Bracebridge Cemeteries, Historic Sites and Should Be Toured; We Want Our Newspapers Back

A FOLLOW-UP TO YESTERDAY'S BLOG ABOUT MUSKOKA'S NEWSPAPER HISTORY

(IF YOU DIDN'T CATCH THE TWO PART SERIES, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TWO BLOGS)

     I have had a great many arguments over the years, since my departure from day to day newspaper editing, disputing the insistence of publishers, trying to bring the district together via one all-inclusive newspaper or news magazine. I was a one time editor of two such regional publications that tried this, and in my opinion, at best, only did half the job, it was intended to accomplish. I was marginally okay with the re-plating of news pages, so that each of the three major towns of Muskoka, would get something that at least, looked like it was their own. It fooled no one, but then back in the days of the newly introduced "Muskoka Advance," it was novel enough to attract some minor attention. A lot of folks liked to get something free to read, on Sunday mornings, that wasn't too burdensome with news but carried advertising inserts, for that week's grocery store sales. No editor or staff writer, wants to hear that the paper they work for, is popular because of the advertisements; or either its obituary section, or classifieds. But crafting a paper that successfully brings together the reading interests, of three distinctly different communities, that have for long and long been privileged to have one if not two homegrown newspapers, is an almost impossible task. At least from a writing acceptance point of view.
     From the historical point of view, the communities of Muskoka, have aged well since their pioneer days, and all seems pretty comfortable with their legacy. What I learned, in my early years as editor, with Muskoka Publications, was to never, ever, editorialize about these communities, without reverence to their social / geographical distinctions, and otherwise unique situations within the district. In other words, don't make the error in judgement, of trying to compare Gravenhurst, with Huntsville, or Bracebridge with Gravenhurst, or Bracebridge with Port Carling, Bala with Windermere, MacTier with Milford Bay. On a baseball diamond or sheet of ice, at a local arena, (or outdoor rink) is fine and traditional. If there was one thing, above all else, that Muskoka historian Bob Boyer, imprinted upon me, in his years as a mentor, was to give these towns, villages and hamlets, their rightful place in Muskoka's chronicle. Don't take liberties, like suggesting there is only a minor difference between the communities, because it will cause years of discontent with the readership. Some wounds, in this regard, that I inflicted, may still be raw, should I make it a point to check.
     When I became editor, it was part of my job description, to keep our many country correspondents happy. I made the mistake one issue, of putting Port Sydney correspondence, under the heading of "Utterson West Road." It might only be a couple of miles, as the crow flies, between the two villages, but it might as well have an ocean between them, when it comes to character distinction, and historical record. Utterson was a major railway community in its heyday, particularly important for its mail responsibilities. It was a place where loggers gathered, awaiting transport to and from other places. Port Sydney, on Mary Lake, was a jewel in the tourism industry, with numerous fine resort accommodations. Even with this generalization I feel vulnerable to criticism. And I've been writing about local history for decades. Point is, working with the country correspondents, was insightful, and taught me the importance of treating these tiny, a little bigger, and big settlements, with the utmost respect, based on past accomplishments and future potentials. To a board of directors, of a corporation, making economic decisions, I can see how these distinctions would be considered of lesser concern, than when I had to man the phones, the day after press; to offer explanations why we didn't have room that week, for some of their columns. I'd have these writers either horribly angry, or in tears, because that's how important these inserts were, to their neighborhoods of Muskoka. The pages of our newspaper carried their community's news. A sort of newspaper within a newspaper. We did cater to these rural writers, and for damn good reason. The readership of these country pieces was huge, and some of the staff writers, were shocked when we'd run reader surveys, finding out many of these village writers, had more of a weekly following than we did; and for gosh sakes, they were writing about trips their neighbors took, and baby arrivals in the community; baby and wedding shower reports, and notice of upcoming get-togethers and fundraisers, to keep their village halls from being closed. Not important to some, but dearly so to our readership. I had a front row seat to appreciate this fully.
