A HOT STOVE LEAGUE CHAT ABOUT THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF NEWSPAPERS, AND WHAT I LIKE MOST ABOUT CONTENT OF "THE GREAT NORTH ARROW"
TRADITIONS ARE STILL WORTH FIGHTING FOR - AND THE PUBLIC APPRECIATION FOR "CONTEMPORARY" NOSTALGIA IS STILL KEEN
ALTHOUGH I WOULD LIKE TO LIVE FOREVER, AND WORK TO THAT END, I FEEL QUITE BLESSED, TO HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO PLAY AROUND IN WRITING, SERIOUSLY AND NOT SO SERIOUSLY, FOR SO LONG. I HAVE BEEN SERIOUSLY AFFECTED, IN THE PAST FEW YEARS, BY THE DEATHS OF SEVERAL OF MY MENTORS IN HISTORY, AND THE CREATIVE ARTS. MOST RECENTLY, THE SUDDEN PASSING OF FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE WRITER, AND MENTOR, BRANT SCOTT, MADE ME WONDER ABOUT RETIRING MY LAPTOP AND CONCENTRATING ON THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS, WHICH AFTERALL, WAS DESIGNED SHORTLY AFTER SON, ANDREW WAS BORN, TO BE OUR RETIREMENT ENTERPRISE. I BEGAN TO QUESTION WHY I WRITE IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU'VE UNDOUBTEDLY FELT THE SAME, ABOUT THE PURPOSE OF LIFE, WHEN SOMEONE YOU RESPECT AND LOVE DIES. I FELT TERRIBLE WHEN MY PHOTOGRAPHER FRIEND, AND FORMER NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUE, JOHN BLACK, OF GRAVENHURST, PASSED AWAY AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS. WE WERE THE THREE AMIGOS, IN OUR NEWSPAPER DAYS, AND NOW, I'M THE LAST OF THE BUNCH. OUR SECRET STORIES ARE NOW MINE. THEY WILL OF COURSE REMAIN IN CONFIDENCE. IN HISTORY, NEWS THAT MY ARCHIVIST CHUM, HUGH MACMILLAN, HAD PASSED AWAY, WAS ANOTHER SERIOUS BLOW, BECAUSE HE PLAYED SUCH AN IMPORTANT MENTOR ROLE, IN THE HISTORICAL RESEARCH PART OF OUR BUSINESS. I HAVE A SCORE OF OTHER FORMER ASSOCIATES AND COLLEAGUES WHO HAVE BEEN EXPERIENCING SERIOUS HEALTH PROBLEMS, AND FORGIVE ME, BUT I'M STARTING TO FEEL A LOT OLDER THAN MY FIFTY-NINE YEARS. THERE'S A LOT MORE I WANT TO ACCOMPLISH, EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT AT ALL SURE WHY I FEEL SO COMPELLED TO INVEST WHAT WOULD OTHERWISE BE FREE TIME, TO PLAY WITH MY BUDDING STAMP COLLECTION, FOR EXAMPLE. MAYBE THE BEST WAY TO PRESENT THIS, IS WITH THE STORY PRINTED BELOW. THIS OPENING WAS ADDED JUST PRIOR TO PUBLISHING THE BLOG, BUT IN KEEPING WITH THE INTENT AND CHARACTER OF THE BLOG WRITTEN HOURS EARLIER. I ALSO WANT TO CLARIFY THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN WHAT WOULD BE CONSIDERED A RAGING ALCOHOLIC. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ON A MULTI-DAY BENDER, OR SUFFERED FROM ANY DELUSIONS AS A RESULT OF ALCOHOL ABUSE. I WAS A CELEBRATORY DRINKER, AND A STUPID ONE AT THAT! I MISTAKEN CAME TO BELIEVE I NEEDED BOOZE IN ORDER TO WRITE. IT WAS NONSENSE, BUT WHAT CAN I SAY. I WAS YOUNG AND FOOLISH, AND THINKING I WAS A MUSKOKA HEMINGWAY. I STOPPED DRINKING SOCIALLY, AND HEAVILY, SHORTLY AFTER ANDREW WAS BORN. I HAD TO PROVE TO MYSELF, THAT I WASN'T ADDICTED TO BOOZE, AND THAT I COULD WRITE WITHOUT ITS INFLUENCES. GRADUALLY, I WAS ABLE TO PROVE THIS, BUT THEN, BELIEVING AS BOOZE HAD BEEN A REWARD FOR A HARD DAY'S WORK IN THE NEWSROOM, I TRADED BOTTLES OF BEER AND GLASSES OF SCOTCH, FOR TURKEY LEGS AND SUBMARINE SANDWICHES. I HAVE FOR YEARS, WAGED THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE, BUT ALWAYS SOBER. SUZANNE HAS WORKED WITH ME, TO REMOVE MY WHOLE REWARD PROTOCOL, BY INFUSING CONVERSATION, AND JUST THE PLEASURE ACHIEVED, KNOWING THAT I STILL HAVE SOME READERS. WHEN, AT THE END OF MY BLOGS, I FREQUENTLY THANK YOU FOR JOINING ME, I AM BEING SINCERE. ABSOLUTELY SO. AGAIN, THE FOLLOWING COPY WILL EXPLAIN THIS, AND THE THERAPEUTIC VALUE OF WRITING EVERY DAY, AND LETTING EMOTION DO WHAT IT WANTS, IN TERMS OF EXPRESSION.
ONE NOTE, I WOULD LIKE TO START WITH, IS THAT OUR GRAVENHURST SHOP, WILL NOW STOCK COPIES OF THE GREAT NORTH ARROW, THE WONDERFUL RURAL-CLIME PUBLICATION THAT HAS GIVEN ME SO MUCH TO LOOK FORWARD TO EVERY MONTH; WRITING FOR AND THEN READING.
