MY UNOFFICIAL EDITOR, TUTOR, AND MENTOR AT THE BRACEBRIDGE HERALD-GAZETTE; WITH NARY A LICK OF RECOGNITION
WHY WOULD I PUT NORMAN TANNER INTO THE CHRONICLE OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORY? BEFORE GOT TO OUR READERS, IT HAD TO PASS HIS SCRUTINY
There are many heroes out there, who did their part, as unsung as it often was, to make our hometowns just a little bit better, in all pertinent areas. We hogged all the credits, at The Herald-Gazette, when things went right, and our way, but I never remember once, stopping a positive review, mid-sentence, from one of our readers, to remind them, that before it got to them, (the paper) it had to pass the inspection of a truly remarkable and intelligent man. There is no award today, as a memorial to the man, and his work, but there should be, and seeing as he had to be part historian, part english professor, it should be a literary achievement with his name attached. He might not have achieved the rank he deserved, but his imprint on the local writing community, was both profound and long-term. I still think of him regularly, when I stumble on sentence structure, or think to myself, there must be a better word to use; more appropriate punctuation to employ. Possibly a better, shorter, more sensible way to write a description, to have a greater impact on the reader. Sage advice, I wish I still had, because he would still be my editor of choice, if that is, he was still walking amongst the living.
I was on my way into the old A&P store, on upper Manitoba Street, at the intersection of Monck Hill, half-pulling son Robert through the electronic door. He had a couple of near misses, with these doors, almost pinching him against the door frame, so his reluctance wasn't surprising. He didn't like escalators, snowmobiles and sitting on Santa's lap. So I was concentrating on him, and not who I almost bumped into, at the confluence of traffic at the store's narrow entrance. I thought I had heard someone call my name, but I was in a poor physical contortion to look up, at that precise moment. I was also keeping an eye on eldest son Andrew, who was already in the store, and making for the bread aisle unescorted. Once I got past the door, I did look back, and there was a man staring back at me, with a big smile on his face. At first, I didn't recognize him, but at the time, there was a photograph that ran with my weekly column, and it was quite common to have people address me, who I had never seen before. It was both good and bad, because some of those folks wanted to bop me on the end of the nose, for something I had written previously. Not so much for the column material, but from the news pages, and considering they knew what the writer looked like, it could be a little precarious, especially if I had been covering court that particular week. Reporting on impaired driving charges was always a bad one for me, because we started printing full names in the news stories. Many papers refused to do this, at the time. I always watched for incoming fists from hostile family members, who thought it was wrong for the newspaper to print these stories, and tarnish their family's reputation. I never got hit as such, but threatened regularly.
"Hello Ted," the elderly gentleman called-out again, but this time with the British accent I recognized. It will always be, for me, the most regretted missed opportunity I have ever had, because the man just outside the door, had been very important to me, in my fledgling years in newspaper work. I couldn't go back after him, because Robert, by this point, had taken off to find his brother. This was what scared the grocery store management, and frankly, me too, because I had also been a holy terror, as a child, in this same circumstance. Here now are my kids running around with a shopping cart, and I think it was senior citizen day.
"How are you," the chap yelled, as I was turning back toward the boys. As there were now people between us, and no easy exit, I just waved, nodded and smiled. I remember him smiling back, and waving once more. I spent the rest of the time in the grocery store, being preoccupied with what I had seen, and feeling enormously bad, that I hadn't insisted on running back for even a short visit, and a handshake at the very least. I owed it to this kind and gentle man, who had helped me so many times, over the years at The Herald-Gazette, clean up my editorial copy. Every writer needs a mentor, a tutor, and confidant. For me, it was Norman Tanner. Norman was an unsung hero, and dammit, I never let him know how much I appreciated his interventions on my behalf.
