HOW MUCH HISTORY IS TOO MUCH? HOW DO YOU MAKE HISTORY FIT CONTEMPORARY TIMES? DO HISTORIANS EVER GET FED UP WITH OLD STUFF?
INCORPORATING HISTORY DOESN'T REQUIRE A MUSEUM! HAVING AN APPRECIATION FOR HISTORY IS ALL THAT IS REQUIRED?
I have mood swings that are directly proportional to the weather, and the season of the year. Most people have this kind of thing happen, but don't feel compelled to sit at a typewriter for ten hours. When it's hot and green outside, I have much less interest in antiques and history, than, say, when it's the harvest time of the year, and the colored leaves of early autumn, bring about a new attraction to the old summer landscape. Artist Tom Thomson liked the contrasts of the off-seasons, believing the summer was too green and without contrast, to look good on a paint board.
I love history and antiques in the fall and winter of the year. I prefer art and photography, as collectables and sources of historical information, in the spring and summer seasons. This is the complication of being a writer, historian and antique dealer. I am a prolific writer from late August through until late April. If I am planning a major research and writing project, I will make sure it happens in the fall of the year, and not the late spring. There is something in the atmosphere, in the harvest season, that fuels my interest in old stuff, old themes, and writing about them long into the night. For years I've just followed the lead of these predictable moods, and felt it was the work of my spirit-guide, making my soul compliant with the enchantments of the rolling year. But I have tired somewhat, of being the catch of this seasonal undertow, and have been trying for years, to avoid the current that pulls me under; such that there is nothing I can do to stop the seasons from changing, therefore I must do as I have done for decades, and set myself by the window at Birch Hollow, and type away on the inspiration nature provides.
When it comes to the more fundamental work of being an historian, I must admit, my values are changing, and my concerns for the future are growing. I don't see things the same as I once did, and even in the past two years, I've evolved my interests, further than ever, miles and miles from the traditional way of looking at history, and how it should be presented to the public in the future. I can see the growing impatience of the public, being handed bundles of reading material, but having no will to cut into their recreations, just to know about the dates buildings were erected in their communities; and where the town band travelled on the 5th of March, or why they won a proficiency award, on the 7th of June. The mayor visiting Europe on official business, and the local hockey club returning home with silverware? There will be those with a family interest in this material, but as far as numbers go, they are few and far between, and even diminishing below this, truth be known. The purist historians out there are fading into obscurity and are witnesses to their own demise. Yet they have played a part in the process, that has been reducing their stature, yet they have appeared, for all intents and purposes, disinterested in this most intimate history, in essence, their own biographical last will and testament.
As an antique dealer, I take the historian thing as far as I can. It makes me money, to be involved in both professions. Most antique collectors and dealers are part-time historians anyway, and a majority of historians, like to surround themselves with antiques. So I've got a double-whammy going on here, but I love my work. Both pre-occupations demand keen awareness, and perspective, of how we factor into the rest of society, and how we plan to satisfy the public appetite for information. Selling history has never been harder, and less profitable.
The problem, of course, is that my wife and business partner, Suzanne, and even our boys, Andrew and Robert, (both born in Bracebridge) are in this old-is-good enterprise, and we not only work in the antique environs all day, but we retreat to it during our off-hours as well. It's a full immersion in history, and although we find it remarkable and fascinating, we can all understand how it can be suffocating to the modernists and minimalists. Honestly, there are even times in my own life, when I get tired of historically sleuthing, and living with century old dressers, tables, chairs, cupboards, china cabinets, dishes, glassware, and Victorian art work. There are times I crave something brand new, and as I like abstract art, and Henry Moore sculptures, I ponder what it would be like to arrive home, and throw myself into some weird ultra-modern chair, (that doesn't even look like one) and stare for hours, at the wildest abstract paintings, available on the market, while listening to ambient music, and tripping without ingesting a single molecule of anything intoxicating. As a nouveau minimalist, this is all I will have in my house, with exception of dinningware and utensils, plus of course, the usual grooming necessities of a modern age bathroom. I need my creature comforts.
