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| A Story About Family, New Brunswick; Signed and Inscribed Copy |
I'M A LITTLE LATE WITH THIS REVIEW, BUT THAT'S WHAT OLD BOOK DEALERS ARE FAMOUS FOR!
"TEACUPS & STICKY BUNS - MOM'S STORY" BY TOM CULLIGAN
QUITE A FEW OF OUR CLOSE FAMILY FRIENDS, AND A SMALL NUMBER OF CHATTY CUSTOMERS, WILL ASK ME, AS A BIBLIOPHILE, WHAT NEW BOOKS I'VE BEEN READING. THEY WANT TO KNOW ABOUT "CURRIE" APPROVED TITLES. GADS, I HATE TO DISAPPOINT THEM. APPARENTLY THEY THINK I'M UP TO SPEED ON THE LATEST HOT PUBLICATIONS. THE ASSUMPTION, YOU SEE, IS THAT I READ NEW BOOKS, THAT LATER BECOME THE USED BOOKS I SELL IN THE SHOP. THEY ASSUME THAT IF I CALL MYSELF A BIBLIOPHILE, I MUST READ BOOKS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY. IT'S EVEN LIKELY, I READ DURING BREAKFAST, LUNCH AND DINNER. IN RETROSPECT, THE ONLY THING I EVER READ AT BREAKFAST, WAS THE CEREAL BOX, LIKE A TRILLION OTHER KIDS. TRUTH IS, I HAVE ONLY PURCHASED A HALF DOZEN NEW BOOKS IN THE PAST DECADE, AND ALL OF THESE WERE REFERENCE TEXTS THAT WE USE IN THE ANTIQUE TRADE. AND THEY WERE MARKED AT HALF PRICE. I'M A BARGAIN HUNTER BECAUSE IT'S IN THE BEST INTERESTS OF MY OLD STUFF ENTERPRISE.
I AM SO ENTRENCHED IN THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION, EVEN AS A BOOK HUNTER, THAT I CAN'T JUSTIFY PURCHASING A NEW BOOK FOR LIST PRICE. THIS MAY SEEM HIGHLY CONTRADICTORY, BUT FOR THE FORTY DOLLAR PRICE TAG OF ONE NEW BOOK, I CAN BUY FORTY OR MORE FROM A RUMMAGE SALE OR ESTATE CLEARANCE, AND MAKE A HEALTHY MARK-UP FOR PURPOSES OF RESALE. IF I WAS TO PAY FORTY BUCKS FOR A NEW BOOK, THE SECOND I LEAVE THE SHOP, IT BECOMES A SECOND HAND BOOK, WORTH A QUARTER OF THE PRICE AT BEST. THIS HAS ALWAYS BOTHERED ME, JUST LIKE BUYING NEW FURNITURE OR A NEW CAR. THE USED BOOKS I BUY CAN'T GO ANYWHERE BUT UP, BECAUSE I BUY THEM FOR SUCH LOW PRICES. I THINK PUBLISHERS OF NEW BOOKS GOT CARRIED AWAY WITH PRICING, AND IN MY MIND, IT HAS COST THE INDUSTRY MANY OF ITS FINEST NEW BOOK SHOPS. CRITICS WILL BLAME IT ON E-READERS BUT I DON'T KNOW A SINGLE BIBLIOPHILE, WHO WOULD FORFEIT THE SENSORY PERCEPTION OF A REAL TEXTURED BOOK, IN A FLESHY HAND, FOR A WHITE SCREEN WITH BLACK PRINT ON IT! LIKE THE BLAZING RETURN OF VINTAGE VINYL; JUST WHEN MOST OF US THOUGHT THEY WERE GONE FOREVER, THE COMEBACK HAS STARTLED MUSIC INSIDERS. TECHNOLOGY IS ONE THING. VINTAGE VINYL AND NEWLY PRESSED VINYL, QUITE ANOTHER. WHAT IS OLD IS NEW AGAIN. LIKE OLD BOOKS! ONE RESURGENCE WILL INSPIRE ANOTHER. AS FOR OUR OLD BOOK SALES? I'M NOT COMPLAINING.
