Main Streets Need Our Support; Bracebridge Antique Shop Put Us With Important Collectors

EVERY DAY WAS A LEARNING EXPERIENCE, AND AN ADVENTURE, WHEN WE HAD OUR BRACEBRIDGE ANTIQUE SHOP

A TOUGH BUT ENJOYABLE WAY TO MAKE A FEW BUCKS

     I didn't get into the antique business because of the big bucks I expected to make. I learned early on, that it was an interesting way to make a few dollars, speculating on historical items, and by definition, antiques; but golly, I never once figured that it was going to morph into a money tree. But early on, I knew that my sideline business was going to be a lot of fun, over the course of our relationship, and what I liked most of all, was that there were few if any rules. I'd go to an auction, as a rookie, with a mainstay job as a newspaper reporter, and wind-up making fifty bucks, by spending a hundred from my pay packet. What I mean by this, is that I would buy a couple of auction job-lots, containing what I wanted from the odds and sods, and then sell off other collectables within the piles, to offset the cost and value of what I was planning to keep. It was kind of magic, that this would happen, and eventually, I got to the point, that I could pay for three quarters of my purchases; just by selling off part of the aquistions I bought in these lots, from chairs to kitchen-ware. It was intoxicating. Making money from what I found as exciting, recreational, and social intercourse.
     This brings me to an interesting point, that most readers, unless antique hunters themselves, wouldn't appreciate of the profession, of dealing in old stuff. Here's something to mull over. My archivist friend, (free lance paper sleuth) Hugh Macmillan, and my book collector associate, David Brown, were perfect examples, of how the antique profession, without the tie of a retail operation, worked for them perfectly. These observations are based on hundreds of conversations about history as a business. Both men, highly educated and experienced in their respective fields of interest, probably never paid full price for a vacation; whether it was a trip overseas or to the United States, or across Canada. First of all, if you like the way an interest in relics can become profitable, much like my early experiences at auction sales, you soon learn that there are eager buyers awaiting what you have in your possession; regardless whether you have a sale's counter, or just a briefcase, or enough room in your vehicle to transport your find, to a new and eager buyer. All by networking through the merry band of historians, collectors, and dealers. You don't need ebay. Just a lot of contacts within the industry. It's surprising how many contacts you can multiply, if you start advertising certain rare bits and pieces of world history. Word travels fast. We've had it happen many times, that dealers and collectors would call us up, asking for an opportunity to buy what we had just acquired. How they found out? No idea. They wouldn't give up their sources. Yet it's still neat to have this gentle, no advertising commerce working in concert with other more visible salesmanship. Sometimes we sell and other times, we put them off indefinitely; such that the subject piece will remain our hedge against inflation, or whatever you want to call it. When we need the money, and our interest has moderated, we'll return the call, and possibly part with the item.
      Dave Brown, and Hugh Macmillan, never showed up at our house, without trade bait, or items they knew I would like to buy, for at that time, our main street Bracebridge shop. So, both chaps, and any friends they were travelling with, got free room and board, for however long they planned to stay, and to cover gas expenses, and the cost of sundry other products needed while travelling, they'd sell me something. Or at the very least, offer a trade. I sold Hugh a regional history of trapping, in Canada, the last time he was at our house, and he told me later, he sold it to another collector, at one of his stops before he returned home. Sometimes I purchased, sometimes I made a trade instead. These blokes did this up and down the highway, wherever they were travelling. If they didn't have a place designated to stop, pre-arranged so to speak, they'd figure it out on the fly. I've heard many stories from Dave, and his friends, how he could win over people he met, in the strangest locations, and situations, all by happenstance, and then be invited home for dinner, and even to stay the night. It was amazing what this guy could get for free; and by time he arrived home after a week on the road, he was probably better off financially than when he left. Hugh was well organized about it, but he carried far more inventory to sell than Dave. Hugh could pack a lot of value in paper collectables and art, in a small package; whereas Dave needed his pickup truck, because he often flogged architectural heritage, and thousands of old books, that he had recovered from estate clearances and the demolition companies he worked with in Hamilton.
