SEE, IN REMINISCENCE. HOW CAN WORLD SAFETY TAKE A BACK SEAT TO THE ANTICS OF THE PRESS CLUB BACK IN THE 1980'S....IT JUST DID. SO PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGY FOR GETTING MIRED DOWN IN THE HISTORY I USUALLY ONLY WRITE ABOUT. I GOT A CHANCE TO RELIVE SOME TODAY. AND IT WAS KIND OF SPECIAL.
MEMORIES OF THE AUTUMN I KEPT COMPANY WITH GNOMES AT SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE
TRY TO IMAGINE THIS - TALK ABOUT LIVING A FANTASY
BACK IN THE AUTUMN OF 1979, I THINK IT WAS (IN THE FOG OF AGE), I LIVED THE RESIDENTIAL EXISTENCE OF A GARDEN VARIETY, HONORARY GNOME. YOU READ CORRECTLY. A REPORTER BY DAY, AN OUT OF PLACE BIG GUY IN A LITTLE PERSON'S ABODE. IT WAS DURING A PARTICULARLY ACTIVE DRINKING PERIOD IN MY LIFE, SO IF IT READS A LITTLE PECULIAR, IMAGINE COMING HOME A LITTLE TIPSY, TO A SERIOUSLY DOWNSIZED COTTAGE……IN EVERY WAY. I FELT LIKE GULLIVER AT TIMES, BENDING OVER TO GET IN THE FRONT DOOR, HOPING I WASN'T GOING TO BE WRESTLED TO THE GROUND, AND THEN TIED DOWN, BY THE SMALL IRATE NEIGHBORHOOD RESIDENTS.
I'VE WRITTEN A FEW OTHER EDITORIAL PIECES, IN RECENT YEARS, ABOUT MY FIVE MONTH OCCUPANCY OF "SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE," WHICH I RENTED, WITH GREAT GLEE, FROM EARL AND JESSIE MACDONALD, OF FOOT'S BAY, ON THE SHORE OF BEAUTIFUL LAKE JOSEPH. IT WAS MOST DEFINITELY A MEMORABLE SUMMER. BUT IT WAS THE AUTUMN SEASON IN THIS TO-SCALE ENGLISH COTTAGE, THAT WAS MOST SPIRITED TO A FLEDGLING WRITER, LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION. IN FACT, I HAVE LOOKED FOR YEARS AND YEARS TO FIND A SIMILAR TYPE ABODE, TO USE AS A WRITING RETREAT. NO LUCK. THERE WAS ONLY ONE "SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE," BUT BY GOLLY, I GOT TO LIVE IN IT FROM SPRING TO AUTUMN.
THE SCALE MODEL OF A MUCH LARGER ENGLISH LAKESIDE COTTAGE, SUCH AS MIGHT BE FOUND ON LAKE WINDERMERE, IN THE LAKE DISTRICT OF ENGLAND, WAS SITUATED ON THE LOW SHORE-SIDE, BENEATH TOWERING PINES THAT BORDERED THE COTTAGE ROAD. I EVEN HAD MY OWN MINIATURE HARBOR WITH A TINY DOCK AND A LITTLE BOAT, IN CASE A RESIDENT GNOME WANTED TO GO ON A LITTLE TOODLE OF THE LAKE. THERE WAS EVEN A CROQUET COURSE SET UP ON THE LAWN, JUST OUTSIDE MY BEAUTIFUL SIDE WINDOW, WHICH ALWAYS REMINDED ME OF THE VIEWING AREA, HIGH ON THE STERN OF A GREAT OCEAN-GOING SCHOONER.