I think about this a lot, especially now, when I look at my senior citizen years, and speculate on how tough it's going to be to get around all this clutter, let alone dusting it; which my dear wife would chuckle about, considering I haven't dusted anything since we were married. Outside of my occasional modernist interests, when it comes to future living, the other reality, is that of writing history generally; and the gut feeling, that it is becoming more urgent, to find a way to present heritage in a new and vibrant way, before become obsolete in my own time. I believe it's time, to face the reality, young people today aren't interested in becoming historians, and in their top ten routine visits every week, for home, recreation and work, facing facts, a trip to the museum (wherever that is) doesn't make the list. Unless you're working there as a painter or caretaker.
I've made several forays, as a community historian, into local high schools, where I've suddenly lost the entire class, or auditorium, even the nerds, and scholars, before the fifteen minute mark of the presentation. I performed better, at a Remembrance Day ceremony, in Bracebridge, because I built-in a whack of sensory perception hooks, and like the movie "Memphis Belle," about bombing raids over Germany, in the Second World War," I put each member of the audience, by sensory overload, into the subject aircraft, as part of the crew. I spent the first ten minutes, setting the stage, including what the air smelled like in the aircraft, and what it felt like to watch out the portals of the craft, to see another plane in the allied squadron, explode from enemy fire, with all killed on board. The audience, made up mostly of students, did succumb to my sensory bombardment, and at least, I kept them from falling asleep early in the presentation. There were some visible yawns and some visible seat dancing, but I pulled off, what I thought was going to be impossible.
The same incorporation of sensory strategy is needed today, to sell the younger generation on historical investment. First by approaching heritage matters in a more upbeat, contemporary manner, and secondly, applying history with a more realistic plan of engagement. We keep approaching it the same way as we did a hundred years ago, and more of the population "living in the now," is turned off by the cascade of old stuff, and over-done themes from all directions. Instead of getting results, we're finding resentment instead, and in many ways, I understand it more now, than at any other time, in my nearly forty years of being an antique hunter and regional historian. An historian really only finds fun, in his or her work, when the results of the labors are appreciated by an enthusiastic audience. A readership, on one hand, or a keen audience that willingly attends a lecture series, on the other. I haven't seen one of those for awhile. History if it's not handled properly today, is like the person who jumps into the water with ten pounds of wool clothing on; to find out that the weight of the attire, quadruples in burden, depending on the fabric consistency. History tends to be like that, on someone who appreciates what it all means, but doesn't want to wear it, in order to prove an allegiance. I think the way history is taught at school, is part of the problem. But no fooling, most of the weight of history, comes from those who push it, day to day, as if it is all that counts in life. That you can't have a fulfilled life, without being first of all, burdened by the centuries of history. It's a lot to ask people to shoulder, and it has certainly weighed me down over the past five years; as I have accelerated writing about town and regional heritage, and on a daily schedule, for the past two and a half years, writing this heritage-laden blogs.
I love history, and on occasion, I do wish to go back in time, because I have felt lost in this modern society many times; as if somehow I time travelled forward once, and got to a place I wasn't best suited. But had no way of returning to the point of origin. Fact is, one year away from being identified as a full fledged senior citizen, my conscience dictates, that I have to become more contemporary to stay young of heart. It is too easy, to get frustrated by the chronicle of civilization, trying to explain what has happened in the past, and then the heartbreak, of watching history repeat; especially when so many will die in civil wars, ethnic violence, religious strife, and power mongering, still, after all this contemporary enlightenment, fought in primal brutality, as if we had never been civilized in the first place.
