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| Signed to Currie's Music by the well known Canadian band, "Said The Whale", on their Hawaii album from 2013. |
"SAID THE WHALE" DROPPED IN FOR A VISIT - AH, THE PERKS OF THE JOB, AND A NICE EASY CHAIR
NICE TO HAVE A CHAT WITH BANDS - A BIG CHANGE FROM MY FORMER MEDIA RELATIONSHIP WILL MUSIC SCENE
I had to cover a Kim Mitchell concert once, at the Gravenhurst arena, in the summer 1989, I believe, while I was working as editor of The Banner. I presented my press credentials at the door, and I was referred to a rather chunky chap, off to the side, who pushed through the crowd of concert-goers, as if parting the Red Sea. The line-up that night, which was substantial, seemed to know it was either move or be knocked over by this guy. He asked me if I was there to cover the concert for the national press, and I had just enough time and visibility, between his bobbing and weaving, to nod and grin, before he grabbed me by the arm, and walked me through to the arena floor, where the stage was set up at the west end.
"Come over here; just follow me," he yelled back, as there was loud pre-show music playing inside, and I was having a hard time hearing what he was saying. So this was probably the third time he'd given me this instruction. He looked a little impatient, yet pleased to help the media get the best vantage point, to review this iconic entertainer, formerly of the band "Max Webster."
"Here is where you can stand," he said, pointing at the precise area on the concrete, as if there was an actual mark on the floor, that I was supposed to stand above, in order to benefit from the full Kim Mitchell experience. Jesus, I was standing a few feet away from this wall of honking big speakers, that worried me a little. Reckoning with the architectural configuration of equipment, which I assumed would carry quite a burst of sound energy, when fired-up, I had good reason to believe, this was going to be louder than any concert I'd ever been to before. I couldn't have been more correct, as a self proclaimed visionary.
There was the time, a few years previous, when I had roughly the same opportunity, to be in front of the speakers, when "Teenage Head," performed at the Bracebridge High School. I could have rested my chin on the stage platform, from my position in front. It's where the school's principal thought I should be, to enjoy the concert, and considering it took quite a bit of coaxing, to be invited in the first place, I didn't want to complain. The ring took about twenty-four hours to diminish. I attended quite a few concerts, and dances in my media days, but I had a feeling Mitchell's output was going to be more dramatic, than what I experienced, in the same position, with "Edward Bear," "April Wine," "Major Hoople's Boarding House," and "Lighthouse." "Crowbar?" Well, that was pretty loud. For "Bachman-Turner Overdrive," I was much further back, and off to the right side of the stage, so that I could only see half of the band members, Randy Bachman's stomach and nose, because of the wall of speakers. "Nazareth," had a pretty big wham of sound, but nothing like I was going to experience in front of Kim Mitchell, that night in a nearly full arena.
I can remember when the concert began, feeling the air pressure change, and the only parallel I had, as reference, was when I stood in the media area of a local air show, which put us way too close to the Snowbird Tudor Jets, when they started their engines in unison. I felt my face going sideways, and could look down and see my lips stretched out to the hinge of my jaw. Kim was just getting warmed up, for gosh sakes, and I was like a kite on a short string. I don't know what my concert guide was thinking, putting an old fart like me, within touching distance of these pulsating speakers. I could see my heart beating, I was so scared of blowing up with what may have been near cyclonic in air pressure. What would that have looked like, and would the concert have been interrupted, me being reduced to torn off feet, still in sneakers, and ribbons of shredded underwear hanging off the arena trusses. All I could think about, besides self preservation, was how I was actually going to provide adequate facial expressions, to the kind fellow, who thought he was doing me a favor, providing this amazingly close place, from which to review one of Canada's well known rockers. Well, as much as I appreciated his kindness, obviously believing a reporter's ear drums were made of leather, he finally figured out my hand signals, and look of horror etched upon my face, and grabbed my arm again, to lead me through the gyrating audience. "Where do you want to go," is what I assumed he was saying to me, looking back as we walked onto the floor area, directly in front of the stage. I tried to read his lips, because there was no way, even after the music stopped, that I could hear over the ringing in both ears. I just pointed to the far end of the rink, smiled, then broke free, turning, and speed walking to an open piece of arena floor, well back of the speakers. I was the only one, who wanted to actually increase distance, from this fabulous entertainer, because if it hadn't been for the roped-off section, the audience would have been right up to the lip of the stage.