I hadn't recognized Norman at the doorway. In fact, I only figured out that it was my old work-mate, from the other side of the door, when it was too late to change direction, and there was no way of stopping the momentum of shoppers, jamming through the electronic door. I didn't recognize him, because he was terribly thin and gaunt, and his clothes were way too big, just hanging off his body, his hair gray and thin, and he was steadying himself on a cane. I did eventually recognize his life-long friend Al Bonnell, who was a few steps ahead of him. They were gay men at a time when it wasn't cool, or contently accepted around town, and they did face ridicule and mean spirited gossip. I don't think they ever declared themselves a couple, or even thought of it in these terms, but if one was at the bar of the Holiday House, you could usually find the other, socializing near by. I was told Norman was gay, when I began working as a reporter for Muskoka Publications, by someone who didn't even work there; but felt I should know, just in case he started hitting on me. I have worked with many gay men in my life, and have never yet been hit-on. Norman was my friend, and he was above and beyond, a hell of a fine employee, and a good friend for a lot of years. Gay or straight, I didn't care. None of us close to him cared a darn about any of that, because it never became an issue, except outside the office. I'd occasionally hear someone remark about his sexual preference, when he came in for a drink at the Holiday House. I'd just glare at them, and then welcome him with a big handshake. Maybe I was the one making the scene. I never remember him being bothered by the happenstance of off-hand, or rude comments.
He was a pillar in this regard. Norman saved me from making a fool of myself, as I was prone to making errors in my copy, out of laziness more than lack of proficiency; that he caught during the final proofing.
I had heard, through friends, that Norman had been diagnosed with cancer, but this was the first time I had seen him since hearing the rumors. I was stunned to find him in such poor condition, being so unsteady on his feet, and dangerously thin. We've all had situations like this, happen during unanticipated bouts of social intercourse, and found it almost impossible to find the words to exchange, that wouldn't make either party feel uncomfortable. I think God may have helped with this by-chance meeting, keeping us apart, thinking possibly, I might say something stupid and muddled; except to exchange limited greetings via hand gestures and reflective smiles of friendship. I try to avoid these situations as much as possible, because I am not very good at making small talk, even at the best of times, circumstances, and with family. I know, without a doubt, I would have fumbled and garbled, something ridiculous, because it would have seemed necessary, to fill the void of what I really wanted to ask him. And that would have been about his deteriorating health, and we both might have started to cry, amidst the throng of patrons, who just wanted to do their shopping; not play a role in an unfolding drama. I was a wordsmith. I wrote huge feature articles, risque columns, and hard hitting front pages stories, but I could not have put the words together, to make a gentle landing with Norman. He was skeletal, and it ripped my heart out, and all I wanted to do was hug him, and wax mournful about the unfairness of God, to take such a fine human being before his time. Well, that wouldn't have been right, under the circumstances, because Norm was a tough englishman, in his demeanour, and he may have seemed like an emotional person, at first introduction; but he was in no way a shrinking violet. He was honest but courteous. If you didn't want his opinion, too bad. You were going to get it, because he was proud of the paper he helped produce. If you thought you knew it all, he could fix that in about five minutes of proof-reading.
A year before I became employed by Muskoka Publications, I turned in an on-spec manuscript, to see if the company might be interested in releasing it as a new book. The Herald-Gazette Press did publish quite a number of local titles, but not so much in the way of poetry. They would print poet Sylvia DuVernet's books, but mostly as a customer, not as an author they were promoting. In other words, the company was hired to print her books, not publish them for the marketplace. I had also submitted a manuscript of recent poems, which when I look at them today, I am horrified that they were even given to Norman, for a preliminary read-through. Well, the only person to have read the manuscript, cover to cover, was my old friend Norman, who told my mother Merle, when she went to pick it up from the Dominion Street office, that "Ted has some real talent as a writer; but The Herald-Gazette publishes mostly regional histories." The day I was introduced to Norman, who had the big portion of the office, directly behind the front counter, said without missing a beat, "Why yes, I know quite a bit about Mr. Currie, from reading the book he has written." That was news to staff writer Bill Kelly, who had made the introduction. Norman was like this. In private, he would give me crap for writing inconsistencies and making too many typos, but when it came to conversations with others, he would never, ever think, to embarrass a staffer with a critique. He was a man who stuck to office protocol, and with his own good manners, he was the perfect clerk for the printing division of Muskoka Publications. He was smooth, and was always a credit to the company; although I'm not entirely sure management ever knew how much money he made for the paper, by being so accommodating and polite to our customers.