HONESTLY, I'M SO PLEASED WITH MYSELF, THAT IF IT WAS THIRTY YEARS AGO, AND I WAS SITTING NEXT TO MY WRITING CHUM, BRANT SCOTT, IN A DANK, MUSTY CORNER OF THE OLD ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, I'D HAVE A NICE COLD PINT IN CELEBRATION. MAYBE FOUR OF THEM! FOUR AT EACH WATERING HOLE! FOR GOSH SAKES, I'M A LOT OLDER, AND A TAD (NOT BUD) WISER, IN THIS AUTUMN SEASON OF 2014, SO ANY CELEBRATORY HOISTING OF BEVERAGE, WOULD HAVE TO BE A CEREMONIAL TOAST WITH A PINT OF MILK OR ORANGE JUICE. I GAVE UP DEMON RUM A LONG TIME AGO, BECAUSE INSTEAD OF TOASTING MILESTONES, AS HAD BECOME TRADITION, AND OTHERWISE GREAT ACCOMPLISHMENT, (A TIME TO SELF CONGRATULATE), I WAS INSTEAD TOASTING THE FACT I HAD JUST BOUGHT ANOTHER BOTTLE, OR A TWENTY-FOUR OF BEER. THERE WAS A TIME IN MY LIFE, WHEN I WAS TOASTING MANY TIMES IN A DAY, AND MY WRITING, WAS, WELL, LIKE A LEONARD COHEN POEM, BUT I WAS WRITING EDITORIAL COPY MEANT FOR THE FRONT PAGE. IN CONTEMPORARY TIMES, AND IN RECOGNITION OF TODAY'S MILESTONE, I HAD A HONKING BIG BUTTER TART INSTEAD, WITH SO MUCH LIQUID, IT WILL TAKE ME AN HOUR TO FLUSH IT OUT OF MY BEARD. IT WAS PRETTY LOW-KEY CELEBRATION, IF YOU COULD EVEN CALL IT THAT, AND I NEVER ONCE HAD THE URGE TO DO THE LIMBO, OR SWING FROM A CHANDELIER, OR EVEN DISROBE AND STREAK ACROSS THE MAIN STREET TO GET A SLICE OF PIZZA. THIS WRITING MILESTONE, WHICH I CALL THE "LUCKY TO BE ALIVE," PROFESSIONAL ACHIEVEMENT CITATION, PARALLELS THE KIND OF FEELING ONE GETS, HOLDING BACK AT THE RESTAURANT FOR AN EXTRA CUP OF COFFEE, AND THEN FINDING OUT LATER, THE DELAY KEPT US FROM BEING INVOLVED IN A CAR WRECK UP THE ROAD. I HAD A LOT OF NEAR MISSES IN MY NEWS WRITING DAYS, AND AS FAR AS WRECKS ARE CONCERNED, FRIENDS ASSUMED I HAD SOME SORT OF DIVINE PROTECTION. IF YOU READ ABOUT MY GUARDIAN ANGEL, WHO I WAS INTRODUCED TO AS A CHILD, DURING A LENGTHY ILLNESS, MAYBE THIS OVERVIEW HAS SOME SUBSTANCE. ANY WAY YOU LOOK AT IT, MY ONLINE ACHIEVEMENT HAS PROVEN ONE THING ABOVE ALL ELSE. THAT I CAN WRITE WITHOUT THE LUBRICATION OF BOOZE. FOR A LOT OF YEARS, I WASN'T SURE HOW THIS WOULD WORK, BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH I HAD SLOWED DOWN TO A TRICKLE OF ALCOHOL IN ANY GIVEN YEAR, I WAS PRONE TO MARK DATES OF UNSPECIFIED ACCOMPLISHMENT, WITH TREATS FROM THE LIQUOR STORE. IT ALL BEGAN IN THE NEWS BUSINESS, I'M SORRY TO SAY, BUT HONESTLY, IT HAS BEEN A PROFESSION WELL KNOWN FOR ITS EXCESSES. WRITER WORK HARD AND PLAY HARD. SUZANNE USED TO KID ME, THAT IF A MOVIE WAS TO BE MADE ABOUT MY LIFE, IT WOULD MIRROR RAY MILLAND'S PERFORMANCE, IN THE MOVIE "LOST WEEKEND," ABOUT AN AUTHOR WHO HAS GREAT IDEAS FOR A BOOK, BUT TOO MUCH THIRST FOR HIS OWN GOOD. I THINK SHE'S KIDDING, BUT THERE WERE TIMES, WHEN I WAS A SINGLE WRITER, THAT I DID HAVE THOSE MOMENTS OF BRILLIANT IDEAS, SITTING IN A TAVERN, ONLY TO LOSE THEM WHEN I GOT HOME, OR BACK TO THE NEWS ROOM. I'D FALL ASLEEP SITTING AT THE TYPEWRITER. SUZANNE RESCUED ME FROM MYSELF, AND MY PROFESSION, AND THUS, MY RE-INTRODUCTION TO SOBRIETY. I HAVE TO DEDICATE THIS MILESTONE OF READERSHIP ATTAINED, TO SUZANNE, FOR KEEPING ME OFF THE BOOZE, AND MOTIVATING ME TO WRITE TO ATTAIN AN OBJECTIVE. PROVING TO MYSELF, THAT BOOZE WAS AN ANCHOR, NOT A LIFE-SAVER.