It was a great concert, and I took quite a few photographs, and did a review, at least the best I could. I realized when I got home, and tried to write something, that besides the ringing, and what I saw, I didn't have a good grasp on the actual music, in order to compose a sensible overview of the evening concert. I got through it, but admittedly I fudged a percentage of the review by listening to some "Max Webster," records a friend left at my house one night. Kim Mitchell was part of the well known group, that used to play "The Key to Bala," almost every summer, back in the early 1980's, when I was with The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge. We always had press passes for The Kee. So I cheated on the review for Kim Mitchell, but I meant well. For other concerts, I had to ask security personnel, to not do me any favors, by placing me at the front of the stage, in the way of a mountain of sound gear, that would definitely compromise the full appreciation of the performance. Unless it was Arlo Guthrie. Even for photographs, I preferred being a lot further back. The booming volume would make me shaky, and the photos were out of focus.
Well, this is a long set-up in the guise of an introduction, to tell you about meeting some members of the band, "SAID THE WHALE," of Vancouver, who were in Gravenhurst this week, to play a concert at "Peter's Players," on Muskoka Road. They arrived in town the night before, and had the opportunity to explore the area, and enjoy some of the local fare, and just before load-in on Tuesday afternoon, decided to pay us a visit, here at Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables. What's really nice about this, in my elder years, is that I get to meet these travelling musicians, without having to stand, first, within touching distance of their speakers at the concert venue. I actually get to talk with the performers, without any other sound, than multi-person conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter, that frequently breaks out here in the studio. We don't take ourselves too seriously. Sons Andrew and Robert have a "dad" dedicated chair, rescued from 1955, (when I was born), against the far wall of the studio room, where I am permitted to work on my blogs, have my lunch, occasionally fall asleep when the action subsides, and like yesterday, get the really neat opportunity, to meet some of this country's finest musicians. I've made a solid year out of chair-reporting, and it sure as heck beats standing at stage-front, at least at my age, and trying to compose a story, or review, that actually makes a modicum of sense. I can always remember, covering the group "Shooter," playing at The Key, and being given an opportunity to interview the band at intermission. I couldn't hear well enough to do the interview. I had good ear-drums back then. I just kept getting positioned right on top of the performers, which was a really neat privilege, except it wasn't best suited my ability to discern anything beyond the thunderous boom of electric guitars, heart-pounding bass, and rattling-bone percussion. So you bet, having a mellowing opportunity, to meet in the bosom of a studio full of musical curiosities and heirlooms, just like me, is a nice reward for an old writer, on the verge of his golden years; and who, thankfully, has finally lost the ringing of over indulgence.
I got a chance to talk, one on one, without having to yell over anything more than soft conversation, in the room, with Ben Worcester, singer, guitarist and pianist, with the group. All the band members weren't here, but they must have put on a great concert at Peter's Players, because Andrew and Robert have been talking about it all morning, and playing me their 2013 record, "SAID THE WHALE - HAWAII," and their extended play record, "SAID THE WHALE - NEW BRIGHTON," from 2011. The members of this still up and coming, yet seriously accomplished band, are Ben Worcester, Tyler Bancroft, Spencer Schoening, Jaycelyn Brown, and Nathan Shaw. So although I didn't go to the Tuesday evening concert, to see the group live, I had a rare opportunity, to gather under less crowded circumstances, here in the heart of our music shop. Then, while the band was headed back on the road to the Ottawa region, I got to hear first hand accounts of their performance, from the boys, and listen to their records for more than two hours, to round out the "SAID THE WHALE" experience, which, I can tell you, was a lot less aggressive and hard on the body, than my old days of front-rowing-it at concert venues.
I am not a music reviewer, and never have been, despite all the concerts I've attended, including the dozens I covered at Deerhust Resort, in Huntsville, when country singer, Shania Twain, was performing. I love music, but I can't really analyze it, and make sense to those who live and breathe its creative enterprise. I often write about the way music inspires daydreams, and what backdrops I would use, if I had to create a video to go with the vibe of a song. I would thusly, be the last reviewer a music industry publication would seek-out, as a reliable critic, to judge what is hot and what, well, is stone cold. Therefore, I can only fall back on that basic human instinct, about what sounds inspire joy, and what seeds the feeling of melancholy. In the primal condition, I like to be entertained. It's not just about being happy and joyful. Inspiring a feeling of melancholy in "happy me", is quite a feat for a musician, because when I'm up, I'm seventeen feet tall. I don't dislike the occasional dance with unanticipated sadness, or regret, if at the same time, I am doing so from a philosophical perspective; because it is only regrettable, if I can't make peace with a memory, or nostalgic circumstance, that must remain a haunting retrospective. I tend to learn my own vulnerabilities this way, and most of the time, it comes via musical persuasion. While I don't ever want to be led to the front of the stage, to stand in front of a wall of speakers, so that I can have a great vantage point, I do willingly offer my soul, to be influenced as much as possible. After listening to "SAID THE WHALE" records this morning, repeated at least three times for my benefit, I feel as if I was at the concert, and that these talented musicians have given me a hell of a fine morning recreation.
