HOW NOT TO SHOW MY AGE LOOKING BACK ON THE WAY WE WERE
BRACEBRIDGE THEN AND NOW, AND A PROFOUND CHANGE OF ATTITUDE - SOME LIGHTER VIEWPOINTS OF OUR SOCIAL HERITAGE, WORTS AND ALL
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog referencing the peculiarities, and sensitivities, of re-telling history, which in my opinion as a yarn spinner, falls into two distinct categories, of community life and times. One is, the events and participants; those who have an attached sensitivity, to an historical event or unfortunate circumstance, that if made public, could be very hurtful to friends, family, and those implicated by the incident(s) in question. The second category, includes stories that are more folkish and anecdotal, not to mention humorous, sometimes strangely so, in a tragic way.
There are hundreds of these stories I wouldn't touch with a barge pole, and I suppose, as a hard-as-nails historian, this reveals me as rather soft, and willing to censor, when it falls out of my comfort zone. Yup, this is true. There are other incidents that are part of our social heritage, that while having a wort-like truthfulness, that to every other historian and tale spinner I know, would leave them as untold, to never be repeated. For me, who went rogue a long time ago, I believe the "good times were had by all" approach, to our social history especially, paints us, as something other than truthful and honest. You can't expect to leave this side out of the mix, when trying to understand how we have advanced, as a home town for all these years. Sure, this isn't the kind of history that's going to make it to print, in the local historical booklets, so familiar to small towns everywhere. But the commonplace of our town, and all the others, is that we had adverse circumstances arise, the direct result of adverse characters, and their shortfalls as members of the community.
For example, there were a number of traffic deaths, of youngsters on bikes, the direct result of impaired driving. I knew the circumstances and all the names associated, and I know for fact, how seriously it impacted our community back then; and what the consequences were, that some citizens felt was too light, while others believed was too heavy. There was a case where the town butcher, earlier in the 1900's, was accused of dumping an adversary over the bridge, above the rapids, but, as they say, dead men tell no tales. In another incident, a deceased individual, was discovered a long way from their place of residence, frozen in the snow, and not wearing shoes. It was ruled as misadventure but could it have been the case, the individual was thrown from a car, and left to get home on a cold winter night, in the wee hours, without having footwear, or even proper clothing? For years, it has been the subject of hearsay, and speculation, that it was more likely a case of murder, than misadventure. In this way, of course, it is clear evidence that small towns also have tragic events to cope with, and major crime happening within its neighborhoods. Of course this is obvious to us, yet when books are published, documenting our histories, much is left out especially of a sensitive nature. It's history but not printable. At least to some historians. Sometimes I support them, and on other occasions, I can't and won't agree. Often times, this is downplayed in the re-telling of local history, because it seems too negative and burdensome, such that it would jade opinions of the town, based on the more average, positive chronicle of events. I come from a different school of thought; that if you don't create a chronicle that covers all the angles, no matter what the perception, it becomes a matter of sanitizing history, to make it look and read better than it is, or was!
Bracebridge will have to go through a great deal more re-development, before I will be forced to admit, "I don't recognize this place any more."
There have been a lot of changes, to the old hometown, since my youth, back in the mid rock 'n roll, hippy days of the 1960's to the early 1970's; but none that I can't remove at the leisure of my vivid imagination. I don't care what magnificent architecture they put on the old high school hill, to facilitate the condo community, I will always be able to reminisce clearly, a full color memory of that huge, sprawling old composite of period structures, known in my era, as Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. For all its inefficiencies, and multi-levels, in its architectural hodge-podge, built into the cliffside above "The Hollow," it served to the best of its capability. Tens of thousands of students figured out its maze-like qualities, between old blocks and new, from the antiquarian characteristics, to the appointments of the modernists. It always suffered from inefficences, even when it was originally constructed, but through all the additions and re-developments, the school was remarkably well suited to the task of educating local students. I was the school historian, at the turn of this new century, and a book was published at that point, to recognize the building's 75th anniversary. I only had six months to research, write, and publish the extensive history of the school, which began with the block which has now been conserved on the hillside property, as part of the condominium project. This original block of Bracebridge history, was designed by one of Toronto's most recognized architects, circa 1925, by the name of Gounlouck, a firm that had designed, if I'm not mistaken, a magnificently appointed building, owned by the International Order of Foresters. The architect was arranged by a member of the Spreadborough family, one of the pioneer families of Bracebridge, connected with the Board of Education at the time. While the book wasn't a big seller, I secured a huge quantity of research material, I wouldn't have otherwise known about, and I've been using the resources ever since.