Like most writers, starting out, we have to boost our resilience to negative reviews. I've known writers, who actually quit because of critiques they felt clearly indicated they would never be taken seriously, as authors, of anything, except their own misfortune. So we all are a little guarded in the early going, but no matter how pensive I was, Norman knew how to fix what was wrong, without inspiring me to jump off a building, or face a train in the middle of the tracks. He could be brutally honest, but he weighted it on the individual, and sensed accurately, how much a writer could take, before abandoning the newspaper industry. He forced us to be more careful with language use, and how to be more effective with presentation, on a budget of words. He used to warn me all the time, about writing too much. But he gave up trying to curtail my enthusiasm after about the fiftieth warning. What I did pay attention to, was his advisories about sentence structure, better word use, and never, ever, being without a dictionary on our news desks. He helped us polish our work, and that was his priority, because ultimately, he was the one who fielded complaints from subscribers, when he was on phone detail, usually on press mornings, after that week's paper had hit the news-stands. A few of us thought he was a bossy little englishman, and way too intrusive for his job description. That's the thing however, because what he did for us, was above and beyond his job description. He felt it incumbent to make better writers of us, and as writer Brant Scott, once noted, "Norman knows more about the english language, than you and I will ever know." Brant was right. I had never before, even in university, had someone to critique my work in such minute detail; like noting the improper place for a comma or semi-colon. Here's how it came about, because it wasn't just about editing copy fresh from our typewriters. There was one step before this.
The freshly inked copy, from the rollers of our old Underwoods and Smith Coronas, in the newsroom upstairs, was edited by me before it got to our typesetter, Ida Middelstadt, who was one of the most important staffers on the premises. If I didn't make the edit marks suitably, for her to read, it meant she'd have to come upstairs, and collar me for clarification. This took time away from her busy schedule, which included some extra work for advertisements, and special requests from management. So Norman made it real clear to me, without his trademark wink, that my errors, and shortfalls, impacted on the whole mechanism of getting print copy set, for the newspaper. Deadlines got crowded. The printers started to call from Muskoka Web. Ida was always so polite and patient, but Norm was very protective of her, because he knew the stress that had been placed on her typesetting speed, without any back-up if she happened to be sick. So Norman would make sure we all knew, the ways and means, to make her life a little easier. It was Norman Tanner, you see, who proof-read Ida's typesetting, looking for typos. He hated, thusly, to find that most of the mistakes had been made by us, instead, especially using poor grammar. It wasn't Ida's job to edit us. So when it got to the stage of being one step from "camera-ready," to then be waxed, and rolled onto the paper flats, he showed us no mercy, when challenging us to pay attention, and work to improve our writing styles, according to the rules of english language structure. He had no concern about our hurt feelings, when he'd come up to my desk, and challenge me on several sentences, that were both weak and improperly worded. His point to me, "You should have caught this Ted, at your end, because that's where it's easiest to make the correction." True enough. Admittedly, in those first two years of employment, I caused a lot of unnecessary delays in newspaper production, on those incredibly electric Mondays and Tuesdays, when Norman was a blur, running here and there through the office, trying to do the job he was hired to perform, and a half dozen additional chores he took on, that he felt obligated to address with or without pay. One of them, was to take an average writer, and make them "A" quality before they moved on to other newspaper or writing jobs. He didn't polish dozens of writers, but a choice few, and happily, I was one he felt compelled to hone, no matter how much time it took.
