NOTE: Printed below is the blog intended as Part 5 of my brief overview of the Rink Rats Hockey Club, from 1980-81 until the early 1990's, that because of the rules of "just my luck," couldn't be printed yesterday. Computer glitch I suppose you can call it!
While I had semi-retired this blog site, a week or so ago, I've been encouraged by a lot more readers than I thought I had, to continue writing a while longer. Well by golly, I respond to the desires of my readers. I have forged a little business deal with my business partner, Suzanne, to work a little closer with her newly launched "Currie's Antiques" facebook page, such that our theme of the day would be a little closer, such that we can offer viewers a little bit more bang for their investment of time. Suzanne and I have collaborated on many other projects, none of them ending happily. But as I am always willing to try once again, we have seemingly found common ground, editorially at least, and it will be all about regional history and nostalgia.
A lot of antique and collectable shops might claim to be "Muskoka" themed businesses, representing the region with inventory, we can make this claim with a pretty fair repertoire of past accomplishments, as regional historians, and former museum managers. We are deeply rooted in the history of Muskoka, Suzanne's kin folk arriving here in the early 1860's, in the Three Mile Lake community of Ufford, in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. When business people arrive here, and spend a few years living locally, they believe they have the right and privilege of calling themselves Muskoka-representative enterprises; and we don't like some of the liberties they take in this regard. So we want to show just how Muskokan we are, in our business, and just how proud we are to represent our beautiful region of Ontario. This is where we would like to showcase this enthusiasm for working and living in Muskoka; and yes, we have evidence our family loved the region more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when our region was sparsely populated and a largely wild frontier. Please join us for a bit of history and a whole lot of nostalgia. Coming up tomorrow for an indefinite run.
MY LAST GAME OF SHINNY WITH THE RINK RATS, SAW ME ON THE ICE MORE THAN THE ZAMBONI
IT WAS A MOMENT OF RECKONING - PLAYING HOCKEY WAS FOR THE HALE AND HARDY, OF WHICH I WAS NEITHER
I haven't been in the Bracebridge arena in many years. The last time I was in the arena lobby, it was to hand back the keys to the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, which I had been curating for twelve years. I had grown frustrated working with the town of Bracebridge, and when I knew they had someone else ready to step in, I took the opportunity to retire early; and the Crozier Foundation had withdrawn their Canadian charitable group, which I had been public relations director, so since then, there hasn't been much reason for re-visiting the old palace on James Street, that was my second home every winter from 1967 to the mid 1970's. Then as a Herald-Gazette Rink Rat team member from 1980 until the early 1990's. I loved that arena and all it represented. It was wonderfully nostalgic to be part of the opening ceremonies of the Rink Rats sponsored tournament, I helped to launch in the mid 1980's. Standing out there at centre ice was a real honor for me, Ed Kowalsky, Ed Renton and Gord Dawes who make up a pretty significant portion of Rink Rat heritage. I had a lot of great flashbacks and it was impossible not to get a little teary-eyed, thinking about all those folks I used to play with, in those thousand games of youth, who are no longer with us. I did feel their presence, because they loved this place as much as I did.
First of all, after writing about the Rink Rat Hockey Club, and the Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament, (taking place this weekend, for the past four days), I had a change of heart about attending Friday's opening ceremonies, and the official puck-drop at centre ice. I changed a previous business appointment, and invited my son Andrew, to accompany me to the Bracebridge arena for the 3:30 p.m. puck drop. Andrew used to attend Rink Rat games as a youngster, and he has, for the past twenty years, become my sports memorabilia curator. In fact, when I asked him if he wanted to join me at the arena, he raced into his apartment at Birch Hollow, and dug-out my original Rink Rat jacket, my jersey with my name on the back, and best of all, the original and grossly under-sized blue and white Rink Rat sweater, we got for the club in that first season of 1980-81.