When I walk down to Kelvin Grove Park, connected to Bracebridge Bay Park, below the cataract of the Bracebridge Falls, I can still see, rather remember, the original configuration of the old Motor Park, and the fenced-off swimming area, built into the river bank, that we were allowed to use before the camping season fully commenced. There was a fencing down into the river bed, that allowed the free-flow of water, to filter what was in the protected harbor, where youngsters could swim without having access into the wider, and somewhat dangerous Muskoka River. The problem of the enclosure, was that silt during high water, in the spring, would drift into the protected swimming area, and settle in layers, which created a mucky, awful-feeling bottom. I only swam there once, and that was enough. I remember the day so clearly. It was on the afternoon, of the last day of class, at Bracebridge Public School. Just before lunch, I had been called, with another girl, Lois Loch, to a classroom beside the school office. I couldn't recall having done anything bad, in those final days, so I was a little apprehensive walking down the hall with Lois, one of my Grade eight classmates. The grade seven and eights, had their classrooms at the opposite end of the building, so it was a long, nervous march to the front of the old school. We were invited into the classroom, and welcomed by the teacher, and the much younger students. There were three elderly ladies positioned at the front of the class, and two of them had rolled paper in their hands. Lois and I sat in chairs set out for us, and it certainly seemed a variation of other situations, when I'd been embroiled in some classroom conflict. One of the ladies stood behind the teacher's desk, and began talking about the Bracebridge Women's Institute, and the annual awards they present, to the best grade eight students, based on how much their grades and general proficiency had improved over the year. The first award went to my contemporary, Lois Loch, and I was awarded the second certificate, in the boys category. We were each handed rolled certificates, explaining the award, and we were shown the large plaque, with the names of past award winners, engraved on small silver plaques, attached to the attractive board. Our names had already been engraved, and it would be hung outside the principal's office, immediately after the ceremony. Best part, was that Lois and I were both given ten dollars each, as part of the award presentation. I felt like the richest kid on my block. I think I may have been that, for about half a day, before buying a car model at Green's Variety on Manitoba Street, in the old Patterson Hotel block. It was the afternoon, that I went with chum Don Clement and Rick Hillman, down to the Motor Park for a swim. In the muck unfortunately was a lot of broken glass, and old cans, tossed into the enclosure by some of the local numb nuts, who undoubtedly liked the idea of a kid getting cut. From this point in history, we would only go to Bass Rock, the best urban swimming spot, and then if we had huge ambition, we'd bike the four miles or so, to Kirby's Beach, down Beaumont Drive.
There is a story pencilled into my notebook, about the time the local teenage "toughs," of the early 1960's, decided to get even with one of the local constables. It was decided to stage a near-drowning situation, forcing a local officer, to jump into the water to attempt a rescue. When the officer neared the spot where the young man was struggling, the swimmer beat a hasty retreat across to the opposite side, which would have been toward the motor park, and what is today known as Kelvin Grove Park. The constable, realizing he had been duped by the young man, headed back to shore, where he faced several other thugs, standing on the wharf, who wouldn't let him out of the river. After repeated attempts to climb out, were thwarted, the officer decided to swim to the other side instead. When he got there, another group was there to meet him, refusing to allow him out of the water. It has become somewhat of an urban legend today, and I never did hear how the matter was resolved. The officer did survive the troubling incident, as I was privileged to know his name, and the name of the main perpetrator, who also lived for many years following what could have been a fatal situation. The officer had been in the falls area on normal patrol, and this is obviously what the lads knew in advance. He was by himself and obviously separated from the radio, in his patrol car, preventing any call for assistance. Those who had participated in the attack were punished but I don't have precise details. I always see this incident replay, whenever I take a walk around that park site, and over the walkway that spans the falls. It could have been a tragic outcome, if the officer had succumbed to the exhaustion of criss-crossing the bay area. I believe it was the case that citizens passing by, stepped in to help the constable get out of the river.
