IN THE MIDST OF AN INCLEMENT DAY, A WONDERFUL TIME TO BASK IN MUSKOKA - A RAINY CHRISTMAS IS A JOY TO BEHOLD
A TIME OF REFLECTION - A TIME OF RELAXATION
It is supposed to rain and bellow and bluster through the days of Christmas, but in Muskoka, it is all part of the resident magic of our picturesque lakeland. From hearthside, here at Birch Hollow, I can look out over The Bog, and watch the mist rolling down into the hollow from the hardwood ridge, that fringes this wildlife-full little acreage, only a few urban blocks from the main street of Gravenhurst. I could sit for hours, doing nothing more than watching these early winter days change moods, hour to hour, backed by a symphony of bird calls, from the verandah and rim of the bird feeder, and the brushing of rasbperry canes against the wood siding of the house, as the wind picks up in the early afternoon. I can watch as our neighborhood crows gather in the oak tree, and on top of the lamp post, thinking that the owner of this modest abode, might put out his household garbage ahead of schedule. I get a kick out of watching the neighborhood squirrels darting over the crusted snow, and it is quite pleasant, to see the plump pair of bluejays rattling the tin bird feeder, just outside the middle window of the three we have situated at the front. Today, it may not look like a Christmas card, the scenery not being laden with newly fallen snow, but it is such a calming solitude regardless; despite the subtle noises from deep within. It would be impossible, looking out here today, to be uninspired. There are myriad activities going on in this framing of the lowland, and it is a natural art that electrifies the senses; pulls the heartstrings, and reminds the voyeur, just how powerful the forces of nature are, to rekindle outdoor passions. But I like the warmth, this moment, of the two oil lamps burning brightly, on my desk, as I am still chilled after a walk in the adjacent woodlands.
Now I need to write today's blog. I have a Christmas recollection that is sad, disheartening, unfortunate, yet full of many interesting anecdotes and positives that arrived after my father's illness struck a few years back.
I remember standing with my father, who was at that moment, sitting in a wheelchair, in the hospital corridor outside his room; and listening patiently, as he tried over and over, to explain how a little lidded-box, with notepaper inside, had a secret compartment, where he kept all his money. After a stroke a few weeks earlier, Ed had periods of great clarity, but little retention, and the advancing periods of delusion, when he could become aggressively paranoid, thinking, for example, the nurses and doctors were stealing his money. We had given him money to make purchases if he so desired, and he had spent some of it, because all that was left was about two bucks in quarters, dimes and nickels. Still, he insisted, that he had thousands of dollars wadded up tightly, in the secret compartment of the small cardboard container. He was getting worried they had found this hiding spot as well.
For about ten minutes, he worked at the inside bottom of the box, until he had finally ripped away the paper, to reveal another layer of cardboard. No secret compartment. No stash of cash inside. Just some folded and inked-up pieces of paper he had been making notes on, although most of the writing represented numbers more so than words. At the very moment he found that there was no secret compartment, which I had tried to explain earlier, Ed just stopped, looked at me, back at the box, and the dumped notepaper on the wheeled table, and went into a sort of trance; and giving a little sigh that to me, was in itself, a pang of sudden clarity. He seemed to understand, at that precise moment in time, that as sharp as his mind had been, as a revered lumber estimator in his day, his mind was playing tricks on him. He didn't like it. But he knew something wasn't right, and seemed to reluctantly surrender, that this was going to be the new normal. I didn't know what to say to him, at this point, other than to show him what the box was for, by gathering up his few coins, and scraps of paper, and placing them back in the small box. It was within days of Christmas and I felt bad for the oldtimer, who had always been a sharp wit, and one of those continuous learners, who read thousands of books even since his retirement from the lumber trade. Ed and my mother Merle, looked forward to Christmas with unfettered emotion. They began buying Christmas gifts in the early autumn, and they loved decorating their small Bracebridge apartment. It was always modest and tasteful in their opinion. Nothing terribly extravagant, because that was saved for the preparation and presentation of Christmas dinner, which Ed cooked beautifully.