The only thing I can say, is that their music, for me, is a really neat throw-back to the 1980's, and early 1990's, although the band members may consider me a heretic for making this reference. It was familiar, nostalgic music, but I'm not sure why I feel this way. Familiar because I've heard some of it on CBC 2, over the years, and what the boys often play here in the studio, when they're having a casual evening, after the shop doors close. Their music makes me feel light and lively, and for a big chap, this is a good thing. My wife hates it when I mope and pout. So she's found their music medicinal in the spiritual sense, the perfect elixir for her moody husband. It's a sound I find familiar and celebratory, and I can hear qualities and quantities, that remind me of a more youthful self. It's the music you want to share with others, and a few of us fifty-somethings, of the baby-boomer generation, can actually feel that something contemporary, address all the miles we've trudged, through life and, well, even somewhat remembered. While I didn't see them perform, I did shake their hands, and damn right, I felt the good vibe. Canadian musicians have it in generous supply....this positive energy thing, to make music that is strong and enduring, by its creative excellence and imagination acted-upon. It's more than sound to fill time, because I've heard a lot of this recently. "SAID THE WHALE," offers a little something extra, and I think it has fantastic commercial qualities; and I'd like to write the television show, or movie, to go with it! There are at least three of their songs, off the "Hawaii" album, I could attach to quite a number of current television shows, that would, frankly, make them a lot more appealing. Again, this may seem like a kick in the pants to these talented performers, but it's not intended to be a critique.
If you haven't had the pleasure of their company, and don't know much about their music, then you should look them up and find out for yourself, how this young group, has bridged the generational gap; and although this may not seem cool, to hipsters out there, well, tough. I think it's a great accomplishment, to extend the range of musical appreciation, and "SAID THE WHALES," is the contemporary group to watch. It was nice meeting you folks. Come back any time. I'll probably still be here when you do. I love this chair. I'm going to ask that I be buried with it!
As for our happenstance music bull sessions, enjoyed here in Uptown Gravenhurst, this is a close-up to the music industry I can live with, and hear later!
PROVINCE GETTING READY TO UNLOAD ASSETS TO OFFSET DEFICIT
I was eating dinner (and a lovely one it was) with Suzanne, last night, at Skyways Restaurant, in Gravenhurst, and the CTV evening news, on the television screen mounted above our table, reported that the Province of Ontario, was getting ready to sell off some of their prime assets, including real estate, as a fundraiser, to help offset our ridiculous deficit.
I hadn't even published yesterday's blog yet, which had a portion of its content, devoted to a minor discussion of the eventual sale of the Muskoka Centre property, on Muskoka Bay. The province has been dragging their feet on this sale for years, and although it has set the stage for eventual sale, I suppose a hydro-plant scandal and an election got in the way. When I heard that it was now imminent, that the province was going to be unloading its deemed-expendable assets, including their multi-million dollar stake in the former Muskoka Centre property, it seemed as if I had finally earned my stripes as a clairvoyent. If you missed yesterday's blog, you'll know that it was a long, long putt, but obviously, the sucker went into the hole. The province has stalled on this property issue for no good reason, over most of the past decade, and in the mean time, the main building fell into serious disrepair, and the town was blocked from opportunity time and again, when they wished to entertain development proposals. They've been in a deficit position for some time, and did nothing about it, as far as their assets are concerned, so now, gosh, they must really be in deep crap, to be thinking of this asset reduction sale, so soon after being voted back into office. So what's the big deal? Gravenhurst Council? That's what?