It wasn't just Brant Scott, Judith Brocklehurst, Scott McClellan, Tim DuVernet, Bill Kelly, and I, who were blessed with Norman's helpfulness. It was Robert Boyer, our senior editor, and regional historian, who was impacted the most, without question. Bob was always asking for Norman's opinion, and benefitting from his extensive knowledge about literature, history, and language. If I had corrected Bob Boyer, (we were related to one another by marriage), he would have butted his lit cigar on my forehead, and used my hand as an ashtray. I was an underling, even though I out-ranked him eventually on the mast-head of the paper. The publisher, rightfully so, decided that the tempest in the tea pot, would be to let me edit Bob's weekly columns. So the status quo, was to let Norman Tanner look after all Bob's editorial needs, and it worked perfectly fine, for the years I was employed by Muskoka Publications. I never remember even one occasion, of walking by Norman's counter, and hearing Bob having a confrontation with Norman. They got along famously, and in so many ways, Norman was encouraging, and nurturing, for all ages of writers under his broad wings. If Bob Boyer, the most recognized local historian, and newspaper personality, could take advice and criticism from Norman, who was not much more than an office clerk by status of the payroll office, well sir, we staff writers, could weather whatever our mentor found necessary to interject. How could we complain about his critiques, when arguably, they made us better writers overall?
Why should we devote some ink, in the history of the Town of Bracebridge, to this newspaper clerk, for just doing his job. You see, the part of his job that most consider basic and upper clerical, was a small part of what he actually performed, each week, and on specific projects, to guarantee the copy was accurate, historically so; when it came to his work with Bob Boyer, and many other historians he co-operated with, to produce their "Herald-Gazette Press" publications, of the 1970's. It was Norman and Ida who did so much of that print work, and editing, that bolstered the credibility of the entire business. Steamboat historian, Harley Scott, was particularly fond of Norman, and the sure hands of all those who composed those pages for the printing press. Norman and Ida caught the errors before they hit the pages, and that made all the difference between a book, and an exceptional reference text; a newspaper from a good newspaper. As historians today, are eager to use the back editions of The Herald-Gazette and The Muskoka Sun, because of the prevalence of heritage features, thank goodness we had Norman Tanner to give us the quality assurance, we writers didn't always take too seriously. When our names were printed onto the top of those articles, he wanted us to be confident of the quality we had built-in to the presentation. It's often the case, we can get a little lazy with finishing details, but all Norman saw, was that by these shortfalls, we were hurting the paper's reputation, and our own portfolios, when we decided to move on to a new writing gig. He showed us, by example, how important it is to be meticulous, and never send anything for publication, that is in the least bit unpolished. He was a kinder, gentler drill sargent, but we didn't fear him. When you passed by Norm's counter, you could always find one of us, leaning over the woodwork, to follow Norman's pen, as he circled yet another editorial misadventure. As we got better at the enterprise of writing, we still hung over his counter, but just to talk about current events. Chris Thompson, formerly of the production staff of The Herald-Gazette, knows exactly what I mean, and she had many enjoyable chats with Norman as well. If Norman was in a good mood, so were we. If he was harried, and a little frustrated, it affected our mood as well. Mostly, through any storm of the work place, he was calm and cheerful. His work area was kind of an oasis at times, and Norman could brew an amazing pot of tea for mid afternoon; and he wasn't adverse to sharing.
If there was any intimate, personal moment in recent history, for me, that I could do-over, it would be that occasion, of seeing Norman at the entrance of the grocery store, and not being able to talk, because of parental responsibilities. He died a short time later, and it was a crushing blow. Al Bonnell didn't last too much longer either. I know I would have fumbled with the words, to express my concern about his illness, and Norman would have brushed them off, as emotional trifle; instead reminding me that "life is short Ted, enjoy every moment." He would have ordered me inside, to take care of my kids, and that he would see me some day soon under less stressful conditions. I knew when I saw him, as a faint silhouette, walking back to Al's car in the parking lot, that he was going to die. I hadn't seen Norm much since he retired from The Herald-Gazette, except on occasions when he occupied his favorite bar stool at the Holiday House, owned at this point, by Sylvia and Arthur Richardson, two very kind and overly generous innkeepers. I read in the local media that Arthur passed away recently.
