SO WHY DID I DO IT? WHY DID IT SEEM SO IMPORTANT? WILL THE CITIZENS OF BRACEBRIDGE EVER CARE ABOUT THE PROVENANCE OF A NAME?
I FOUND MY HANDWRITTEN NOTES, AND THEY EXPLAIN, SOMEWHAT, A OBSESSION TO FINISH A CHAPTER THAT HAD NEVER BEEN PROPERLY CONCLUDED!
First of all, if there is any continuity issue, with today's blog, I can explain the reasons why! I was interrupted in the middle of today's blog, but happily so, by one of those strange current events of the antique trade, that happen weekly, but each, on their own merits, odd enough, to be included in the business history, as a wee bit of a milestone. So we dropped everything to visit a gentleman's car, stuffed with curiosities, and then some. Andrew attended the vehicle, out front, and saw at least one item, beyond the piles of boxed 78 rpm records, that interested him. It was an early electrified magic lantern, for glass slides, and as soon as he saw it, he asked its origin. The rest of the items weren't all that great, at least for us, but that lantern was a keeper. The only deal the man would make, for the lantern, had to include two full, to overflowing boxes, of vintage, pre 1970 Playboy Magazines. Andrew came into show me the lantern, and confessed, "Dad, in order to get this magic lantern, I had to do something I'm not very proud of; so please don't get mad at me before I have a chance to explain," Andrew said, out of breath, apparently from the unloading exercise and the weight of conscience. "They're in two big boxes, that I have to get out of the hall right now, before someone starts digging into them."
So in he came, a minute later, with a huge carton of something. Then he retreated and came back with another, filled right to the top, with something that apparently required additional softening of father. "I had to accept them, or the guy wouldn't make the deal for the lantern," he mumbled, with hands on his knees, bent over to regain his breath. Well, in this business, the mind wanders on occasions like this, so I was imagining all kinds of interesting items within. There is a scene just like this, in the movie, "A Christmas Carol," where Old Joe, welcomes Scrooge's undertaker, and maids, into his musty old second hand shop, as they were there to sell items they had scoffed from the estate. I must have looked just like Old Joe, straining to look over the table, at what was below those folded box flaps. "There are hundreds of old Playboy Magazines," he said, opening up both boxes. "You don't have to show me," I answered, fearing he was going to open up the ones on top, to show me what they're all about. I never admitted I may, in my youth, have snuck a peek once or twice, at Playboys, slotted on a shop rack. "I never bought one of those in my life," I said, which is the truth. I couldn't afford them.
Now this "take it or leave it thing," happens more than you might think, in our trade, and I can't really explain why. Dealers in old stuff have to make value judgements all the time, and as vintage Playboys are very collectable, and have quite a following, Andrew knew that with one phone call, both boxes would be passed off to a friend, who of course, appreciates these books "for the articles." Where have you heard that lie before? I told Andrew the story of Dave Brown, our book collector friend, who also had one of these situations, and had told me how hard they were to get rid of, especially once they were in your shed. He tried to give them away, and even to shops he thought would like them for free, as vintage inventory. No luck. Dave didn't want to be caught at the recycling depot either, because he knew every one who worked there, and he was aware of the security cameras mounted in the yard. Dave was an outdoor education teacher, and was nervous about the association with these Playboy issues. He had bought them in a job lot of books at an auction, and had never looked inside the boxes, before he made the purchase. Dave would often buy fifty to a hundred boxes of books, from estates, so anything could happen with contents. He was still trying to figure out a plan to get these books disposed of, when he got sick and was hospitalized.
So here's how this stuff comes back to haunt you. When my other collector associate, Hugh Macmillan, was writing his biography, "Adventures of a Paper Sleuth," he included a couple of paragraphs, in a chapter dealing with book collectors he had known. In his description of Dave's obsessive need for books, he also included, the fact his estate executors, had found this large collection of pornography, amidst his thousands of books, of Canadiana, and natural histories. I had talked to Hugh before the book was published, and I tried to explain why Dave had those boxes of Playboys. Obviously, Hugh didn't buy my argument, which as far as it goes, was the truth and nothing but. So for Dave, having been so worried about the disposal of those magazines, and how it would look if a teacher was found with this enormous stash, it actually wound up being included in a popular Canadian biography. Just not in the one I wrote about Dave. Which begs the question, why I sanitized the issue but Hugh didn't.