I remember the story told to me by a neat character, named Teddy Gibson, who I used to pick-up frequently, when he was hitching rides, back and forth, between Bracebridge and Gravenhurst. One day, when we passed a police check on Highway II, he told me why he hated cops so much. I had to hear this story, but then, he never gave me an option anyway. He reminisced about the time he had purchased two nice (but cheap) bottles of wine, on a Friday afternoon, after a hot afternoon's work for a property owner on Hunt's Hill. Teddy did odd jobs for business owners and for folks in his neighborhood. He liked the view from a little shelf of land, under the Silver Bridge, that afforded some cool shade, privacy and a nice panorama down onto the wharf, bordering the sparkling water of Bracebridge Bay. He had only taken a few sips from the first bottle, when a local constable, on foot patrol, poked his head around the corner of a concrete footing, and said, "Teddy, what have you got there?" He didn't answer, other than to hang his head, and hope the officer would show mercy on a hot soul, after all his labors. "You know you're not supposed to have open booze out here, and we've given you lots of warnings." Teddy didn't do anything more than nod his head, and blush under the sweat, realizing that the officer was correct; he knew it was a violation, and he wouldn't do it again. Or so he was accustomed, in these circumstances, to promise the local police force. "You know what?" asked Teddy, just as we were approaching the entrance to Bracebridge, shaking his finger at all the cops of the world. "He made me give him the bottle I was drinking, and he poured it out right in front of me. Then he asked for the second bottle, and even though it wasn't open, he did the same thing, right into the dirt." "Now don't let me see you back here with booze, or else you'll be arrested." "It was just a mean thing to do, and I didn't have any money left to buy more. It was a miserable thing he did, and I've never forgiven the cop." A witness to the event, who just happened to be in the vicinity at the time, the officer was disposing of the booze, told me that Teddy started to cry even before the first drop of booze hit the dirt. Not really an urban legend, but it was part of the social history of the town, regardless of the negative aspect. It happened to more citizens than Teddy, that's for sure. This just happened to be the one that Teddy reminded me about, that while tragic to him, wasn't without its humourous side.
There were a small number of citizens who drank too much for their own good. The reason the Hunt's Hill lads got to know them so well, was because we used to hang-out frequently, at the Bracebridge Train Station, which was opposite the parking lot of the former Albion Hotel. We'd sit for awhile on the platform of the old station, waiting for the afternoon or early evening train, but change our focus, for any entertaining moments in and around the hotel. There were a couple of humourous incidents every hour. The bouncer at the tavern, would escort customers, who had become unruly inside, out the swinging front door, that always reminded me of those Hollywood movies, where patrons were tossed, by the back of their shirts, out the saloon doors onto the dirt street. I watched as the bouncer at the Albion, would offer a respectful, escorted exit, on the first two ejections from the hotel. He would open the door carefully, and with a hand on the customer's shoulder, lead him to the porch, and onto the sidewalk, without major incident. Of course, the ejected patron would be trying to reason with the staff member, to win some sympathy for his social circumstance. On the occasion of the third removal from the building, the customer might come out head first, through the doors, and be tossed out of the porch area, and into a heap on the front walk. Sometimes, the patron's head was used as a battering ram, to open the doors, as the bouncer had his hands firmly gripping clothing and limbs, in order to propel the individual out of the building. We'd be just roaring with laughter, at each new exit strategy, employed by the bouncer, which could get pretty elaborate, as the day's workload increased, and the repeat offenders annoyed him. On at least fifty percent of the occasions, the evicted hotel-goer, would get up off the ground, immediately, put his, or her fists up, and challenge the bouncer to a fight. I never saw a hotel employee engage these patrons, once out the door, but God help the poor devil if they somehow snuck back into the bar. There was one oldtimer, they called "Scotty" and he'd get thrown out at least twice if not three times, before he got the message, and he would shadow-box all the way uptown, calling the bouncer all the traditional names, one might expect raised by anger. Scotty, unfortunately was a little punchy at the best of times, and he would just get into the back of someone's car and fall asleep. It happened to my dad one day, after he had stopped up town to have lunch at a local restaurant. When he went to get back in the car, with my mother Merle, she screamed when Scotty put his arm on her shoulder, from the back seat; he did so, to get a message to the taxi driver, to take him home. At least my parents knew he was there. A lot of folks headed out of town before they realized Scotty was in the back seat sound asleep.