I think this was the hardest part, because we knew, early on in his sudden illness, that it was life altering, and we would have to take control, and close-down his apartment. We had to work through the Christmas period, to start the process, because the landlord, while generous with time, was planning to overhaul the two bedroom unit. It just seemed better to get the job done as quickly as possible, but in the week leading up to Christmas, I absolutely hated being in that apartment. Merle had passed away the year before, and even in the two Christmases since, Ed had put up the Christmas decorations as they once had done together. It was in her memory that he had to do this, and we were glad he still had the spirit of follow through, because we know it was difficult to feel festive without his more than 60 year partner. Ed had shifted the boxes with the Christmas ornaments, and the little artificial tree they used to set up in front of the patio door. Then the evening, when a huge snowfall hit our region, which blocked arteries in the town for days, Ed suffered a stroke. It wasn't his only malady. The stroke set off three to four other physical complaints, each one on their own, thusly guaranteeing, the 82 year old former naval gunner, wasn't going to survive very long. We thought, as a family, about setting up the Christmas tree, and placing ornaments around the apartment as they would have done, but it somehow didn't fit with our efficiencies needed at that time, packing up my parents' possessions and running frequent trips to the local Salvation Army to make donations. I regret it now that we didn't do this. In fact, we all felt so crappy that we didn't even put up our own tree, substituting a table top shrub with blinking lights that I absolutely detested.
Strangely enough, our Christmas day visit to see him, was remarkable in so many ways. First of all, he had a very animated room-mate who loved chocolate, so we brought him a big box full. He didn't have any immediate family, so we included him in our hospital room gift giving and conversation. Ed was very much aware of what was going on around him, and we talked a lot about the days when he was a young boy, growing up in Toronto's Cabbagetown, looking forward to church sponsored gift bags that were given out, containing some games and fresh fruit, like plump oranges and apples. We talked for hours about his marriage to Merle, and he even talked about Christmas recognition while serving as a sailor on the war-ship "Coaticook," in the North Atlantic Squadron. When he was having a moment of clarity, it was incredible what he could remember; and this was important to me, because Ed had not wished to talk much about his war experiences, at any other time in our family history. In fact, I was able to make up for what I hadn't known of his war years in the Navy, for my entire life to that point, in only several weeks when he found reason, in his mixed up mind, to explain what it had been like shooting down enemy aircraft, into the churning Atlantic Ocean. It wasn't a typical Christmas season that year, but it will always be my most memorable.
One day, after New Years, I went into his hospital room, and saw him trying to pull things off his double-blue afghan, we had brought him for some additional sleeping comforts. I asked him what he was eating, because he was bringing whatever he was disengaging off the afghan, into his mouth. "I'm enjoying these fresh blueberries from this bush," he said, continuing to pull at the knap of the afghan, and then putting what he thought were blueberries, in his mouth, and giving every appearance of enjoying their taste. I sure as heck wasn't going to stop him from his recreation. He passed away a short time later. It had been a stressful Christmas season, but even with Ed's demise, in January, I felt strangely fulfilled, because of the stories he told me, that I had never known before. A few minutes before his death, son Robert and I watched him hold up both his arms, while propped up in bed, and being unable to speak, as if he saw something coming for him. I do think, no, I believe, he saw his wife, and the heavenly illumination of that well known "white light," we hope to see ourselves one day. We tried a couple of times, to pull his arms down, but he'd put them right back up. I said out loud, "Merle, it's time to come and get Ed; he's ready to let go." The only time he lowered his arms, was when the attending nurse gave him additional pain killers. But we saw in his eyes, an inner contentment, that he knew he was going to his glorious reward. He died in the company of soft classical music, and the warmth of the old and very gnarled blueberry afghan, which we still own, by the way. I felt contented myself, that he knew where he was going, and that it was a pleasing destination; and this made all of us, in that post Christmas haze of emotions, feel resolved there had been a happy ending despite what we, originally could only see as tragic.