There is no way, at least in my own non-deluded way of thinking, that some benefactor will buy the property, when the province finally does hammer in the "for sale" sign, and then turns it over to the town as gift parkland. It is more likely the case, it will become some type of development interest, because outside of a very well appointed citizen-buyer, the only way to profit from the property, is to put the lakefront gem to work; and that could mean just about anything except a rendering plant, and auto recycler. It's prime resort property, let's face it, and it has one of the finest lakefront locations in the entire district. In terms of visibility from the water, gads, it's worth a lot of what I don't have. This potential "for sale" issue, actually comes at a good time. The template is being set now, you see, for a wild ride for the next four years. The neighbor cottage associations, are I'm sure, nervous of this land on the open market, and the capability of the present town council, to handle what could be one of the most contentious development issues, in contemporary times. It's one thing to build a plaza development with box stores, in a field, on the outskirts of town, but quite another, to talk major multi-million dollar development, on the shore of a bay, that already suffers from water quality issues. The water doesn't flush out of the bay quickly, you see, so with the development of the wharf property, and the higher density housing, with the condos, and hotel facility, it's going to be a humdinger of a discussion, when future use becomes a more immediate, pressing, and threatening issue.
I don't think that present councillors have any real idea, just how aggressive this eventuality of development could get, before there's even a spoon full of earth moved from the site. There are a myriad of issues to deal with, and it will be imperative for town councillors, to navigate through all the interests that are going to pop up, from the moment the property is listed. They might think they know, but if they're using The Wharf as their own template, for what might be coming, they are misjudging the precarious balance, in that area of the bay, to house a parallel or bigger installation, connected with the tourist industry. They will have to balance the local interests, and the potential for jobs, and then there's the "to sing-about" tax extraction, to be garnered long into the future. As I have pointed out previously, I'd hate to see a repeat of the debacle of the failed "Roseneath" hotel re-development, that caused enormous stress on the council, and staff, of the Township of Muskoka Lakes. The Bala Falls hydro stand-off might be comparable, except for the fact it isn't broken down the same, as being permanent residents pitted against cottagers. The quality of the Muskoka Centre property, and development land in the vicinity, makes this a behemoth issue, and the only ones who would minimize its potential impact, are among the naive and wrongly situated, around the council table. I'm sure there are still Muskoka Lakes Association members, and maybe directors, who well remember all that went wrong with the Roseneath project, at the township level, which was put forward as a resort development, I believe, based on a bid from a major investor in Germany. It began with unspecified pomp, and ended with a lot of hard feelings, between cottagers and permanent residents of the township. But the impact of that failed project, was felt around the district, and has, in some ways, become a regrettable historical precedent.
While it may seem insensitive, to suggest the present council of the Town of Gravenhurst, isn't adequate in experience, to deal with this major issue, at least if it gets to the development stage, I am basing it on my own experience, and knowledge, as a regional historian. I covered the Township of Muskoka Lakes, during this time, of the early 1980's, when a lot of precedents were being set, about future shoreline and resort development on the Muskoka Lakes. It's only when you've sat in a crowded council chamber, with a lot of angry constituents, on both sides of the development issue, and equally pissed-off councillors, and staff, who have been bombarded with planning submissions, and legal interventions, that you realize, my God, this is no Sunday School picnic. At the Muskoka Lakes Association meetings, during those years, there was a lot of mistrust for local politicians, and it heralded a time in our regional history, when cottagers demanded that their opinions be respected; as it was pointed out on many occasions, how much of the tax collected, was from these "second home owners," as they came to be called. As a permanent resident, of Muskoka, I felt uncomfortable at these meetings, just as a lot of "locals" felt, as seasonal residents began throwing their weight around; wanting to be part of the discussion, about what type of development, being proposed, was in keeping with the character of the township, and what should be discouraged and turned away. I covered the elections, when seasonal residents ran for municipal office and won, and had to sit around the council table, with those permanent residents, who had been successful in their wards. It was very uncomfortable, but did eventually foster a much better relationship between constituents, even beyond the divide of permanent or seasonal residency.
What's most important today, is that the constituents of this fine municipality, realize just how significant this land-sale is, and how necessary it is, to have councillors who have some respect for these precedents of the past; because this history can greatly assist councillors deal with upcoming negotiations, and relations generally, with partner cottage associations, that have shown co-operation, up to the present, on other lakefront issues. This is one of those perfect-storm kind of situations, however, and it would be so much more efficient, if we had the kind of experience on council, up to speed, on how these circumstances can swing wildly out of control, in a short span of time. That's when you have a flood of captains of development, lawyers and planners, on retainer, who will descend on the municipality like locust, and well, it is just sensible proportion, to expect high-tension all round; and anything less down the road, will be a Godsend.
It is now time, me thinks, for candidates to start some serious mustering, for this October's municipal election, who have a particular talent for seeing-through negotiations, on such large scale projects; and who can handle, months, if not years, of hardcore debate, to please all sides. Some would describe it as a near impossible situation, if you're talking about pleasing all neighbor interests. It's the wise sailor, who prepares for what comes after the calm.