AND OF COURSE, YOU'RE RIGHT. THE TITLES I HAVE BEEN REVIEWING FOR MY BLOG, THIS PAST YEAR, ARE UNMISTAKABLY "REALLY" OLD BOOKS, THAT YOU CAN ONLY GET BY EITHER HAPPENSTANCE AT YARD AND CHARITY SALES, AT USED BOOK SHOPS, OR BY SEARCHING ON THE ADVANCE BOOK EXCHANGE ONLINE (CO-OPERATIVE OF OLD BOOK DEALERS SELLING ONLINE). BUT THEN, I LIKE OLD BOOKS. NEW BOOKS? MOST OF THEM HAVE BEEN BASED ON, OR PARALLEL, THE CONTENT OF OLD BOOKS ANYWAY. AND AS FAR AS IT GOES, I CAN OFTEN GET NEW BOOKS, THAT HAVE BEEN LIGHTLY READ AND THEN DONATED, FOR A FRACTION OF THE PRICE, AT JUST ABOUT ANY THRIFT SHOP OR FLEA MARKET I VISIT. HECK, I'VE EVEN FOUND SOME OF MY OWN BOOKS, THAT I'VE WRITTEN, ON THESE SAME CHARITY SHOP SHELVES. NOW THAT'S A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE. BRINGS ONE DOWN TO EARTH FAST. SO I SUPPOSE, I HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE APATHETIC CUSTOMERS, WHO HAVE SPELLED OUT THE DEATH KNELL, FOR MANY OF OUR MODERN ERA BOOK SHOPS. BUT BEFORE THE AUTHORS BAND TOGETHER, TO SEEK REVENGE, THE TRUTH REMAINS; WE OLD BOOK SELLERS, KEEP THEIR WORK IN VOGUE LONG INTO THE FUTURE; KEEP IT RELEVANT, IN THE ROWS OF VINTAGE LITERATURE AND NON FICTION, THAT FILL OUR TALL ROWS OF BOOK SHELVES. IT'S TRUE THEY DON'T GET ROYALTIES THE SECOND TIME THROUGH; AT THE VERY LEAST, WE HONOR THEIR WORK BY SELLING THESE TITLES, SECOND, THIRD AND FOURTH TIMES AROUND. (MORE THAN THIS FOR SOME TIMELESS BOOKS) WE HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF RESPECT FOR THEIR WORK, AND YET WE HAVE TO LIVE BY OUR RETAIL WITS; AND THAT MEANS, AFFORDABLE PRICING; OR ALSO, FIND OURSELVES GOING OUT OF BUSINESS. RARE BOOKS ARE A DIFFERENT THING ALTOGETHER. BUT THERE ARE NEW BOOKS, THAT WILL BECOME COLLECTOR'S EDITIONS DOWN THE ROAD, AND THAT WILL BRING VALUES UP TO THE ORIGINAL RETAIL, AND IN SOME CASES, WELL BEYOND. THE INSCRIBED COPY OF THE BOOK I HAVE SELECTED TO REVIEW TODAY, COULD WELL BE ONE OF THOSE TITLES, ESPECIALLY IN NEW BRUNSWICK, AND MOST DEFINITELY, IF IT IS INSCRIBED AND SIGNED BY THE AUTHOR. I AM PARTICULARLY SUPPORTIVE OF FOLK HISTORIES AND REGIONAL CANADIANA, AND TODAY'S TITLE CONNECTS ALL OF THE DOTS.
THE POINT OF THIS LENGTHY INTRODUCTION? I KIND OF WISH I'D PICKED UP A COPY OF TOM CULLIGAN'S BOOK, "TEACUPS & STICKY BUNS - MOM'S STORY," WHEN IT WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED, BACK IN 2002, BY CULLIGAN PUBLISHING. HERE'S WHY! IT'S A BLOODY GOOD STORY. I'VE ALREADY STOPPED FOUR TIMES SINCE I BEGAN THIS BLOG, TO READ YET ANOTHER CHAPTER. BY THIS RATE, I WILL HAVE READ IT COVER TO COVER, BY TIME I FINISH TODAY'S COLUMN.
I LIKE FAMILY STORIES. THE MORE INTIMATE THE BETTER. I WANT THE SOCIAL, CULTURAL, FOLK HISTORY OF THESE FAMILIES, ESPECIALLY IN CANADA. IT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN WRITING ABOUT SINCE I BEGAN MY OWN INTIMATE COLUMN, BACK IN THE DAYS OF THE FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN I STARTED TO PROFILE MY OWN BUDDING FAMILY. ACTUALLY, I STARTED, A FEW YEARS BEFORE GETTING MARRIED, BY PROFILING MY GRUNGE LIFE AS A HAPLESS BACHELOR, AND WEEKEND PARTY ANIMAL, LIVING IN A WRITER'S ECSTASY OF POVERTY; BUT ALWAYS WITH AMPLE FUNDS TO DRINK, AND DRINK HARD. MY READERSHIP TRIPLED WHEN SUZANNE CAME INTO MY LIFE, AND SOBERED ME UP. SINCE THE MID 1980'S, IN MORE THAN A THOUSAND EDITORIAL PIECES, IN A VARIETY OF REGIONAL PUBLICATIONS, AND ONLINE, I HAVE WRITTEN A CHRONICLE OF THE GOOD DAYS AND BAD, THE ADVENTURES AND MISADVENTURES OF OUR FAMILY. SO WHEN I FOUND THIS COPY, OF WHAT TO ME IS AN EXCEPTIONALLY WELL WRITTEN BIOGRAPHY, IT IMMEDIATELY HIT HOME HOW IMPORTANT PERSONAL MEMOIRS AND CAPTURED RECOLLECTIONS ARE FOR POSTERITY; AND HONESTLY, IMPORTANT TO ALL OF US CANADIANS, WANTING TO KNOW MORE ABOUT OUR COLLECTIVE NATIONAL IDENTITY. WE ALL HAVE STORIES TO TELL OF OUR GRANDPARENTS AND PARENTS, AND OUR UPBRINGING. THESE SOCIAL ARCHIVE COLLECTIONS REALLY TELL US ABOUT OURSELVES, AS CANADIANS, WORTS AND ALL. SO EVEN STANDING AT THE BOOKSHELF, TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF THIS PARTICULAR BOOK WAS A KEEPER, I HAD ALREADY CONSUMED TEN PAGES OF TEXT, BEFORE SOMEONE HAD TO ASK ME TO STEP-ASIDE; APPARENTLY BECAUSE I WAS BLOCKING AN ENTIRE SECTION OF POCKET BOOKS IN MY READER'S OBSESSION. HOW DID THE BOOK CATCH MY ATTENTION. THE FRONT COVER ART! I LOVE THESE FOLKISH, NAIVE, FRIENDLY DEPICTIONS, AND THERE ARE QUITE A FEW MORE SIMILARLY INSPIRING PAINTINGS RE-PRINTED INSIDE. THE ART WAS PROVIDED BY THE AUTHOR, AND ONE OF HIS TEACHERS, GIVEN CREDIT IN THE BOOK, IS MUSKOKA ARTIST ELKE SCHOLZ, WHO CULLIGAN NOTES AS BEING A "GIFTED ARTIST AND MY ART TEACHER, WHO GUIDED ME TO DEVELOP MY OWN STYLE OF ART."