Community history is a good starting place, to look at how the relevance of heritage should adapt, and fit into a modernist way of living, working and interacting. In my own way of looking at history, intimately so, I now rely more and more on art and culture to incorporate values of the past, for present and future consumption. I think future generations will look more and read less, and you can see this happening now, in the twitterverse, where communication is visual, and down to a very few number of words. Instagrams, being electronically shared images, almost instantaneous, become the story. "The Medium is the Message." Somehow, I have come closer to the philosophy of media guru Marshall McLuhan, in a strange fusion with the art of both Jackson Pollack and Andy Warhol. If I was a painter, I would create the art of history, to share with the modern world. This may seem strange and a little blasphemous, to associate historians, and historical purists, but we are, as professionals, only as relevant as our audience is big. Historians have been watching their audiences shrink for decades, but have carried along the same path, becoming less relevant year by year. Consider the fact, that here in Muskoka, as a small example, we have no apprentice historians to carry on the work we have labored at, for most of our adult lives. Who will carry the torch so to speak? Who will pick up the flag when we fall? Who will look after the archives, and who will carry-on the hunt and gather of historical information? We are in a bad way, but we don't want to admit it. History the way we know it, and have practiced our craft, has underwhelmed the youth of this modern era, and we find ourselves, at this late date, without successors.
I believe the future historians will be made up of artists, craftspeople, artisans and photographers, from the cultural side of actuality, and there will be a lot fewer folks like me, trying to present history in text. I have a large vintage photograph collection, and a enough art to open up a gallery, and I am comfortable with the social / cultural heritage they possess, and relay with nothing more than visual connection, between presentation and audience. So much can be learned from photographs, and with the phone / camera technology today, and expected advances in the future, wordsmiths, as far as historical record and interpretation goes, are going to become as rare as the old town cobbler, bookbinder, blacksmith and tinker. It's pretty clear, especially to us crusty antiquarians, that visual arts enhanced by technology, is retiring our services community by community. Historical record is important, but mostly to more elderly members of our communities. There are fewer young people taking an interest in history, and buying books with heritage themes. I would hardly describe regional history books, as "selling well," or "selling out," unless you refer to a book that was published in the early part of this century, finally selling out today. Most of our ilk are too set in their ways now, to try and revitalize what, in their minds, is contemporary enough. I never thought the bakery delivery-man, and the milkman would disappear from day to day commerce either, or that a high quality camera could be inserted into a phone, that would challenge the traditional camera market. Technology, and the bid for maximum conveniences, and the highest level of competition imaginable, is evolving so fast, that it's not just historians and their work being minimized, but anything with a latent characteristic. All I have to do these days is look in the mirror, and see irrelevance face-up. So what's a failing historian to do, before I'm written right out of the modern era, and all future concerns? Smarten up and join the exciting, brave new world.
For example, as I look at ways to present local history, for both a contemporary and future audience, I think more about graphic presentations, and photo essays, to cover the same ground, as I could, in writing-up the same material. With photo archives, a good and sensible way of teaching history, is to use every morsel of technology to enhance the visual heritage we possess in our archives. I've spent quite a few months, from the start of this year, examining vintage photographs, and for that matter, local art, and what an amazing graphic exhibition it would provide, in amalgamation, to impact in a more modernistic way, with those who read images like most of us of mature age, would read a book. I have two local history texts at my side here, that are each highly regarded for the historical information they contain. I can't read more than four pages, without feeling like I'm going to fall asleep. There are probably a few of you who would concur, being half asleep now reading this blog. History by its nature, as recorded chronicle, is boring, especially in this new age, when so much offered to the citizenry, is high tech in the realm of the fantastic. It's nearly impossible using the same old, same old, to fascinate our readers, having a lot fewer bells and whistles to use for effect.