We've had Christmases in hospital and a nursing home for my mother, and all quite pleasant under the circumstances. We can wish things were different, and no one had to get sick, or become incapable of looking after themselves, but life is what it is; short and sweet. There are probably many readers of this blog, who have parallel family stories, and have had deaths occur at this otherwise festive time of the year. There are many folks we know, who will be spending Christmas and New Years alone, visiting hospitals and being patients, and it is up to us, to spread some kindness and compassion their way. Some prefer to be alone, but others, missing loved ones, would rather be gathered with family than being alone, and feeling isolated. Admittedly, it can be a brutal time of the year, amongst all this good cheer, and I know of friends who can't wait until it is all over, and the world can get back to its normal fare. I have spent Christmases on my own, and New Years with a couple of bottles of beer and a cat named "Animal." We ate like kings that year. She was brilliant company although it was about the worse time to own a pet, because of the hours I worked at the newspaper. We made up for it during the Christmas season. I filled the time alone, with Mozart and Beethoven, with a couple of old and dear books, I had lined-up in advance, to read during this quiet period, while living at the former home and medical office of Bracebridge Doctor, Peter McGibbon. I won't lie about this. I did feel lonely but not desolate primarily because of my reading material, the music and the cat that sat on my lap for hours on end. There's something so darn soothing about a purring cat, that always makes me slumber off into neverland.
We are looking forward to a quiet Currie Christmas at Birch Hollow with good food and beverage, and whether it rains, snows, or bellows, as it is supposed to, we are going to wind-down from what has been a busy year the best way we can; by enjoying what Muskoka offers us in hinterland living. I don't want to be anywhere else. This is the region that has made us happy for long and long, and sitting hearthside with a copy of Dickens "Christmas Carol," or Washington Irving's "Bracebridge Hall," is perfect for the couple of days off we're going to disappear from the mainstream, a winter respite, before we have to contend with Boxing week challenges at the shop. I hope area retailers did okay this Christmas season. We certainly had a blast, meeting a lot of out of town folks, who were planning to spend the holidays in Muskoka. We have found this past year, one of the most significant in recent memory, for off-season visitors, and this is great for a largely tourist economy, traditionally most advantageous in the summer months. We most definitely want to share our region, that's for sure.
The first book on my post Christmas reading list, is a really swell 1892 hard cover edition of "Books and Bookmen," by Andrew Lang, published by Longmann Green, the story of collecting antique and rare books. I like the fact it is a very early text about being a bibliophile. Did you know there were book shops in the early 1600's. That blows me away. I can't believe I didn't know that before this, in my own biography as a book seller. Seems absurd, but it has never come before, except when I was reading the book's introduction; after Suzanne gave me permission to get the book from an Orillia shop, as my Christmas present. We always select for ourselves and I had been trying to justify buying the book on the last five visits to the book store. As I am planning to devote myself much more aggressively to old books and art in the new year, at the shop, I thought it would be a sensible plan, to restore some knowledge about the earliest years in the art of printing books. I will be sharing this Christmas present in the New Year with you fine folks, if you wish to carry on reading this daily blog. If not, thanks for joining me for this long anyway. I would like the chance to prove to you, that antiques and collectables are pretty neat subjects to write about, with some amazing stories attached that go well beyond basic valuations and descriptions, and the "I own it, and you don't" bragging thing. It's been a blast for the past three years, no fooling. Hope you have a fine Christmas period and a Happy New Year.
