Bracebridge and The Folks Who Were Always Willing To Lend A Hand

The well worn pages from Bob Boyer's "A Good Town Grew Here"

THE WAY IT WAS, AND WHY MY FAMILY ADJUSTED TO SMALL TOWN LIFE AND TIMES, FASTER THAN MOST

BRACEBRIDGE FOLKS GAVE US A BREAK, IN SO MANY WAYS

     I live in Gravenhurst. But I will always have a soft-spot for my old hometown. There have been times during my residency, in both South Muskoka towns, that I found myself being overly critical, and a tad insensitive in print, to the point of spewing outright negativity. I've been a community writer long enough, to be entitled to make some suggestions, and offer the occasional critique, but always balanced by the unyielding truth, that I have enormous respect for both towns. There are some who will read today's blog, and feel I am, in an editorial sense, trying to smooth over the ruffled feathers of past critiques, by unleashing a barrage of positive recollections, and excessively sweet overviews; of what it was like, for instance, to be a poor city kid, dumped into a rural neighborhood by circumstance, of my father's new employment. After about thirty years of thinking about those early years, transplanted into so called "God's Country," (and feeling seriously out of place) I now feel more satisfied, and comfortable, writing this style and theme of retrospective. A lot less intensive, and maudlin, than if I'd written the same piece, even a decade earlier. So I've beaten the romanticism and sentimentality down to a dull roar, although not diminishing the truth, of how I feel today, and how my parents felt, having spent their last days, of this mortal coil, living in the same town, that willingly adopted them in the mid 1960's.
     When our family moved to Bracebridge, so my dad could assume a managerial role, at the historic Shier's Lumber Company, we brought with us, as you might expect, an urban go-go-go mentality. We had left Burlington, and the subdivision of Mountain Gardens, in the late winter of 1966, but when we closed our apartment door for that last time, we forgot to shut-in our urban arrogance. Which by the way, had nothing at all to do with personal wealth, but everything to do with expectation. Although by accounting terms, we were a hair's breadth from being totally broke, only having enough money to buy food, and gas, for our failing, crumbling-into-orange dust, Vauxhall sedan, we still felt an unspecified prominence, being city-folks, coming to what my mother described, as being a "Sleepy Hollow."
    My parents were in for some rather stark realities, as the job didn't work out for my father, and seeing as we were living in a company-owned house, up on the extension of Toronto Street, we also became "city folks down on their luck, all of a sudden homeless, stuck without resources, in a small, small town." Ed would go back to Shiers on two other occasions, after unspecified negotiations, between boss and sales manager, and after a few months, quit again, following a similar dispute, with the then owner, Bob Jones; leaving us back in the same impoverished situation as before. The only difference was that we had found another place to live, courtesy the landlords of 129 Alice Street, known otherwise as the Weber Apartments. I think the rent for a third floor, front, two bedroom apartment, was a hundred dollars a month, and we had difficulty meeting that obligation. There was a difference. The Webers weren't typical landlords. They were too accommodating to be good at their job. Lots of renters caught a break from Wayne and Hilda, and some took advantage. I know we always paid-up eventually, but I knew several others who skipped out, late at night, sticking the Webers with months of unpaid rent.
     I think the transformation of the Currie family, from urban to rural sentiment, happened quicker, than for average urbanites, who decided in the 1960's, to get "back to the land," and restore themselves in rural serenity. I think the main reason, for our speedy adaptation, to a slower paced, less stressful town life, was due to our succession of unfortunate circumstances. First of all, I must admit, that when we lived in Burlington, we had a very small group of family friends, and most of them were neighbors in our newly constructed apartment building, prominently, and starkly standing (without trees) on the bald corner lot, of Mountain Gardens Road, and the extension of Brant Street. Ed worked at a lumber company in Hamilton, I believe, and Merle was employed by the Imperial Bank of Commerce, but I'm not sure where the branch was located. I know she travelled considerable distance to get there. When we moved from Harris Crescent, and the Nagy Apartments (which I adored and didn't want to leave), Merle took a job at the local pharmacy in the strip mall, across from where we lived. I got to see her more than my dad, because I used to frequent the stores in this plaza, and she had a good vantage point out the drug store window, to see me crossing the busy road. If I could see her, she could see me, so I played it safe, and was patient to cross. Where as, on other occasions, I darted, ran, meandered, all very dangerously. Merle supported the idea of moving to the country, because there was less traffic, and she wouldn't have to worry so much, about her son being hit and killed by a car.