Antiquarians, to remain relevant in the future, will need to embrace enhancements in technologies, that allow them to better present their points of view; to gain and excite an audience; that will find new interest, in something stale and of otherwise minimal interest to everyday living. This is, by no means, to suggest history isn't interesting, but it is to advise, that historians generally, are losing their audiences, for lectures, and to buy their books. One of the reasons, is that those who used to attend lecture series, are now too elderly to attend, or unfortunately deceased. The market for history texts, is largely an older audience, and the same goes for regional books. I've been selling regional histories for thirty years, and I can't remember ever selling one to someone younger than forty. Today we keep track of who is buying our out of print books, and regional Canadian and Ontario histories, and we still find that the group is middle aged, but definitely not the twenty and thirty somethings. On a national survey, of new book sales, I'm not sure if this same situation is occurring, but I'm reasonably certain it is. So if we, as historians, are pure to our profession, and want to spread the word about our regional chronicle, for example, we are going to have no choice in the coming decade, but to change-over to a more contemporary perspective, and find ways of incorporating heritage to suit a modern society's appetite for up-to-date, late-breaking information. Other than this, general community historians will become extinct; no longer needed. Photo and art historians and interpreters, will be welcomed with open arms by contemporary audiences.
I believe that the stresses of the modern world, and the ever-escalating cost of living, plus the geo-political time-bombs around the globe, are affording less time for retrospectives, of the grand scale we historical-types insist on. Everything is more immediate and timely. Who can blame the modernists for staying tuned to the latest severe weather warnings, than delving in to some boring chronology that will be there a week from now, a year, ten years from this point. Times they are a changing, and we have to change with them. Even historians.
FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES
CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE
THAT OLD GHOST OF MINE - ARSE OUT OF HIS SNOWPANTS - A SLIVER STICK - TWO ICE GOAL POSTS AND WISHFUL THINKING
I TOOK A DRIVE UP TO BRACEBRIDGE'S ALICE STREET TODAY. SAW MY GHOST. I DIDN'T NEED THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST TO DO THIS. NO MATTER WHAT THEY DO TO THAT STREET IN THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS, SOMEONE WILL LOOK OUT OF A CONDO WINDOW, FROM THE NINETIETH FLOOR, AND SEE MY GHOST PLAYING HOCKEY, CALLING THE PLAY BY PLAY…….ON HIS OWN UP-ICE RUSH. I DIDN'T NEED MUCH MORE THAN THAT OLD STICK, LUMPS OF ICE (THEY WERE CHEAP), AND A PUCK. I HAD LOTS OF THOSE AND SLIVER (BLADE) STICKS, I HAULED HOME FROM THE ARENA FOR ROAD HOCKEY. MY PARENTS DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY TO SPEND ON TOYS, AND WHILE I PROBABLY GOT A NEW HOCKEY STICK UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE, IT WAS USUALLY THE CHEAPEST MONEY COULD BUY. BLESS THEIR HEARTS, THEY TRIED, AND I APPRECIATED IT. UNFORTUNATLY, AFTER A COUPLE OF GAMES, THERE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN EVEN A SLIVER OF THAT BLADE LEFT. IT'S TRUE, I LIED TO THEM ABOUT THE WELFARE OF THE STICK….AND AS FAR AS THEY KNEW, I NEVER BROKE ONE THAT SANTA HAD PROVIDED.
WHEN I GO UP THERE, TO ALICE STREET, I CAN'T HELP BUT GET MISTY-EYED. WHEN I WENT OFF TO UNIVERSITY IN THE FALL OF 1974, WE WERE ON THE VERGE OF MOVING TO A SMALL COTTAGE ON ALPORT BAY, OF LAKE MUSKOKA. IT WAS A SMALL COTTAGE AND WE GOT A GOOD RENT FOR BASCIALLY BABYSITTING A LAKESIDE PROPERTY FOR AN OUT-OF-THE-COUNTRY FAMILY. BY THIS TIME, MY FAMILY WAS DOING MUCH BETTER FINANCIALLY, AND AS I WAS AWAY FOR MOST OF THE YEAR, THE FOOD BILLS DROPPED DRASTICALLY. I REMEMBER CATCHING A RIDE TO TORONTO, THAT SEPTEMBER DAY, AND LOOKING AT ALICE STREET AS IF IT HAD BEEN A LIVING HELL……A PLACE I'D RATHER FORGET, AND NEVER COME BACK TO…… I WAS FREE. OFF TO CONQUER THE WORLD. IT SEEMED THE BEGINNING OF SUCH AN AMAZING ADVENTURE. THAT LAST LOOK BACK, SHOWED A RUN-DOWN OLD BUILDING, WHERE TEN FAMILIES HOLED-UP INDEFINITELY, WAITING FOR THEIR PROVERBIAL SHIP TO COME IN…….FOR SOME IT NEVER CAME AND THIS WAS THE LAST PLACE THEY SAW BEFORE HEADING OFF IN THE AMBULANCE OR HEARSE.