Jim Wright was in charge of getting the sweaters, and bless his heart, he almost got it right. He may have been ordering from the wrong catalogue section. Unfortunately, when you're the size of Ed Kowalsky, Gord Martin, John O'Byrne, and Dave Whiteside, a kid's extra large doesn't fit the bill. What a tough night that was, to squeeze our chests and guts into those attractive but very small-sized sweaters, which we kept for the first couple of years; although they looked pretty foolish on some of us large belly individuals. It was the sweater we tried to put on Toronto Sun columnist Paul Rimstead, during the exhibition game against the CKVR No-Stars, and we almost had to call in the jaws-of-life, to free him from it, once we got it over his big belly. We had enough time to take a couple of photos before he started to get blue in the face, and we had to extricate him quickly. Andrew was going to wear this sweater to the opening ceremonies for old times sake. I wanted to take a picture of him wearing the original sweater next to Ed Kowalsky and Ed Renton, two of the other special guests, invited by club spokesman, Gord Dawes, in respect to the 30th anniversary of the tournament initiated by the Rink Rats in the mid 1980's as a community fundraiser. That would make the three "Eds" of the former Rink Rats, standing in a row. My given name is "Edward," but I go by "Ted," most often heard when people are yelling at me to get out of their way. I move slow these days with a wonky Rink Rat hip, knees and ankles.
Andrew referred to me as having a "Randy" style gut, because I couldn't fasten the coat around the obstruction hanging over my belt. The "Randy' reference, of course, was to the shirtless character on the show, "Trailer Park Boys." I guess what the young fellow was saying, to his old pop, was that I'd fit-in perfectly at Sunnyvale Trailer Park, with the rest of the show's cast. Nice one! When I ordered this coat, I reminded him, I weighed 170 pounds; and had not yet fully benefitted from Suzanne's culinary prowess. I blame it on the lemon chicken!
At one time in the mid 1980's, I was playing hockey three times a week. I weighed-in at a reasonable hundred and sixty pounds, soaking wet, while wearing a wool jacket and wellingtons. I could skate hard for an hour game of shinny, and not require the stretcher bearers, (or the paddles) to raise me from the dressing room floor. It wasn't all that outlandish then, in the 1990's, after a lengthy hiatus, to take up an invitation offered to me by Rink Rat public relations ambassador, Gord Dawes, to strap on the old blades, and come out for a skate down memory lane. I had of course, blossomed to full weight, and prosperity, for a guy who back then, spent most of his day sitting at a keyboard, writing, eating Dagwood sandwiches, and drinking gallons of coffee, to infill moments of inspirational shortfall. There's no other way of saying "I got porky," in my years of premature retirement, and any hockey prowess I thought I had, once upon a time, was a dry well. I knew this the moment my rusty blades hit the newly flooded ice surface, at the Bracebridge arena; the place that had been my second home, since we arrived in Muskoka back in the winter of 1966, on the cusp of Roger Crozier Day, celebrating the local lad's selection, as the Conn Smythe Trophy in the N.H.L. playoffs that spring against Montreal. For a kid who loved hockey, I was in the right town. It had also been the home town of Maple Leaf sensation, (from the 1920's and 30's), Irvin "Ace" Bailey. That big, beautiful old arena was beckoning me, just as it did today, on my revisitation after quite a few years. My last relationship with the arena, in the early part of the new century, was when I wrapped-up a 12 year stint as Sports Hall of Fame Curator, as appointed by Roger Crozier himself, when I began working for his newly established Childrens Foundation in 1996.
On the day I took-up Gord's kind invitation, to have another "go" at recreation hockey, I honestly thought I'd be able to skate rings around these other old farts, wearing the Rink Rat sweaters. I took a ceremonial lap around the ice, waving to the imaginary fans, while wearing, by the way, an original six, Detroit Red Wing hockey jersey, once belonging to Bruce MacGregor. I bought it at an auction, locally, and felt that it would bring some vigor to my later-in-life come back. I don't know what year this was, but I know it was after I began work with the Crozier Foundation, and was curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, (a collection of showcases in the arena lobby), which means this on-ice-debacle, must have occurred sometime in the last half of the 1990's. I was equal then, in physical fitness, to a ninety year old Swede. Remember those commercials? Well then, you're an oldtimer like me! Those ads had to be from the 1970's.
