Naming of Bracebridge will have its 150th anniversary in August of this year

Original receipt from a Bracebridge businessman

From the original text of Thomas McMurray's book Muskoka and Parry Sound that once belonged to  Watt Township clerk John Shea and presented to me by my Mother in Law Harriet Stripp

SO WHAT DO WE HAVE IN COMMON WITH ICHABOD CRANE, THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN, AND SLEEPY HOLLOW?

RE-CONNECTING WITH A LITERARY, CULTURAL PROVENANCE, THAT HAS NEVER FULLY BEEN EXPLOITED

     Many of my readers will recognize the ramblings of an old, exhausted historian, mired down in the unknowns, still trying after all these years, to imprint a part of history, that for any number of reasons, like a carpet that curls up at the edges, won't lay flat. I keep tripping over the corners, and in my profession, this has to eventually have some resolution. These unfinished situations drive us nuts. Seeing as I'm wildly committed, to one day, seeing just "one" street, in the Town of Bracebridge, named after Washington Irving, or a name he used in any of his many books. I would be delighted to drive or stroll along "Ichabod Crane Lane," or come upon a subdivision neighborhood, with a welcome sign that reads, "Sleepy Hollow." It's not like Bracebridge isn't entitled. They have every right to lay some claim to the Washington Irving legacy. So forgive me for once again, in this year long tour of duty, as a regional historian, to attempt, just one more time, to sell the town and its residents on giving this provenance thing another go.
     Nineteen seventy-four. It was a memorable year. For me, it was a hair's breadth from being remarkable. I was part of John Rutherford's famous high school band, that had just returned from a playing tour in England, I had two girlfriends, and I mean that, and it looked like I was going to have the best marks in five years, by time my teacher tallied the final numbers. There was one major project to go, and my grades would hopefully, if all went well, entitle me to enroll at Toronto's York University. I had my heart set on earning a degree in Canadian history. Of course, if I had wanted a career that would earn lots of money, I made the wrong choice. As for contentment? Read on!
    I remember so vividly, that hot spring evening, sitting at one of the huge old tables, at the Bracebridge Public Library, smelling the alluring aroma of old books and printer's ink, looking for something, anything, to inspire me. I had a final essay to write, for that concluding semester, of my graduating year, at Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. I wanted to write something about the history of my home town, but I wasn't having much luck finding one landmark event, or milestone situation, to warrant the dedication of an entire essay; to build what was weighted by marks, as an important term-ending essay. This is when I found out, glancing through a couple of Bracebridge histories, that the town had been named after a book, written by American author, Washington Irving. At that time, I was more fascinated, admittedly, by the female classmates surrounding me at the table, to the general disadvantage of the Irving story. So for the record, it was an obsession with the opposite sex, that was the only obstacle to overcome, in order to fully engage in the complete story, about the naming of Bracebridge. My wife has gotten in the way many times, since, telling me to write about something else for a change. Before I write anything these days, I always run projects by Suzanne, my partner historian, to get her honest opinion. Possibly, like you, she thinks I write too much about Washington Irving. Maybe she's right. So I'll make this my last year. I promise. Now, for heaven's sake, I've got an anniversary to prepare for!
     Fact is, I didn't write an essay about the connection between Bracebridge, Ontario, to the Washington Irving book, "Bracebridge Hall." The essay I did write, was one of those dry, typical, fact on fact, unremarkable pieces, history teachers at that time, were thrilled to receive. I got a good grade but I hated writing the essay, and it did nothing for my appreciation of history. It came down to this reality: I got the job done. What did I learn from the experience? Not a bloody thing! What did I remember from the project? The company of those gal pals, and oh yes, the Washington Irving reference. Without suspecting I had become smitten with the Irving story, I carried on in both writing and history, and visiting the Bracebridge Public Library. Coincidence or divine intervention? Who knows? But like the story, "A Field Of Dreams," I had to follow my instincts, and "build it," whether anyone cared or not! I felt compelled to follow the trail of Washington Irving coincidences, I kept running into; until it finally, one day, dawned on me, to pull all the bits and pieces garnered, thus far, into at least, a roughly hewn story preamble. Then I'd be able to look at it sensibly, to determine whether it could fly with a little help, or would never get off the ground.
     Strange as this may seem, that historical notation, found in a number of local history books, stuck with me for more than twenty-five years. I'd wander into the library, in later years, to see if I could find something to write about, as a feature article, for the very next issue of The Bracebridge Herald-Gazette, of which I was the new editor. I would spend hours looking through the books contained in the library's fabulously appointed, Muskoka collection, and over the years with Muskoka Publications, I can rightfully credit the Bracebridge Public Library, for helping me come up with hundreds of feature stories, which extended to editorial copy for all our sister publications, including "The Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon," "The Muskoka Sun," and "The Muskoka Advance." Through most of the 1990's, I used the Library's Muskoka Collection weekly, and in fact, wrote quite a number of "Bracebridge Sketches," for The Muskoka Advance, working from a tiny chair, and a small table in the children's section, on the first floor. For two years, in the early stages, developing the heritage theme of my weekly column, which was my first foray at