This is what I reminded Andrew about. "The Dave Brown story." Get rid of them fast. Which is exactly what happened, thank goodness. But in the meantime, it has caused a stir around here, and in the middle of the din, and back and forth traffic, I was able to clean the magic lantern inside and out. It's what is most engaging about the antique profession, but it has its unsettling moments. I half expect, one day, someone will walk in here, toting an Egyptian mummy, or the skull of a dinosaur.
THE POINT OF ORIGIN, OF HOW I ADVANCED WITH THE WASHINGTON IRVING STORY
My original notes were badly handwritten, and hard to read. I wrote them about fifteen years ago, at a time, when I began losing some control of my thumbs. They have been the victims of excessive handwriting and typing, plus it didn't help, that I used to take slapshots off them, when I played goal in hockey. Over years of writing long and hard, (sometimes imprinting right through note pads, onto the table-top), my thumbs were always sore, and it became almost impossible to hold a pen, let alone write that way. This was the period when I was still refusing to own or use a computer keyboard. I would write the notes by hand, and then transcribe them, working on a manual typewriter, until they eventually broke down like my thumbs, and I couldn't buy the ribbons I needed. Suzanne helped me typeset the scribbled notes, for inclusion in the book I was preparing, about the naming of Bracebridge, (in the year 1864, at the granting of the hamlet's post office).
But these handwritten notes were certainly my honest overview, of why I had bothered, in the first place, with a project that, for all intents and purposes, was wasted, as far as either gaining respect, or even modest appreciation from the Town of Bracebridge, for infilling a story, that had for decades, languished without a conclusion. When I thought my peers, might wish to compliment the result, of several years research, there was only polite acceptance, beyond the questioning, as to why I had done the project in the anyway. After the original multi-part series, was published in consecutive issues of the Bracebridge Examiner, in the late 1990's, I was stunned to hear some of the comments, from people I thought were more insightful; and when Suzanne and I hosted a special open house, prior to Christmas, 2000, at the Bracebridge United Church, with an extensive display of Washington Irving books and illustrations, honestly, we weren't terribly surprised, that only twelve people came, and two of them arrived to buy several copies of my other books, we had for sale. We were discouraged initially, but what we found out, over time, was that there was a strange but deliberate resistance to this aspect of town history; and we had brought forward something we shouldn't have, and of this, I had an early warning, about its imminent failure. Of course, to me, anything or anyone that runs in opposition to a heritage project, that has clearly defined merits, actually makes me more determined to hustle up the supporting evidence. This is exactly what I did, but the warning wasn't without its merit. It has dogged the project for a decade and a half. I'm still not about to give up on something, that one day, will be of considerable importance, to the town with shared provenance of name and literature.
As strange as it is, the only congratulations Suzanne, and I received, for publishing the book, and the ongoing promotion of what we believed, was a great new heritage connection, for Bracebridge, came on day, when we looked out the front window of our Gravenhurst house, and spotted a chap dressed in Civil War attire, from the Confederate side, standing beside our car, with his horse. No, we weren't hallucinating. It was just one of those karma moments, of which historians have regularly, where "strange" becomes just becomes a brighter shade of normal. It was well known Gravenhurst historian, Tom Brooks, a Civil War re-enactor, who lived the part of a Confederate soldier, beyond the battlefields, into every day life. He had arrived in our lane, after a cross-town jaunt on horseback, to buy one of the Washington Irving books from us, hot off the press. Tom was an exceptionally talented historian of the Civil War, with a particular expertise, in identifying British subjects, Canadians, who fought in the American Civil War, and had written a book on a Louisiana Battalion, of which he was connected as a re-enactor. Point here? He loved what we had done, to cement this important heritage, between Bracebridge and Washington Irving. Coming from this accomplished, and doggedly determined historian, was a huge compliment, and by itself, justification for spending two years working on the research. I refused to sell him the book. We exchanged it for his signature, on our copy of the video collection, "Gettysburg," of which the good Mr. Brooks had been filmed in the famous battle. "I was actually killed twice in one battle," he laughed. "That's Hollywood for you," he quipped. It's true, if you watch the movie. We still have our autographed copy of the video on display in our archives, and I will never forget the kind words he extended us, at a time when we couldn't get a single positive comment, from any one in Bracebridge, to justify the work and expense putting the book together.