In my neighborhood of town, a significant kith and kin gathering, at its maturity of alcohol consumption, would produce either loud singing, (nothing I could put a title to) significant shouting, or the skirl of bagpipes, which usually heralded a minor fisticuff to preserve one's honor, in the turmoil of barked-out insults. When the parties occurred at the Weber Apartments, on Alice Street, it wouldn't be uncommon, let's say, to find one of the residents on skis, on the top of the stairs, looking to set an indoor record of stupidity. While the apartment wasn't known for its parties or resident heavy drinkers, it was also necessary, on these nights and occasions, to monitor just who had fallen on the ground the result of over-consumption. We had to rescue a half dozen or more, who would pass out on the walkway, and then be covered over lightly be snow-flurries. Wayne Weber was a generous, big hearted character, and a pretty good contractor, when he wasn't on the sauce. He was a heavy consumer of alcohol, and because his wife, Hilda, would badger him about being drunk and disorderly, he would hide-out in neighbor apartments, like ours, and start crying about all the friends he knew who had passed away; some from as far back as his childhood. One day Wayne brought home a big dog he had found wandering around a construction site, where he and his men were working. The dog loved him when he was sober, but the moment it could smell alcohol on him, its attitude changed dramatically. In fact, it wouldn't let him in the house if he had been drinking. I actually watched this happen, and it was humorous despite the misfortunate of intoxication. One day, while sober as the proverbial judge, I watched as Wayne put a leash on the dog, and he led him out to the car. I never saw the dog again, and all Hilda would say, is that "Seeing as 'Satch,' (her pet name for her husband) won't stop drinking, there was no way he could live with a judgmental pet." They got a "pug" dog later, named "Cindy," and she didn't like Wayne drinking either, but was a lot smaller, and wouldn't bite him like the other hound. Cindy did trip Satch once on the staircase, and he fell down a flight, and put the top of his head right through the drywall. I remember having to go into their house, beside the apartment block, to get the key for the outdoor shed, to fetch the lawnmower, and seeing Satchmo sitting at the kitchen table with a dozen little bandaids on the top of his bald head. Hilda took me around the corner, after I asked what had happened to his noggin, and showed me the perfectly round hole in the wall. "It's good he missed the wall stud, or he'd be a dead Satchmo this morning."
I don't know if booze consumption was more or less than today, because to my knowledge, no one has bothered to gather statistics. But it was a part of every day life, and my father Ed, could not stand a fridge without bottles of O'Keefe Ale keeping the shelves from looking bare. I don't remember my father being drunk, as such, but there was never a card came, in that building, or a summer night spent gathered on the front lawn, when beer and wine glasses, weren't visible by every chair leg, on adjacent tabletops. When you're a kid, you just observe this stuff. It didn't make me lust after booze, or in any way, kindle a feeling that it was fun to wash down barbecued burgers with cold ale. I was addicted to ice cold cola, that I purchased from either Lil &; Cec's Variety Store on Toronto Street, or at Bamford's Store on the opposite corner. The think about the booze, was the interesting and certainly humourous events that evolved, as a direct result of over consumption. You'd always know when the peak had been reached, when one of the party-goers, would stand up and say, with a distinguishable garble, "Hey, Mac, who the hell do you think you are anyway?" Same stuff as you would see on the sidewalk outside the Albion, after a patron had his feelings hurt, being ejected from the saloon. Usually it was an offended husband, who would stand up for our little gathering, on the front lawn, and demand, "Just who are you calling 'stupid,' stupid?" Fortunately, these verbal dust-ups, in the social circumstance of summer evening gatherings, only gained momentum in the privacy of individual apartments, and most that I saw flare up, ended shortly thereafter without much fuss at all. My parents fought like cat and dog, and it didn't have to involve booze to get heated. Nothing that scarred me, that's for sure, or became in any way historical, other than as one of these little vignettes of reminiscence. But it was a real issue, and you can trace alcohol related misbehaviour, all the way back to the earliest days in the settlement. There have been many, many crimes committed, the direct result of over consumption of alcohol. But it is like the history of thousands of other communities in North America, and well, the world. We wish it wasn't the case, but unfortunately, it is a reality then and now.
There are many events that shape opinions of our community heritage, and surprisingly, many are not political or economic. For example, I have a strong opinion about the "hills" of my old hometown. In my recollection, the monster hills of Bracebridge, played a significant role in a lot of lives in my era, all very painful and evidenced by visible scars to this day amongst the survivors. For example, I knew five lads who had major mishaps on bicycles, directly proportional to the grade of the hillside they were riding down. One poor bastard, had just modified his bike, and had somehow replaced the nuts on the front wheel, improperly. Nearing the bottom of Hunt's hill, just before reaching the bridge, his wheel began to wobble within the forks, and he couldn't keep from losing control. The poor kid did a face plant on fresh tarmac, and by time he finished sliding down the remaining hillside, there was a lot of skin left on the roadway, and some remnants of fabric from his clothing. This could have been fatal if a car had been coming behind at the time.