The sweater, despite the aura of Bruce MacGregor's embedded sweat, didn't help me at all that night. I was gagging over the boards, even after the first shift, and I finally had to remove the sweater for fear I was going to destroy it, with the cascade of perspiration trying to escape my body. Even the water molecules were abandoning what was akin to a sinking ship. The most enjoyable part of the experience, was coming off the ice, and riding the pine, as I used to regularly in minor hockey days, as a back-up goalie; and getting my breath back which seemed to take longer each time I came off the ice. By time I began thinking about how neat it was to be back in the mix of the Rink Rat Hockey Club I helped found, back in the early 1980's, some other poor devil would come racing up to the players' box, looking for a replacement. I kept looking beside me, for another willing forward, but we were short players that night. The reminiscing part took place in the days and weeks following what could only be described as a debacle-to-end-all-debacles. Not the Rink Rats, but me! My come-back, as come-backs go in athletics, was short-lived and painful. It took me a week to shake-off the sore muscles and stiff back, I had inflicted upon myself, by playing a sport that does require a high standard of physical fitness, which I had obviously left back in the 1980's. I was glad to have had the opportunity to give it the old college try, because it answered a lot of questions. Being a writer is not adequate off-ice training for hockey, unless it's table-top hockey we're talking about.
For all but one season of Burlington Minor Hockey, that I was recruited to play forward, the rest of the time there, and in Bracebridge from the mid-1960's, I played goal. In Bracebridge I played for three teams, one being an all-star (travelling) team, as back-up to Tim Morrison, and on a "B" team, that played regional games, and a house-league team, because they were short of goalies and I liked extra ice-time. I played net in university, for our College B team, for a short period, and over the years of strapping on the goal pads, I played for the OPP and the Teachers travelling teams, and became the go-to-netminder, if their first choice happened to be sick or suddenly deceased. By time the Rink Rats came along, in the winter of 1980-81, I refused to play net. I did play a couple of times for the Wombats, during the transitional period, and was injured on each outing. My final game was when we played in a Baysville Tournament, and every other shot slipped past me into the meshing. The Rink Rat era generally, offered me the escape from the pipes you might say, and I really enjoyed beating the goalies up instead. Well not really, but it was certainly a different perspective, not having to pray every time an opposition forward wound-up, all the way to Hudson's Bay, to let loose a close-in slap shot, most likely to deflect off my groin. I hit a goalie once, with a wrist shot, which I considered one of my best ever, and the goalie collapsed in pain. We all tried to help the poor bugger, but we couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. I was looking for the puck in the net, because it wasn't anywhere else to be found. The guy was screaming with pain, and calling me a son-of-a-bitch, which was fine, but still, the puck wasn't anywhere on his body, beneath, or behind him. Finally when he stood up, still cursing me, the puck dropped from his arm-pit, the one place the goalie didn't have any padding. He knew it was there, but he couldn't express this, while yelling at me, and complaining about the pain.
I think this is why I loved playing for the Rink Rats so much, in those years; because I wasn't the one heading into the shower with a plethora of bruises all over my body, including the arse, which only had human fibres as padding. I remember one of our Rink Rat netminders heading to the shower, and when he passed through the gauntlet of players, unfastening their equipment, you could clearly see the black welts on the fellow's ass. Which somewhat reinforced our opinion, that he was turning around too much in the goal crease during play, to see what was going on behind the net. When the puck would be centered, the forward in the shot would let loose a shot, and hit him one cheek or the other. Hey, he still stopped the puck, but his arse was black and blue as a result.
I could go on and on. I really did enjoy my Rink Rat years. That's the most important part of this editorial overview. I left the team primarily, because I moved south to Gravenhurst, I owned a crappy car, that stalled frequently, had no money to replace it, and hated the winter drive home after midnight on those Wednesday nights when the Rink Rats donned their skates. We had two young sons, a large mortgage, twice as many responsibilities than we could handle, and I was trying to kick the drinking-thing. For me, it was the right thing to do! To move on from the good old days, and make some new ones. Yet I never lost my zeal for hockey, or memory of those great Rink Rat occasions, when we got together to chase the puck around the ice, go fishing up north, in the off season, or head out on the golf-links, of what became weekly outings. I miss the that old gang, and be a part of the official ceremonies today, for the opening of the 30th anniversary Lovable Losers Tournament, is hugely nostalgic for me. I'm so pleased that Gord Dawes and the contemporary Rink Rats, now in their 35th year, have stuck with the tournament for 30 years. I was very honored to be remembered as a club founder, and being in company of old mates, Ed Kowalsky and Ed Renton, was pretty neat as well. Thanks so much, for extending this invitation to us oldtimers, who still have a little kick left in them. And who appreciate any opportunity to re-live our so called, and profoundly alleged, halcyon heydays, now evidenced by those dog-eared, yellowed photographs and press clippings, pasted into the scrapbooks kept in a box in the closet. These were the days of our lives, that's for sure. We have a lot of corroborating evidence.