WHAT I REALLY LIKE ABOUT THE BOOK, IS HOW QUICKLY AND SUBTLY I WAS SUCKED INTO THE STORY, VIA ART, AND THE INTIMACY OF THE TEXT; WHEN IT'S TRADITIONAL FOR ME, TO BE CRITICAL ABOUT A BOOK FOR THE FIRST FIFTY PAGES. SO AS FAR AS WARMING UP TO THE STORY, I KNEW THE BOOK WAS COMING HOME WITH ME AFTER THE FIRST FIVE PAGES. IT'S JUST A REALLY NEAT REFLECTION OF CULLIGAN'S MOTHER, AND HER FAMILY, WITH THE MIX OF STORIES ABOUT HARD TIMES, STRICT RELIGIOUS PRACTICE, A CAST OF FAMILY CHARACTERS, FROM THE MEEK AND MILD, TO THE ODD AND ECCENTRIC, ON TO THE FLAMBOYANT; THE RICH AND THE POOR RELATIVES, FILLING OUT A STORIED FAMILY TREE. WHAT INTERESTS ME MORE SO, IS THE CLEVER WAY THE AUTHOR SPLICES IN THE LANDSCAPE OF NEW BRUNSWICK, SO THAT THE READER GETS THE LAY OF THE LAND; A TOPOGRAPHY THAT WAS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE TO HIS MOTHER, HER BIOGRAPHY, AND HER PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY.
SO WHO IS THE AUTHOR, AND WHERE DOES THIS STORY TAKE PLACE? WELL, JUST IN CASE YOU WANT A COPY, AND CAN FIND ONE THROUGH THE ADVANCED BOOK EXCHANGE, ONLINE, I WON'T SPOIL THE ADVENTURE, BY TELLING YOU TOO MUCH. THERE'S A LOT OF STORY PACKED BETWEEN THE COVERS.
TOM CULLIGAN, ACCORDING TO THE BOOK'S INTRODUCTION, IS "CO-FOUNDER OF "THE SECOND CUP," WHICH "WAS THE FIRST TO DEVELOP A CHAIN OF RETAIL STORES SPECIALIZING IN GOURMET COFFEE IN NORTH AMERICA." "TOM GREW UP IN NEW BRUNSWICK, CANADA. HE RECEIVED A DEGREE IN THEOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF DAYTON AT DAYTON, OHIO. ASIDE FROM THE INTEREST IN PRIVATE FINANCIAL AND REAL ESTATE DEVELOPMENT, TOM DEVOTES HIMSELF FULL TIME TO PAINTING AND WRITING."
"WE WERE SPENDING A QUIET DAY TOGETHER," WRITES TOM CULLIGAN, ENJOYING A QUIET TIME WITH HIS MOTHER, PLANNING OUT THE EVOLUTION OF THE MANUSCRIPT. "IT BEGAN WITH US BOTH STANDING ON THE BACK STOOP ENJOYING THE GRAND VIEW OF THE BAY de CHALEUR AND THE GASPE MOUNTAINS BEYOND WHERE THEY GRADUALLY DISAPPEAR INTO THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE, AND EVENTUALLY INTO THE ICY ATLANTIC WATERS." HE CONTINUES, WRITING "MOM AND I TURNED OUR ATTENTION THEN TO THE SWEEP OF THE BARE FIELDS AND OVER TO DANNY'S POINT, THAT LONG SANDY ROCK POINT THAT WAS EXPOSED NOW BY THE LOW TIDE SETTING THE AIR ADRIFT WITH THE SMELL OF CLAMS AND DAMP OCEAN SEAWEED. THIS SERVED AS BREAKFAST FOR THE SCREECHING MOB OF SEAGULLS DIVE-BOMBING FOR CLAMS, AS THEY POPPED OUT FOR THIER AIR-BUBBLE HOLES IN THE SAND. WE BOTH BREATHED DEEPLY, BREATHS SO DEEP THAT IT WAS LIKE DRAWING THE WHOLE LANDSCAPE WITH ALL ITS SOUNDS AND SCENTS INTO OUR BODIES. THIS WAS HOME. THIS WAS NEW BRUNSWICK." A BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN PASSAGE, THIS IS THE INTIMATE WAY THE REALITIES OF NEW BRUNSWICK-LIVING BECOMES SO PROFOUNDLY IMBEDDED IN THE FAMILY STORY. BEFORE TRAVELLING TO NEW BRUNSWICK, THIS BOOK WOULD BE A TERRIFIC INTRODUCTION TO THE EAST COAST EXPERIENCE.