AS OF THIS MOMENT, HAVING NOW PUBLISHED TODAY'S BLOG, YES SIREE, I HAVE FINALLY HIT THE 250,000 "VIEWS" PLATEAU. IT'S NOT A HUGE ACCOMPLISHMENT, BY TODAY'S ONLINE MEDIA STANDARDS, AND THE STATUS RUNG-UP BY THE SUPER STARS OF BLOGGING, BUT WHAT THE HELL. IF I WAS WRITING FOR A MAJOR DAILY NEWSPAPER, I'D HAVE HIT THE 250,000 CIRCULATION LEVEL BEFORE THE PAPERS WERE SHIPPED OUT OF THE MAIL ROOM, JUST THROUGH SUBSCRIPTION. IF I WAS A WRITER FOR THE HUFFINGTON POST, I'D BE BOASTING A STAGGERING NUMBER OF VIEWS. YET, MAYBE I'M TOO COMPLACENT FOR MY OWN GOOD; BUT I'M QUITE HAPPY TO HAVE HIT THIS JUNIOR ONLINE MILESTONE, AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, IT HAS BEEN DIFFICULT AT TIMES. FIRST OF ALL, I GREW UP IN A NEWSPAPER WRITER'S DOMINION. IT'S COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, THAN SETTING DOWN TO WRITE FOR ONE WEEKLY NEWSPAPER ISSUE, BECAUSE YOU HAVE AN AUDIENCE THAT DEMANDS A LITTLE SOMETHING DIFFERENT, AND UNIQUE, SEVEN DAYS EACH WEEK. AND I NO LONGER DRINK. NO FUEL FOR MY MULE. WHY IS THIS IMPORTANT? SOME OF MY MOST PROLIFIC WRITING PEAKS, FOR DAYS AT A TIME, CAME DURING PERIODS WHEN OUR REPORTING STAFF, HAD A REGULAR TABLE AT THE FORMER ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, (NOW A TARPED PILE OF RUBBLE) WHERE WE PENNED OUR ROUGH NOTES, GARNERED BY IN-TAVERN INTERVIEWS, OFFERED US, COURTESY OUR DEEP THROAT SOURCES, WITH A JUG OF BEER ALWAYS WITHIN ARM'S REACH. THEN, HAVING A SNOUT FULL, WE'D HEAD BACK TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND WRITE LIKE THERE WAS NO TOMORROW. I COULD HAMMER OUT TWENTY NEWS STORIES IN TWO DAYS, A COLUMN AND A COUPLE OF EDITORIALS, INCLUDING THE TIME WE'D SPENT ON THE PHONE AND IN PERSON, DOING INTERVIEWS. WE OFTEN WORKED THROUGH THE NIGHT, LIVING ON BEER, A LITTLE RUM WITH OUR EGG NOG (IN SEASON OF COURSE), WHEN WE WERE FLUSH WITH CASH, AND GALLONS OF COFFEE. WE WERE ON FIRE. AND THE COPY, FOR ALL THE DURESS, AND THE BOOZE, WAS PRETTY GOOD STUFF. I WON'T KID YOU, I NEEDED THE BOOZE, AND SO DID MANY OF THE OTHER WRITERS, I KEPT AS COMPANY. WHILE WE DIDN'T WRITE WHILE LEGALLY INTOXICATED, (JUST A LITTLE BUZZED) IT WAS THE KIND OF ALIXIR THAT SEEMED TO DO THE TRICK, AS FAR AS KEEPING US ON TASK. AND WITH A STRICT DEADLINE, WE WERE GEARED TO BEAT DEADLINE, AS IF IT WAS AN OPEN COMPETITION. THE NEWSROOM WAS A FRANTIC PLACE LATE OF TUESDAY AFTERNOON, AND IT WAS SO DAMN EXCITING TO BE A PART OF THIS SCENE, PLAYING OUT EVERY WEEK THROUGH THE ROLLING YEAR. ONCE THE PAPER WAS PUT TO BED, ON THOSE LATE TUESDAY NIGHTS, AND WE HIT THE HOLIDAY HOUSE, FOR THE PRESS DAY VICTORY LAP, THE NEXT MORNING, HAVING TO PRY OUR EYELIDS APART, WE ALL CAME CRASHING DOWN UNTIL THE VERY NEXT MONDAY. OUR MAIN OUTPUT, WITHOUT QUESTION, WAS FROM FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING, UNTIL TUESDAY NIGHT. WE WOULD CONDUCT INTERVIEWS FROM WEDNESDAY TO SUNDAY, BUT WE FELT IT WAS A TIME HONORED TRADITION, OF WHICH WE ADHERED RIGOROUSLY, TO WORK LIKE THOSE OLD TIME REPORTERS FROM THE DEPRESSION YEARS, LIVING ON CIGARETTES AND WHISKY, AND JAMMING EVERYTHING THAT NEEDED TO BE DONE, INTO NO MORE THAN A FORTY-EIGHT HOUR DASH TO COPY DEADLINE, AT AROUND FIVE O'CLOCK EVERY TUESDAY NIGHT. WE WERE BAD, BAD, BAD BOYS, BUT WHAT A CRAZY, ELECTRIC, WILD LIFE IT WAS, BEING IN THIS GREAT PROFESSION, POUNDING OUT STORIES ON MANUAL TYPEWRITERS, THE WEIGHT OF A COMBINE HARVESTER. WE WERE KILLING OURSELVES WITH EXCESSES, BUT WE FELT DEEPLY INGRAINED IN A PROFESSION THAT PUT US INTO THE MIDDLE OF CANADIAN NEWS AND POLITICS. WE WERE RESPECTED BY THE PUBLIC, WE HAD A PAID FOR CIRCULATION, AND ALTHOUGH WE DIDN'T WEAR FEDORAS WITH "PRESS" CARDS STUFFED UNDER THE HAT BANDS, WE BELIEVED THE VERY NEXT CALL, WOULD BE FROM THE EDITOR OF A TORONTO DAILY, OFFERING US A WRITING GIG. THE DOWN SIDE? IT TOOK YEARS TO GET OUT OF THE HABIT OF REQUIRING BOOZE IN ORDER TO WRITE ANYTHING. IT TOOK ME YEARS TO LEARN HOW TO WRITE COPY DURING THE OTHER FIVE DAYS OF THE WEEK. EVEN YEARS AFTER LEAVING THE PAPER, I USED TO GET WEIRD ON TUESDAY EVENINGS, FEELING LIKE I HAD TO PUT A NEWSPAPER TO BED (OFF TO THE PRINTER).