I am not, of course, an advisor to the Muskoka Bay Association. I'm sure they are well appointed with expert guidance. My experience however, suggests, that members should consider this upcoming election, as being one of the most important voting opportunities in recent memory. I'm not suggesting they run their own council candidates, but if they were to ask my opinion, I certainly wouldn't discourage them either. I think it would be better, in many ways, if there was a mix of permanent and seasonal representation around the council table, in advance, of a potential development conflict, that divides constituents, as it did over the Roseneath project, of the early 1980s; and is doing even today, in Bala. It will be an interesting election in Muskoka Lakes this year, as the number one issue, two elections in a row, has to do with the generation of hydro electricity.
I think this coming four year term of office, will be a back breaker for any councillor who is not ready for a major fight. If the fight never manifests, then it will be a joyous sigh of relief that follows. I don't think there is any downside to being prepared in advance, for what may or may not come down the pike.
I carried on with my delicious dinner, at Skyways, after hearing the evening news report. I didn't choke when I heard the news, because thankfully, my mouth wasn't full at the time.
Thanks for joining today's blog. And if you get the chance, do an online search for the great Canadian band, "SAID THE WHALE."
You'll be glad you did!
FROM THE ARCHIVES
The Patina of Home - The Amalgamation of Emotions and Fact
I like to retrace my youth spent in Bracebridge step by step. Literally. Physically. The art of the hike. The mindful jaunt in places familiar. I've taken many long strolls through my former neighborhoods, over the four seasons, just to see if by slim but hopeful chance, there's a ghost or two still wandering about from that era of the 1960's and 70's, when the town was on the cusp of what I feel has become a profound urbanizing change. I don't see them but I can feel their presence and it's not a bad or frightening thing to be in their company. I also write a ghost blog so the more the merrier!
There was a lot of history that wasn't recorded. It's not really the fault of historians past but the fact that most history of small towns in Ontario, for example, was tallied by newspaper reporters/editors, who purposely distanced fact from the "emotional facts......actuality of the event that took place." The borrowed news reports re-published in modern histories do not evoke much in the way of sentiment....because of course they were meant for the news pages where there is a strict format and protocol for presentation; a budget of words and a reduction of sentiment for sentiment's sake. It does however, leave a void of understanding. What was it like to watch a fallen soldier's body return home to the Bracebridge train station in a rough box......what was it like to stand on that platform with family who had some time earlier waved at their son as he headed out in defence of his country? Let the reader fill in the blanks. On re-write however, for the reader today, the old news reports have a corpse-like dryness about them, because they are hollow for the most part, of actuality.....like when the news commentator in the United States stated, in utter shock and horror.... "Oh, the humanity," when the great Zepellin caught fire and passengers dove, in flames, to their deaths. Events and personal tragedies that may have made the front pages of the weekly press, and into the hearts and souls of neighborhood folks then, are jammed into historical accounts now without accompanying explanation of what it all meant in human terms....not just in some writer's appreciation of the bare facts. Today these twists of fate are pretty much neglected unless conversation between hometowners enters that domain.
Events such as the death of two of my chums in a tunnel cave-in on Anne Street, just up the hill from the train tracks near Bass Rock, come to mind. No matter how many times it may re-appear in sundry mention in a feature article or book, unless there's some infilling, it becomes a news story only.....when in fact it was a community-shaping tragedy that affected the way we perceived our hometown fragility and our ability to save our children from a similar fate. When it was learned the boys had been trapped in the tunnel, neighbors and folks from all over, appeared on site with shovels, showing on their faces the very great fear of the unknown......that there may have been many others in that smothering hole in the side of the hill. Some who ran to that cave-in suspected their sons might be in there as well. Former Hospital Administrator Frank Henry, on hearing the news while at work, ran from the nearby medical facility with a shovel, he found in the maintenance department, to help dig the lads free. It was a Saturday and parents were frantic to connect with their youngsters situated at play all over town. My father phoned my mother Merle from the lumber yard where he worked, to find out if I was at home. I was. But I might not have been if not for a warning that came down the pike the night before, when several young lads asked their parents about helping our mates from school dig their army tunnel network the next day. When I announced my intention to trundle over to the same hillside, my mother stood in the doorway and said, "You're not going to be digging a tunnel today or ever.....and I don't care what you're friends think is a good idea....it's not....you can die if there's a cave-in." That was the statement made the night before. It's the reason I'm penning these thoughts now....because of any project I do get involved, I'm usually in the middle of everything going, including a tunnel dig. Just as I would have been on that rainy autumn day. I thought she might have changed her mind, or that possibly I could sneak past the sentry and wander over to Anne Street without my mother being any the wiser. By morning it was raining heavy and throughout most of the day it was a misty, cold ugliness. As it turned out, this was at least part of the problem that helped loosen a large portion of hillside, sliding down on top of the boys.