I BROKE A LOT OF PROTOCOLS AS EDITOR - I SENT A PHOTOGRAPHER TO COVER BING CR0SBY'S FUNERAL
IT HAD NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE - FRED "BING" CROSBY WASN'T A CELEBRITY, BUT HE WAS A HERO TO US
WHILE SITTING IN A FRONT BOOTH, AT THE FORMER MUSKOKA RESTAURANT, ON MANITOBA STREET, WHERE THE ROYAL BANK IS NOW LOCATED IN BRACEBRIDGE, I MIGHT, ON ANY DAYTIME SOJOURN, FOR A SODA POP AND FRIES, WITNESS, IN THOSE HALCYON DAYS OF THE LATE 1960'S, A HOBO WALK BY, FROM THE JUNGLE DOWN ALONG THE RAIL LINES, NORTH OF THE TRAIN STATION, SEE SEVERAL OF THE LOCAL HIPPY-KIND, WITH PEACE SIGNS PAINTED ON THEIR BACKS, OR FLAGS SEWN TO THEIR DENIM JACKETS, MAYBE EVEN A ROUGH LOOKING BIKER, WEARING THE PATCH OF HIS CLUB, ALSO ON THE BACK OF HIS LEATHER VEST, AND POSSIBLY SEE A VAGRANT (NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH A HOBO), LOOKING IN THE WINDOW, TO SEE IF ANY KIND SOUL INSIDE, WOULD WAVE HIM IN FOR A BITE TO EAT. IT HAPPENED. I SAW IT. NOT THE HIPPIES THOUGH. AND I HEARD THE MUMBLING ABOUT "LONG HAIRS," AND BARELY AUDIBLE SUGGESTIONS OF "GET A JOB WHY DON'T YOU?"
INTERMINGLED WITH THESE FOLKS, WERE THE CITIZENS OF THE COMMUNITY, AND BUSINESS OWNERS, COMING IN FOR COFFEE BREAKS; FOLKS WHO HAD JUST VISITED WAITE'S BAKERY, COMING BACK WITH BOXES OF FRESH BAKED CHELSEA BUNS AND BREAD. NEIGHBORS RUNNING INTO NEIGHBORS, FAMILY MEETING UP AND HOLDING COURT, AND SO MANY KIDS PASSING BY ON BIKES, AND HANGING OUT OF CARS WAVING, AND MUSIC BLARING FROM TRUCK RADIOS, WHILE THE DRIVERS YELLED AT GIRLS, WHO ATTRACTED THEIR ATTENTION. THERE WERE PEOPLE ON SHOPPING TRIPS, DOWN TO LORNE'S MARKETERIA, AND THOSE NOT-SO-HANDY HOME CARPENTERS, HEADING DOWN TO MYERS' BROTHERS HARDWARE, OR ECCLESTONES HARDWARE, TO REPLACE WHAT THEY JUST BROKE.