THE VICTORY FOR ME, IS AN INTIMATE ONE, AS I HAVE ELUDED TO PREVIOUSLY. WHEN SON ROBERT SUGGESTED THAT I TRY WRITING A BLOG FOR A POTENTIAL INTERNET READERSHIP, I THOUGHT ABOUT IT FOR SIX MONTHS, AND THEN ON HIS URGING, TOOK THE PLUNGE ABOUT FIVE YEARS AGO THIS FALL. I DID USE THE BLOG-FORMAT, TO FIGHT TO SAVE "THE BOG," WHICH WORKED EXTREMELY WELL, AND THEN I STARTED TO WRITE A FEW POLITICAL BLOGS EACH MONTH, BUT GENERALLY, I WAS ONLY WRITING FOR PUBLICATION, SIX TO TEN TIMES EACH MONTH; AND MY READERSHIP WAS UNDER TWENTY-FIVE PER BLOG. WHEN ROBERT SUGGESTED THAT I SHOULD TRY WRITING A DAILY BLOG, THREE YEARS AGO THIS WEEK, I INITIALLY DECLINED SUCH AN AMBITIOUS PROJECT, SOMEWHAT, I SUPPOSE, BECAUSE I NO LONGER HAD A LIBERAL RELATIONSHIP WITH LIQUID COURAGE, AS SUZANNE USED TO CALL MY LIQUOR CABINET. WHILE I COULD WRITE LARGE QUANTITIES OF COPY WHEN REQUIRED, TO KEEP PUBLISHERS OF REGIONAL MAGAZINES HAPPY, AS A MONTHLY COMMITMENT, I BOLSTERED THOSE OCCASIONS WITH FOOD. GOOD FOOD. PIES. YES, BUTTER TARTS. INSTEAD OF ALCOHOL, I WAS TREATING MYSELF TO HIGH CALORIE FOODS, AS A REWARD FOR ACHIEVING MY WRITING OBJECTIVES FOR ANY GIVEN DAY OR WEEK. SUZANNE BLAMES THIS LATEST WAY OF TRYING TO KILL MYSELF, AS THE REASON I NEEDED TO CHANGE MY WHOLE WRITING PROFILE AND HABITS. I WAS SCARED TO GET ON THE SCALES, TO SEE IF I WAS AS BAD AS SUZANNE WAS ESTIMATING, BY EYE-BALLING MY PHYSIQUE. I ASKED ROBERT IF HE THOUGHT I COULD HANDLE A DAILY BLOG COMMITMENT. "OF COURSE YOU CAN DO IT, DAD, AND IT WILL BE GOOD FOR YOU," HE SAID. IN THE PAST, QUITE TO THE CONTRARY, WRITING DROVE ME TO DRINK, AND THEN TO EAT IN EXCESS, ALL BECAUSE OF THE CREATIVE PROCESS AND ITS WICKED NEEDS FOR FUEL AND REWARD.
TO MANY READING TODAY'S BLOG, IT WILL SEEM YET ANOTHER TOME IN A SERIOUS OF SELF-CONGRATULATORY EDITORIALS, ABOUT MY GREATNESS IN THE UNIVERSE. THIS HOWEVER, SHOULD SHOW, WORTS AND ALL, THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE. HAVING MADE IT THROUGH THREE YEARS, OF ALMOST DAY TO DAY WRITING, (I HAVE MISSED A FEW DAYS DUE TO ILLNESS, NOT DRUNKENNESS), I HAVE PROVEN TO MYSELF, THAT I CAN FUNCTION WITH NO OTHER INCENTIVE, THAN THE GOOD FEELING OF HAVING LIVED UP TO AN OBLIGATION I IMPOSED OF MYSELF. I HAVE EVEN ENJOYED THE OCCASIONAL BOTTLE OF IMPORTED BEER, THE BOYS HAVE BOUGHT FOR ME AT CHRISTMAS, AND FOR MY BIRTHDAY IN JULY, WITHOUT FEELING ANY NECESSITY TO DRINK BEFORE OR DURING A WRITING ASSIGNMENT. I AM CONTENTED, YOU SEE, BY KNOWING THAT I HAVE AN AUDIENCE, THAT MAY, BY NOW, REALIZE, MY IMMERSION IN WRITING, IS VASTLY A THERAPEUTIC EXERCISE, FOR EXPENDED CREATIVE ENERGY THAT MIGHT OTHERWISE BE USED TO ABUSE BOOZE AND FOOD, TO SELF MOTIVATE. WHILE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THE WAY IT USED TO BE, AND THE GRIP NEAR ALCOHOLISM HAD ON ME, BUT I WAS YOUNG, FOOLISH, AND MY GIRLFRIENDS OF THE TIME, WERE WHAT DR. PHIL REFERS TO AS "ENABLERS." THEY LIKED TO PARTY, AND THEY TREATED ME LIKE I WAS PRESS ROYALTY. IN A SMALL TOWN, THE MEDIA FOLKS DID GET PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT; AND I GOT TO ATTEND ALL KINDS OF SPECIAL EVENTS WITH PARTNERS FREE OF CHARGE. EVEN AT THESE SOCIAL EVENTS, I WAS FED BOOZE BY ALL KINDS OF GENEROUS FOLKS, WHO THOUGHT THEY WERE BEING KIND, BUT QUITE TO THE CONTRARY. THUS, I AM TELLING THE TRUTH, WHEN I SUGGEST, I WAS BEING EATEN ALIVE BY THE WAY I DECIDED TO CELEBRATE MY INVOLVEMENT IN THE WRITING PROFESSION, AND AS A NEWSPAPER EDITOR. MY GAL PALS LIKED THE PRIVILEGES I HAD, AND THE SOCIAL BUTTERFLY REALITIES, OF SOCIALIZING WITH THE LOCAL BUSINESS ELITE. IT WAS ENTERTAINING THEM, BUT KILLING ME. WHEN SUZANNE CAME ALONG, SHE HAD TO BACKTRACK A LONG, LONG WAY, TO BRING BACK THE WRITER, AND LOSE THE LUSH. SUZANNE GREW UP IN WINDERMERE, AND THE LAKE COMMUNITY, AND SHE WASN'T IMPRESSED AT MY IDEA OF SOCIAL CLIMBING. BEING UNIMPRESSED, SHE MADE ME RE-ASSESS WHAT I ASSUMED WAS THE BIG LEAGUES OF SMALL TOWN ONTARIO. I WAS, I THINK, BECOME A CHARACTER IN MY OWN FICTION. MY SOON-TO-BE WIFE, REMINDED ME OF WHY I GOT INTO WRITING IN THE FIRST PLACE. STICKING WITH A BLOG, IN A CYBERSPACE I DON'T FULLY UNDERSTAND, AND USING A LAPTOP DEVICE THAT FRIGHTENS ME WITH ITS NUMBER OF OPTIONS, THAT GIVES ME TROUBLE CONSTANTLY, THE ACCOMPLISHMENT OF DAILY BLOGGING IS A MUCH DIFFERENT MILESTONE THAN YOU MIGHT EXPECT. WHILE A WRITER WANTS TO BE RECOGNIZED FOR ONGOING EXCELLENCE, PRODUCING COMPELLING, PROVOCATIVE EDITORIAL COPY, I MUST OFFER THIS APOLOGY, IN CONTRAST; THAT I FEEL SUCCESSFUL, BECAUSE I HAVE LEARNED TO DO SOMETHING I THOUGHT WAS IMPOSSIBLE, AND DOING SO, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A BRANDY-FILLED CHOCOLATE PASSING MY LIPS.