The second and third chums, met with the tarmac, face first, on the hillside of the Bracebridge High School, in the early 1970's, one going down the steep service road to the back of the school, and the other, as hundreds of others, during a miscalculation heading full speed down the legendary Tanbark Hill, on the south side. Both lads received extensive injuries, including broken bones, and were off school for quite a few days while recovering. Another two mates, one on a bike, and the other on a go-cart, wiped-out on well known urban hillsides. Randy Carswell fell off a bike coming down the Liddard Street hill, behind South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, and slid on loose gravel for at least half the length of the decline of land. He didn't tumble, but slid like a runner in baseball, trying to steal home plate. It was like a dryland luge event. When we called to him, after finally stopping, and emerging from the dustbowl the slide created, all we got was a laboured grin and a feeble wave, to let us know he had, at the very least, survived the mishap. He got up slowly, began to walk toward, and then past us, and if only he knew then, what we did. The poor little bugger had lost both checks of his pants, and most of the back of his shirt. The scraped skin looked awfully painful, and it was a good think he couldn't see the damage to his hide, which I think was still smoking as he walked to his home nearby. "I'll be back in a while boys. I need a couple of bandaids," he said, walking like John Wayne, having just sat on a cactus.
The other misadventure, was when Al Hillman's rear axle fell off the go-cart we had built in his father Seth's garage, on Toronto Street. We used to race our go-carts on the "widow maker," known then as "Flynn's Hill," and it was the devil to deal with, even with the most reliable equipment. It was a height of land located two blocks from Alice Street, and one east of Toronto Street. For whatever reason, on this day, the back wheels just fell right off, mid-way down the hillside, and the two by four centre board, kind of buckled and the cheeks of Al's behind connected with the asphalt, creating quite a debris field. As if this wasn't bad enough, Al also lost control, flipped over, and slid the rest of the way down Flynn's hill on his chest and knees. Well sir, you couldn't make Al cry, no matter how hard we tried. On this day, I detected a visible tear on his cheek. His other cheeks were a little more exposed, and had a lot less skin on them, than when the race was flagged "good to go!" You could always tell the Bracebridge go-carters, by their scars and the bow-legged way they walked.
Just like the confluence of the North and South Branches of the Muskoka River, influenced the lives of Bracebridge hometowners, in subtle and profound ways, the hills of our town did much the same. I'll have some more hillside tales in my next blog, to prove my point. When asked a while back, what the major differences were between Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, I said without reservation, "a river that runs through it, and yes, those god damn hills," pardon my language. I tell you how they got into our pysche and stayed there, for all our years of association.
FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES
THOMAS BLOCK FIRE WAS THE BIGGEST, MOST FRIGHTENING - CALAMITOUS TOWN EVENT I HAD EVER COVERED - NO ONE PERISHED - THANKFULLY
BY THE TIME I SQUISHED MY BEHIND DOWN INTO THAT EDITOR'S CHAIR, OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, (BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S), IT WOULD HAVE TAKEN THE JAWS OF LIFE TO SPARE THE CHAIR. FROM MY FIRST YEARS OF UNIVERSITY, I SET MY SIGHTS ON BEING A FUTURE EDITOR. IT TOOK A WHILE, AND SOME HUSTLING TO PROVE MY WORTH, BUT I FINALLY ACHIEVED MY GOAL. I WAS THE BOSS. I HAD THE CHAIR AND DESK TO PROVE IT. DID ANYBODY GIVE A RAT'S ARSE? JUST THE PUBLISHER. HE WANTED ME TO EARN MY KEEP, MOTIVATE THE STAFF, AND CO-OPERATE WITH THE TOUGH COOKIES IN THE PRODUCTION DEPARTMENT. MOST OF ALL, HE DIDN'T WANT TO GET A/ SUED, B/ VOID OF ADVERTISING.