So finding these handwritten notes, re-introduced me, to just how sincere I had been, having dedicated so much time to William Dawson LeSueur, and the wonderfully talented, Washington Irving, and my old home town. On the cusp of the 150th anniversary of the official naming of the town, after the book, "Bracebridge Hall," I sat down again to read through the stapled notes I'd written, with what I believe, was an honest appraisal of its worth, before the public had its first opportunity to ignore it. Here now are a few of those penned notes, that now seem so profound and important, as justification for the effort I have thought recently, was a waste of time. Maybe not. See what you think.
WASHINGTON IRVING AND BRACEBRIDGE
One of the fascinating aspects of Washington Irving's work, is his compelling and fantastic characterizations. He becomes an observational historian, recording what he witnessed and experienced abroad, over his time spent making friends and associations with innkeeps, and learning more about old english traditions. Irving was fascinated by these cultural traditions, and was critical of the newly independent America, for turning away from its own ancestry. Just because of the war against British rule, and the end result, he felt it was irresponsible, to also distance from family ancestry. So he was also mindful, that it was important for a writer like himself, to maintain this aging lore in his stories, before it was forgotten entirely.
But what first attracted me to Irving's work, was of course, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," from the timeless good nature of "The Sketch Book." Especially the characterization of "Ichabod Crane," the pompous, opportunist, cowardly pedagogue, (teacher) who eventually meets up with the "headless horseman." Fare thee well Mr. Crane, who was never seen after the fateful encounter. And many of Irving's characters are equally well developed and described, such that after awhile, we might swear that we have ourselves, at the hand of a great writer, become Irving's traveller, narrator, Geoffrey Crayon, gentleman; the international gad-about, who rambles-on, with great animation, about his experiences travelling in the English countryside. Many of the school children, from earlier this century, were brought up through the primary grades reading about the exploits of Mr. Crayon, the traveller, and Rip Van Winkle, having his long, long nap, and then Mr. Crane, with his desperate horse race from the "headless horseman." Not to mention the later dealings, while in England, with the venerable captain of the English estate, Squire Bracebridge and his family at the great estate of "Bracebridge Hall"; and Dolph Heyliger and the phantom vessel on the Hudson River. All delicious stories penned by an author revered by even Charles Dickens, who admitted he often "retired to bedlam," with a copy of his book under his arm. He provided us with memorable situations and legendary characters, that we have read aloud to our our children and grandchildren so many times these past decades.
And as I compose this companion essay, in front of me on the dusty old bookshelf, with a decided lean to my left, I can easily reach most of the Irving classics, in a variety of bindings and edition dates, without having to get up from my chair. Some are illustrated, a few are not, and a couple were re-published in children's texts, which are all marvelously illustrated. I always have them near by, for my winter reading (which I adore to spend huddled by this brick hearth), and as the fire crackles merrily away, the classic tales never disappoint my yearning for antiquities and tradition.
You see, long before I began writing this paper, on Mr. Irving, and his connection with the name Bracebridge, Ontario, my former hometown, I had collected quite a number of his books for my fireside sojourns. I have on occasion of reckless abandon, read aloud to my family members, for the sheer fun of re-telling a marvelous and enchanting tale. At Hallowe'en, it was always "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," but never any of the re-written, or abridged versions. It was from Irving's hand, in his words, or nothing.
I had reason, one day, before commencing this text, (April 2000), to spend time in a downtown shop, on Manitoba Street, awaiting some photographic work to be completed. I stood out front for awhile, as my wife chatted with the shop clerk. I was only there a short time, but in thinking about my hometown, and the work of Washington Irving, and parallels if any, more than just sharing the name "Bracebridge," I concluded with one critical observation, of the work, I hadn't previously considered. One of the inherent difficulties of being an historian, by standard and accepted protocol, is the achieved or perceived balance between historical fact and witnessed actuality. Particularly as it relates to the mood of the citizenry, at significant times through history. Obviously, for the historian, having to use the accounts of other people, including newspaper reports, it's almost impossible to appreciate the dire or festive mood, of the community, during these historic, and milestone events. There is good fortune, if the researcher has personal journals, diaries and letters, to work from, explaining some of this in-person actuality, that would be missed otherwise.