THERE IS A PARAGRAPH ON PAGE SIXTEEN, THAT REALLY HOOKED ME, DOWN DEEP INTO THE BROADER CURRENT, OF THIS POIGNANT PIECE OF CANADIANA. IT READS AS FOLLOWS: "MOM KNEW WHAT I WAS THINKING AND TURNED THAT TANNED, WRINKLED FACE AND THOSE POWERFUL EYES TO ME. I THOUGHT, EVEN TO THIS DAY IN HER NINETIETH YEAR, SHE HAS THE SAME 'STRAIGHT AS A TWO-BY-FOUR' STANCE AND THE PERFECTLY FIT AND TRIM BODY I'VE ALWAYS REMEMBERED. MAYBE THIS WAS BECAUSE SHE ATE SO MANY OF HER MEALS STANDING. MOSTLY MOVING FROM THE HOT CAST-IRON STOVE TO THE KITCHEN TABLE, ALWAYS SERVING OTHERS, BUT NEVER SKIPPING A BEAT OF THE TALK GOING ON."
"VISIT MOM IN HER CULLIGAN HOMESTEAD, AND STAY FOR A CHAT, PERHAPS A HAIRDO. FOR SURE, YOU'LL BE ENJOYING A STRONG CUP OF TEA AND NIBBLE ON A STICKY BUN WHILE MOM READS YOUR TEA LEAVES," THE AUTHOR WRITES OF HIS MOTHER. "SPLASH IN THE ICY WATERS OF THE ATLANTIC WITH MOM, AND THE KIDS, WARM BESIDE THEIR ROARING BEACH FIRE, SHIVER WITH MOM AS SHE DRIFTS WITH HER HEAVY CASE OF AVON SAMPLES, AND SING WITH HER AS SHE BAKES BREADS AND PIES WHEN THE KIDS ARE SLEEPING."
AS THE AUTHOR CONFESSES, ABOUT THE STORY UNFOLDING, "HOW MOM LIVED HER LIFE BRINGS A MESSAGE OF HOPE FOR WOMEN. ESPECIALLY FOR SINGLE MOMS AND LONELY WOMEN RAISING CHILDREN WITH INATTENTIVE OR ABSENTEE HUSBANDS. MOM'S COURAGE, HER STRENGTHS, AND HER DETERMINATION AND FAITH, PROVIDE A POWERFUL EXAMPLE TO WOMEN EVERYWHERE WHO STRUGGLE WITH A CHAUVINISTIC AND INSTITUTIONALIZED SOCIETY. HER BASIC PRINCIPLES OF LIFE AND HER ABIDING FAITH ARE INSPIRATIONAL. OVER A LIFETIME DOING ALL THE 'LITTLE THINGS,' MOM DEMONSTRATED THAT AN INDIVIDUAL REALLY CAN AND DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE. SHE LEFT NOBODY OUT IN HER COMMITMENT TO CARE FOR OTHERS. EACH PERSON COUNTED AS MUCH AS THE NEXT WITH MOM. THOUGH SHE SEEMED TO ME AN ORDINARY PERSON, I KNOW NOW THAT SHE TRULY LIVED AND ACTED EXTRAORDINARILY IN EVER ACTION AND IN EVERY RELATIONSHIP."
HE NOTES, "BECAUSE OF HER EXAMPLE OF 'JUST DO IT,' I WAS INSPIRED TO DEVELOP THE SECOND CUP CONCEPT OF SERVING CUSTOMERS IN A WARM AND INVITING ATMOSPHERE, DEVELOPING SPECIALTY BLENDS OF GOURMET COFFEE, STUDYING BOOKS, ATTENDING SEMINARS AND REMAINING ALWAYS OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS AND IDEAS IN SEARCH OF SUCCESS."