AT THE TIME ROBERT CREATED AN ONLINE, GOOGLE ENDORSED, AND INTERNATIONALLY PROMOTED BLOG SIE, FOR HIS OLD POP, I ALSO JOINED THE WRITING STABLE OF A FEATURE PUBLICATION, I'VE MENTIONED IN THIS BLOG MANY TIMES, KNOWN AS THE "GREAT NORTH ARROW," PUBLISHED FROM DUNCHURCH, ONTARIO, FOR THE MARKET OF THE NEAR NORTH. I HAD ALREADY BEEN WRITING FOR THE GERVAIS FAMILY OF "CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE," SO JOINING THE "ARROW," ALONG WITH THE DAILY BLOG, ELEVATED MY DAILY AND MONTHLY EXPOSURE TO THE HIGHEST LEVEL SINCE I BEGAN WRITING PROFESSIONALLY IN THE LATE 1970'S. IT'S NOT A NUMBER SKIRTING "A MILLION," BUT THE NUMBERS KEEP ESCALATING IN PART DUE TO WHAT I DON'T UNDERSTAND ABOUT FACEBOOK (THAT I CO-OP WITH OUR SONS MUSIC BUSINESS) AND GENERAL CYBERSPACE CIRCULATION. I HAD A NICE VISIT WITH CYNDI CULBERT, PUBLISHER / EDITOR, OF THE GREAT NORTH ARROW, HERE AT OUR MUSIC SHOP, IN WHAT I CALL ONE OF MY HOT-STOVE-LEAGUE CHATS, AND I TOOK THE OPPORTUNITY TO THANK HER FOR GIVING AN OLD GEEZER LIKE ME, A SHOT AT A JOURNALISM RE-BOOT, A SORT OF DO-OVER, OF DAYS I LOST IN MY YOUNGER NEWSPAPER DAYS, WHILE DRINKING TOO MUCH AND LIVING TOO HARD. THE GREAT NORTH ARROW IS FULL OF THE TRADITIONAL NEWSPAPER QUALITIES AND QUANTITIES I GREW UP WITH, AND ADORE FOR ITS COMMUNITY OUTREACH. THIS IS A PAPER FOR THE CROSS ROADS NEIGHBORHOODS, THE HAMLETS, VILLAGES AND TOWNS, JUST LIKE WE USED TO HAVE SERVING THE MUSKOKA REGION IN THE SO CALLED GOOD OLD DAYS. I JUST WISH I REMEMBERED MORE ABOUT THEM. THERE'S A FAIR AMOUNT OF HAZE TO GET PAST. ALL I KNOW, IS THAT WRITING FOR CYNDI'S WELL RECEIVED MONTHLY PAPER IS AN HONOR AND PRIVILEGE, AND BELIEVE ME, I APPRECIATE THE TRADITIONS IT HONORS OF RURAL HERITAGE. THEY SAY YOU CAN'T RELIVE YOUR YOUTH, BUT THEY'RE WRONG. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE NOW, IS THAT I DON'T NEED BOOZE TO GET EXCITED ABOUT MY JOB, AND I DON'T HAVE AN ENABLER; I HAVE A MENTOR, WHO HIS ALSO MY WIFE.
I STILL HAVE A LOT TO WRITE ABOUT - AND HOPEFULLY, THE KIND OF UNIQUE STORIES THAT WILL APPEAL TO YOU ALL OVER AGAIN
I like to write about actuality. When I commenced these daily blogs, three years ago this month, I would start by identifying some of the strange intrusions I was exposed to, working in my Birch Hollow office. Not because it was a particularly important detail, but because I wanted to establish, that my blog would be tied to the actuality of the moment. For example, I am now writing this concluding piece, working in the front seat of our van, waiting for Suzanne to retire the business shingle for the day, so we can head home to our cozy hearth, to enjoy a bowl of gruel. It's still raining, looks colder than it is, but the pedestrian traffic is peaking with the after-work crowd, especially around the main street banks. A couple of friends have ambled by, in the past few minutes, rapping on the passenger side window, to extend afternoon greetings. I like that! At Birch Hollow, in those first blogs, I made many references to an annoying wee cricket, that was chirping all the while I was writing. I would try to position it, in the room, and wonder if there was some possibility of trapping the little beast. I gave up on this plan, because Jimney was pretty clever about me getting used to his hiding places, and besides, it was pretty cold outside, if I did catch him, for release back to the wilds. This room in this urban cottage, was the bandy legged wee beastie's home. Not outdoors. So unless I was prepared to crush the little bugger, to free the room of his incessant chirping, I had no significant reason to hunt him down. I still felt it necessary to make reference to the cricket, at times its chirping was most intrusive, and mildly annoying, to the story I was trying to piece together. I had cats on my lap, around my neck, hanging off my shoulder, and sitting on my desk, looking at what was bouncing around on the screen of the lap top. If the rain was blowing horizontal, during an autumn storm, it was reference in the blog. The same with the first snowfall, the sleet, freezing rain, and the sound of raspberry canes snapping at the window pane of my office, blown violently by the raging wind. I wanted to reflect just how contemporary my blogs would be, a tad down the road, and what readers might come to expect, from a writer, gnashing to produce, sometimes on no more inspiration than a cricket on the hearth; talking to me about the ways and traditions of the insect community, in the humble quarters we call our home.
At the same time, like learning to walk after a devastating accident, I had to learn to control my craft, and balance my creative enterprise, stone cold sober. I had to find other ways to celebrate milestone achievements, and self congratulate, for staying the course, no matter what the odds. If you don't have much background in writing, or understand what it means to suffer from writer's block, suffice to say, it's a living hell. Losing faith in your ability to create, is devastating and draining, because like being stuck in quicksand, it's natural to struggle versus, carefully untangling what constrains you. Some writers have career ending writer's block, and others feel they have no choice, but to resort to booze, or even drugs, to re-inspire the cluttered mind. It might work for a while, but it is not a solution. Achieving 250,000 views, for me, has proven that I can overcome any writer's block that may slide into my path, like the iceberg that took down the Titanic. If there is any resource I am thankful to possess, over all others, it's my ability to self inspire, and maintain a daily schedule of writing, because I want to!