WHEN I DID MAKE MY WAY TO THIS STATION IN LIFE, I HAD EXPERIENCED A PRETTY GOOD WORK-OUT ON THE LOCAL NEWS SCENE, STRETCHING FROM THE TOWNSHIP OF GEORGIAN BAY, MUSKOKA LAKES, AND BRACEBRIDGE. GRAVENHURST WAS STILL IN RANGE, BUT IT WOULD BE YEARS, AND A CHANGE OF EDITOR'S CHAIR BEFORE I BEGAN COVERING ITS MUNICIPAL COUNCIL, AND THE LOCAL BEAT. AS FOR HAVING COVERED ACCIDENT AND FIRE SCENES, I'D CUT MY TEETH ON SOME REAL DANDIES, AND DESPITE THE PROMOTION, I WOULD FOB-OFF AN ACCIDENT OR FIRE CALL ON ANYONE ELSE IN THAT NEWSROOM. MY CONSTITUTION WAS NOT SUITED TO THE KIND OF SCENES FIRST RESPONDERS HAD TO DEAL WITH. IF THERE WAS NO CHOICE, NO ONE TO HAND THE CAMERA TO, I DID WHAT WAS REQUIRED TO JUSTIFY THE PURPOSE OF OUR "NEWS" PAPER. I GOT MY WOBBLY KNEES JUST HEARING THE COMMUNITY FIRE SIREN, OR THE SCANNER WE KEPT IN THE OFFICE FOR EMERGENCY CALLS.
ON THIS BITTERLY COLD WINTER MORNING, SHORTLY AFTER CHRISTMAS-FESTIVITIES, THE CALL CAME OVER THE SCANNER ABOUT A FIRE AT A BUILDING ON MANITOBA STREET, AT CHANCERY LANE. I KNEW IT AS THE THOMAS COMPANY BUILDING, WITH LEGAL OFFICE UPSTAIRS, JUST BEHIND THE HERALD-GAZETTE BUILDING ON DOMINION STREET. I WOULD LATER THAT DAY, BE ABLE TO STAND OUT ON THE ROOF OF THE HERALD BUILDING, TO WATCH THE PROGRESS OF THE FIRE.
EVERY REPORTER WE HAD WAS CALLED OUT TO COVER THIS BREAKING NEWS EVENT. WHILE TWO PHOTOGRAPHERS HEADED DOWN CHANCERY LANE, TO GET SOME FRONT SHOTS OF THE BUILDING, I STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE LANE, JUST BEHIND THE FORMER BRACEBRIDGE TOWN HALL, BECAUSE I NOTICED A LOT OF SMOKE COMING FROM VENTS AT THE SIDE. I TOOK SOME SHOTS DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE LANE, CONNECTING TO THE MAIN STREET, AND SAW A FIRE CAPTAIN I KNEW AT THE BASE. WHEN STAFF FROM THE LEGAL OFFICE OPENED THE SIDE DOOR TO ESCAPE THE BUILDING, THE GLASS IN THE STOREFRONT BELOW, BLEW OUT, THE BURST OF AIR, TOSSING THE FIREMAN ARSE OVER TEA KETTLE, INTO THE ROADWAY. I GOT A SHOT BUT THE SMOKE GOT IN THE WAY OF A CLEAR IMAGE. THE SAME HAPPENED FOR THE PHOTOGRAPHERS BELOW, WHO, AT THAT POINT, DIDN'T KNOW HOW SERIOUS THE FIRE HAD BECOME IN MY ZONE. THE CUSTOMERS AND STAFF HAD JUST GOT OUT OF THE WAY IN THE KNICK OF TIME, BEFORE THE WINDOW EXPLODED.
FROM THIS POINT, INDEED, ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.
The fire had been manifesting for some time before, inching through the openings above the numerous false ceilings in the store. Somehow, as I had been witnessing, the smoke was venting to the side, not the front, and it had not reached a serious degree of burn, until that morning's store opening. When the front and side doors were opened for customers and clients,I suppose it was acting as a sort bellows on the flames. Customers reported feeling very hot in the store, but the smoke wasn't an issue. It was exciting the building, in a less than obvious place.
After the window blew…..and we saw the fireman had escaped serious injury, I tried to talk to the business owner who was in shock at the time. I chased him up the lane, away from the fire, to get one or two sentences to use……as with events like this, print reporters were often asked to do "voicers" for regional radio and television stations. That's when I noticed the shards of glass that had injured his rear end…..obviously from the explosion at the front of the building. I left the rest to his son…..but it looked painful.