THE BOOK IS HOMESPUN. IT'S ABOUT FAMILY VALUES, AND ABOUT RESPECT FOR HOME TOWNS AND HOME REGIONS. I LIKE FAMILY STORIES LIKE THIS, THAT DON'T RESTRICT ACCESS TO INTIMATE DETAILS; WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, NEVER MAKING US FEEL LIKE VOYEURS, PEEKING THROUGH A WINDOW, HOPING TO CATCH SOMETHING OUT OF SORTS. THIS STORY TELLER, THE SON OF MARGARET CULLIGAN, INVITES US INTO THE HOMESTEAD KITCHEN, FOR A TABLE-SIDE CONVERSATION, THAT AT TIMES, SEEMS IMMEDIATE ENOUGH, TO ASK FOR A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE, OR TEA. AT OTHER TIMES, BY GOLLY, IT'S AS IF I COULD SMELL THOSE FRESHLY BAKED STICKY BUNS, AND ONE OR TWO OF THOSE FRESH PIES COOLING ON THE COUNTER. I FELT I WAS SO VERY CLOSE TO THE CULLIGAN FAMILY, READING THE STORY, AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, IT'S WHAT SEPARATES A GOOD STORY TELLER FROM A STORY TELLER. IF I FEEL DISTANT THEN I WILL COME TO FEEL DISCONNECTED; AS IF THE WRITER COULDN'T CARE LESS ABOUT MY FEELINGS. IT'S WHY I SET DOWN A LOT OF BIOGRAPHIES, AS NOT BEING WORTH MY TIME. FOR THIS BOOK, IT WAS MY TIME. I COULD FIND PARALLELS TO MARGARET CULLIGAN THROUGHOUT OUR FAMILY. SUZANNE'S AUNT ADA GILLIS, OF UFFORD, COMES TO MIND. WE LOVED TO TAKE OUR BOYS OUT FOR A VISIT TO THE OLD SHEA FAMILY HOMESTEAD, NEAR THREE MILE LAKE, AND ADA WOULD INSIST WE STAY FOR DINNER. THE POOR SOUL WOULD TAKE TWO HOURS TO PREPARE THE FOOD, TALKING TO US AT THE SAME TIME, AND THEN NEVER ACTUALLY LANDING IN HER SEAT TO JOIN US FOR DINNER, BECAUSE OF THE STOVE TO TABLE PATH SHE WAS WEARING INTO THE FLOOR TILE.....JUST SERVING US. SUZANNE'S MOTHER HARRIET WAS THE SAME, AS ADA, OF COURSE, WAS HER SISTER. BUT IT'S THE WAY BOTH OF THESE LADIES RAN THEIR KITCHENS AND WE WERE BETTER FOR THEIR EFFORTS. IF SUZANNE HAD EVER INSISTED EITHER ONE OF THEM SHOULD SIT DOWN AND RELAX, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN CONSIDERED AN INSULT; A SIGN OF DISRESPECT FOR THE RIGHTS OF THE WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. SO I JUST BENEFITTED FROM THEIR GENEROSITY AND KINDNESS, AND KEPT MY MOUTH SHUT.
SO "TEACUPS & STICKY BUNS," WAS ONE OF THOSE PLEASANTLY REMINISCENT FAMILY HISTORIES, THAT ALMOST INSTANTLY BECAME FAMILIAR BY PARALLEL EXPERIENCE. BUT WHAT I APPRECIATE THE MOST, IS THAT TOM CULLIGAN, DESPITE HIS MANY OTHER BUSINESS AND ART ACTIVITIES, THOUGHT IT IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO DOCUMENT HIS MOTHER'S LIFE; THINKING IT WOULD BE INSPIRATIONAL TO OTHERS. WELL IT WAS TOM. I HAVE READ THE ENTIRE BOOK IN ONE DAY, AND THE ONLY OTHER TIME THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED, WAS WITH PAUL RIMSTEAD'S BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS." ONCE AGAIN, IT WAS RIMSTEAD'S INTIMATE RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS SUBJECT, AND US, THE READER, THAT CREATED THE ALLURE OF A PRIVATE AUDIENCE TO A GREAT STORY UNFOLDING.
I KNOW THAT I'M TWELVE YEARS LATE WRITING THIS BOOK REVIEW OF A MUSKOKA AUTHOR. IN 2002 TOM CULLIGAN WAS A RESIDENT OF THIS FINE DISTRICT OF ONTARIO. I LIKE TO REVIEW THE WORK OF LOCAL AUTHORS, BUT I'M NOT USUALLY THIS LATE GETTING AROUND TO IT. AS I NOTED PREVIOUSLY, THIS IS THE FOLLY I SUPPOSE, OF BEING AN OLD BOOK DEALER. I'M A LITTLE BEHIND MY TIMES, BUT EVENTUALLY I'LL GET AROUND TO IT! THIS IS A NEAT BOOK, AND A FASCINATING STORY, THAT WILL INSPIRE READERS TO THINK ABOUT WRITING THEIR OWN FAMILY BIOGRAPHIES, AND I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING FOR SURE; WE NEED MORE AVERAGE-FOLK BIOGRAPHIES IN THIS COUNTRY, BECAUSE THAT IS WHERE YOU WILL FIND THE DEFINITION OF WHAT IT MEANS TO BE CANADIAN. NO DOUBT ABOUT IT!
A Retrospective from the torn pages of my own biography.
The Patina of Home - The Amalgamation of Emotions and Fact
I like to retrace my youth spent in Bracebridge step by step. Literally. Physically. The art of the hike. The mindful jaunt in places familiar. I've taken many long strolls through my former neighborhoods, over the four seasons, just to see if by slim but hopeful chance, there's a ghost or two still wandering about from that era of the 1960's and 70's, when the town was on the cusp of what I feel has become a profound urbanizing change. I don't see them but I can feel their presence and it's not a bad or frightening thing to be in their company. I also write a ghost blog so the more the merrier!
There was a lot of history that wasn't recorded.
It's not really the fault of historians past but the fact that most history of small towns in Ontario, for example, was tallied by newspaper reporters/editors, who purposely distanced fact from the "emotional facts......actuality of the event that took place." The borrowed news reports re-published in modern histories do not evoke much in the way of sentiment....because of course they were meant for the news pages where there is a strict format and protocol for presentation; a budget of words and a reduction of sentiment for sentiment's sake. It does however, leave a void of understanding. What was it like to watch a fallen soldier's body return home to the Bracebridge train station in a rough box......what was it like to stand on that platform with family who had some time earlier waved at their son as he headed out in defence of his country? Let the reader fill in the blanks.