I owe this, as an explanation to my readers. It's is quite daunting, to plan writing projects, and daily editorials, that will meet the interests of what I can only believe, is a vastly diversified audience. I have readers around the globe, who have some ex-pat relationship with this part of Ontario, and there are others who check in with me frequently, in case I'm writing about antiques and collectables, because this is their interest. Many have told me they like it when I rag on local elected officials, and there are those who enjoy my tales of rambling and roaming about the region, and Algonquin Park. There are those who like the inclusion of actuality, but at the same time, I lose readers, because I can't diversify enough to satisfy all interests. It's certainly not for the lack of trying. I have a lot of stories yet to tell, and the kind of acquiantances that keep me in the loop, with their own fascinating recollections and folk tales, I love to publish via this blog. But alas, I am mortal, and there are times, when I am just exhausted, and running on empty. Helping to run our antique and vintage music shops, here in Gravenhurst, and writing for several other papers, including the Great North Arrow, does drain the well, as far as coming up with ideas is concerned. Never once, in three years of this daily exercise, have I thought about hoisting a cold beer, or having a shot of whiskey, to inspire a column. When Robert set me up, with Google approval of my site, based on readership and advertising appeal, I would never have believed that I would make it through even the first year. To have hit three full years, and have registered 250,000 views, is small to those bloggers who use celebrity names, and write about major events, to bolster their stats, but to me, it has re-enforced the very real evidence I needed to possess, about the level of commitment, at my age, I am still prepared to dedicate, to make my own small contribution to Canadian authordom.
At times, my blog may read as if a deflated balloon. Occasionally, it will seem as if I am writing from another planet, or in another dimension. There may be a return of my cricket friend one day, or the woodpecker, that insists on rapping on the posts of our verandah, at those times when, for me, it is most distracting. If I am writing about Bracebridge, my old home town, or Gravenhurst, where we work and live today, or even about the wider Muskoka, it will be based in large part, on the actuality of the moment and the experience of travel and participation in events. If my blogs occasionally appear far too self-important, as if I am trying to give the appearance of being far more accomplished, than my biography can honestly support, it is probably the net result, of being happy and content, more than I can describe about surviving in a profession that nearly swallowed me in its excesses. Every day that I can write, and do so feeling unfettered, and excited about the free enterprise of creativity, I am, without apology, thrilled to publish my little stake in Canadian arts and culture. I have told my dear wife, who is so abundantly patient with me, and understands my mood shifts, and occasional blues, that I will tell her one column in advance, of when I wish to retire from active duty. I have, you see, insisted, that the person responsible for restoring my career, must then, be the author of the last word, as my on earth, spirit guide. If one day, sooner or later, you visit this blog, and find that the author is Suzanne Currie instead, please give her a few moments of your time; she will, better than I could, provide a shorter, neater, more poignant conclusion, than if I was to pen it, with regrets, myself.
Thanks for being a part of a milestone exercise in a writer's rehabilitation to the conventions and conveniences of the modern era; this blog has given me reason to quest for new sources of inspiration; but never again from a bottle. I am greatly indebted to you, for your ongoing support of this blog.
From The Archives November 2011, "The Cricket In My Archives"
CHRISTMAS SEASON IN GRAVENHURST - A WRITER IN RESIDENCE
Listen! Do you hear it? What about now? There it is again! My guest. My unexpected, uninvited guest. Keeping me company. Chirping. Chirping.
Somewhere at Birch Hollow there is a cricket, chirping away, as if attempting to communicate something or other about the prevailing comforts of the household. Each time I begin typing, and have a good idea what I'm going to compose two paragraphs into the future, this darn cricket will start its abrupt, annoying chatter, announcing its state of the union. Maybe it's looking for a mate. Possibly it's a disgruntled former friend or relative, who has returned to this mortal-coil as a cricket. I've tried addressing it by name but the cadence doesn't change. If it was any spirit that might re-incarnate to my office, it would be Dave Brown, my historian friend, who used to bunk-out on the couch over there, in the corner. He was an outdoor education co-ordinator and he wouldn't hurt a cricket, let along any living creature. It couldn't be my mother, because it doesn't chirp loud enough. I couldn't kill it, even if I captured the wee beastie, because of this suspicion the intrusion had a purpose. Gads.
I'm very much a creature of habit. I like things to stay the same. Somethings I can't control. In my office, things are easy to organize and situate, such that each day, except for the sun and breeze coming in this window, I have the comfort of controlling what is normal. This cricket, in the natural scheme of things, is very much doing what is normal. It's just not normal that it has come to dwell in my comfort zone. While I'm very much against the idea of hunting this creature-of-the-shadows, and killing it, because the winter is upon us, I wouldn't be able to catch and release either. I'd feel real bad all winter, that I'd caused the poor little thing great discomfort. It's just hard to keep a story-line, because every time I stop, and look about to see where the chirping is coming from, I forget half what I was writing about. It took me a long time to get used to our cats jumping up on my lap, while I'm typing, but forgive me for saying that the purring of the felines, is much preferable to the start of the unsettling round of chirping; that by the way, always seems so urgent and of grave consequence. There's an interpretation issue, I'm sure, so I should seek out a cricket whisperer for clarification.
Strange as this may seem, I found a book at a local charity "Sale for Jesus" (I'm serious), on Saturday, containing a most appropriate passage. I thought that if Jesus had something to do with this sale, possibly he was trying to send me a message about toleration and harmonious living. The book is entitled "The Yellow Briar," by Patrick Slater, containing a most insightful overview of pioneering in Ontario. As if by some strange manifestation of providence, it contains a reference quite suitable to my present situation……as a writer and as a landlord here at Birch Hollow. It seems the best place to start this series of Christmas season blogs, for my hometown, and as an explanation, why I adore working and living in Gravenhurst. It reads as follows:
"And here I sit, a garrulous old fellow whose trials and troubles are all over, chirping away and as happy making noises for my own amusement, as any cricket in a crack by a glowing chimney corner. Sure an Irishman gets a lot of fun watching the world go by. But my warmth comes from memories of the long ago. So I ask you, folk, to fill your glasses with the moonshine of the hills where speckled trout still lurk in limpid streams." Here's to the worn-out hearts of those who saw a nation built, and to the proud, fun-loving young hearts that have it in their keeping." Ave Atque Vale - 1924.