Many local histories completed across Canada, are exceptionally accurate, and worthy resources for researchers. The general failing, on the other hand, is that they've been designed, and composed, based almost entirely on the realities of history, not the emotions that, we, as a population, have shared and exhibited in and around, and through, these same events; such as war, economic Depression, celebration, accomplishment, and terrible bouts with tragedy. What was it like to have a family stricken by the great influenza epidemic, following the end of the First World War? How did those residents feel, when they heard the sound of the horse hooves on the roadway, after midnight, pulling the wagons that were dispatched to cart away the deceased, killed by those loathsome epidemics, for quick burial without any onlookers, for fear of the spread of the disease? So while these books are accurate and trustworthy resources, they traditionally fail to address what the people were feeling, and thinking, during periods of drastic turns of fate, anxiety, upheaval and crisis. This, of course, is difficult to do properly, so that nothing is lost in translation. It is not so easy to capture emotion in print, in what are basic and fundamental histories of pioneer times, forward through the decades. These details are just as important to the history of the subject community, and always useful to contemporary researchers, attempting to reconstruct how our descendants handled these difficult times emotionally; as well as by action and accountable reaction. What was it like for family members, and curious citizens, when rough boxes arrived at the Bracebridge Train Station, carrying the bodies of those loved ones, killed in the battles of the First, and Second World Wars. What was it like to be standing with others, on that platform, for those occasions of great mourning? I want to know this. How were those injured soldiers greeted on the platform, and what occurred there when the war was finally concluded, and returning soldiers reunited with their families. It's important heritage, but on so many occasions, this was left out of published histories.
During the period I stood out on Manitoba Street, that spring afternoon, I saw the interaction of hundreds of citizens, some local, who I recognized, and some early season tourists, enjoying the daily fare in Downtown Bracebridge. Some passed in cars, and waved back at me, or at least in my general direction; some folks were strolling in groups, emerging from shops with bags containing their purchases, and others conversing with friends, in small pockets, up and down the street. It was a busy afternoon. I watched as one driver gave another a "wave of the fist," for allegedly cutting him off at the intersection, with Thomas Street (what it was known as then), and another motorist honked at the lady pushing a baby buggy, just to my left. I heard an argument break-out between a young couple, both holding the hands of their young daughter, and there was a pushing match between several high school students, with a resulting tumble of text books onto the side walk. All in fun of course. I listened, as it was a pleasant choice, to an elderly gentleman's whistling, as he walked past me, north to south, and then the political debate between two suited chaps, walking and stopping, to make their respective points. There was friendly honking between passing motorists, and oncoming pedestrians, and then there was the angry, highly animated chatter, between a mother and her daughter, about tantrums, and how inappropriate they are, when they occur in the middle of a store. I watched as a jilted lover was consoled by his mate, who was busy telling him, "how many other fish there were in the sea," and to not despair. A shopkeeper came out to sweep the walk in front of her store, and another proprietor, with a wrapped provision, from the restaurant down the street, stopped to talk about the day's business, of lack there of. A window cleaner worked away on store-front glass, and a passing kid, put his handprint on the still wet surface. I heard the chime of the hour, from the brick tower, of the old federal building, at the intersection, resounding beautifully through the daily din, as if a ribbon, neatly wrapped around a parcel. The illuminated dials of that clock tower, kept me on time, throughout my childhood, when I didn't have a watch of my own, and had to stick to my mother's lunch and dinner regimen.
All the interesting actuality around me, meant something other than just the typical tick-tock of a small town. The interactions were curiously appointed with small town character, and the bits of conversation, and colorful attire, blended together as a sort of abstract painting; folkish and naive, but perfect in its imprinted history. It left its mark, as it always had, you see, on this voyeur. It wasn't interesting enough, to be included in the accounting of a more formal written history, yet it was history unfolding of "everyday life." It was what Washington Irving observed, on his many trips abroad, including, to Canada, where he was fascinated by the early days and commerce of the fur trade.