     Today, it's sad for this old news staffer, to see how the one-size-fits-all format, has once again, been even further tightened, trying to prove that you can give people what you want; and eventually they'll do something with it; even dumping these free publications immediately into the recycling bin, without reading even one story. It's devastating frankly, that we have lost our own individual town newspapers, for all intents and purposes, as relates to editorial copy; which once connected with rural readers via the diligent work of our country correspondents. What we have now, is an entirely modest attempt, at what I still believe, is the impossible task of putting our diverse towns, and rural neighborhood interests, successfully, (to satisfy the readership) into several widely circulated, but weak-tea, general publications. In my opinion, it's like hammering a square peg into a round hole, and I mean that. Pounding the hell out of the stake, until by intense friction alone, the corners break off, and you create by stubborn insistence, a roughly hewn round piece, that thusly can now slide through the opening. It isn't supposed to be like that, but it works if all you're concerned about, is getting something out there, just to say you have a district-wide publication. Critics are just annoyances anyway.
     No matter how hard and determined you hammer away, at the mission, there is no publisher of any publication, that will make readers entirely happy with severely amalgamated coverage. If given an option, readers would most likely ask, if they could please have their former town newspapers back in place, with main street offices once again. But would publishers listen? It's not financially sensible, I'm sure they'd argue back, and keep giving us the weak tea, that is our new-age print media in Muskoka.
    
    




CEMETERIES ARE HISTORIC SITES THAT NEED TO BE PROMOTED

THERE'S A LOT TO BE LEARNED FROM OUR COMMUNITY AND CHURCH CEMETERIES

      If I was to tell you I feel comfortable around dead people, you might, at first, think I was a mortician, or maybe a coroner. But I'm just an historian, who likes to go for walks in cemeteries. The belief I have, that the souls of these departed former citizens, can communicate with me, is pretty mundane, all things considered, in the grand scheme of adventures I've had over a life time. I have never actually seen, in any graveyard I've visited, what could be described as a ghost, or even a vapor of the paranormal, I could attribute as a genuine wayward spirit. This is strange, considering I've seen lots of ghosts in local buildings and homes, but none where they might be expected and even anticipated. I suppose I'm a little pensive at times, depending on the circumstances, but most of the signs I get, from these graveyard walks, are more humorous than unsettling. I have a few examples to share in today's blog.
      I was wandering around in the United Church Cemetery, which abuts Annie Williams Memorial Park, in Bracebridge, studying some of the older, hard to read tombstones, when all of a sudden, a lady came up behind me, and tapped me lightly on the shoulder. Now that's something you shouldn't do, to someone else in a cemetery setting, no matter what time of day. When I turned, and my heart rate settled down again, after realizing it hadn't been a hand raising from the grave, I waited for this intruder to say something. Anything, to explain why she had scared the bejesus out of me. She just stared at me, pondering (which happens to those trying to figure me out) and appeared as if there was something she wanted to say, but couldn't find the words. Not even "hello." "Is there something I can do for you," I asked the elderly woman, who I was starting to wonder about. She didn't look like a ghost, but was acting like one; at least according to my knowledge of the paranormal. I couldn't see through her, so that was good.
      In retrospect, she was trying to find out what I was up to, with a notepad in my hand, and walking from one end of the property, to the fence on the other side. She was really glaring at me, and just when I thought she must have a speech disability, I heard her mumble something but I was going to need to hear this a second time. "Pardon me, but I didn't hear what you said." "You're Mr. Currie aren't you," she blurted, in a much louder, clearer voice. "Yes I am, and you are?" I enquired. I don't remember what she said, other than she was from the neighborhood around the beautiful old cemetery, and as she explained, local residents keep a watchful eye, for any mischief-maker or odd behavior occurring amidst the dearly departed. "Are you writing an article about our beautiful little cemetery," she asked, obviously knowing I was writing a weekly column, at that point, entitled "Bracebridge Sketches," in the former Muskoka Advance.