THE WRITER'S CHRISTMAS - I AM A PONDERER, A LOVER OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION - AND A SOCIAL OUTCAST
ON BEING THE OBSERVER, AND INTERPRETER
"MY CHAMBER WAS IN THE OLD PART OF THE MANSION, THE PONDEROUS FURNITURE OF WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN FABRICATED IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. THE ROOM WAS PANELED, WITH CORNICES OF HEAVEY CARVED WORK, IN WHICH FLOWERS AND GROTESQUE FACES WERE STRANGELY INTERMINGLED, AND A ROW OF BLACK-LOOKING PORTRAITS STARED MOURNFULLY AT ME FROM THE WALLS. THE BED WAS OF RICH, THOUGH FADED DAMASK, WITH A LOFTY TESTER, AND STOOD IN THE NICHE OPPOSITE THE BOW WINDOW. I HAD SCARECELY GOT INTO BED WHEN A STRAIN OF MUSIC SEEMED TO BREAK FORTH IN THE AIR JUST BELOW THE WINDOW. I LISTENED, AND FOUND IT PROCEEDED FROM A BAND, WHICH I CONCLUDED TO BE THE WAITS FROM SOME NEIGHBORING VILLAGE. THEY WENT AROUND THE HOUSE, PLAYING UNDER THE WINDOWS. I DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS TO HEAR THEM MORE DISTINCTLY. THE MOONBEAMS FELL THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE CASEMENT, PARTIALLY LIGHTING UP THE ANTIQUATED APARTMENT. THE SOUNDS, AS THEY RECEDED, BECAME MORE SOFT AND AERIAL, AND SEEMED TO ACCORD WITH QUIET MOONLIGHT. I LISTENED AND LISTENED - THEY BECAME MORE AND MORE TENDER AND REMOTE, AND, AS THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY, MY HEAD SUNK UPON THE PILLOW AND I FELL ASLEEP." (CHRISTMAS EVE)
THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS WRITTEN BY AMERICAN AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS EARLY 1800'S PRESENTATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK," WHICH INTRODUCED THE READER, FOR THE FIRST OF TWO BOOKS, WITH SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE, OWNER OF A LARGE ENGLISH ESTATE, AND HIS VISITOR, GEOFFREY CRAYON, THE FICTIONAL TRAVELLER, WHO WAS FAIRLY CLOSE IN CHARACTER TO IRVING HIMSELF…..AND HIS LOVE FOR BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLINGS AND CHERISHED TRADITIONS.
"WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE EVENTS OF THE PRECEDING EVENING HAD BEEN A DREAM, AND NOTHING BUT THE IDENTITY OF THE ANCIENT CHAMBER CONVINCED ME OF THEIR REALITY. WHILE I LAY MUSING ON MY PILLOW, I HEARD THE SOUND OF LITTLE FEET PATTERING OUTSIDE OF THE DOOR, AND A WHISPERING CONSULTATION. PRESENTLY A CHOIR OF SMALL VOICES CHANTED FORTH AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL, THE BURDEN OF WHICH WAS, 'REJOICE, OUR SAVIOUR HE WAS BORN, ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.' I ROSE SOFTLY, SLIPPED ON MY CLOTHES, OPENED THE DOOR SUDDENLY, AND BEHELD ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY GROUPS THAT A PAINTER COULD IMAGINE. IT CONSISTED OF A BOY AND TWO GIRLS, THE ELDEST NOT MORE THAN SIX, AND LOVELY AS SERAPHS. THEY WERE GOING THE ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, SINGING AT EVERY CHAMBER DOOR, BUT MY SUDDEN APPEARANCE FRIGHTENED THEM INTO MUTE BASHFULNESS. THEY REMAINED FOR A MOMENT PLAYING ON THEIR LIPS WITH THEIR FINGERS, AND NOW AND THEN STEALING A SHY GLANCE FROM UNDER THEIR EYEBROWS, UNTIL, AS IF BY ONE IMPULSE, THEY SCAMPERED AWAY, AND AS THEY TURNED AN ANGLE OF THE GALLERY, I HEARD THEM LAUGHING IN TRIUMPH AT THEIR ESCAPE.
"EVERYTHING CONSPIRED TO PRODUCE KIND AND HAPPY FEELINGS IN THIS STRONGHOLD OF OLD FASHIONED HOSPITALITY. THE WINDOW OF MY CHAMBER LOOKED OUT UPON WHAT IN SUMMER WOULD HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THERE WAS NO SLOPING LAWN, A FINE STREAM OF WINDING AT THE FOOT OF IT, AND A TRACT OF PARK BEYOND, WITH NOBLE CLUMPS OF TREES AND HERDS OF DEER. AT A DISTANCE WAS A NEAT HAMLET, WITH THE SMOKE FROM THE COTTAGE CHIMNEYS HANGING OVER IT; AND A CHURCH, WITH ITS DARK SPIRE IN STRONG RELIEF AGAINST THE CLEAR COLD SKY."