I will never forget the sombre mood of that town for weeks after. Students jammed the funeral home rooms to bid farewell to their chums and for many of us it was the first serious introduction to mortality. It happened on numerous other occasions, where accidents and general misadventures led to the death of friends......hockey playing mates, baseball colleagues, kids from the neighborhood who drowned or were involved in traffic mishaps. Sickness claimed quite a few others and most of us admittedly didn't understand why the young and resiliant were succumbing. For every community milestone, every accomplishment from a provincial sports honor to celebration of the Cavalcade of Color, there was no escaping the reality there was a patina of town life that was a precarious mix of good and bad, happiness and misery, new life being born to the citizenry and others taken away.....sometimes suddenly.
I can remember hearing about a traffic accident, as a kid, that happened on old Highway II at the intersection near The Pines Home for the Aged......a grisly tale that has stuck with me to this day because of what rescuers had to deal with at the scene. The word went around that summer afternoon that a head-on collision near the intersection had resulted in many serious injuries to mulitiple occupants of both vehicles. There were sirens coming from all over. We knew it was bad just by the responding vehicles..... , fire, ambulance and the police. From where we lived on Alice Street, much of the action passed down nearby Toronto Street on the way to the hospital. When the fire department arrived they knew at least one of the vehicles was going to require ripping apart to free the occupants. Before they could finish extracation of the injured, flames broke out in the wreckage, and in seconds what was left of the car was engulfed in flames. They had no chance to do anything for those people inside, who began screaming in pain from the encroaching fire. It was told to us kids, sitting at the time with adults at our apartment on Alice Street, that the firemen felt like screaming along with the victims, because their agony was as great....having to live with the fact they were forced to watch people die knowing their rescue efforts could not be successfully mounted in time. I could not, would not ever forget those words, and it was as if I had been a witness myself....it became that real for me. I knew some of the firemen. What a terrible experience for them to live with for the balance of their lives.....and they had seen many more gruesome situations; yet I am reminded that they had experienced thousands of other calls when they were able to make successful rescues and save lives.....save buildings from burning and ward of total catastrophe by their expert efforts. It was that bitter sweet patina of everyday life.
There were many times in my childhood, in Bracebridge, when like everyone else who appreciates the dynamic of life, when shock and sadness entered into one's heart and soul, and affected the interpretation of everything else for weeks and months. It was a community like all the rest. There were serious accounts of misadventures we listened intently to at dinner-time; reports, hearsay, gossip of unfortunate family circumstances, tales of business failures, marriage break-ups, a few affairs of the heart, crime, assaults and some less serious news about school mates (some from prominent families) caught for shoplifting or public drunkeness. As I got a little older there were numerous stories about those same chums getting caught with drugs and related items, smoking down at Bass Rock where we used to swim..... and where we'd get a real kick talking to hippies and draft dodgers, Americans trying to avoid the horrors of the Vietnam War by hinding out in the hinterland of Ontario.
The Hunt's Hill lads used to hang-out near the railway station on hot sumer afternoons, awaiting the coveted Toronto run, pondering whether this would be the day to jump a boxcar and head to the city for some fun. They came and went over those many years and we never jumped on rolling stock. We did however, get on boxcars in the rail yard and we met up with more than a few hobos heading down to the Jungle they kept in rotating locations just up the overgrown embankment from the Muskoka River.....where yes they did occasionally enjoy an invigorating bath in the moonlight.
If you sat by the rails for long enough you were sure to see some interesting stuff going on at the adjacent Albion Hotel that I think had a better history earlier in the century than it was gaining in the 1960's, by way of the patrons it kept. It wasn't uncommon at all to see a bouncer run a drunk patron's head into the door on the way out onto the tarmac.....which obviously spoke volumes about the misconduct inside. The guy would crawl around for a few moments, dust himself off, comb his hair, and shadow-box a little while giving a lecture to the bouncer, then long gone, about "just who do you think you are buddy, throwing me out like that......I'll show you a thing or two." Five minutes of composure-gathering later, he'd try to get back in that bar again......and we loved every moment of it. Sure as we bet, he'd coming flying out a little further the second time with the bouncer's arm on his shoulder and wasteband of the pants, and down he'd go in a lump of humanity. I've watched as many as three patrons bounced the same way minutes apart. It may not be the part of history that is seen worthy of ink these days (or even then) but by golly it happened, it was funny as hell, and I witnessed this social, cultural heritage close enough to smell the booze and hear their heads hitting the door on the way out.