     "Why, yes, I am researching the cemetery, for an upcoming feature series, on Bracebridge cemeteries," I explained: the woman, having a distinctly worried look, during our first moments of introduction, (as if I had just crawled out of a musty crypt), actually took a much kinder turn, even becoming quite chatty, about all things old, and well, deceased.
     "I often come here myself, for a little walk in the early evening, on days like this," she confessed. "But sometimes, we get teenagers in here, drunk, and they start toppling over the old stones, and some break into pieces, and can't be repaired." I told her I understood this, and that I had no intention of toppling even one stone, for the heck of it. "I'm glad you're doing a story on it, because places like this are being neglected nowadays; it costs a lot of money to keep them upgraded, and the grass and flowers maintained." Reaching to shake my hand, she said with a kindly smile, "I read you columns all the time. I'll look forward to your next one. It was nice to finally meet you. I sort of suspected it might be you, but I wasn't sure. I know you write a lot about Muskoka history, and this is a pretty historic place, isn't it?" I agreed, with a nod, and she smiled, turned back toward the gate, and before she disappeared down the lane, she yelled back, "You have a nice day Mr. Currie." "I will," I called out, watching as the cemetery guardian, walked along the outside of the fence, looking back several times, before she got to another neighborhood house. I certainly appreciated the woman's volunteer stewardship of the cemetery, because there have been some acts of vandalism in the past, that have destroyed the inscriptions on some of the oldest stones. And she was right about the tight budgets cemeteries face, limiting what can be done annually, to restore markers and clear the inscriptions of lichen, which has infilled many of the imprints, on the face-sides. I think in the next ten years, as the economy gets even tighter, maintenance and restoration work, at a majority of Muskoka cemeteries, will be diminished even further. For some reason, we don't think of cemeteries, and rural graveyards, as historic sites, or deserving special heritage funding. But this is exactly what they are, and how they should be respected, beyond of course, the church connection, and religious affiliation; unless a community cemetery, in the non denominational sense.
     Forget about the haunted reputation. That's a lot of fiction. Hollywood stuff! Cemeteries are fascinating places to visit, although most Canadians, seem reluctant to attend them, as they would a museum or historic site. The problem, of course, is that a large majority of these burial grounds, have no guidebook, to foster a sensible, informative tour of the site(s), or directory, that would offer information, about those buried within. There was a book written a few decades back, entitled "These Our Ancestors Were," that at least made an attempt, to visit and research each known cemetery in our region, and Parry Sound, and offer the available listings of those buried, and where, as provided by site stewards, and respective churches. This was an important and highly useful book for researchers, and family historians. I can remember them being given away, at one point, and mistakenly believing there must be thousands of these books in boxes, all over the municipality. If I'd known that it would, in a matter of weeks, be not only out-of-print, but unavailable for any price, I would have grabbed four or five copies. In the early 1990's I was selling rebound copies for a hundred dollars each, and stupidly, I kept selling the ones I did acquire by happenstance. I have no idea what they're selling for today, but if you can get them for a hundred bucks or less, you're making a good investment. Although the committee that researched and published the book admitted, the effort had been undertaken with the best intents, but there were shortfalls of information. Well, for one thing, this was a massive undertaking, that could easily have taken half, to a full decade to complete. They did a terrific job, capturing the history of the pioneer church graveyards, and the hamlet, village and town cemeteries from their commencement; which is great for historians, because many of the oldest inscribed stones, have received considerable damage since, from harsh weather conditions and pollution. Acid rain has been a contributing factor, to the erosion of some of the softer surface stones. So having the lists of cemetery occupants, from church and municipal records, in one big book, is a hefty, valuable resource. It should have gone into reprint every decade since its release, in the late 1970's, or early 1980's. It's been so long since I owned one, I've forgotten the exact date of release. I think I picked up my free copy at the Bracebridge Public Library, from a box of them, sitting up on a table.