     Living on Alice Street, upon the rise of land, bordering the west side of the black snaking course, of the Muskoka River, known as Hunt's Hill, was conveniently situated for car-less folks. It was only a couple of blocks from the main street, and perfect for walking to buy our groceries. When our Vauxhall finally quit, for good, its wheels collapsing sideways, at about the same time, and we had to hoof-it for a few months, we would walk down to Lorne's Marketeria, on Manitoba Street, every Friday night, to get our cart full of groceries; and then, feeling some distinction of importance, have them put in a box, for delivery later on Saturday morning. We did this for quite awhile, and it wasn't all that inconvenient. I don't think they charged for delivery back then, and seeing as we couldn't afford a car, it worked out well economically.
     In those first two years, from 1966 to 1968, we depended on the kindness of strangers, let me tell you. But they weren't strangers for long, truth be known. That was the biggest difference of living in a small town, versus living in a significantly populated subdivision, of a major city. We had ten times more friends, than we had ever made, living in the city. First of all, my dad eventually found work, after three tries at Shier's Lumber, with the newly opened, Building Trades Centre, with owner brothers, Paul and Irvin Robson, who saved us from destitution. But you know, we couldn't have ever been destitute of spirit, living at 129 Alice Street, or in Bracebridge generally, because of all the new and generous friends we met from the first week we had called it our home town. Hilda and Wayne Weber were two of the kindest people we have ever known, and although we never understood how they got along as a couple, all we knew at the time, was that it must have been God's will that we connected; they were our forgiving landlords, and we became their close family friends. I soon became responsible for lawn cutting, although I know Wayne often referred to me, under his breath, as "that littler Christ-er," especially when I launched a powerful stream, of mixed lawn clippings and dirt, at the open screened windows, of basement apartments. "Turn the lawn mower around Teddy, for God's sake; can't you see where the cuttings are coming from," Wayne would yell at me, followed by his apology through the screens, to the basement dwellers, coughing from the dirt cloud aimed at their sofas. As far as generosity, I don't know how many times, Hilda and Wayne let my parents slide on the rent due, and believe me, their kindnesses in that regard weren't forgotten. They were a peculiar couple, and fought like cat and dog, but when it came down to benevolence, let me tell you, those folks would have given us anything we needed, including a short term loan, a room in their house, or transportation whenever it was needed.    We soon learned from the Webers, the difference between urbanites and the urban condition, and what it meant to be a rural dweller. Believe me, there were hundreds of examples, and we had dozens more friends, than we had ever made in the same type of apartment circumstance, living in Burlington. I suppose my parents didn't care about this back then, because they didn't have financial problems, and they both had decent jobs.
     I can remember when my mother, Merle, was working for the Bank of Nova Scotia, in Bracebridge, part time, and watching the tears streaming down her face, after finding out, by phone, she had been turned down for a personal loan, at the place she worked. At that point we wouldn't have had anything to use as collateral anyway. So giving us money was a high risk. It was coming up to Christmas, and she wanted a little extra money to cover expenses of the season, and prepare for rent on the first of January. She knew that the bank had quite a few holiday days, and her earnings for December wouldn't be enough. Ed was working but, if I remember correctly, he was only a part-time bartender at the Holiday House, working for Timmy Allchin. I remember Merle being pretty upset that Christmas, until a few days before. She came home one evening, with a huge smile on her face. Her boss, Ralph Melvin, had fronted her the money she had applied for, but had been originally denied. I've always suspected Ralph, and yes he was that kind of man, gave her money out-of-pocket, to see us through the Christmas holiday. Ralph didn't know my mother very well, as she had only just started at the bank, and he only knew my father, from casual chats, when he met my parents shopping, or walking along the main street. Yet he felt we were trustworthy to repay the load. And Merle did repay Ralph after only a month. But we never forgot his kindness to our family, and I must admit, when I was editor of The Herald-Gazette, I found it almost impossible, while covering town council, to find anything to critique of Councillor Melvin's performance, on behalf of constituents.
     I remember once, getting into a serious disagreement with a newspaper manager, about the plan to include Ralph in a particularly nasty editorial, being planned for that issue. I refused to have any part of it, or give my approval to planting it on the editorial page. I think the editorial ran, but was toned-down a lot, from what had been proposed originally. Was I right to show favourtism to this man, because of a kindness once? I was the editor of a small town newspaper, in the rural climes of Ontario. Of course it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances, and although I would have failed a journalism course, at university, by acknowledging this bias, what I'm admitting, is that discretion was, and is a big part of the job; in a community where we see each other three times each day. They may have handled this different in the big city, but these were our neighbors, and I had hundreds of similar circumstances to handle, over the years of my editorship. This isn't to suggest, that we would have refused to run stories about crime, and criminal charges, just because it involved our friends; but there were times, when we did defer, on lesser issues, such as political critiques, because we understood circumstances more clearly, as friends. I can't make this read acceptably, simply because favoritism isn't a good thing, especially as regards newspaper coverage. Yet, I was just one editor, in a long line, and tradition, of small town press staff, who had to make similar value judgements like this; so I wasn't the first to be influenced by an intimate knowledge of our fellow citizens. I didn't and couldn't have, by terms of employment, have demanded that the editorial be killed, before it hit the presses, but it was the closest I came to quitting a job I loved.