So my happiest memories, were seeing Al and Norman saddling up to the bar, after work, and Sylvia and Arthur in animated conversation, with those fine citizens, who in their own way, made Bracebridge a pretty neat place to live, work and socialize; Al with his well known dancing instruction, and leadership, during evening classes, and Norman with his editorial guidance, and publication experience.
There wouldn't be many people today, in Bracebridge, who would remember when Norman Tanner was the amicable clerk at The Herald-Gazette. Gosh, there would be few now, who even remember the old newspaper itself, and it's historic office space, at 27 Dominion Street, adjacent to the former fire station, and town hall. Whenever I drive by, the place where I used to spend my days at that old creaking and thudding Underwood, on a askew wooden desk, I ponder if Norman's ghost still hangs-out in the former area, behind the front counter, where I always expected to find him, on those bright and sparkling mornings, when I couldn't wait to get back to work; a time when I truly enjoyed being an editor of the local press, because it seemed so important and relevant to what I enjoyed most about living in Bracebridge.
I am haunted by a lot of memories, of folks who have been a part of my writing career, whether they have known it or not. Mentors who didn't know I was using them to fashion a career. Norman Tanner will always haunt me, but fondly so, and whenever I get lazy about proofreading, or working a little harder to write better, and more effectively for my audience, I will suddenly sense his hand on my shoulder, as if to remind me from the other side, that I am shirking responsibility, and that I should smarten up. There is not a lot of mentorship in the writing profession, that comes in such an amicable package, as was the case with Norm Tanner. Right up to the final punctuation, of the final sentence, on that final day of my writing career, Norm's goodwill and encouragement will be ingrained into my soul; finishing off my work with the proficiency and accuracy he instilled of his underlings. Much, much more than even I had imagined as a milestone achievement. My promise to Norman, and my subsequent request of God, in this matter, is that I be permitted to die, at the end of a sentence, not in the middle.
Norman Tanner was a man you would have liked. He was a teacher without portfolio.
Originally Published in The Great North Arrow
WHERE IS TOM THOMSON’S FINAL RESTING PLACE? CANOE LAKE, LEITH?
By Ted Currie
The mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, for most researchers, began with the "who done it!" Most Thomson researchers agree his tragic, unceremonious tumble into the depths of Canoe Lake, in July 1917, was an assisted event. He didn’t topple over the gunnel while having a mid-lake pee, as some contend, and there’s little to suggest he had suicidal intent. When I began my own research on the Thomson caper, back in the mid-1990's, Mowat Hotelier Shannon Fraser, had replaced cottager Martin Blecher Jr., as the prime suspect, in Thomson’s allegedly violent demise.
After reading most of the books and articles, about the circumstances surrounding his death, including the 1970 CBC documentary on the Algonquin cold case, I have focused my attention on the actions of those in attendance at Thomson’s Coroner’s Inquest, held at the Blecher family cottage. Without going into detail, because frankly it simply isn’t warranted, there were two aspects of the gathering that are troubling.
First of all, there had been no opportunity for the coroner to view Thomson’s body. It had already been buried. Despite what may have been considered a compassionate act, to bury the badly decomposing body, it was a substantial breach of protocol. The coroner had every right to demand the body be exhumed. As it turned out, the body was going to be raised soon after the inquest anyway, by family request, for reburial in the family plot, in Leith, Ontario. The serious questions that linger today, can be traced back to the fact the coroner had not examined the body for signs of foul play.