I can't tell you how rotten I have felt for all these years, having had such a terrible opinion of that apartment building. I was wrong. I came to appreciate this shortly after graduating university, and returning to Bracebridge…..and another new residence on upper Manitoba Street….the former home and medical office of Dr. Peter McGibbon. It all began, really, when my girlfriend, at the time, didn't respect my plan to move home, at a time when she was turning-on to the great aspects of city living. I tried it her way, and it didn't work. It was okay going to school, but not living in Toronto year round. This is odd, because both my parents had long relationships with the city, and my grandfather, a builder, has a street named after him…..Jackson Avenue, where some of his houses still exist. I was living in the area of Jane and Runnymede, where my mother's family lived, but it didn't matter. My decision to move back to Muskoka cost me a girlfriend, two jobs I quit within hours of starting, as well as losing many of my friends, who left Bracebridge for good, around the same time.
I can remember the Christmas season, that Gail gave me the proverbial heave-ho, wandering in a stupor, around the streets of the town, over by Bracebridge Public School, the High School, down along the tracks by the train station, and up eventually to Alice Street. I went to the variety store, we used to know as Black's, and then Lil and Cec's, and bought a pop and chips, and despite the snow, I stood there and weathered all the memories I'd turned my back on previously. I came back to Muskoka for a reason. As my family left Burlington, in the mid 1960's, as an escape from city life, to the Muskoka wilds, the prodigal son had returned…..humble, alone (all our friends were hers too….and they had to choose and it wasn't me), and looking for answers. Why had it been so important to come back to Bracebridge? What compelled me to wander up, tears in eyes, lost in love, to retrace the steps of an Alice Street kid……who, I realize now, had been having the time of his life. It had never been a hell on earth. This most likely came for the fact my parents fought a lot in those days, and my father enjoyed the drink to excess……and all the problems this can cause a family with financial woes. But it was also a comforting place, in many ways, and if it's true what some sage folks claim, that buildings can have a soul…..then the soul within that three story complex, must have been related to Burl Ives. Every time I see that "Frosty The Snowman" cartoon, with Burl as the host snowman, I always think of that Alice Street apartment, circa 1966 to 1974.
Merle and Ed are deceased now, and when I look up at that third floor window, on a frosty night as this, I know that in the heart of that home, once, the three of us are together this Christmas Eve, enjoying the simple pleasures of the season. We didn't have much but it was enough to make us feel wealthy in spirit, if nothing else.
Suzanne and the boys, understand my pilgrimages up to Alice Street, each Christmas, and although I won't make it a stipulation in my will, I kind of expect they would turn up there in my absence, to connect with the once, long ago, of a fellow who felt a strange debt of gratitude about a place, a time, and a circumstance; like the faded old family photograph, Merle stuck in a beaten-up family Bible she left behind. She knew I'd find it…..and pause in that confluence of contemplation, of whether to tuck it back inside, or let it inspire a little warmth on a cold, cold Christmas Eve. She knew me well!
I come away from these short, silent vigils, with good memories. I don't wish for my own return to those days, and I don't feel any necessity to make amends now. More than this, I suppose, I want to keep those few memories fresh…..and these little editorials in a modest biography, for my sons, for their knowledge….and for their children, and grandchildren…..to know what it was like growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario…..in an era that was an awful lot of fun.
Merry Christmas, folks.
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