     What I carried on to the news business, in the late 1970's, were the memories of how our family had been treated, especially during those first five years, as city transplants, in Bracebridge. We lived in a building, which I recall as being a sort of latent hippy commune, where everyone borrowed from one another, and most residents left their doors open when they were home; inviting neighbors to drop in, whenever in the mood. The doors only closed at bedtime, or when residents were out of the building. It was the perfect place to live, for folks down on their luck, because everyone who lived there, for those years, became our family friends. We had a lot in common. A lack of resources. It was incredible, and empowering for us, in so many ways. These folks all had their respective problems, and none at the time, were particularly well off, and that made us feel slightly more normal. We certainly didn't feel it necessary to impress our neighbors with material extravagances, and Merle and Ed were at card parties, in neighbor apartments, on most Saturday nights during those years; and in the summer, their nights were spent in a lawnchair ring, out on the front lawn, where some kind neighbor would barbecue some hot dogs for the gang. The kids would spread blankets over the cool grass, on steaming hot summer nights, and we'd lay there looking up at the star-scape, listening to our parents, laughing through the night, and story-spinning. It was just a neat sharing environment, and food and beverage, was always generously offered to those who didn't have their own. I've written volumes about these years, because of this fascination, about how our family was spared, and supported, by this community generosity, in such a wide variety of forms. Including hiring me to mow the lawn every two weeks, and sweep the halls of the building, even though I routinely did a crappy job. Hilda and Wayne knew my parents couldn't afford to give me an allowance, so they found ways of paying me to do some apartment chores. I did help out around the property, or at least I thought I did; and now I feel bad about whining how hard it was to do these basic chores, for five buck a pop.
     It didn't matter whether I was at the arena, or at Jubilee Park, or hanging around Bill Elliot's five cents to a dollar store, on Manitoba Street, I found this same level of caring and kindness bestowed the former city kid; who by the way, used to brag about still being a city kid at heart. I said to Suzanne, one day, a short while ago, that it had been the best case scenario for our family, to have faced hard times in Bracebridge, than in the city at that time; when so few knew us, and cared to change that particular status quo. And my parents were unhappy with their jobs in Burlington, so sooner or later, one of my parents would have quit, and created an economic crisis. The friends and soon-to-be friends, we soon made in Bracebridge, didn't really care about our financial circumstance, but considered us one of the mix of citizens, who might later become important resources in the community. It's exactly what I thought about, the very first day, I sat at my new "editor's desk," after my advancement at The Herald-Gazette, the oldest newspaper in town. I was so honored to be editor, in part, because it afforded me an opportunity, to add my own experiences and sentiments, about the home town experience; and this would influence the editorial decision for years to come. I was proud to represent the history of the newspaper, and what the Boyer family had accomplished during their long-time stewardship; and I felt it incumbent, to carry on traditions despite format changes, and an ever evolving readership in a growing town. At, by the way, a very enterprising time for business investment. It was growing beyond its small town quarters, and expanding outward into the pastures of former heritage farms. I did, in this vein, have the opportunity to acknowledge my appreciation, back to the town, for helping my family adjust to rural living, and bestowing so many kindnesses on a family out of its comfort zone.
     When I first began writing my "Bracebridge Sketches," column, for the Sunday morning, free paper, known as "The Muskoka Advance," in the early in the 1990's, I began publishing stories about the Alice Street apartment, the days of Bamfords and Lil & Cec's corner stores, up on Toronto Street, and about so many of the good friends we had made, back in our own dark days of the late 1960's, when honestly, we were close too packing-up, and heading back to the city. It was the first time in local newspaper history, that a writer would confess such intimate confessionals, that weren't just about landmarks, events, occurrences and local history itself. I suppose, I made it a living history, because most of the people, I was writing about then, were very much alive, and still carrying on their acts of benevolence. They were however, a little shocked to find out, via my column, just how much they had helped my family weather their personal crisis. Sometimes these folks would call me, and offer thanks for my comments, such as Father Heffernan, who was always so kind and encouraging, on the playground of Bracebridge Public School, or anywhere else we met in town; even on the ice pad of the arena. A few people I wrote about, didn't make any comment at all, and there were others, I think, who felt I shouldn't have written about them at all, because their benevolence was just part of who they were; nothing out of the ordinary, or deserving of a column, dedicated in their honor. But it these columns, weren't written just to thank individuals or groups of people, such as the residents of 129 Alice Street. They were written, you see, to acknowledge the fine cluster of good citizens in a decent home town, who cared enough about us newcomers, to offer hospitality above and beyond anything we could have expected. I wanted the town itself, to know, that we had made the correct decision, at the perfect time, to relocate to Bracebridge. And because of all our new friends, made so quickly during those first years, we time and again, decided that our gains in this new community were more important, than job offers elsewhere. My father was a career lumberman, and he was offered all kinds of positions with Southern Ontario companies, but he turned them all down, to stay with Building Trades, in Bracebridge. As a result of my parents' contentment to stay in town, it of course influenced me, and I couldn't wait to return back home, after finishing university studies in Toronto.