Public drunkeness wasn't a rarity even in the earliest days of our community. We had a lot of logging types in this town before the turn of the century, as did Gravenhurst, and it imprinted pretty harshly on the local constables. The loggers coming from the camps were a force to be reckoned with, and being rowdy was just part of the rugged lifestyle garnered from an industry known for its dangers, demands for the utmost courage, and reckless abandon. Being trapped for long periods in the camp made the escape so much more desirable, and misadventure was normal course....and the lock-up showed the wear and tear on its hinges. As well, homesteaders here had no choice but to be a tough, unyielding, stubborn lot because failure here could mean a slow agonizing death due to starvation out on the homestead. Even if you lived in town you were unmistakably a pioneer in the north woods regardless of urban situation. To say we were hewn from a rough and tumble first citizenry, well, you'd be right. From the late 1850's Muskokans who wanted to remain here made sacrifices. There were disadvantages on top of disadvantages and many didn't make the cut....left the region for some other locale, or perished with dreams of a prosperous homestead still in their hearts. Some of my wife's family, during this pioneer period, were known as the Three Mile Lake Wolves, for their temperment, and with Irish glee they would join arms at one end of the main street, stretch across the width of the rough lane, and with as many as four hardy brawlers, beckon anyone tough enough to stand in their way as they marched toward the town falls. Legend? Nope! Fact!
In the following blogs, some that were formerly published in Curious; The Tourist Guide, I have provided an honest appraisal of what it meant to me, to be considered a local yocal......how it felt after many years of being transplanted from the city, and attached to this new hometown. As I had been a keen observer throughout my childhood, of what constituted the tally of daily life and times of any worthy hometown.....I didn't proceed as a writer/historian with any misconception or lack of appreciation for what history had etched in its wake......like the glacier grinding over the Canadian Shield. What I had seen and experienced......it was a critical background reference that gave me an exceptional insight. As a fledgling editor, having arrived back to my hometown, hoping to make a name for myself as an adult citizen, I knew in advance of my first published piece that it was going to be a precarious balance to represent fairly all the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows, losses and victories.....and avoid at all cost, making it ever seem as if the local citizenry couldn't cope with any situation it was to face. Afterall it had survived the wickedly difficult pioneer economy, two wars, a Great Depression and a myriad of successes in businesses that went bust as did so many dreams. It has worn its discontent bravely and survived despite adversity....just like thousands of other good hometowns that realize that the definition of prosperity means being able to turn misfortune into advantage......picking up where one task was left off and finishing the job.
My own critics argue that I am too open with my opinions, and to glaring with the facts I present. In response I carry on with blatant disregard and contempt.......because I have never as a citizen, a newspaper editor, or historian come upon anything in the past or present, no matter what the weight of its negative revelation, that couldn't be handled by citizens at large and time. And afterall that's what makes a hometown.....well.....a "home", being able to move on despite. We are not immune to the dastardly circumstances......of crime, corruption, and malice....why would we be? It's all part of our history like it or not. As the earth continues to turn, resolution and restitution will occur just as it always has, and we will recover and rejoice all over again......but it is imprudent to forget how we got from there to here in 150 odd years. I'd like to believe we've learned something about our capabilities to survive against what is often considered insurmountable.
Here are some editorial pieces about my hometown I've composed in the past 12 months. You don't have to know much about Bracebridge, or anything at all about its past, to relate to the stories.....which for all intents and purposes could have been generated from your own hamlet, village, town or city. Please enjoy! The first one has a Christmas backdrop!
Respecting the spirits of Christmas past
My contemporaries in the community press sought out the editorship of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, because it seemed from an underling perspective, like a politically powerful and socially influential position. They had visions of world domination, I think, not simply the fair and unbiased representation of community life and events.
It afforded the chosen-one the very great and time-honored privilege, to occupy the creaking old chair behind the oak desk, the one with a deep patina of sweat and ink imprinted into the grain, attained honestly from the actuality of many milestones of local history. To be editor one had to be cognizant of all things past and present, yet be insightfully inspired, no less courageous, to willingly venture into the abyss of uncertainty down a dark and winding trail. Well, that’s a tad dramatic!