     Suzanne and I often stop to visit rural cemeteries, when we come to them, no matter in what region of the province, we find ourselves travelling. There's a lot of social, cultural, and economic history to gather, from these largely under-explored heritage sites. There are the elaborate grave markers, and statues, the simple but prestigious tombstones, the simple stones, military and service markers, of a common design, stones with lambs carved on top, for deceased children, extravagant family plots, and rustic tombstones, even some wooden crosses. There may be a pauper's field, with few markers, and this is sad but a part of life and thereafter. There are some newer stones with photographs engraved, or even glued onto the fronts, and some interesting etched scenes, of in one case, a family home surrounded by trees. If I remember correctly, this is a monument for one of the Longhurst family members, of Bracebridge, and the house is still standing. This stone is in the Ufford Cemetery. I like to see these different ways of acknowledging, and memorializing, those who have passed, and the changes in design, generation to generation.
     I think the strangest occurrence, at a cemetery for me, (and there have been dozens of coincidences), was when I took a walking tour through Park Lawn Cemetery in Toronto, looking for the graves of my grandparents, Blanche and Stanley Jackson. I was with my girlfriend Gail, at the time, and after about a full hour, (even with the help of a companion brochure), we finally, with tired feet, stood at the family plot, reading the inscriptions. I had only ever seen photographs of the grave, with flowers quilted over top of the mound of earth, as my parents wouldn't let me attend, feeling I was too young to understand what was going on. I wanted to go, because I really liked my grandparents, especially my grandfather, who had outlived his wife by a half dozen years. And who had been a frequent guest at our apartment in Burlington.
     Gail wandered back a couple of rows, leaving me to my moment of reckoning, with the deceased re-visited, when she said, over and over, "I don't believe it, I just don't believe it." Park Lawn has a huge number of gravesites, and although Gail knew that her own grandfather, was buried somewhere in the sprawling cemetery, it was mind blowing, that his plot was two rows separated from my own grandparents, amongst thousands upon thousands of plots. Gail and I were both from Muskoka, and this was the first time we had ever passed through the Park Lawn gates. As some coincidence, Gail lived only a block away, while attending university, and I visited regularly, living just ten blocks away. It happened on many other occasions, that I would go into a regional cemetery, with the idea of looking up some old friends, who had passed years earlier. I remember, on one other occasion, at the Anglican Church Cemetery, in Bracebridge, telling Suzanne that I was looking for the graves of Fred and Mary Bamford, who I knew were buried somewhere in the scenic former pasture. I finally gave up, after about an hour of hunting, and reading tombstone after tombstone. I yelled back to Suzanne, that I must have been mistaken, because Fred and Mary's final resting place, was not in this cemetery. Fred and Mary, by the way, used to own the "Woodley Park Cottages," and "Bamford's Corner Store," up on Bracebridge's Toronto Street, where I spent half my childhood, playing and buying candy, ice cream, hockey cards and comics. My mother Merle used to work for Fred and Mary, and occasionally, I would do some odd jobs, like raking, and general clean-up around their rental cottages, and they always called me "Teddy." Now I hated this, as I do today, but they'd picked it up from my mother Merle, who used "Teddy," instead of "Ted," when chastising me for some alleged wrong-doing. I still associate the name with having done something bad or inconsiderate. Which was a lot. So I couldn't blame people like the Bamfords for copying this. They had a light english accent, and it sounded old country when they addressed me this way. I can remember seeing Fred feeding the birds and squirrels in his yard, and them lighting on his head and outstretched arms. He was a kind and generous man, and very intelligent. When he wasn't working around the property, or tending the shop, he would be reading from his substantial library. They had an apartment behind and above the small corner store space.