On re-write however, for the reader today, the old news reports have a corpse-like dryness about them, because they are hollow for the most part, of actuality.....like when the news commentator in the United States stated, in utter shock and horror.... "Oh, the humanity," when the great Zepellin caught fire and passengers dove, in flames, to their deaths. Events and personal tragedies that may have made the front pages of the weekly press, and into the hearts and souls of neighborhood folks then, are jammed into historical accounts now without accompanying explanation of what it all meant in human terms....not just in some writer's appreciation of the bare facts. Today these twists of fate are pretty much neglected unless conversation between hometowners enters that domain.
Events such as the death of two of my chums in a tunnel cave-in on Anne Street, just up the hill from the train tracks near Bass Rock, come to mind. No matter how many times it may re-appear in sundry mention in a feature article or book, unless there's some infilling, it becomes a news story only.....when in fact it was a community-shaping tragedy that affected the way we perceived our hometown fragility and our ability to save our children from a similar fate. When it was learned the boys had been trapped in the tunnel, neighbors and folks from all over, appeared on site with shovels, showing on their faces the very great fear of the unknown......that there may have been many others in that smothering hole in the side of the hill. Some who ran to that cave-in suspected their sons might be in there as well. Former Hospital Administrator Frank Henry, on hearing the news while at work, ran from the nearby medical facility with a shovel, he found in the maintenance department, to help dig the lads free. It was a Saturday and parents were frantic to connect with their youngsters situated at play all over town. My father phoned my mother Merle from the lumber yard where he worked, to find out if I was at home. I was. But I might not have been if not for a warning that came down the pike the night before, when several young lads asked their parents about helping our mates from school dig their army tunnel network the next day. When I announced my intention to trundle over to the same hillside, my mother stood in the doorway and said, "You're not going to be digging a tunnel today or ever.....and I don't care what you're friends think is a good idea....it's not....you can die if there's a cave-in." That was the statement made the night before. It's the reason I'm penning these thoughts now....because of any project I do get involved, I'm usually in the middle of everything going, including a tunnel dig. Just as I would have been on that rainy autumn day. I thought she might have changed her mind, or that possibly I could sneak past the sentry and wander over to Anne Street without my mother being any the wiser. By morning it was raining heavy and throughout most of the day it was a misty, cold ugliness. As it turned out, this was at least part of the problem that helped loosen a large portion of hillside, sliding down on top of the boys.
I will never forget the sombre mood of that town for weeks after. Students jammed the funeral home rooms to bid farewell to their chums and for many of us it was the first serious introduction to mortality. It happened on numerous other occasions, where accidents and general misadventures led to the death of friends......hockey playing mates, baseball colleagues, kids from the neighborhood who drowned or were involved in traffic mishaps. Sickness claimed quite a few others and most of us admittedly didn't understand why the young and resiliant were succumbing. For every community milestone, every accomplishment from a provincial sports honor to celebration of the Cavalcade of Color, there was no escaping the reality there was a patina of town life that was a precarious mix of good and bad, happiness and misery, new life being born to the citizenry and others taken away.....sometimes suddenly.
I can remember hearing about a traffic accident, as a kid, that happened on old Highway II at the intersection near The Pines Home for the Aged......a grisly tale that has stuck with me to this day because of what rescuers had to deal with at the scene. The word went around that summer afternoon that a head-on collision near the intersection had resulted in many serious injuries to mulitiple occupants of both vehicles. There were sirens coming from all over. We knew it was bad just by the responding vehicles..... , fire, ambulance and the police. From where we lived on Alice Street, much of the action passed down nearby Toronto Street on the way to the hospital. When the fire department arrived they knew at least one of the vehicles was going to require ripping apart to free the occupants. Before they could finish extracation of the injured, flames broke out in the wreckage, and in seconds what was left of the car was engulfed in flames. They had no chance to do anything for those people inside, who began screaming in pain from the encroaching fire. It was told to us kids, sitting at the time with adults at our apartment on Alice Street, that the firemen felt like screaming along with the victims, because their agony was as great....having to live with the fact they were forced to watch people die knowing their rescue efforts could not be successfully mounted in time. I could not, would not ever forget those words, and it was as if I had been a witness myself....it became that real for me. I knew some of the firemen. What a terrible experience for them to live with for the balance of their lives.....and they had seen many more gruesome situations; yet I am reminded that they had experienced thousands of other calls when they were able to make successful rescues and save lives.....save buildings from burning and ward of total catastrophe by their expert efforts. It was that bitter sweet patina of everyday life.
There were many times in my childhood, in Bracebridge, when like everyone else who appreciates the dynamic of life, when shock and sadness entered into one's heart and soul, and affected the interpretation of everything else for weeks and months. It was a community like all the rest. There were serious accounts of misadventures we listened intently to at dinner-time; reports, hearsay, gossip of unfortunate family circumstances, tales of business failures, marriage break-ups, a few affairs of the heart, crime, assaults and some less serious news about school mates (some from prominent families) caught for shoplifting or public drunkeness. As I got a little older there were numerous stories about those same chums getting caught with drugs and related items, smoking down at Bass Rock where we used to swim..... and where we'd get a real kick talking to hippies and draft dodgers, Americans trying to avoid the horrors of the Vietnam War by hinding out in the hinterland of Ontario.