I watched a social history unfold, that no one else, that day, took interest in memorizing. All the changing scenes, and personalities, that occurred in that fifteen to twenty minutes, standing out front of that business, being intimately connected, in that social mosaic of neighborhood relations and commerce; which at times, seemed more like fiction than fact; as if the artist was painting a picture of the life and times of a fictional town, and I was more ghost than actuality. The scene, the work of an over-active imagination. But yet it was real. Real enough for me to reach out, and shake the hand of a passerby, or put my handprint on that still-wet window, as the cleaner looked with disgust. All very real. But here I was, without even thinking about it, making my observances, and then interpreting it, as if it was necessary to do so. Some times the historian goes too far.
As Washington Irving observed life in rural England, through the eyes of his character, the good Mr. Crayon, we must also recognize, that commonplace is just as deserving of inclusion, as the events that appear, more forcefully, to impose changes in our communities. What I had witnessed, and heard, while standing out on Manitoba Street, was nothing more than what has occurred on this same stretch or roadway, since the 1860's. All of course, in perspective of the time period. Still, all that occurred within the interaction of the citizenry, for all those years, is the reason we have a town bustling here, at this very moment. And although we only have room in our history books for the most relevant, important details, of these same years, we must never discount the social, cultural, emotional commonplace, that has characterized the hometown, from those first cabins, bunched above the cataract of the North Falls. It is the texture, hue and binding, that quilts us together, good times and bad, villains and heroes, lovers and sinners, the faithful and unfaithful amongst us. It is all here, but how many of us, outside of a happenstance photograph, recognize how it is measured in all of us, as having been a part of this subtle side of the winding-up chronicle, of say, the old town clock.
Before the text of the book was completed, I returned to where it had all begun. I sat on a creaking wooden chair, by the tall window, overlooking the main street, with my arms stretched out on a long table, in the bosom of Bracebridge Public Library; the place where I had first read about this historic, literary link, between our town, and an ancient manor house in the English countryside. As I remember then, in the late 1960's, looking out the window, as the buildings and streetscape were being dusted with a gentle fall of snow; to this particular spring day, when the sunlight was bright and cheerful. Invigorating to the heart, the greenery around the garden area of the Carnegie building, a beautiful accent to its architectural prominence. How appropriate then, that I had commenced the story on this historic site, where the people of Bracebridge have been visiting and sharing information for all these industrious years of community-building. It is still a nurturing ground for tradition, and culture. In some ways, the old building reminds me now of the great structure, of Irving's Bracebridge Hall, which has been rumored, to have been the estate owned by Sir Walter Scott, known as Abbotsford, where the American author had once stayed. How inspiring it is, to be able to look into the great glass cupboards, protecting our rarest books, of local and regional history, and find tucked within, a copy of "Bracebridge Hall," penned by a dear old scribe, we have come to know better these days.
Thank you for joining me today, for this preamble to my first of August series, to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the naming of Bracebridge.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
THE LUMBERING INDUSTRY - THE WAY WE WERE
ONE OF THE TOUGHEST INDUSTRIES IN THE WORLD - MADE US A TOUGH REGION
WHEN THE LUMBERMEN CAME TO TOWN WITH WHAT WAS LEFT OF THEIR PAY CHEQUES, AFTER SETTLING THEIR WINTER DEBT TO THE COMPANY STORE, THE MOOD OF THIS TOWN CHANGED. THOSE MEN WHO HAD BEEN MOSTLY COOPED-UP IN LOGGING CAMPS, SOME UNTIL THE COMPLETION OF THE SPRING DRIVE, WERE READY TO LET LOOSE. AND TOWNS LIKE GRAVENHURST BECAME THE HOST COMMUNITIES TO THE LETTING-OFF-OF-STEAM. THE LOGGING INDUSTRY HAS BEEN NOTORIOUS FOR ITS CHARACTERIZATIONS, ITS HEROES OF HARD LIVING, AND HARDER PLAYING REAL LIFE CHARACTERS. MOST WHO MISSED THE POINT, THE ASSORTED MISSIONARIES HAD PREACHED, OF CHRISTIAN LIFE, TRYING DESPERATELY TO CONVERT THEM IN THE LUMBER CAMPS…..BEFORE THEY DESTROYED THE TOWNS AND VILLAGES WHEN CAMP LET OUT IN THE SPRING. FOR MANY YEARS, MUSKOKA WAS A HUGE COG IN THE LUMBER INDUSTRY NETWORK, AND RIGHT DOWN TO BEING BRANDED AS "SAWDUST CITY," BECAUSE OF OUR SPREAD OF LUMBER MILLS ON MUSKOKA BAY, GRAVENHURST WAS TOUGHENED UP EARLY IN ITS HISTORY BY HARSH, UNFORGIVING REALITIES OF LOCAL ECONOMICS. MOST CITIZENS TODAY, RESIDING HERE, HAVE LITTLE IDEA JUST HOW TOUGH THE LOGGING / LUMBERING INDUSTRY WAS IN MUSKOKA. TOURISM, THE SUCCESSOR, AS THE NEW LEADING FORCE IN THE LOCAL ECONOMY, WAS PRETTY MEEK AND MILD, AS COMPARED TO THE DAY OF THE LUMBERJACK.