     Well, I was standing on someone's grave, hands on hips, ready to abandon the search of the cemetery property, when all of a sudden, I swear, I heard someone call out "Teddy." I don't know why I decided to look down, but I did, and that fleeting glance, revealed that I was standing on Fred and Mary's burial plot, as clearly identified by an attractive tombstone. Not far from there, was the plot for Tim Row, my school chum, who taught me how to play the baritone, in John Rutherford's music class, at Bracebridge High School. Tim succumbed to a serious illness when I was in Grade ten or eleven, and I didn't go to the funeral. I never felt right about this either. Tim never knew this, but because of his instruction, and encouragement, I got good enough at the baritone to make the England Tour Band, several years later, which was a life-changing adventure. So at that moment, after saying hello to the Bamfords, I offered a belated thank you to Tim.     Before we left, we found the graves, by happenstance, of some of Suzanne's family, and many other citizens we had known from our years growing up in the region.
     There was another occasion, when I was strolling through the Bracebridge United Church Cemetery, when all of a sudden, I tripped over a lump in the topography, and did one of those half running, half falling dances for about ten feet, before regaining my balance. I stood looking back, to what had caused me to trip, and I heard once again, my name being called out. I even recognized the voice. That's how clear it was. I told Suzanne, who was with me at the time, that I could have sworn Fred "Bing" Crosby had just called out "Hey Teddy." I heard that gruff, commanding voice a thousand times as a kid, playing at the Bracebridge arena, where Bing worked as a maintenance employee. He was also a trainer for about a dozen minor hockey teams. He used my name frequently and at all different volumes, and intensities. So believe me, I knew his voice, even though I hadn't seen him for decades. His funeral was attended by hundreds of kids, who had known him from minor hockey and baseball, over so many years. "Well look at the stone where you tripped," she yelled over to me, from a row away. "It's Bing's grave marker, right here," she said, pointing down to a concrete name plate, sunken into the sod. I had actually walked right over the grave, and may have tripped on the indented turf around the plate. If memory serves correctly, there were crossed baseball bats, and maybe some hockey sticks, on the corners of the marker. Yup, Bing had sent me a little message from the old days; and he sure called out my name a lot, back them, both while on the ice, and then running around the arena after the game, getting into mischief. How appropriate it was that he would give me a little trip-up, on the way by his final resting place. Bing had a lot of physical problems during his life, and emotional stresses few of us understood, but he never missed a minor hockey or baseball game that I can remember; because he didn't want to let the kids down. He must have tied a hundred thousand skates in his day, and as far as money; he never turned a kid away who had an urgent financial need. I remember sending a news photographer to take a picture of his final journey, with young pall bearers, and it was such a powerful image, we ran it on the front page of The Herald-Gazette. Yup, it was quite appropriate that we met up in this fashion. His was a powerful spirit.
     In the same cemetery, I always make a stop at the beautiful monument, marking the family plot of Dr. and Mrs. McGibbon, and their only daughter. Mabel and Peter were hugely influential citizens, of Bracebridge, in the early years of the 1900's, and contributed greatly to the successes of the fledgling Red Cross Memorial Hospital, in the 1920's and 30's, formerly on the site of the present South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, just off Anne Street. As well, he was attached as an officer, to the 122nd Battalion, known as the Muskoka Foresters Regiment, and after the war years, became the Muskoka region's Member of Parliament; serving under the leadership of Sir Arthur Meighen, who became a short-lived Prime Minister in the 1920's, during the period of the famous Byng-King Affair; following the Governor General's intervention, the result of diminished confidence, in Mackenzie-King's leadership. It is said that Meighen, on numerous occasions, during this controversial time of Canadian politics, escaped the stresses of Parliament Hill, by staying with the Dr. and his wife, on upper Manitoba Street, opposite Memorial Park. I pay my respects at the McGibbon monument, because I have long been indebted to this prominent Bracebridge family. I used to reside in the former McGibbon House, from the fall of 1977 until 1993; a most charming, historic, and wonderfully haunted three story estate, with carriage house. It became my residence shortly after I graduated university, and the charming former residence and medical office, afforded me a panoramic view over the park from the attic. I wrote two small books while living at the McGibbon house, but it was the rough work I stuffed into a binder, that has kept me in story ideas ever since. So I owe a lot to the McGibbons, for the good vibrations that was the rich patina of the house.