uncovering the social history of our town, I was as familiar hunkered down over the kid's library tables, as I was at our antique shop, a block north on Manitoba Street. With the exception of July and August, I wouldn't open the shop until noon, and this gave me a couple of hours each morning, to research and write my columns. Why the Children's Library? At the time, I was looking after wee son Robert, and he was in the afternoon kindergarten class, at Bracebridge Public School. He played while I wrote. It worked out pretty well. I always found the library a comfortable, inspiring place from which to work, and even being surrounded by kids at play, was part of the pleasurable mix those days. I think all the happy goings-on, the chit-chat, questions, and laughter, made it into the editorial copy, in some way or other, just as it should have; for what I had intended to be a social exercise of recording, and then re-animating history. Those were some of the most pleasant hours spent with son Robert, now owner of his own music business in South Muskoka.
     Many times, by happenstance, I'd once again, come upon the reference to Washington Irving, and I'd make a plan to re-visit the story when I had some extra time. I knew by its significance to town and writer, that it was a project more deserving attention, than what I was writing in my weekly columns for the local press. It was going to take a lot of research, and quite a commitment to extend the scope of the story past the municipality, to merge with the biography of Washington Irving himself. In the late nineteen nineties, I found the perfect opportunity to investigate the story, and extend the depth and breadth of the connection, to benefit the community. There was nothing particularly profitable about the story, and even though an eventual book was written on the subject, in the summer of 2000, it was, at best, only a break-even venture. But what started out as a hunch, about a good story-in-waiting, initially investigated as a topic for a high school essay, had over many years of chance encounters, become one of the most engaging stories I had ever worked on. And that was, to me, remarkable in itself. I will spend weeks researching a story, write it up, publish it, and then move on to the next project. No ties. No emotional strings. I'm done, when I'm done, sort of thing. With Irving and the Town of Bracebridge, I have never once tired of re-visiting the story, and adding to it, when new information has, for whatever reason, suddenly become available.
     It's not my intention to re-publish all that I've written about Washington Irving, as readers are welcome to archive back in this blog, to read a number of columns dedicated to this interesting aspect of local history, which began in 1864, when Federal Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur, opted for the name "Bracebridge," versus, "North Falls," which had been the named decided upon, by the residents of the river-side hamlet, when applying for postal status. If there's any shortfall in this story, it's trying to figure out why Dr. LeSueur, a revered future Canadian historian, and literary critic of international reputation, wouldn't have left some information, about why he selected a book by an American author, (during the strife of the Civil War, south of the border), to afford our hamlet its official title. He did the same with Gravenhurst, two years earlier, in August 1862, when he refused to name their new post office, "McCabe's Bay," preferring instead, the title of a book, written by British Poet, Philosopher, William Henry Smith. LeSueur was bestowing a literary honor to both communities, but he was vague about the reasons. It is known of LeSueur, that he had a high standard, when recommending books, (he was a respected literary critic), so it is expected, the citizens of both hamlets would eventually come to realize the significance of this name selection. It was recognized but not really appreciated or in any way celebrated. This bothered me more than anything else. Why not?
     I remember communicating with Washington Irving historical and literary authorities, in the United States, particularly the curatorial staff at historic Sunnyside (Irving's restored home), and fully anticipating, that once the story was published, a relationship would be formed, soon after, between all those communities with some shared literary connection to Irving; including New York State's Historic Hudson River Valley, and our town, here in South Muskoka. The first time the story was published, it was printed as a series of ten columns, printed by the Bracebridge Examiner. What I received, following this, were less than pleasant phone calls, and a number of personal confrontations, about the fact, if you can believe this, Dr. LeSueur had no right, in 1864, to refuse the name selected by the people of the community. Truth is, there is no record how many people, of that fledgling hamlet, actually voted in favor of "North Falls." The account of this could have been written up by Bracebridge's first historian, Thomas McMurray, (portrait republished above today's blog) but there is no mention, in his early 1870's book, on Muskoka and Parry Sound. Methinks he knew, but decided to avoid what may have been the first controversy in community history.
      I was told, in no uncertain terms, that the name "North Falls," would have been a better title for the new post office. I was informed additionally, that the name "North Falls," had been preserved for long and long, by a number of local businessmen, who felt it was just as much a part of our legacy, as what LeSueur afforded the town, in the way of a borrowed name from American literature.