The Hunt's Hill lads used to hang-out near the railway station on hot sumer afternoons, awaiting the coveted Toronto run, pondering whether this would be the day to jump a boxcar and head to the city for some fun. They came and went over those many years and we never jumped on rolling stock. We did however, get on boxcars in the rail yard and we met up with more than a few hobos heading down to the Jungle they kept in rotating locations just up the overgrown embankment from the Muskoka River.....where yes they did occasionally enjoy an invigorating bath in the moonlight.
If you sat by the rails for long enough you were sure to see some interesting stuff going on at the adjacent Albion Hotel that I think had a better history earlier in the century than it was gaining in the 1960's, by way of the patrons it kept. It wasn't uncommon at all to see a bouncer run a drunk patron's head into the door on the way out onto the tarmac.....which obviously spoke volumes about the misconduct inside. The guy would crawl around for a few moments, dust himself off, comb his hair, and shadow-box a little while giving a lecture to the bouncer, then long gone, about "just who do you think you are buddy, throwing me out like that......I'll show you a thing or two." Five minutes of composure-gathering later, he'd try to get back in that bar again......and we loved every moment of it. Sure as we bet, he'd coming flying out a little further the second time with the bouncer's arm on his shoulder and wasteband of the pants, and down he'd go in a lump of humanity. I've watched as many as three patrons bounced the same way minutes apart. It may not be the part of history that is seen worthy of ink these days (or even then) but by golly it happened, it was funny as hell, and I witnessed this social, cultural heritage close enough to smell the booze and hear their heads hitting the door on the way out.
Public drunkeness wasn't a rarity even in the earliest days of our community. We had a lot of logging types in this town before the turn of the century, as did Gravenhurst, and it imprinted pretty harshly on the local constables. The loggers coming from the camps were a force to be reckoned with, and being rowdy was just part of the rugged lifestyle garnered from an industry known for its dangers, demands for the utmost courage, and reckless abandon. Being trapped for long periods in the camp made the escape so much more desirable, and misadventure was normal course....and the lock-up showed the wear and tear on its hinges. As well, homesteaders here had no choice but to be a tough, unyielding, stubborn lot because failure here could mean a slow agonizing death due to starvation out on the homestead. Even if you lived in town you were unmistakably a pioneer in the north woods regardless of urban situation. To say we were hewn from a rough and tumble first citizenry, well, you'd be right. From the late 1850's Muskokans who wanted to remain here made sacrifices. There were disadvantages on top of disadvantages and many didn't make the cut....left the region for some other locale, or perished with dreams of a prosperous homestead still in their hearts. Some of my wife's family, during this pioneer period, were known as the Three Mile Lake Wolves, for their temperment, and with Irish glee they would join arms at one end of the main street, stretch across the width of the rough lane, and with as many as four hardy brawlers, beckon anyone tough enough to stand in their way as they marched toward the town falls. Legend? Nope! Fact!
In the following blogs, some that were formerly published in Curious; The Tourist Guide, I have provided an honest appraisal of what it meant to me, to be considered a local yocal......how it felt after many years of being transplanted from the city, and attached to this new hometown. As I had been a keen observer throughout my childhood, of what constituted the tally of daily life and times of any worthy hometown.....I didn't proceed as a writer/historian with any misconception or lack of appreciation for what history had etched in its wake......like the glacier grinding over the Canadian Shield. What I had seen and experienced......it was a critical background reference that gave me an exceptional insight. As a fledgling editor, having arrived back to my hometown, hoping to make a name for myself as an adult citizen, I knew in advance of my first published piece that it was going to be a precarious balance to represent fairly all the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows, losses and victories.....and avoid at all cost, making it ever seem as if the local citizenry couldn't cope with any situation it was to face. Afterall it had survived the wickedly difficult pioneer economy, two wars, a Great Depression and a myriad of successes in businesses that went bust as did so many dreams. It has worn its discontent bravely and survived despite adversity....just like thousands of other good hometowns that realize that the definition of prosperity means being able to turn misfortune into advantage......picking up where one task was left off and finishing the job.
My own critics argue that I am too open with my opinions, and to glaring with the facts I present. In response I carry on with blatant disregard and contempt.......because I have never as a citizen, a newspaper editor, or historian come upon anything in the past or present, no matter what the weight of its negative revelation, that couldn't be handled by citizens at large and time. And afterall that's what makes a hometown.....well.....a "home", being able to move on despite. We are not immune to the dastardly circumstances......of crime, corruption, and malice....why would we be? It's all part of our history like it or not. As the earth continues to turn, resolution and restitution will occur just as it always has, and we will recover and rejoice all over again......but it is imprudent to forget how we got from there to here in 150 odd years. I'd like to believe we've learned something about our capabilities to survive against what is often considered insurmountable.
Here are some editorial pieces about my hometown I've composed in the past 12 months. You don't have to know much about Bracebridge, or anything at all about its past, to relate to the stories.....which for all intents and purposes could have been generated from your own hamlet, village, town or city. Please enjoy! The first one has a Christmas backdrop!