If you have now wondered whether an old writer has taken leave of his senses, well, maybe I have. I'd like to believe in my celebratory frame of mind, like Scrooge, in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," that I've come to my senses. That I've awoken to the clear awareness, it is another day before Christmas, and there is still time to correct some wrongs, and resolve misadventures. There's time to compliment the town that has cradled our family, and created such enthusiasm in this writer's heart. And it all begins, in this humble little abode, this tiny office overlooking The Bog, with three cats nearby, and a cricket that's now home for the season. I hope you will find reason to join me, despite the wee chirping, now and again, mixed with the crackling of cedar in the hearth, and a background of Mozart, creaks and snaps of a house in the cold, and the permeating aroma of Suzanne's Christmas baking…….as much a distraction as the cricket these days. Pull up a chair, and I'll adjust the oil lamp so we can see each other. If you feel a hand on your shoulder, it's just a ghost. Friends of ours, who have attached themselves to a house they apparently enjoyed visiting. Nothing to worry about. They mean you no harm.
The fact that I have initiated this Christmas season tradition, as a blog this year, is greatly out of character for me. I have been writing Christmas journals since I was a kid, and I've written in many locations, in old houses, cottages by the lake, apartments and duplexes, and sometimes in hotels during my more adventurous youth. I have never sought to publish them because they have always been particularly personal. I've borrowed some themes, worthy of stand-alone features articles, in many different publications. I've long been fascinated by the Christmas ambience, and how it changes from place to place, town to town, and how my impressions change from year to year. Several years ago, my father Ed, who adored Christmas, and made a big fuss about shopping with the boys every year, had a stroke in mid-December, and our Christmas season was spent largely at the hospital. It was the first year we settled for a tiny table-top Christmas tree, with flickering lights (which I can't abide), because no one felt all that merry. We did okay, and had a good Christmas with Ed (in hospital quarters) but because we knew he wasn't going to survive, there wasn't much chance of lifting the melancholy for long. Still, that's the rigors of reality and the loop of the mortal coil. I still made copious notes, and that has always made things feel better, even if they weren't in fact, and it was one of the most prolific writing periods in recent memory. It lasted through that spring season. Ed didn't.
This year, as a way of carrying on a tradition, of journalling through the Christmas season, I decided to go public. I wanted to share some personal observations, about the town that has been our home since 1989. At a time when Gravenhurst has had to shoulder a great deal of economic chagrin, and random, unfounded comments that suggest, "the town is cursed," I felt it was time, to share a contrary opinion, based on personal history. As I have mentioned many times in the past, I am particularly fussy about the places I call home, even temporarily, and I'm more than just a little demanding about the place I write. I have written on the beaches of Florida, and on the fringe of Sherwood Forest, in Nottingham, England. I've penned lengthy tomes looking out over Lake Joseph, when I lived in an enchanted little home, known as "Seven Persons Cottage," on Lake Muskoka, and at the family cottage on Lake Rosseau. I've written from a canoe in Algonquin Park, while looking for Tom Thomson's ghost, and I've written in the attic of Bracebridge's former McGibbon house, an estate that was home to many, many wayward spirits. And since 1989, I have begun my Christmas journal in early November, concluding by tradition, on the strike of midnight, on New Year's Eve. It has been a most prolific period of my professional life, and I owe it to this neighborhood, this old town, and all of its interesting characteristics, with a provenance of tantalizing history, colorful community builders, surviving traditions, and a kindness of heart one can't mistake for anything else. I have written in many places, where I could not muster the enthusiasm to create for long, and even an interruption by this cricket of mine, would have been a welcome relief from the misery of creative hiatus. I have written, as with the old Herald-Gazette building, on Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, because I was employed to do so; and always with great volume to fill the white spaces of the weekly news. In my younger days as an editor and feature writer, I could force myself to write whenever or in whatever locale it was necessary to meet a publishing deadline. Today it's just not that free-flowing any more. That's why it is so important to the old author-me, to have such an inspirational place, such that finding a good time, to sit down in my office, and write, is never a burden….never something I won't heartily enjoy. I feel comfortable in this town, and while that may not seem enough credit, or endorsement to rid the town of this "curse" innuendo, well, maybe I can change that, by time we get to that New Year's toast….ending with that festive kiss on the cheek, between good friends, and family, who quite like it here…..at home in Gravenhurst.
GRAVENHURST AND MUSKOKA IN ART
I began as a collector of stuff, at about the same time that I began writing about similar stuff. When people ask what I do for jollies, I answer, "well, I'm an antique collector / dealer." When they ask what I do for profit, I answer politely, with a grin I can't erase, "well, I'm an antique dealer /collector." When they persist and ponder about my actual profession, I answer, "I'm a writer." And they get that tell-tale twinkle in their eyes, and usually respond something like, "That explains the antique thing." As I have been a starving artist most of my life, I'm pretty good at the antique thing. But there is still this confluence between professions, and the best way to deal with it, as it has been the case over many decades, I simply opt to write columns about our collecting adventures in Ontario. My antique-related columns date back to my first serious writing gig, in the late 1970's, for the fledgling Bracebridge Examiner. This afternoon, I will be preparing for a multi-year column series on collecting, for a wonderful publication known as "Curious; The Tourist Guide," which is available in Gravenhurst and Muskoka generally.