     I was stunned by the comments. I was a little discouraged but decided to more fully explain the actions of Dr. LeSueur, and the truly remarkable good nature, of Washington Irving, and what "Bracebridge Hall," was all about in the first place. The fact that it is a book, examining the great worth of preserving english traditions, and being reverent to the so called "old ways," and not very American in character whatsoever, was worth presenting in book form. But alas, it wasn't enough to convince the core of town governance, and its enablers, to get past the "North Falls," protocol issue, to truly celebrate what can only be considered a golden provenance; with one of the most famous writers to have ever lived. The Town of Bracebridge, was rightfully able to capitalize on this relationship, with the author who wrote well known stories, such as "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and "Rip Van Winkle." When I tried to meet with Town Council to discuss developing the Irving recognition, I was brushed-off to put it kindly. There was no interest anywhere. When we launched the book, it was as if we had violated some unwritten historical rule, and in large part, the only people to buy it, were out-of-towners, who thought it was kind of neat to possess this literary connection.
     Instead of being a successful venture, and watching the town embrace its rightful legacy, and entitlement to the great Irving stories, it became the opposite. In fact, it was the subject I presented, to a gathering of folks, attending one of the lecture series, held at the Muskoka Lakes Museum, in Port Carling. I would have liked to have entitled the lecture, "Washington Irving Celebrations Held in Bracebridge," but I offered up the exact opposite. "How I Failed as an Historian." While that was in the early years of 2000, and I'm pretty sure I would re-write my presentation, if I had to give it again, it has really never been elevated beyond what I read in those history books, back in the spring of 1974, for the first time. I may never truly understand, why this amazing and dynamic provenance has, and continues to be ignored, and as God is my witness, I can not believe it still rests on that decision by William Dawson LeSueur to reject "North Falls," one hundred and fifty years ago this coming August.
     That's right. This year, we will quietly recognize, in heritage circles, that it was one hundred and fifty years ago, Dr. LeSueur bestowed a literary provenance on an unsuspecting town. Might one expect that Bracebridge Council will officially declare a ceremonial, "Washington Irving Day," which would finally resolve this "North Falls" debacle once and for all; and let the business community, and residents, exploit what belongs to them, and yes, it's a name that carries a lot of weight internationally. Well, to answer my own question, like Gravenhurst, on the 150th anniversary of the naming of their town, after the brilliant literary work of William Henry Smith, nothing at all is likely to be said, done, or acknowledged. What perplexes me about this, is that they have no interest in exploiting what belongs to them, by name association, (either town), yet they always seem to be questing for community-branding opportunities, and inventing strategies, in order to help them stand-out in a highly competitive business and investment
environment; still they refuse, and outrightly so, to investigate the potential of what is historically imbedded; having been that way now for a century and a half. That's a long time to hold a grudge against the good Dr. LeSueur, who was actually awarding the hamlet a cultural gem, on a silver platter, in the form of a borrowed name. Seems such a shame to waste amazing provenance, and a chance to acknowledge a significant anniversary. I suppose if it was recognized, it might be called instead, "North Falls, What Should Have Been." Forgive my jest.
      As I did in Gravenhurst, for William Henry Smith, and his book "Gravenhurst," I intend to write a special series of blogs, to highlight and commemorate this historic occasion, in August, when a kindly postal authority, one hundred and fifty years earlier, thought he was doing something great, for a fledgling community, only to find out, he had slighted the hamlet officials instead. I have no plan to request the town acknowledge the good Mr. Irving, or Dr. LeSueur, or fund any recognition, as I have been down that road before. If on the other hand, the business community, or even select businesses wish to know more, I am only an email away. But I wish to invite all readers, to this little low-key anniversary celebration, and although I can't offer you a special anniversary cake, or even some of Suzanne's homemade cookies, (she bakes for guests of our shop on Saturdays) there is no charge to attend my modest online special event.
     Washington Irving was a lover of tradition. He was fascinated by the cultural attributes of old country manor houses, in the English countryside, and their conservation through the ages. It's what the book "Bracebridge Hall" is all about. Irving had a delightful, charming way, of portraying his characters; and even those of lesser qualities, and dubious backgrounds, were all enchanting in their own way, much like the characterization of Ichabod Crane, and his pursuer, the Headless Horseman, of Sleepy Hollow. My mother Merle, on the first motor trip over the famous Silver Bridge, over the cataract of Bracebridge Falls, remarked about her new home town, as being a picturesque little "Sleepy Hollow." At the time, she knew who Irving was, as she had read his work many times in school, but had no idea of the provenance then, between author, and the name "Bracebridge." We arrived, in the late winter of 1966, unsure whether we would stay here, or move on to another community, up or down the road. We stayed. My mother, God rest her soul, had a chance to read my finished manuscript, in early 2000, recognizing finally, how providential it had been, back then, to have called our new home town, "Sleepy Hollow." By the way, the first reference to "Bracebridge," by Washington Irving occurs in the 1919 release of Irving's "Sketch Book," narrated by his character-traveller Geoffrey Crayon, Esq., and is a recollection of the author's own earlier stay in England, a guest of writer, Sir Walter Scott, at his manor house, Abbotsford. Irving carries the theme of old England and its traditions, in his second book, "Bracebridge Hall," circa 1822, also narrated by Mr. Crayon.
     It was once quoted of revered writer, Charles Dickens, that he had once confessed to a confidant, that he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of Washington Irving to satisfy his reading interests.
     Sure seems an author we should really get to know!

FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES

THE EYES OF ECKLEBURG - THE CLOCK FACES THAT MARKED OUR HISTORY - A MARRIAGE, BIRTHS, DEATHS, THE MORTAL COIL OF EXPERIENCES

I WILL NEVER FORGET THE STREETSCAPE OF MY OLD HOMETOWN, AS IT APPEARED ON THOSE COLD AND SNOWY DAYS OF CHRISTMASES PAST. COMING OVER THAT RISE OF HUNT'S HILL, LOOKING DOWN INTO THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK RIBBON OF MUSKOKA RIVER, THE LARGE ILLUMINATED FACES OF THE CLOCK TOWER, ALWAYS MARKED MY TIME IN THAT COMMUNITY. THE FRIENDLY GLOWING FACES OF THE TOWER ON THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING, ON WHAT WAS IN MY DAY, THE CORNER OF MANITOBA AND THOMAS STREETS…..THE VERY CENTRE OF BRACEBRIDGE'S TRADITIONAL DOWNTOWN.

THE SOFTLY LIT DIALS ATTRACTED MY ATTENTION AT SO MANY POIGNANTLY IMPORTANT TIMES IN MY YOUNG LIFE….MY LIFE AS A PARENT…..AND THEN AS A SENTIMENTAL OLD FART…..LOSING PARENTS. WITHOUT ONCE HAVING TO CONSULT ANOTHER HISTORIAN, OR WRITER-KIND ABOUT THE NUANCES OF SMALL TOWN LIFE AND TIMES, I NAMED THESE CLOCK FACES, THE "EYES OF ECKLEBURG," FROM THE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD NOVEL, "THE GREAT GATSBY." IN THE NOVEL, THE "EYES OF ECKLEBURG" ARE COMPOSED INTO A BILLBOARD ADVERTISEMENT, FOR AN EYE SPECIALIST, I BELIEVE. THE EYES ON THAT BRICK TOWER FOLLOWED ME EVERYWHERE. THERE WERE NO SECRETS, AND I WAS RELIEVED OF EVER TRYING TO DENY HEARTBREAK OR LOVE-SICKNESS IN THEIR MIDST. THEY PENETRATED MY SOUL WHEN I LIED TO MYSELF, THAT I WAS HEALED WHEN I WAS STILL HURTING, LOST, DEPRESSED OR ANXIOUS. AND THERE WAS COMPASSION IN THOSE EYES, NEVER JUDGMENTAL, OR COLDLY IMPOSING; BUT RATHER UNDERSTANDING….AS IF I COULD TALK TO THEM, AND I WOULD BE UNDERSTOOD WITHOUT REQUIRING A RESPONSE…..TO MOVE ON THROUGH THE SNOWY ARTERY TOWARD HOME.