Second, those in attendance, from the Canoe Lake community, all who knew the painter, and his foibles, his excesses and willingness to scrap, outrightly refused to make their concerns known to the coroner, preferring instead to go along with the easy-fix theory, Thomson had simply drowned. I am convinced, from all the books I have read, on the subject, that he didn’t have many friends around that lake in 1917, contrary to popular opinion over the decades. Imagine yourself in that same situation, attending a coroner’s inquest, and knowing full well that Thomson had been in a scrap with at least one person, close to the time his body slipped into the depths of Canoe Lake. Even if you had only heard about the incident, wouldn’t it be logical, obligatory, to bring it to the coroner’s attention? There was a deafening silence you might say that has resonated to this day, as part of the stranger than strange circumstances, surrounding the artist’s death. There was most definitely a cover-up then and in evidence thereafter, which may explain why there are hundreds upon hundreds of conflicting details, and stories still in full vigor.
Blecher and Thomson had gotten into a fight, during a drunken get-together the night before, a number of people having heard the German-American cottager threaten the artist, to stay out of his way in the future. How could you not make some minor mention, for posterity’s sake, at the very least, about the fact there had been an incident worth knowing about? The coroner, did afterall, ask for these concerns, from those in attendance. Of course the coroner’s report, I understand, went missing. Yet it is accepted fact, that the coroner’s suspicions had not been raised beyond what initial medical (on-site) examination of the body had revealed. Accidental drowning seemed to fit the cursory examination, and the responses from the less-than-keen coroner’s inquest. Why were concerns not raised? They were raised once the inquest was complete, and the coroner was aboard a train headed home to North Bay. There were suspicions of murder, and that’s exactly what Thomson biographer, Blodwen Davies discovered from her 1930's interviews around the Canoe Lake community. Was the coroner being adversely influenced by political meddling, to close the book on the case before it got ugly? We’ll never know for sure!
Most at the coroner’s inquiry, that July night, knew Thomson had a love-interest on the lake, in Winnie Trainor, who may or may not have been pregnant at the time. There may have been pressure on Thomson to marry Winnie, and it is suspected Shannon Fraser knew about the situation, and may have even tried to strong-arm the painter to do the right thing. He was a long time acquaintance, of Winnie’s father, and may have believed he was helping a friend out of an embarrassing situation. Then there was money owing to Thomson from the hotelier, which also may have sparked the argument, leading to the dust-up, allegedly causing the artist to fall and hit his head on a fire grate. There are accounts, suggesting it was Fraser and his wife, who rowed the unconscious but not deceased Thomson, out onto the lake in darkness, with his dove-gray canoe in tow, to make his disappearance look as if it had been a simple case of misadventure.
Why all the suspicion after the coroner’s inquest? Books have been filled with innuendo and speculation ever-since. It is rumored that doubts about his accidental drowning were full blown gossip, only days after the coroner’s conclusion had been signed-off. Why was it that Thomson’s friends, "alleged" I think is better stated, decide to withhold evidence, like the fight witnessed between Blecher and Thomson, yet would go on to talk about it for years to come. Under the same circumstances, and being true friends of a caring nature, any one of us might have interrupted the proceedings, that night, to advise the coroner of some incidents, and suspicions, which could have led to the manifestation of foul play. But those intimates of Thomson, decided silence was infinitely better than drawing attention to other friends, work-mates, gathered in that cottage room.
The other most blatantly ridiculous situation, a carry-over of suspicions raised shortly after exhumation, from the Mowat Cemetery, his first graveyard accommodation (of two that are known), is the nagging problem of having one deceased artist, and two resting places for his bones. There is huge speculation whether or not, the undertaker in charge of the exhumation, actually removed Thomson for reburial. Or simply sent a dirt filled, soldered-shut, metal box instead. There are published accounts that Tom Thomson’s father asked that the exhumed metal casket be opened, so he could attest to the remains being those of his son. Then there are denials this ever happened. And then there was the sensational, headline-grabbing, 1950's unauthorized grave opening, at the Mowat Cemetery, when a group of eager-beaver Thomson bone-hunters found remains in a supposedly vacated plot.