     The story that has always stuck with me, is that Dr. McGibbon suffered greatly, when the medical community, including his own intervention, could not save the life of his daughter, when she became seriously ill. There are those who believe he never fully recovered from this loss. When I did a short stint as the hospital historian, back around the turn of the present century, I remember reading about Dr. McGibbon's one major project, other than improving health care, at the Red Cross Hospital. Every time the good doctor presented a proposal, to fund the installation of an elevator, to provide easier and safer patient transport, from one floor to the other, a funding shortfall would kill the request even before it could get started. Keeping in mind, that up to the point an elevator was finally constructed, patients had to be physically moved on stretchers, often by nurses, from floor to floor. After years of trying to secure enough money to install the lift, the Doctor finally gave up on the request, and actually passed away without seeing his project come to fruition. The hospital board, decided, that as a fitting tribute to one of the founders of the Memorial Hospital, that funds would be raised in his honor, to finally acquire the badly needed elevator. I remember the moment, while unwrapping long since retired brass plaques, from the original hospital building, finding the McGibbon name plate, that was once attached to an area of wall beside the elevator. Now that was providential for me, considering all I knew about the McGibbon family, in part, from my own residency in their former Manitoba Street house.
     On another occasion, in the United Church Cemetery, I was walking and reading the inscriptions, on the left side of the property, (when walking in through the front gate), and suddenly, as if my pant leg was being pulled, I had to stop to see if I'd stepped on a gopher or some critter, that had darted between the markers. When I looked down, I was standing on the plot for my former neighbor up on Alice Street, from back in the mid 1960's. It was Gordon Black, or "Gordie" as everyone then used to call him. He had a little house, three lots west of where I lived, at the Weber Apartments. Gord had a beautiful little garden, and I was a little bugger, for trespassing. He had fresh produce and I had an appetite for what he was growing. It's true. I swiped his ripe tomatoes. I used the green ones for throwing at my enemies, and saved the plump, red ones for eating in my clubhouse, behind the apartment. Gord used to set traps for me, and the rest of the Hunt's Hill lads, who were all pretty nimble, with lightning speed, to facilitate our need for quick exits. I heard Gord yelling a lot in that neighborhood, but he never called me "Teddy." He called me lots of things, but never by my name. So I guess it was appropriate that he would spiritually, grab the cuff of my pant leg, to get my attention. I knew instantaneously, on first glimpse of the inscription, that it was old Gordie sending me a message from the great beyond; a belated one about the times I scoffed tomatoes, right off the vine, he was planning to enjoy that evening at dinner. I have been apologizing for my childhood behaviour since I turned twenty, meaning thirty-nine years repenting as of July 2nd, so I offered him a heartfelt message, about how sorry I was, for my many trespasses; qualifying it only, by suggesting, "But Gord, it was such an inviting place to visit, with such a bountiful harvest. I thought you would be delighted to share it with me!" I got this vision suddenly, of him standing out on his back step, of his former house, shaking his head, watching the last of me, jumping over the fence, into his neighbor's yard; and I remembered the words, "One day I'm going to catch you in the act son. Then boy oh boy are you going to regret stealing from me." He never did catch me. I think he may have caught some of my chums. But then, I did finally mature, yet, according to those who knew me back then, it took to my late teens to rid myself of the rascal gene. So I think Gord did have a few years without my intrusions, but I can't vouch for some of my ever-hungry associates.