     My parents moved to Parry Sound, in the late 1970's, because Ed had become a partner in a local lumber company, but after four years, had decided to move back to Bracebridge. It was where they would live in retirement, at Bass Rock apartments, on the Muskoka River, and would eventually pass away; right to the end, benefitting from the unmistakable embrace of old friends and new, in the hometown they once thought, they'd never get used to. Yet came to adore, in so many ways, because of what it didn't have. There are times, when I become a little sappy about those early years, and possibly I expend too much sentiment to be taken seriously as an historian. I remarked to Suzanne a few weeks back, that I'd very much like to live in that apartment once more, for a year or so, just to write about those days; set up the same apartment the way it was when my parents lived there. "That's just weird," she replied. "You're an historian. You know full well you can't go back." Of course, I know differently. Sometimes, frankly, quite to the contrary, it's kind of hard to get back to the present. I'm never in a hurry.
     A lot of young folks and new residents to this part of the world, don't know our communities the same way. Admittedly, they weren't here back in the 1960's and 70's, and can't be expected to have the same sensitivities, as I possess, in retrospect, of a much different community. Yet, I think they should make an effort, to learn more about their hometown, and all the exceptional folks who made it a good and caring place to live. There will always be residents, past and present, who failed to benefit, the way my family did, for any number of reasons. It's impossible to broad stroke this period, with one overview, and not find those who feel the opposite, or at least contrary, regarding my assertions. It will be much the same today, although there is no columnist as intimate with the past, and former citizens, as me, to applaud or critique. It would however, infill a lot of social history, as it is the one huge void in our town's story. The intimate side. I've seen it, experienced it, and benefitted from it. Of course, it can be said, that by circumstance, I'm biased. As a newspaper reporter, this reference would be insulting. As a columnist, it is part and parcel of the assignment.
     I wrote this today, mournfully so, thinking about this week's loss of former Bracebridge Councillor, and main street businessman, Bruce McPhail, and his wife, Ruth, who were both killed in a motor vehicle accident, while travelling in the State of Nebraska. The McPhails were both very active in the community, and their contributions to the well being of Bracebridge, goes back decades. When it is held, the memorial service, for these two fine citizens, will be one of the largest in town history; because of their dedication to home, and their many friends and life-long associations. This is how they will be remembered. They were builders of our social-cultural legacy, in South Muskoka, along with thousands of folks just like them, largely unsung, but always committed to assisting others, sometimes, even by simply infusing enthusiasm, and generating inspiration to carry-on.
     It was also sad to read about Coray Schroeder's passing this week, and Suzanne and I want to extend heartfelt sympathy to the family. Suzanne was a colleague of Coray's, and her husband, Glen, while teaching at Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School during the 1980's and 90's. Corey was an untiring volunteer in the community, and her name showed up time and again, in support of important initiatives, of which, in many ways, we have benefitted as area residents. She will be missed.
     We don't often devote time, just to analyze how, and by what means, we have earned, and maintained, the credit of being a home town, and not just a cluster of citizens. If we were to spend a little time, pondering this issue, we would recognize fully, just how much sculpting has gone on, by our enterprising, creating citizenry, to meet the demands of the future. But we can't ever fully appreciate how hard it all was, unless we pay respect to those builders, each who contribute something to what we have ultimately become.
     As I enjoyed those many wonderful years of stewardship, as editor of The Herald-Gazette, and as columnist previously, of "Bracebridge Sketches," I have wrapped myself in history, once more, as may be my folly to suffer. I suppose I have done so, to feel the close comfort again, in my elder years, of so many vivid memories, of those who made our lives better, and more interesting; yet we never told them so, when we had the chance. This newly re-visited blog / column, will address some of these shortfalls, that I have been neglectful in correcting.
     Thanks so much for taking a few moments out of your busy day, to visit with me, here at our little commune of "Bracebridge Sketches."