MY LONG TIME FRIEND, DAVE BROWN, A HAMILTON TEACHER AND OUTDOOR EDUCATION INSTRUCTOR (YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK ON THIS BLOG TO READ MORE ABOUT HIM), AND I, WERE LUMBER ERA ENTHUSIASTS. HE COLLECTED THE ARTIFACTS, FROM MANY LAKES, RIVERS AND BOGS ALL OVER ONTARIO. I JUST GATHERED INFORMATION FROM BOOKS, AND ENJOYED AN INTIMATE, EVER-EXPANDING KNOWLEDGE, ABOUT THE FIRST MUSKOKA INDUSTRY THAT LITERALLY, PINE BY PINE, CARVED OUR HAMLETS OUT OF THE INHOSPITABLE WILDS OF ONTARIO. IN THE LATE 1980'S I DID A SEASON-LONG FEATURE SERIES FOR "THE MUSKOKA SUN," ENTITLED "THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE SHANTY BOYS," WHICH WAS A DETAILED EXAMINATION, ABOUT LIFE IN THE WINTER LUMBER CAMPS THROUGHOUT OUR REGION. I INCLUDED A WIDE AND INTERESTING DIVERSITY OF ACCOUNTS OF THOSE DAYS, FROM FIRST PERSON EXPERIENCES. NOT JUST IN THE CAMPS, DURING THE WINTER CUT, BUT DURING THE SPRING DRIVES……INCLUDING AN EXAMINATION OF THE HARDSHIP AND INJURIES THAT OCCURRED TO THE EMPLOYEES OF THESE MAJOR LOGGING OPERATIONS. THERE ARE HUNDREDS IF NOT THOUSANDS OF UNMARKED GRAVES ALONG THE RIVERS AND LAKES OF MUSKOKA, WHERE MEN WERE KILLED BY EITHER CUT TREES THAT FELL THE WRONG WAY, OR THOSE SUCKED INTO THE LOG JAMS, TO BE CRUSHED TO DEATH BY THE THICK, RELENTLESS CRASHING TOGETHER OF PINE LOGS. I FIND THE STORIES TOLD OF THESE DAYS TO BE FASCINATING. WHILE YOU CAN LOOK AT LOGGING CHAINS, SAWS, CANT-HOOKS AND PIKE POLES TILL YOUR EYES BURN, IF YOU WANT TO BE THOROUGHLY AMAZED, AND BE PUT BACK IN THE DAYS OF THE RIVER THUNDER, THESE OLD BOOKS, AND RECOUNTING OF HARROWING NEAR-MISSES, IN A BRUTALLY TOUGH INDUSTRY, WILL MAKE YOUR SPRING A LITTLE MORE INTERESTING. AS YOU SIT COMFORTABLY, BEVERAGE IN HAND, ENJOYING THESE TALES, YOU'LL INITIALLY THINK IT READS MORE LIKE FICTION. BET YOU'LL BE ABLE TO HEAR THE CLUNKING TOGETHER OF LOGS IN THE RAPIDS, AND RECOGNIZE THE DISTANT ROAR, AND THUD OF LOGS OVER THE FALLS. HEAR THE TERRIFIED SCREAMS OF THE MEN, WARNING EACH OTHER TO STAND CLEAR. BEWARE OF A LOG JAM. IT'S THE HERITAGE OF OUR REGION. AND I'VE GOT A LITTLE GEM, INCLUDED IN A BOOK WRITTEN BY (MY WIFE) SUZANNE'S UNCLE, BERT SHEA, FORMERLY OF THE UFFORD / THREE MILE LAKE AREA….WHERE SUZANNE'S GRANDFATHER, JOHN SHEA (A MUNICIPAL CLERK, FOR MUSKOKA LAKES) OWNED A FARMSTEAD. THE STORY TAKES PLACE ON THE DEE RIVER AT DEE BANK (NEAR WINDERMERE). MANY OF THE SHEA FAMILY WERE INVOLVED IN THE LOGGING INDUSTRY, AND I HAVE READ AND RE-READ BERT'S BOOKS (HE WROTE TWO LOCAL HISTORIES), FINDING THE STORIES COMPELLING…..AND SO MUCH MORE EXCITING FRANKLY, THAN READING ABOUT THE RIGORS OF THE TOURISM INDUSTRY.
INCLUDED WITH THIS BLOG, TODAY, IS A VINTAGE PRINT SHOWING THE INTENSITY OF THE LOG DRIVE. THE SUBJECT LANDSCAPE OF THE PRINT IS NOT MUSKOKA, AS IS OBVIOUS BY THE HEIGHT OF HILLSIDE IN THE BACKGROUND. THIS IS A VINTAGE PRINT I PURCHASED AT AN ESTATE SALE IN THE TOWN OF GRAVENHURST, SOME YEARS AGO. IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITE ART PIECES…..AND I CAN HEAR THE CLUNKING TOGETHER OF THE PINE LOGS, AND IMAGINE THE BANTER BETWEEN THE LOGGERS IN THEIR PRECARIOUS SITUATIONS.