While the Thomson mystery gains momentum, contrary to what some folks wish, most agree that there’s one all consuming issue. Moreso than the cause of Thomson’s demise, is the rather unfortunate "two-plot, one corpse" scenario. For those who believe it’s best left alone, they tend to be the same ones perpetuating the mystery in the first place. While it is understandable that an exhumation is a deeply upsetting event, it seems to me a lesser consideration than the reality the mystery will always have its theorists, researchers and sundry historians; who will doggedly perservere on the matter, in all degrees, until someone, at some time finally relents to the common sense of the matter. An exhumation will allow for a DNA examination, and will support, or put to rest, at least part of the Tom Thomson mystery.
Although we all respect the rights and privileges of the Thomson family, and their longstanding desire to avoid an exhumation at Leith, Ontario, where the artist is supposed to be, the bone of contention is an occupied grave in the tiny Mowat cemetery, where an exhumation, in part, was already conducted. Of what consequence would it be, if the family believes the artist’s body is properly in Leith, to having the Mowat skeletal remains, exhumed and given the full CSI treatment, which I have suggested before. Without disturbing even a spoonful of earth in Leith, an exhumation at the Mowat plot would allow this part of the mystery to be resolved. Is it Thomson or not? If it is ruled by science, not to be of the Thomson DNA, then we know our best known landscape artist is resting in peace..... in one place only!
Solving this mystery will not alter or diminish in any way, the respect Canada and Canadians have for the work of Tom Thomson. I have heard this weak argument, and I refuse to give it any legitimacy whatsoever. Thomson’s work is compelling with or without a mystery attached. There are some who feel we shouldn’t perpetuate the mystery, yet they are dead set against its resolution if there was such opportunity. If you were to ask a hundred Thomson art enthusiasts, scholars and historians, if they would support a DNA examination of bones found in Algonquin Park......in Thomson’s vacated grave, how many today would say "Why not?" Fifty out of a hundred? More or less? But the question moreso, is why would they care at all, because the artist was moved to Leith. Right? So attempting to find out who is buried there, shouldn’t really be a moral dilemma whatsoever. Of course, this is when we find out how deep the mystery is, when even Thomson intimates admit to being less than certain, just where their artist kin is buried.
If the matter of Thomson’s resting spot is ever resolved, and I believe it will be in the future, it could never detract from the influences we have celebrated, the result of Thomson’s creations.
"Thomson never fumbles. He orchestrates, with an imposing and decorative largeness, the rugged and sumptuous natural aspects that present themselves to his vision. His painting is strong, and without subterfuge, the painting of a man immensely concerned with the nature he depicts." The following observation was made by a French art critic, at an exposition in Paris in 1927. It was the regard Thomson was earning, independent of any mystery being attached, or any controversy about where he had been laid to rest following his 1917 death. By the time a full blown crisis was raised, to a wide audience in Canada, in the 1970's, Thomson was already a legend. His reputation didn’t need a mystery to propel him to acceptance, or full appreciation, as one of the country’s great national painters. Thomson had arrived quite on his own. This can never diminish, and it is short-sighted to believe that any truth revealed about the artist, could destroy what we have enshrined in our national character.
Today we are working wonders with forensic technology, from identifying those who perished on the Titanic, to understanding what killed the crewman of the failed Franklin expedition. Forensic advancements have helped us clarify and correct misinformation, held as truth for generations, and it is to our general improvement as a civilization, to embrace its full potential. It is not a tool for sensationalist profit but a way and means to set things right that have been wrongly attributed. It can only be a positive change in the Thomson mystery, to serve respectfully the artist’s own right to rest in peace, by finding out precisely where the artist is really buried. If it is in the Mowat Cemetery, then we need to erect a substantial national memorial marker, and make this important site a public place of visitation. Just as recognized today, as his plot in Leith, Ontario.
It seems to me a matter of national significance to solve this two grave, one artist dilemma
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