    The fascination of this, carried over from my own auction experiences, was that you could mitigate the costs of purchasing what you wanted in antiques and collectables, if you played the game wisely. In other words, you could gamble without getting burned. You just had to know about parallel purchases, that you could use, on quick re-sale, to reduce the actual cost of what you planned to keep. The funny part for me at auctions, was that I was selling articles, from the boxes I had purchased, without having first paid for the job-lots at the sale's desk. I never thought of this as being dishonest, because I always paid by bills, but as it turned out, with other people's money.      Hugh and Dave were ideal role models in this regard, because they were also good businessmen, who knew all about margins of profit. Not only were they exceptional historians, able to make presentation on heritage subjects with only a few minutes notice, but they were antique dealers without ever requiring a store-front to pull it all together. In many ways, it's what I'm doing these days, while Suzanne runs the storefront, here in Gravenhurst. It's what I learned of myself, when I was running the day to day operation of Birch Hollow Antiques on Manitoba Street. There were occasions and days I enjoyed being in the shop, with interesting customers and the old farts I called, with considerable affection, the "Liar's Club." I found myself more like Hugh and Dave, and I wanted to be off and treasure hunting, versus being trapped behind a counter. Suzanne, having a long association with retail, is quite happy to tend her shop, because she has customized it to suit her interests. So it has more of a vintage Home Economics feel about it, with her collectable sewing materials, sewing machines, (which she works at daily), and the cookery experience she's built-up over years of immersion (now having a large archives collection of cookbooks and handwritten recipes); experience, gained in part as a family studies teacher, with both Bracebridge and Gravenhurst High Schools. I kid about her past connection with 4-H back in her Windermere Days, (she has all the 4-H collector spoons) and association, through family, with the Women's Institute. She used to do quilt work for the Women, who would use the finished bedding for fundraising raffles. Point I'm trying to make, is that some of us in the antique profession love their own respective, finely honed, custom tailored shop atmosphere. I like the shop format, but I'm a gad-about like my mates, Hugh and Dave, and like nothing more than engaging an all-out treasure hunt; which by the way, I would pursue seven days a week if Suzanne would let me. I do have shop chores, and fill-in responsibilities, so I've been cut down to several days a week, when I get to run amuck to hunt and gather.
     I think the antique and collectable enterprise, no matter where and how it is run, affords a great many opportunities that have to be experienced, to know their true depth and breadth of potential. I've known dealers who have spent half their lives in the profession, who will confess, that some recent experience or personal discovery, led to a new operational strategy for their enterprise. Some who never owned a shop, will all of a sudden, decide they want to anchor someplace, and opt for a storefront, after years of working antique shows, and assorted outdoor markets instead. Then it can work in the reverse, where a dealer decides to close up shop, in favor of travelling and selling across the country, or around the world. I was fascinated by an elderly couple, back in my Bracebridge years, who had an antique shop near Ottawa. They had been running their business for several decades, but had decided over time, that they would move to England, to a small village they had visited on previous trips, and set up a new antique shop, somewhat in the same format as the one they had in Ottawa. They had worked on the details of the home and business re-location plan for two years, so there was nothing happenstance about the adventure. Whenever they were in Bracebridge, to visit with family, they came into the shop, and I'd carry on with my questioning, as to what stage they were at in the big move. I got so intimate with details, that I felt as if I was making the move with them. I am, you see, fascinated by the idea, of moving to a small village in the english countryside; where some of my ancestors came from, before emigrating to Canada in the mid 1800's. Truth is, I would like to live on Coronation Street, but I don't think this would be acceptable to the producers of the famous Brittish soap opera. What a great time it would be, to hoist ales at the "Rover's Return."
     It's a weakness of character, I suppose. It certainly isn't a sign of being stalwart business operators, because I think we're too flexible for our own good sometimes. Suzanne and I straddle the line between shop-keeps, and vagabonds, but regardless what we're doing at the time, shopping or tending the store-front, we know that we must keep a retail outlet, but we most certainly can never disregard the pull of the treasure hunt. Some people dig in their backyard for treasure, like a friend we know, who has come up with three interesting doll and toy relics recently, courtesy a spade and some curiosity. The allure? We're curious to find out how much and how deep the excavation will become, in quest of the holy grail.