"The winter of 1898 and 1899 had been cold with heavy snow. Sale for peeled hemlock logs was good as it had been for several years. Every man and team available in the Three Mile Lake area was doing his or their part in the output of logs to the ice on Three Mile Lake. When the winter closed and spring came with the 21st of March, the winds played from south to southeast, warm and bearing rain that fell, turning the winter snow into water that washed the earth's surface and swelling the little rivulets and streams to join the large ones and their abundant flow journeyed on to swell the already full body of Three Mile lake," wrote Bert Shea. "With the disappearance of the ice from the lake's surface, in its place at various locations, floated a total of 5,000,000 feet of long measure, by Doyal Rule, boomed and ready to be taken to the foot of the lake to be driven down the Dee River, over the falls at Dee Bank and on."
He notes that, "Earlier in the winter, Abb Woods, a young man at Dee Bank had contracted with the Snider Lumber Co., whose logs they were, having been bought mostly from farmer bush operations. Abb, a young man of the lumber woods, and of the river, had his men, picked strong and fit from the winter's work and storms; ready and determined with, peavies, pike poles and caulked boots, to take the white waters of the roaring River Dee. It was a big job that must be carried out in the time of the flood water. The logs must be brought in from every part of the lake but the river work could start as soon as the arrival of the first boom at Dee Bank."
"Abb was out on the logs and 'Old George,' Woods' faithful lumber horse who had come in off the winter's long haul, bearing the marks of harness chafing, the witness of long days of hard work on the draw road, faithful and dependable, he was led-on the capstan at Dee Bank. With his nose to the ground, he placed his feet safe from the shore on the planks of the capstan and walked to his place on the platform. He was not new to the job for many a long day and night in the past seasons, he had furnished the power that brought the logs to the river in snow and rain as the wave's bluffed and lashed and washed at the float. The warm south wind and the rain had broken the solid grip of winter, on the land but now the temperatures lowered and the wind held a more easterly flow and snow and rain fell at intervals. The days and nights went by, shelter was sought, when possible, but these were hours and hours when man and beast must suffer. The job was moving along midst the roar of the rapids and falls of the Dee was heard the 'bunk bunk' of the logs as they collided in the rapids or in their headlong flight encountered some submerged rock."