THERE WAS A MOOD WITHIN THAT WAS ENCHANTING - AND YOU'D FEEL LIKE A KID IN A CANDY SHOP
The down-sized English cottage had been built by a neighbor of the MacDonalds, and I was fortunate enough to meet him, when Jessie took me over one day to visit. His was the cottage next door. I always remember the scent of pipe tobacco, and seeing the owner's huge collective of pipes with carved faces, if memory serves. It was this gentleman who had painstakingly built the wee cottage, with amazing carpentry skills. He was an artist as far as I was concerned. The MacDonalds then purchased the property, and rented it out to various folks during the summer months. Earl and Jessie were wonderful people to rent from, and often times I'd wake up in the morning, with Earl rapping on the door, so I'd wake up to see the ducks gathered in the little harbor. He loved that property, and the two of them were great to socialize with, during my brief stay. They knew I didn't have many friends around, so they'd come to tell me there was a lunch for me at their house, and I should come over and relax. I was a poor….and I mean that, reporter, and I ate cheaply if I ate at all. So I wasn't adverse at all to their hospitality. And as Earl promised me it would be a great retreat for a writer, he was absolutely correct. I wrote through the day for The Beacon, and wrote at night for me……first about my lost love, and then eventually, about love left to seek out. I arrived somewhat beaten down by life, but quickly found the bright and cheerful little cottage, had too much spirit within, to nurture sadness.
It was on misty autumn mornings, living in the gnome-sized cottage, which was a cross between a trip to Narnia with C.S. Lewis and a Robbie Burns experience, in Bonnie Scotland. You could forget where you were. It was the magic of the place. At night, looking out onto the lake, and watching the lights of the boats gyrating across the waves of the lake, made it seem, from the window, as if the house was actually floating as well. To set the mood for me, on that first day when I cross the threshold of this magic little place, a copy of the newly released book, "Gnomes," was on the built-in desk, inside the door. The book was brought to North America in translation by Martha Stewart's husband, who after this enormous success, which made millions by the way, helped with the hugely successful book, "Entertaining," still a milestone book in Martha's mountain of publications. I read the Gnomes book numerous times during that stay on Lake Joseph. Every time I had to hunch over to get in the tiny door, at the cottage entrance, I got a chuckle seeing the gnome book staring back at me. I never arrived at the cottage without expecting to find these tiny souls at home. Enchanted? I learned all about enchantments that season. People coming to see me succumbed to the spell, moments on the property. It was a chick magnate let me tell you, and they always found the keeper of the cottage….me….to be cute and cuddly in the midst of tiny attributes, like scaled-down hearth and fireplace, staircase, small chairs and tables, and even miniature gargoyles carved into the wood mantlepiece. They begged to stay over. I never had it so good. (Of course this only refers to a period of time, as my wife would not like to read this kind of personal anecdote, as it was before we met).
I stayed until late in the fall that year, until the first flurries came whipping over that chilled lake, and through the barren hardwoods. I didn't mind being huddled under the wool blankets they left me, in the warm glow of the crackling flames in the small but completely adequate fireplace…..where I had a comfortable arm chair pulled close. I'd sit there in this relative paradise, of so many inspirations around me, and settle to a splendid peacefulness, cradling a hot cup of tea made in the tiny kitchen the gnomes found spacious. I never felt alone in that cottage. Not that it was haunted, but because of its character and beautifully aged woodwork, it felt so historic and storied, whether it was or it wasn't. I can remember coming home late at night, and swearing to have heard voices inside. I woke up that way at night, hearing the pitter patter of little feet, that weren't there……or at least there were no bodies to go with the footsteps. But it wasn't an unsettling occupation, and if there were ghosts in that tiny place, they were of the most welcoming variety. I felt at home on my first night, which is unusual for me, as I come from a family of sentimentalists, who hate being separated for long from their cherished residences. As I had just separated from my girlfriend of five years…..after asking her if she wanted to get married……and she quipped, "to who," and strangely enough, Seven Persons' Cottage was a respite to a broken heart. It seemed to know how miserable I was, and by golly, after about the first week, I'd returned to writing in the evenings, something I'd abandoned after Gail gave me the proverbial heave-ho for another guy. Don't you just hate when that happens. That summer, I went from wanting to drink myself into a long term stupor, to restoring my interest in the future…..which I blamed on Gail for stomping into the ground, with the last bouquet I sent her on a reporter's budget. It wasn't much to look at, but it was the thought that counted. Right? Gail came to Seven Person's Cottage once to see how I was holding up, and I guess she was satisfied with the "we can still be friends" thing, and when she left, you know……I felt the gnome-like sensibility bloom from the heart of that place on the shore of a beautiful lake. It was my "serenity now!" It saved me I think. I arrived there feeling like I'd been mauled by zoo animals, my heart ripped out of my chest, and that dear little place, with the MacDonald's kindnesses bestowed, and my Abba record (I only had one record) for my failing turntable……turned my life around in a modest spring to autumn residency. How many of you can say that one of your best friends was a to-scale English cottage, where a great bard should have been holed-up, writing romantic poetry for lost love. I was just a poor bard but I did write poetry.