A LITTLE NOTE ABOUT THE ARTICLE BELOW

     THE FEATURE ARTICLE PUBLISHED BELOW, APPEARING IN THE JULY ISSUE, OF ONE OF MY FAVORITE ONTARIO PUBLICATIONS, "CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE," IS ONE I TRULY ENJOYED WRITING. IT REALLY MEANT SOMETHING TO ME. OF COURSE, I'M A TRADITIONALIST. I LIKE CHANGE BUT I WANT TO KEEP WHAT HAS BEEN IMPORTANT TO ME, FOR LONG AND LONG. CALL ME UNREALISTIC. IT'S WHY I IMMERSE MYSELF IN HISTORY AND ANTIQUES. I HAVE A LOT OF AFFECTION FOR TRADITIONAL MAIN STREETS, AND DOWNTOWN COMMERCIAL AREAS, INCLUDING BRACEBRIDGE'S MANITOBA STREET, AND GRAVENHURST'S MUSKOKA ROAD. THERE HAVE BEEN TIMES IN RECENT HISTORY, THAT MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENTS HAVE, POSSIBLY WITHOUT NEGATIVE INTENT, IGNORED THE HEALTH AND WELL BEING OF MAIN STREET COMMERCE, IN FAVOR OF FORWARDING AND PROMOTING, THE LUCRATIVE INVESTMENTS OF PLAZA AND BOX STORE DEVELOPMENTS. IT HAS HAPPENED ALL OVER NORTH AMERICA, FROM THE MALL CRAZE OF THE 1970'S, AND THE URBAN POD SPRAWL EVER SINCE, THAT DOWNTOWNS AND OTHERWISE MAIN BUSINESS CORES, FROM THE ORIGINAL SETTLEMENT, HAVE BEEN DISRESPECTED, AND UNDER-ESTIMATED, FOR WHAT THE HISTORIC AREAS CAN STILL PERFORM FOR LOCAL ECONOMICS. I DON'T LIKE TO SUGGEST THESE IMPORTANT AREAS OF OUR COMMUNITY HAVE BEEN PURPOSELY NEGLECTED, IN THE PAST FORTY YEARS, BUT IN SOME CASES, IT'S OBVIOUS ATTENTION AND SOLUTIONS HAVE COME TOO LATE. I HONESTLY BELIEVE THAT MANY OF THESE WONDERFULLY NOSTALGIC AREAS OF OUR COMMUNITIES, ARE COMING BACK TO LIFE, AND I'VE SEEN IT MANIFESTING, IN QUITE A FEW TOWNS WHERE WE LIKE TO ANTIQUE-HUNT. SO HERE IS MY OVERVIEW OF WHAT I ENJOYED ABOUT MAIN STREET DAWDLING, BACK IN THE LATE 1960'S AND EARLY 70'S.