How many of those long adrenalin, emotion driven editorial races to deadline, were pounded into that oak desktop? Fist thumps onto its surface. "Let’s put this paper to bed!"
It was situated in the second biggest office in the century old building on Dominion Street, and it afforded the occupier thusly, the right to select or compose the lead editorials for the weekly edition. Not to mention having the responsibility to bark out orders to reporters and lay-out staff, about what was going to make the front page, and what copy would fill up the white space further back amongst the food store ads.
I wasn’t the youngest editor of The Herald-Gazette but possibly the youngest non-family member to take the helm of this established publication. It wasn’t the only paper serving the community, and in fact, when I was appointed to the editorship in the early 198 0’s, there was a fierce battle being waged between competing publishers to win over advertisers and attain the highest weekly readership.
I had apprenticed with a sister publication, The Beacon, in the Township of Georgian Bay, and felt a little out of my league when the publisher first offered me the editor’s job, in Bracebridge, when the former head honcho was transferred to another community newspaper. While scared out of my wits to take the helm of one of the District of Muskoka’s best known publications, I had achieved exactly what I had intended after returning home from studies at York University in Toronto. I wanted to be an editor with Muskoka Publications. It simply came about five years sooner than I had planned.
I didn’t care about the political weight of editorship and I had no intention of changing one molecule of the tradition established by George Boyer and family, who had built the newspaper’s foundation brick by brick decades before I’d even seen the first light of new life.
I used to work many late nights hunched over that gouged, pen-imprinted, gnarled old desktop during the first year of my multi-year tenure, feeling a huge sense of pride being able to maintain the HG’s print tradition, carrying on a legacy of fine writers, and powerful editorialists. I felt in awe to be truly ingrained then in the history of my community. At times I still felt like a punk kid running amuck in the neighborhood, like my rapscallion days growing up on Bracebridge’s east side as part of the Hunts Hill gang, a notoriously pacifist bunch of lads who were distinctly better hockeyists than pugilists. Here I was dictating the editorial content for a much closer, in-person history, and I was astounded by the faith of the publisher, Hugh Mackenzie, who allowed me the greatest of freedom to represent the good and bad of community life and times.
I can so clearly recall one rather poignant news-desk vigil, on a blustery night on the cusp of that year’s Christmas vacation. I had been at the helm about a half year and we’d just finished the special holiday edition of the paper that afternoon, and heartily consumed a few cartons of eggnog in celebration. There may have been a trace of rum stirred in as well. What a keenly wonderful moment it was that night, in the solace of an empty newsroom amidst the splendid haunts of this historic building, to feel that sense of connectedness to all the heritage of this Ontario community. All I had to do was walk two flights of stairs to the basement to connect with the physical archives representing well over a hundred years. The history of Bracebridge was right there in huge and bulky compilations overflowing shelves and tables. I was in awe to stand there and consume the legacy of which I was now a part.
While my staff colleagues had their opinion about my leadership, and my zeal for political power, they might have been quite confounded by the fact I actually was quite humbled by the position. I felt more unworthy than cocky, and there wasn’t a day that went by, when I didn’t think about my shortfalls and inexperience captaining such an important community asset. Yet there were moments, such as that particular pre-Christmas vigil, when I allowed myself the benefit of doubt, and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being editor of The Herald-Gazette….despite the misgivings that I was unworthy of the responsibilities bestowed.
When I walked away from the news building that evening, and looked back through the wind-driven snow, it was as if a manufactured, nostalgic old movie scene wrenched from the archives. It needed a sentimental last-word, a line Bogart might have uttered about time and place, event and remembrance, life of old, life anew, the end of one chapter, the beginning of a fresh new perspective. I may have even looked a little like Bogie, at that precise moment, my turned-up coat collar and askew hat adorned with snow, staring back at the history of only moments ago, yet pondering what the future might hold…..Christmas yet to be. And in that illumination of snow against nighfall, there was that sense of peace we dream of when all the world seems to make perfect sense, and we trundle joyfully through the winter night with great expectation. It was as if, at that moment, I was walking the same path as an editor from the 1920’s, or one winter’s eve during the Great Depression, or during the Second World War, our footfall being the same. All the years, all the events, all the memorable moments were imprinted here, and I was only too pleased to embrace it all….that year and for every year since, that I have been contently employed writing about my hometown and home region of Ontario.
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