The truly curious aspect of design, at Seven Persons Cottage, was that it could easily accommodate seven guests. The most I had over at one time was four, but it was a comfortable arrangement, considering three of them were young ladies, smitten with the pipe smoking writer-in-residence. Yup, I used to smoke my pipe and write. It just seemed important to act like the great writers, even if I was still a bum in the industry. The girls thought I was special. Of course so did my mother. Gail, not so much. The furniture was all small, and like the dining-room table, it had leaves that folded out to accommodate more guests around the table. The bedrooms had bunk beds, and small chairs for reading before bed, and the kitchen had small scale cupboards and a bar fridge that was more than enough for the non-cooker me. It got me thinking, you know, about how much space is wasted and extravagant in the average North American house, when this small (condo size) cottage, made efficient use of every square foot…..such that after awhile, you didn't even recognize it as downsized, unless you went outside, and saw the doll house architecture on a big lot. No space was wasted. We could learn a lot from that cottage design. If I had the money, let me tell you, it would have been mine. I always feel that way about the great places I've lived in my life, and if I owned every neat place that inspired me to write, well, my property tax bill would be in the millions. In Gravenhurst, thankfully, I'm only paying a King's Ransom, for Birch Hollow, as compared to the gigantic lakefront assessment for the little Gnome cottage.
I used to hate leaving Seven Persons Cottage in the morning, but I was thrilled to arrive back home in the early evening, exhausted but cheerful about the next few hours, sitting by the hearth, having a wee sip of brandy, (the cheapest kind) in Robbie Burns honor, and then typing away until I could compose no more. And when on autumn evenings like this, that I donned my nightcap, and extinguished the oil lamp, it was sort of like The Waltons……as every creak and groan in the old woodwork, seemed to be wishing me a good night's slumber. I retired to bedlam relaxed, contented, and resolved, that if the gnomes should take over the cottage while I slept……I'd be good with that, as long as they swept up their crumbs from those late evening snacks.
A friend, who I have deep respect, looked at me one day recently, as I spun another of my trademark yarns, and wanted to, I'm sure, ask me if there is a shred of truth to all these collected tales I've offered for public consumption, for all these years as a writer. I suppose it's a case, that unless one sees and experiences it first hand, no amount of convincing will truly make up the sensory deficiency, between story teller, and listener. I would have liked to taken this friend to Seven Persons Cottage, to see the "fantastic" of what I have known as my special enchantments, because me thinks, we all need to know magic exists beyond childhood……and the strange dreams in the recess of sleep. I will occasionally dream about my time at Seven Persons' Cottage, and I will wake up, suddenly, to look around and see if it's true………that I have returned to that quaint little lakeside cottage, that saved my life, way back……and gave me so much to write about. But I find myself feeling good cheer none the less, and know that my Birch Hollow, you see, as a present haven, is the friendly composite of all the fascinating places I have ever lived. It now is as spartan, plain and convenient, comfortable and pleasantly haunted, as I remember from the days when…….I kept company with gnomes on a misty lakeshore in the Muskoka heartland. It may all be fiction, and possibly just a very long dream about the life I have enjoyed. The welts from pinches, tell me I'm not dreaming.
Thanks so much for sharing this recollection with me today. Please join me for another adventure, coming soon.
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