I LIVED A BLOCK OVER THE HUNT'S HILL "HUMP" YOU MIGHT SAY, UP ON ALICE STREET…..THE THREE FLOOR APARTMENT OF WORKING STIFFS, NINE TO FIVERS, WHO LIVED CONTENTLY CHEQUE TO CHEQUE. IT WAS A WORKING CLASS STREET OF OLDER HOMES OF MODEST PROPORTION, SMALL GARDENS AND TINY OUTBUILDINGS PLEASANTLY CLUTTERED BY WHEELBARROWS AND RAKES, AN ARRAY OF SNOW SHOVELS AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, AND NEATLY PLOWED LANES TO INSUL-BRICKED ONE-CAR GARAGES. IT WAS AN UNCOMPLICATED NEIGHBORHOOD WITH MODEST WANTS AND NO ONE CARED TO COMPARE HOLDINGS, TO SEE WHICH FAMILY HAD MORE POSSESSIONS THAN THE OTHER.

Every day to school and back, I was in the shadow, of that clock tower. It became my guardian, whether I chose it or not. When I went to play down at the railway station, I could check the time, my mother knowing then I had no excuse to be late for dinner. If I walked a girlfriend home along the tracks, the clock face was at my back. Coming home, in the dark, it was the guide above the rails, watching my progress…..those familiar dials that I took for granted, but recollected constantly…..just as I knew my times by the sound of the train horn off in the distance…..the schedule I used to read off the station chalkboard. I'd look up at those dials, much as a railway-man would yank on the watch fob, to pop the case of his timepiece……and squint to read the hour, and judge the distance of the train horn in the distance.

Over the decades, I marked occasions, by looking up at one of four sides, of the landmark tower, to confirm the time of day, recording with copious mental notes, the prevailing weather conditions. I don't know why it was important, but it was! I can tell you it was snowing just before Christmas when a teenage girlfriend had just given me the heave-ho, and I was shattered. I remember the bitter cold days after this, that I used to walk the same route, hoping that she'd be doing the same thing, and we could mend broken fences. As with many other girlfriends, of that vintage, I found myself out of habit, looking up at the dials, during the day, or the evening, or the very early morning, after closing the local pubs, and being a wee bit tipsy. After Suzanne and I were officially engaged, I made a point of walking her by that brick tower, and looking up into the spring sky, and marking it as the happiest day ever.

When both my sons were born, I left the hospital each time, and drove by that monument of small town ambition quite on purpose, you see…….as we, the clock tower and I, had made a spiritual pact. On each occasion, I said a prayer of thanks for their safe delivery, and a wish that their little lives would be as happy and healthy as mine…..and that we would be a contented family. On every occasion in our family, dating back to the mid 1960's, when my mother and father pulled onto that mainstream for the first time, in a jalopy that fell apart soon after, this place was our sleepy hollow. (The town was actually named after the author of the story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," Washington Irving. When Suzanne's parents passed on, I remember, so clearly, the frantic runs to the hospital, and before getting there, taking a glance at the Eyes of Eckleburg, looking for compassion and wisdom, to deal with this crisis. When my own parents passed away, I embraced the soft, timely glow, the same way, and they seemed to well-up as did my own……as we had all been companions, you see, through so much together……but nothing that the historian would care to know, document in those grand tomes on the library shelves; or that the painter would find intriguing to depict. These were private moments, of a glance or two, in passing, and the pondering of this mortal, just how much these Eyes of Eckleburg had seen since the early part of the century. The joy and celebrations, the anxious years of war and Depression, marches of soldiers, the funeral processions, and the wedding motorcades than honked and honked and honked. The Christmas Parades that brought Santa to town.

I never travel to Bracebridge, that I don't look up at those affectionate eyes, that remind me of the times of my life…..and all those around me. I see in those cheerfully illuminated clock dials, the deep reflections of so many friends and neighbors who passed this way in life, and despite the sadness, these eyes may remind the voyeur, standing on that crest of Hunt's Hill, there is still very much the compassion and friendship of the hometown, I knew as a child. In the blowing snow it still manages to strike my heart on the hour, and I half expect to hear my mother's voice, calling out through the storm……to come home, Teddy, it's Christmas Eve.