A SEASONAL SOJOURN OF THE REINCARNATED
Occasionally, at this time of year, I will talk with Suzanne, at some length over mulled cider, about my family from England. The "Jackson" side of my family tree. Quite a number of the Jackson, including William and Benjamin, who had resided within easy travel of Liverpool, emigrated to Canada, in the mid 1800's, to better their lives, on newly opened farmsteads near Brighton, Ontario. Suzanne is a whiz at family history, and has over the past three years, given us a full tree, instead of the few meagre branches, that we'd been going on wrongly, as gospel, for three decades at least. She adores her subscription to Ancestry.ca. When we begin chatting about our family roots overseas, inevitably we will bring up the possibility that we have been reincarnated into the modern era, from family stock going back centuries…..maybe to Elizabethan times. We both, you see, have particularly poignant feelings, at times, almost as if, like the sudden jerk of a heart-string, from somewhere beyond mortality, we are sent abruptly into some historic ambience, and attire, we have given up trying to explain. We each have different triggers, that will give us that curious, momentary instinct, we were part of another time period. It could be the sensory arousal, from something as simple as a wafting fragrance, or scent of roast beef cooking in the oven…..the aroma of spices or fresh herbs. Flowers as perfume. It can also be a weather condition, the sunrise or sunset, or a motor trip through the countryside, that makes us reflect on something we know nothing (apparently) about. I can tell when she's having some historical flashback, although mine are usually always experienced in solitude situations, and most often the result of two aggressive triggers, sometimes all at once…..which is definitely of the nature of "fantastic."
The first trigger, is when I spend long hours at this keyboard. Tonight, for example, I was supposed to attend a party, my lads were throwing, for their friends and business associates. As I am a true social misfit, and hate small talk with a passion, I opted out with the apology….."Geez, I'd love to, but I've got a blog to write." Even in the few minutes I sat here, trying to put together the basics for a column, I was drawn, to the point of being compelled, to Washington Irving's book in the case above my desk. The reason I enjoy Irving's writing, especially about old England, is that it has, all my life, been the one sure exposure, that will send my spirit wandering the English moors, looking for Squire Bracebridge's estate. Since I began reading Irving, as a teenager, I have made it a regular visitation ever since. Do you know, that even Charles Dickens, admitted, he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of a Washington Irving book, tucked under his arm. For some reason, it is Irving more than any other writer, even Dickens, who has for long and long, stimulated my imagination well beyond the story, such that I can find my concentration taken over by thoughts and memories I can't logically explain. It's as if Irving's work, especially his Christmas stories, open up a portal for my old well-travelled soul, to cross back into familiar history. It has always been a haunting experience, yet remarkable enough, that I can't help tempting the situation, feeling that one day, I may actually discover the truth behind the strange, alluring aura of commonplace, that puts me in the English countryside…..where possibly I once lived in a former life. Is it an over-active imagination? Wishful fantasy? Or just the trappings of a good writer, Washington Irving, doing what accomplished authors are supposed to do…..with any story they write. Take you on an adventure!
The second most powerful trigger, is anything played on a lute. I must have been a musician way back, and it is Elizabethan period songs, that can make me melt into a sentimental whirling dervish, trying relentlessly, to escape my mortal fetters……without knowing why it's is so imperative to break free. I can eventually collect the visualizations, of the same English countryside, almost to the point where I could walk to the place I once resided. I have heard period songs, that hurt my heart. The passion for a return, to those times, being so imbedded in my soul……possessing some meaning and romantic overture, I am at a loss to understand…..at least in this mortal capacity. If you have ever felt similarly, and believe in the possibilities of reincarnation, I certainly don't need to explain this further. You have been strangely titillated by the exposure to something, that acts to inspire thoughts, that may not be your own….at least in this lifetime. In my case, if I was to listen to Elizabethan music daily, I would turn into a jelly of formless sentimentality…..because this is what happens, even when I occasionally hear the music, performed on CBC 2, my channel of choice. I sit there speechless, and let messenger ghosts remind me I'm being beckoned by another century. It's not that I like this period music, but it has a power over me, that makes my knees wobble more than usual. I can feel myself part of a courtyard dance, with a woman I must have known from this same era, and it is definitely not my wife. I can see her face so clearly, it becomes very unsettling, as if the very thought, and dance of which I can't control, smacks of infidelity……unless I turn the music off quickly before anything happens. And yes, it is like seeing a wayward spirits, and no fooling, I'm one of them. I've referenced this before, in these stories, and especially in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghost blogs….., that I have seen my ghost before…..and it's not like I wouldn't know the chap. When the ghost wanders about, in Elizabethan times, I must admit, the face of the dancer, is not the one I see in the mirror each morning…..but the aura is definitely something I'm familiar with. I don't tell Suzanne about these weird time-travel, deja vu' experiences, because they stretch miles beyond what she has felt similarly; hers always representing a more recent history…….such as from the pioneer years, like her ancestors, working the rocky soil of Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, at Ufford. I think my reincarnation skipped a few centuries, because I definitely have never managed a plow or used hay fork, even in my wildest dream, or nightmare.