I have published a small painting that, for some time, has hung by my desk, which is a naive, folksy, intriguing little art-panel, purchased some time ago in Gravenhurst, that gives such a interesting sense of occasion and motion, as if the horse and cutter are whipping down into the treed valley. It is the apparent motion, and the way the artist has textured the landscape, that gives it the kind of impression of winter, history, and the allure of the Muskoka countryside. The writer needs the co-operation of the antique collector, who so kindly acquired the wee painting, and loaned it for inspiration. So I wanted to share one small example of my two curious professions, one feeding the other's interests. I dare say I'd be half as prolific without the many paintings hung here at Birch Hollow. The writer me, thinks the collector him, is pretty good at turning a profit as well. Much of my career in antiques, as it has been for writing, has been working in Muskoka. Since 1989, these combined industries have been working here in Gravenhurst, and I'm deeply indebted to the local environs on behalf of both writer and collector. Our boys, Andrew and Robert, of course, have carried this interest on, and have their own vintage music shop in the old Muskoka Theatre building, opposite the landmark Gravenhurst Opera house. Gravenhurst and Muskoka are not just places to live. They inspire our family daily, and we are so grateful.
Whether or not this little painting is a depiction of some Gravenhurst scene, or a wider Muskoka landscape, it is none-the-less an art piece that reflects Canadiana, my passion as a collector. I have many other regional, provincial and national paintings that remind us of our past. Suzanne's family were some of the earliest settlers to the Ufford, Three Mile Lake settlement (near Windermere), and I'm proud to say my family were of United Empire Loyalist stock, and fought in both the Revolutionary War, for the Crown, and then again, as volunteers, in the War of 1812. My attraction to Canadiana is, you might say, kind of a family-tree thing, and Suzanne is quite proud of her ancestry research most recently. Her great-grandfather's dug-out canoe is prominently displayed at the Muskoka Lakes Pioneer Museum. We're pretty passionate about home and country, and we have lots of items at Birch Hollow, that are heirlooms from a long line of family members who felt exactly the same.
I have been buying and selling regional art and antiques since my late teens, when I first started to attend local auctions. Over the memorable decades, we have helped build Muskoka archives for many private collectors, and placed important local heirlooms in the hands of museums, public archives, and galleries, locally and nationally. After many years of experience, we enjoy being referenced as Muskoka collectors, historians, antique dealers, and most important, "friends of." While this might not seem to be much of a Christmas-theme story, for this seasonal blog, it really is, from my perspective, surrounded here by art reminders of winter, spring, summer, and autumn landscapes, at home in Gravenhurst, in the beautiful District of Muskoka. If the news of the day gets a little ponderous, and it seems there is nothing uplifting to write about, either a walk in The Bog, or a casual glance at any one of these paintings, will evoke a sense of well being, and abundant potential. The painting I have included with this Blog, is just one example of the resources I possess, that remind me of the home district……the home town, all done by competent artists, craftspeople, who look out upon such landscapes, and seasonal activities, and find inspiration and contentment in the scenes many of us would take for granted. I have many more paintings that offer similar invigoration of feelings, and remind so poignantly, that we often don't see the whole picture. At times when it appears that our hometown is in great peril of collapse, or that bad things only happen in Gravenhurst, I'm constantly reminded how shallow we can be, when we fall into the depths of self-absorption, and refuse to allow brightness, and optimism, its capability to spring eternal…..even in the coldest, most severe part of an old fashion Canadian winter.
When the settlers arrived in Muskoka, on the encouragement of the Free Land and Homestead Grants, and all the hoopla of immigration agents, and steamship line story-weavers, they found little of what they had been promised, and lots of what they didn't expect. Such as huge, thick forests, great boglands that needed to be bridged, and a lot of rock. It was a generally poor agricultural area, with thin soil on rock, and a million trees to remove before there was enough open land to farm for sustenance, more than the thought of eventual profit. In the 1880's there was an Agricultural report that indicated, Muskoka was a good location, to experiment with settlers, from an assortment of overseas countries. The idea was that if the settlers in our region, could make farms and an economy out of the wilderness, then the same plan could also work in the more northerly regions of the province and country, with even harsher conditions and shorter growing seasons. The reality that many homesteaders perished on this land, we now reside, because they came overseas ill-prepared for the actual conditions of the 1860's onward, seems quite tragic and a poor way to start a region's settlement history. Many moved on before starvation, and others cleared homesteads, and after several failed crops, turned over the acreage to the government to find another brave soul to carry on. While local historians are pretty cautious about making such statements, it has always bothered me that so much emphasis has been placed on industry and business advancements, at this same time, without giving equal coverage to the destitution and starvation occurring in the midst of settlement progress. There are many unmarked graves in the hinterland, of families that perished in many unfortunate ways…..from sudden sicknesses and little medical help, to the rigors of farm life, and logging (where many settlers had to work), which was responsible for thousands of deaths. When we dwell on hardship today, in our hometown, or the wider region, excuse the historian, for thinking back, to an earlier time, when the old log shanties offered a thin layer of protection for a homestead family, and the wind-whipped snow of November, illustrated quite clearly, the vulnerabilities of the less capable…..the less fortunate, by the size of drifts inside the cabin. Whatever I witness, or read about today, I am always concerned yet, by important, mostly forgotten historical precedent as it is always incumbent then to look at the foundation of this community…..in order to realize that nothing has ever been achieved without serious consequence. When we are led to believe, by the media, that we are in dire straits, and our main street needs emergency action to reverse trends, again, it is impossible for this historian, to lose perspective on what life offers as a matter of progression,…..the reality that there is evolution of everything, and that some change is impossible to thwart.
My love and respect for Gravenhurst, is from an historian's privilege of experience. When the first snow begins to fall, this November, I will venture out, and celebrate this wondrous change of season. I will wander the path through the Bog, and watch in wonder, as the remaining cat-tails are dusted in snow. I will be haunted by the low moan of the wind over Muskoka Bay, as it rumples up over the evergreen fringe, along the ride of the hollow, and undoubtedly then, cherish a hearthside seat after a brief vigil in the winter woods. Later, a page will be inserted in this old Underwood typewriter, and I will be thrilled to represent what I witness beyond. I will think about the present reality, and fully appreciate what is happening this day, to my lads deep in main street commerce, ponder how my wife, the teacher, is getting along with her latest project, and feel quite comfortable with my own global positioning, in a town I've grown to know intimately in this creative enterprise. When the wind drives the snow against this warm pane of glass, and the light of the oil lamp flickers in the draught, through the imperfection of an older house, I will recall that pioneer cabin, where the family, on the cusp of severe winter, held nervously to the strong faith and mortal resolve to survive to see the dawn of a bright new spring.
I am excited about the coming Christmas season. This cricket and me have a lot of writing to do!
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