I'd never seen a fire accelerate like this one. It was obvious the fire had gotten into the nooks and crannies, enough to make it twice as difficult for firemen to douse. Within minutes of that window being blown out, the mood changed big-time. Spectators were fleeing and there were sirens everywhere. As we all know about these downtown fires, along the traditional, historic main streets in Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, it couldn't possibly be a simple, one building fire. It was the test to see if there were any firewalls between the old structures. I'm not sure now just how many of the buildings were gutted, but that it stopped before it hit Thatcher Studio. I'm pretty confident it affected three businesses, a medical office, and a law office upstairs. Fortunately no one was seriously injured. Emotional trauma. There was lots of that…..especially when, as historical record in Muskoka towns has documented, you could literally lose the downtown during one out-of-control fire event. There were a lot of gut-wrenching, nervous moments for all stake holders that day.
What was the saving grace, if memory serves, was that a "Tele-squirt" aerial firetruck was loaned by the Fire College, in Gravenhurst, which effectively stopped the progression from consuming other vulnerable buildings. It knocked the flames down, and gave firemen on the ground a better chance of stopping the carnage from heading north, or south, or even leaping west across Manitoba Street. The deep freeze made it a most unfortunate situation for firemen, who were quickly exhausted, carrying around ice on their backs and arms. The cold air and smoke made it hard for everyone to breathe, working on the ground level of the multi-building fire. I can remember spectators who had crept closer and closer over the long day, finding jewelry washing down the road from the shop. Rings were being found frozen in the ice for days after the event.
What had begun at about mid-morning, had carried on through the night….and I remember looking down on the fire scene, from the roof of The Herald-Gazette, and it appearing the mouth of a volcano. There was no roof structure left. Just an expansive, threatening, wavering glow in the sub-zero night air. As we said over and over again that day and night….and for the next week, "at least no one was injured." And you know, the owners of the property, rebuilt the structures that seemed beyond repair….and you can visit them today…..and see no evidence of that great winter fire, of once.
Over the past year, we've had several major fires in downtown Gravenhurst, and although I'm not employed as a reporter any longer, I still got those wobbly knees, and churning stomach, that always went along with the territory. I watched those fire fighters tackle that blaze, with the prowess I recall seeing so many times in the past. On both fires, I saw the terrible odds they were facing….old buidlings, many renovations in the past, all kinds of nooks and crannies for a fire to hide, and the looks of sincere regret……on their faces…..that they couldn't do more to stop the disaster in its tracks. No one can tell me, after my own years of experience covering accidents and fires, that first responders are void of emotion at times of crisis……just because they're used to difficult circumstances. No, they're mortal, and they wish for a better outcome from their efforts. Some times it just isn't possible, and I've identified this, from my own experience, in two recent Gravenhurst blogs.
I heard a smart ass, at the first downtown fire, back in the spring, say "Yup, they haven't lost a foundation yet!" Insensitive bastard.
As a wee footnote to this blog, I remember reporting on a side-bar story, of the fire that claimed Windermere House, a few years back. It was about the emotional state of a few of the firefighters, one who had been in tears, because, in some way, he felt that losing the building was the brigade's fault……that a landmark was lost because they couldn't beat the flames back. Do you think I'm blowing smoke. Tell me then, the last time you heard of a memorial service being held for a building……and for all those who fought the blaze. It was held at the Windermere United Church shortly after the fire, which was begun by the way, during the filming of a Hollywood movie. I was at that service, as my wife is from Windermere. We felt bad for the firemen, that they shouldered responsibility this way….when they had done everything possible to extinguish flames in that very old, very dry resort building. It was clear evidence for me, even though I had seen it in my photographs, showing firemen in action….for years, first responders take it on the chin every time…..and wish there was a positive outcome to each event.
Windermere House was rebuilt, as it was on that promontory, overlooking Lake Rosseau, and it is every bit the historic landmark it once was……but thoroughly modernized. No one had been killed or seriously injured in what could have been much more serious.
As a reporter who shadowed the firefighters of South Muskoka for more than a decade, I have the utmost respect for them, and confidence they will do everything humanly possible to maintain our health and welfare in the event of crisis. But don't think for a minute, they have any choice, about taking their work home with them……and that's something we need to know about their dedication….before we make insensitive comments…….about saving foundations, and such.
Thank you firefighters of Muskoka. Thank you all first responders.
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