Mr. Shea records of the incident, that, "The drive was in full force for acres around the mouth of the river, lay anchored booms of logs, the east wind had given great assistance in the movement of logs, on the main lake, the lagoon in the river was continuously filled with logs and with men….on every rapid and falls, on the lower river, Clark's Pond and Clark's Falls. The booms at Clark's Mill, on Rosseau Lake, were filling with logs. Abb was continuously on the move, consulting, directing and overseeing the work. Where trouble was evidenced, he was in the work with the men. He seemed in the height of his joy with the excitement of the break-up of a jam. But the job went well however, he was not well. The men noticed a letting down of his old drive and inspiration and someone remarked that the boss was sick. Ere long his presence was not on the river, unnoticed, he had gone home and toned but not he alone was being overcome by the wet and exposure of the spring, but his first lieutenant and slave up on the lake, Old George, the horse, who was bringing the logs in, ceased to eat his oats and walked with a stagger. The men landed the capstan and took him to shore; he reached his stall in the stable and laid himself down on the straw. As Mrs. Woods, Abb's mother stood by, heard Dr.(Peter) McGibbon pronounce her son in serious condition with double pneumonia; William Woods, Abb's father was working day and night with old George, treating him with mustard and whiskey mashes and blankets to try to break the grip of the same disease on his faithful horse."
"The fight continued day and night, help was summoned and Abb, as he lay in delirium, talked of Good Old George, and call for his young brother Archie, to go and get some good corn out of the bag and make it niece and warm and give it to poor Old George….'It will make him better,' he said." The local historian writes, "But poor Old George had gone beyond help and in a deep convulsion and trembling of his powerful body that shook the stable, he died in agony. Another victim of the lumbering business. His body bore the scars and blisters of the heavy harness and his flesh had often felt the sting of the black snake whip to get more work out of the faithful, honest body, which was already doing enough. There he lay, a faithful servant and friend who would never again respond to his master's voice or with his big lips artfully take candies of fruit from the hands of the children, or in a soft voice, welcome his master's footsteps at the stable door."
"Father Woods saw all these things in his mind and there was no more. Things had started to go bad, where would it end? Would his son be the next to die? He and the mother hoped and trusted and to his ear came the sound of the running logs above the roar of the falls. A job and contract of that size going on and no boss. The men were good men but there needs a central figure to hold the organization intact. But who? He knew the answer….it was himself. It was his son's contract and no one else would he trust. It had been some years since he had been in connection with the river driving, young hands had taken on. But he knew the work and could direct and arrange, warn and caution. These young fellows were full of life and didn't always see danger but I guess we were all the same when we were young. Abb was going to pull through the pneumonia and the last logs were off the lake and were being tailed down the lagoon, followed by the booms four and five, chained together. There was quite an attempt, whole trees from forty to sixty feet long chained end to end. The point was the water was high and if they were sent through together, they would carry their chains ready for use at Rosseau Lake; otherwise the heavy chains would have to be carried down the river in the pointer or by manpower as well as the time of taking them apart and re-chaining together on Rosseau. The last logs were going down and Dr. McGibbon, who had been to see Abb, his patient, went out on the river bank to watch the procedure. On seeing Earl Duboise standing on the pier in the middle of the river, at the head of the spillway, with the wild water boiling all around him, the last of the plank dam at the rivermouth had been taken out to wash the river clear of logs. The doctor called to him and motioned him to get out of that place or get drowned. Earl laughed, jumped up and clicked his heals together, waved to the doctor and continued to feed the logs through the slide."
Note: Dr. McGibbon was one of the founding Doctors of the Bracebridge Red Cross Hospital in 1928, and had been a former Member of Parliament for Muskoka, in the government of Sir Arthur Meighen. I also had the benefit to have lived for many years in Dr. McGibbon's former house / medical office, on Manitoba Street in Bracebridge, beside Reynold's Funeral Home. The house was torn down quite a few years ago to make way for an office building.
Due to the lengthy of the story written by Bert Shea, I'd like to resume it again tomorrow. Please join me. It's a pretty incredible story. As for the logging industry……it was a beast.
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