     Point is, whenever I visit one of our regional cemeteries, I will get subtle messages, from somewhere, and from some source of inspiration, all of course, related in some way, to names etched onto tombstones, that I recognize from past liaisons. When I headed an "Experience '78" history research project, for the Muskoka Board of Education, I co-ordinated a group of reporters, who visited some of the region's oldest citizens, to capture their reminiscences on tape; and that took us all over the district, and into the homes of some of our amazing history makers. Shortly after we had completed the resource kit, to be used for Muskoka history components, in high school curriculum, we would hear or read about those citizens we had recorded, passing away. The first was well known Bracebridge citizen, Bus Brazier, who died suddenly at his Ontario Street home. Some years later, I was delighted to be able to arrange for a copy of the interview, with Bus, to be duplicated for his daughter Beth. As we had been interviewing older citizens, it was obvious, we were going to lose some of our new friends, in the years immediately following the kit's release. I was reviewing the names last night, from my own guidebook from the 1978 heritage project, and I could only find several still living, from those originally interviewed. Those surviving were younger at the time of the interview, and were invited into the project, due to the fact they were active historians at the time themselves.
     Shortly after this project, I joined the staff of Muskoka Publications, as a reporter, then editor, and this put me in touch with thousands of area residents, as I chased-down assignments from one end of the district to the other, north and south, east and west. I carried on doing heritage profiles for the paper, and The Muskoka Sun, our summer publication, and then, as a managing director of Woodchester Villa and Museum, where the historical immersion went even deeper. Most of the folks who tutored me in the history profession, and museum operation, are now among the deceased, some buried, or having their ashes interred, in these quiet, picturesque cemeteries, in which I love to stroll.
      I think one of the most interesting visits to a regional cemetery, came on the day, Suzanne and I travelled to Huntsville, with the plan to finally locate the tombstone for pioneer Muskoka artist, Ada Florence Kinton. We had failed on two other attempts, but the third investigation was a charm. I have written extensively about Ada Kinton, her art, and her work with the Salvation Army as both a missionary and writer, so it was important for me to visit her final resting place. After an hour, of wandering about the scenic urban-area property, I just allowed myself the freedom of sensory perception, which usually worked in the past; whether I went to the formality of engaging it in my mind or not. At the point I tried to find it by spiritual connection, I happened to get side-tracked, watching a plump blue jay, that had just landed in a nearby tree, and with considerable animation, started to flit-about through the bare autumn boughs. As I was watching this bird jumping from limb to limb, a small stone to my right, attracted my focus, but for no particular reason. There it was, very close to where I had seen the blue jay. It was fitting, I suppose, because Ada had been fascinated by wildlife, especially the birds of Muskoka, that she observed in the primal woods, while hiking through the uncut forests surrounding the Victorian-era pioneer village, circa the 1880's. I remember being so thrilled to finally arrive at the gravesite, of this former missionary, who had devoted her life to feeding the hungry of Toronto, and tending the poor and destitute, wherever there was need.
     It was while standing there, feeling so much at peace, and ease, enjoying the solitude of this quiet place, despite its urban situation, that I changed my mind, for good, about cemeteries in general. Ever since, I have retreated to these under-recognized heritage sites, because of the good vibes I get; without feeling at all burdened by the mournful elements, I had almost feared previously. Should I feel the need to converse with the deceased, I shall lend myself accordingly.
     We should pay more attention to the heritage value of our cemeteries, and facilitate publications to acknowledge each site's unique character, and the history makers, who have become its permanent residents. In Europe, cemeteries are included in heritage tours, and in France, you might come upon the grave of former "Doors" singer, Jim Morrison, buried amongst the country's famous poets, philosophers and politicians. Pretty neat eh? I think there has been a movement, in the past few years, to have him removed, because his memorial is seen as a detraction, from the other members of the graveyard neighborhood. We don't have that problem in Muskoka. But they are seriously important historic sites, that need more funding for conservation, and general upkeep; and although I won't go as far as calling them tourism-friendly, it may be a means to an end, if visitors raise money to advance ongoing stewardship, of these precious resources, dotted across our landscape.
     Thanks so much for joining today's blog. It's always nice to have you aboard for one of these heritage yarns.