Respecting the spirits of Christmas past
My contemporaries in the community press sought out the editorship of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, because it seemed from an underling perspective, like a politically powerful and socially influential position. They had visions of world domination, I think, not simply the fair and unbiased representation of community life and events.
It afforded the chosen-one the very great and time-honored privilege, to occupy the creaking old chair behind the oak desk, the one with a deep patina of sweat and ink imprinted into the grain, attained honestly from the actuality of many milestones of local history. To be editor one had to be cognizant of all things past and present, yet be insightfully inspired, no less courageous, to willingly venture into the abyss of uncertainty down a dark and winding trail. Well, that’s a tad dramatic!
How many of those long adrenalin, emotion driven editorial races to deadline, were pounded into that oak desktop? Fist thumps onto its surface. "Let’s put this paper to bed!"
It was situated in the second biggest office in the century old building on Dominion Street, and it afforded the occupier thusly, the right to select or compose the lead editorials for the weekly edition. Not to mention having the responsibility to bark out orders to reporters and lay-out staff, about what was going to make the front page, and what copy would fill up the white space further back amongst the food store ads.
I wasn’t the youngest editor of The Herald-Gazette but possibly the youngest non-family member to take the helm of this established publication. It wasn’t the only paper serving the community, and in fact, when I was appointed to the editorship in the early 198 0’s, there was a fierce battle being waged between competing publishers to win over advertisers and attain the highest weekly readership.
I had apprenticed with a sister publication, The Beacon, in the Township of Georgian Bay, and felt a little out of my league when the publisher first offered me the editor’s job, in Bracebridge, when the former head honcho was transferred to another community newspaper. While scared out of my wits to take the helm of one of the District of Muskoka’s best known publications, I had achieved exactly what I had intended after returning home from studies at York University in Toronto. I wanted to be an editor with Muskoka Publications. It simply came about five years sooner than I had planned.
I didn’t care about the political weight of editorship and I had no intention of changing one molecule of the tradition established by George Boyer and family, who had built the newspaper’s foundation brick by brick decades before I’d even seen the first light of new life.
I used to work many late nights hunched over that gouged, pen-imprinted, gnarled old desktop during the first year of my multi-year tenure, feeling a huge sense of pride being able to maintain the HG’s print tradition, carrying on a legacy of fine writers, and powerful editorialists. I felt in awe to be truly ingrained then in the history of my community. At times I still felt like a punk kid running amuck in the neighborhood, like my rapscallion days growing up on Bracebridge’s east side as part of the Hunts Hill gang, a notoriously pacifist bunch of lads who were distinctly better hockeyists than pugilists. Here I was dictating the editorial content for a much closer, in-person history, and I was astounded by the faith of the publisher, Hugh Mackenzie, who allowed me the greatest of freedom to represent the good and bad of community life and times.
I can so clearly recall one rather poignant news-desk vigil, on a blustery night on the cusp of that year’s Christmas vacation. I had been at the helm about a half year and we’d just finished the special holiday edition of the paper that afternoon, and heartily consumed a few cartons of eggnog in celebration. There may have been a trace of rum stirred in as well. What a keenly wonderful moment it was that night, in the solace of an empty newsroom amidst the splendid haunts of this historic building, to feel that sense of connectedness to all the heritage of this Ontario community. All I had to do was walk two flights of stairs to the basement to connect with the physical archives representing well over a hundred years. The history of Bracebridge was right there in huge and bulky compilations overflowing shelves and tables. I was in awe to stand there and consume the legacy of which I was now a part.
While my staff colleagues had their opinion about my leadership, and my zeal for political power, they might have been quite confounded by the fact I actually was quite humbled by the position. I felt more unworthy than cocky, and there wasn’t a day that went by, when I didn’t think about my shortfalls and inexperience captaining such an important community asset. Yet there were moments, such as that particular pre-Christmas vigil, when I allowed myself the benefit of doubt, and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being editor of The Herald-Gazette….despite the misgivings that I was unworthy of the responsibilities bestowed.
When I walked away from the news building that evening, and looked back through the wind-driven snow, it was as if a manufactured, nostalgic old movie scene wrenched from the archives. It needed a sentimental last-word, a line Bogart might have uttered about time and place, event and remembrance, life of old, life anew, the end of one chapter, the beginning of a fresh new perspective. I may have even looked a little like Bogie, at that precise moment, my turned-up coat collar and askew hat adorned with snow, staring back at the history of only moments ago, yet pondering what the future might hold…..Christmas yet to be. And in that illumination of snow against nighfall, there was that sense of peace we dream of when all the world seems to make perfect sense, and we trundle joyfully through the winter night with great expectation. It was as if, at that moment, I was walking the same path as an editor from the 1920’s, or one winter’s eve during the Great Depression, or during the Second World War, our footfall being the same. All the years, all the events, all the memorable moments were imprinted here, and I was only too pleased to embrace it all….that year and for every year since, that I have been contently employed writing about my hometown and home region of Ontario.
In the coming year in Curious, The Tourist Guide, I would like to re-visit those roving reporter, editor’s desk days, and share some light-hearted, unusual, outrightly strange events that occurred during my years working for the local press here in the heart of Muskoka. I will introduce you to many colorful characters who made my many years in the print business so memorable and exciting.
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