Memories of Main Street and Modern Realities

By Ted Currie
    I never visit any new community, on our antiquing travels, without insisting on a visit to its main business section. The traditional downtown. Main street. The stretch of commerce from which everything else rooted, from those hard fledgling years of a pioneer economy. You can tell a lot about a community, by the way it cares for its main street, in contemporary times.
    I grew up with a strong attraction to the main street in my hometown. Bracebridge, Ontario. The middle community in the District of Muskoka. As a kid, I didn't really have a total knowledge of what made something, or other, exciting, but it seemed to me, that Manitoba Street was an electric avenue. All kinds of stuff happened on that short, hill and valley stretch, of historic downtown corridor.
    My mother would shove two things at me, on typical Saturday mornings, before I took my weekly recreational amble downtown. The first was an envelope containing three dollar bills, to pay for my twice monthly haircuts, with Bracebridge's barber / artist, Bill Anderson. Unless I wanted to buy one of the landscapes, he painted in the shop, in between customers, all a trim would cost, at the most, was two dollars and fifty cents. I don't think Bill expected a tip from a kid, and surely my mother counted the extra fifty cents as part of my allowance. The second thing, was an order scratched onto a piece of paper, or portion thereof, listing the baked goods I was supposed to pick up from Waite's Bakery, or Merv's Meat Market.
    I didn't complain, because I liked going to see Bill Anderson, in his corner shop, comfortably appointed, in the former Patterson Hotel, a block from Waite's Bakery, and Merv's Meat Market, my second and third stop on my travels. Which would, by experience my mother knew too well, include a visit to see the turtles, budgies and fish at Elliott's Five and Dime, a brief visit to Ecclestone's Hardware, because I loved to watch their grated, open style elevator, rise from basement to the second floor. I found a few moments to check on bike parts I might need, from BB Auto, run by Lorne Shier, and I wasn't adverse, to stopping for a moment, at the Top Hat Restaurant, for a take-out order of french fries. I could be found loitering mindfully, at either Brook's Drug Store on the east side of Manitoba Street, or at Everett's Drug Store almost directly across the road. And I'd peer in the front window of the other barber shops, to see if any of my chums were on the seat of honor.
    Once I actually arrived at Waite's Bakery, the chelsea buns might already be sold-out, and even be lucky to get one of the last loaves of bread, cooling on the large metal racks. Undoubtedly some old codger, a friend of the family, would comment on my latest hair cut, as the scent of Bill's tonic stayed with me, for days after my visit. Then, after leaving the bakery, I smelled like barber's tonic and fresh baking, that should have made me seem desirable to the opposite sex. Didn't work, and the girls I liked would still cross over the road, rather than have me get all google-eyed, and red-faced, if we actually met face to face.
    If I had a few coins jingling in my pocket, and my mother had given me permission to, as they say, "keep the change," I might have gone back into Elliott's shop, to examine the display of Dinky Toys and Corgi Trucks, Bill used to tempt me with, and every week I'd promise him, that I was getting closer to having enough money, to actually buy one of them, versus remaining a voyeur, taking up valuable customer space in his jam-packed shop.
    In the time that I was hustling about Bracebridge's downtown core, I would have heard the bell in the old clock tower, part of the former federal building, the train horn on the approach to the crossing, down on Thomas Street, its click, clack down the ribbon rails, and as I got further south on Manitoba Street, I could hear the cataract of the falls, thundering into the basin of Bracebridge Bay, where the tourists, over the centuries, have taken a trillion photographs of the picturesque natural resource.
    I may have heard the piercing fire siren from the tower of town hall, on Dominion Street, if there had been an emergency, or the radio communication from a parked taxi, or picked up on a conversation between feuding adults, after a fender-bender near the intersection of Manitoba and Ontario Streets. On a Saturday morning, there would be the tell tale chatter of moms and pops, doing their weekly shopping, emerging from either the A&P Store, on the Queens Hill, or Lorne's Marketeria, situated between Ecclestones and Elliotts.
   There would be kids and assorted teenagers, running and laughing, playing main street hide'n seek, and those with enough money to buy ice cream treats, would make those who couldn't afford the luxury, feel hard done-by. We laughed to ourselves, some more audibly than others, with and without discretion of course, when one of these "fortunates," would accidentally topple a scoop off the cone, falling unceremoniously onto the sidewalk. When they cried, we smiled. I hated myself for this. Even to a kid observer, this was a happening place. A voyeur could not get bored, with all that was going on in this downtown commercial paradise.
    The four large clock faces of the imposing brick tower, kept me on time for lunch, and dinner, and it was the last bit of architecture of the main street, that I looked back at, after crossing the dark expanse of the Muskoka River, over the Hunt's Hill bridge, feeling that it was somehow watching over me, so that I got home safely. Funny thing, but it was also the first identifiable, welcoming structure, I saw every morning, on the way to school. Even as an adult, I used to consult that clock when I was passing, and not just to find out the time of day. It was always a beacon reminding me of my own heritage, having enjoyed for long and long, the occasions of gad-abouting on the main street, with all of its curious and historic adornments, and hangers-on of citizenry, and sundry others, who like me, felt that being home, was being down-town.
    I would arrive home on those Saturday mornings, with whatever baked goods I was afforded, by the kind staff of Waites; and smelling of fresh bread, and barber shop treatments, my mother would not think to ask me what I had in my pockets. She knew it would be a bag of black balls in one, and some baseball or hockey cards in the other. I would know, one step inside our apartment building, that Merle had made me a grilled-cheese sandwich for lunch. We lived on the third floor. That welcoming aroma found me before I could climb the first stair. All was good in the universe as I experienced it, as a wide-eyed kid, who really did enjoy all the creature, and built comforts, of his old home town. The main street is still my favorite place to visit and shop, although a lot has changed from what I recalled fondly, as my heaven on earth. I expect my ghost may still haunt this strip of urban landscape, contented to wander, I suppose, its former stomping ground, still held in great affection. It's a good and positive reality, the downtown, and mainstreet have survived, through all the economic stresses of recent decades, to entertain the local citizenry, as it did so well, during my generation.
    On your travels to communities in our beautiful province, be sure to visit some of the charming and historic downtowns, still so vibrant and important, in contemporary times. If you come to the picturesque stretch of Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, be warned in advance, you might just see the wee spirit of my youth, wandering up and down the street, joyfully hop-scotching up and down, the well worn path, that is my old and dear home town