What really gets my spirit travels up and going, is the approach of the Christmas season. There is no other time of the year, as strong for these deja vu' sensations, as the Christmas to New Years period. Even traveling in England, didn't cause much thoughtful recollection, of a previous life, which frankly shocked me.I've had these strange feelings since childhood. I think I tried too hard, to encourage these sudden feelings, because then it would have been easier to follow and maybe even research. If it is actually England or Scotland, in my flashbacks. I think it is, but these are all confusing time travels of the mind. For whatever reason, it is the Christmas season, most of all, that evokes thoughts of a past life. I am able to resolve a lot of these urges and issues, by writing, and when I have my most compelling periods, where I have one foot in an English dance, and the other here at Birch Hollow, I gather up my wayward soul, and set myself the task of writing about it; and anything the thoughts may generate on their own. I can tell you this honestly. I must also have been a writer then, possibly a "less than" great bard, who was particularly sensitive to the natural environment. When I feel this surging sentimentality, I am most prone to writing what I call my landscape pieces, which you can read by accessing my "Muskoka as Walden," blogsite, which I have used for several years, as an outlet, whenever nature calls…..and it most surely does……but I can tell you, it is because the landscape here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of an English moor. For the record, I have never once set foot in an English moor, at least in this chapter of "My Spirit Doth Travel." You will find hundreds of occasions, really without intent, where I have referenced a Muskoka lowland, or bog, as a "Moor," as if it is as familiar as the one that might have been written about, as a backdrop for a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. It may be a bog, and a typical Muskoka wetland, with ponds, but when I write about it, during one of my deja vu' moments, it is a "moor." Plain and simple. Is this strange or not?
At Christmas, I am an English townsman. I can see the thatched cottages, and the narrow, winding country lanes, with the neatly crafted rock fences, and the hills and valleys in the distance, that are simply not the topography of Muskoka. I can imagine myself lodging in some road house, waiting on a settle by the fire, for my mug of dark ale, and listening to the ice pellets hitting the roof and the wind creaking the old metal sign, on its rusted hinge, hanging above the door, out front. Like Irving's character, the good Mr. Crayon, I can hear and see the traditions of retired Christmases, as if they are new again……and I ponder for a moment, if I might ever be pulled back entirely, on one of these memorable sojourns from the present…..and if so, what would happen to my story right now……if this history became so compelling, as a vacuum, taking me all the way home, many mortal lifetimes from here? What might Suzanne think, upon finding only my slippers and still warm pipe, and the imprint of an old author, still recognizable on the chair cushion?
"It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of religion of peace and love, and has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the caress and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood." Washington Irving.
Somehow, I have come to feel that Irving himself, a tireless preserver of British traditions, even as an American, felt the spirit-kind wasn't necessarily confined to one existence alone. Maybe it's why I cherish his work, as I do. There is a validation, to being called to assemble again, "about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections."
Bless you, for visiting today, so close to Christmas Eve. I know you probably have better places to be…..finer acquaintances to visit, and warmer fires to sit beside, than this humble hearth of mine. I hope your Christmas season will be joyful and of course spirited, and spent happily in the festive aura of tradition and goodwill. We shall share this paternal hearth, at Birch Hollow, in the charming bailiwick……across from this snow-laden, enchanted lowland…..the moor. A Gravenhurst, Muskoka moor!
No comments:
Post a Comment