HONESTLY, HOW COULD THE VOYEUR KID NOT BE FASCINATED BY ALL THAT WAS GOING ON. WAS IT HISTORICAL? IT WAS, JUST NOT OF THE PRIORITY-KIND, TO WARRANT MENTION IN THE LOCAL HISTORY TEXT, IN THE FINAL STAGES OF PREPARATION. HOW COULD YOU INCLUDE IT ALL ANYWAY. YOU WOULD HAVE TO PUBLISH A HISTORY HAVING TEN THOUSAND PAGES? I, ON THE OTHER HAND, COULDN'T WRITE THESE HISTORIES, TODAY, WITHOUT KEEN KNOWLEDGE OF THIS HUMAN PATINA, THAT HAS COME IN SO MANY WAYS TO DEFINE OUR PLACES OF RESIDENCE; OUR HOME NEIGHBORHOODS AND TOWNS. WITHOUT THIS, THE ARTIST WOULD PAINT ONLY THE HARD REALITIES OF THE TOWN SCENE; THE PEOPLE AND THE ARCHITECTURE, AND HARD SERVICES, LIKE WATER HYDRANTS AND FIRE ENGINES MAKING USE OF THEM. BUT THERE WOULD BE NO ILLUMINATION OF COLOR, NO AZURE SKY, OR GOLDEN SUNLIGHT, OR THE COLORFUL REALITIES OF LAUNDRY HANGING ON THE LINES TO DRY. IT WOULD BE BLACK AND WHITE, AND VERY UNREMARKABLE. IT'S THE CUMULATIVE REASON WHY I CAN'T LEAVE IT ALONE. I CAN'T LEAVE THIS MORTAL COIL, WITH A JOB HALF COMPLETE. GOD MUST HAVE HAD A PLAN FOR ME, BECAUSE HE MADE ME SO DARN INQUISITIVE, AND OBSESSIVE, ABOUT WHAT WAS GOING ON AROUND ME; AND IN PLACES I SUSPECTED WERE HIVES OF ACTIVITY, BUT HADN'T YET FLANKED THE GUARDS. I KNEW FROM A YOUNG AGE, THAT THE COMMONPLACE OF MY ADOPTED HOMETOWN, WAS AN AVERAGE MIX OF GOOD AND BAD; KINDNESS AND UNKIND BEHAVIOUR. HAPPINESS AND SORROW, ONE HOUSE OR APARTMENT REMOVED FROM THE OTHER. THEN THERE WAS THE MOTHER, WORKING AS A STORE CLERK, WHO WAS MET BY A LOCAL POLICE OFFICER, TO INFORM HER, THAT IT WAS HER CHILD WHO DROWNED IN THER RIVER. SHE REMEMBERS THE OCCASION EVERY TIME THE CLOCK TOWER CHIMES ON THE HOUR, BECAUSE IT WAS AT NOON TIME THAT SHE WAS INFORMED OF HER SON'S DEMISE. THIS ISN'T AN EXACT SCENARIO, BUT THESE THINGS HAPPENED, AND WITH REGULARITY, JUST AS THERE WERE HAPPY TIMES, WHEN HEARTS SANG, AND NOTHING COULD RAIN ON THE PARADE OF GOOD CHEER. THUS, AN ORDINARY TOWN. LIKE THE PLAY, "OUT TOWN," TRAGEDY WAS INTERTWINED WITH JOY AND FESTIVITY. IT WAS HOW WE HAVE COME THIS FAR, BEING ETCHED BY THESE EVENTS AND EMOTIONS, GOOD AND ADVERSE. IT IS HUMAN. IT IS COMFORTABLY, "OUR TOWN."
IN SOME WAYS, WORKING IN THE SHADOWS OF MORE POPULAR CONSERVATIVE-AGENDA HISTORIANS, IT HAS BEEN DIFFICULT TO SELL THE IDEA, THAT SOCIAL / CULTURAL, AVERAGE-CITIZEN, AVERAGE EVENT, HERITAGE, IS WORTH PRESERVING, FOR ALL ELSE TO HANG UPON AS GATHERED HISTORY.
IT HAS IN MANY WAYS, DESTINED ME TO BE MINIMIZED AND BYPASSED AS A SERIOUS HISTORIAN, AND DETERMINED THAT I WILL NVER FIND MYSELF ON A NRIGHT STAGE, LINED WITH MY PEERS, ACCEPTING AN AWARD FOR WORK IN THE FIELD OF HERITAGE PRESERVATION. IT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T FOLLOW WRITTEN AND UNWRITTEN PROTOCOL. IF I WAS THE ONLY HISTORIAN NOT TO YET PRESENTED AN AWARD OF ACHIEVEMENT, FOR PAST ACCOMPLISHMENTS, THE AWARDS COMMITTEE WOULD SIMPLY ADJUST ITS MANDATE, TO AVOID HAVING TO FACE RECOGNIZING THE MOST IRREVERENT HISTORIAN IN THE REGION. I HAVE NEVER BEEN INVITED TO REINDEER GAMES, AND THAT'S THE PRICE YOU PAY, FOR CHALLENGING ACCEPTED FACTS, THEORIES, AND THE WORDS OF THOSE WHO MADE MISTAKES, AND DISTORTED HISTORICAL RECORD. I WAS TOLD TO MY FACE ONE DAY, THAT IT WASN'T NICE TO DEBUNK THE WORK OF ESTABLISHED HISTORIANS, ESPECIALLY THOSE STILL ALIVE BUT UNABLE TO FIGHT BACK. I POINTED OUT, RATHER ARROGANTLY I SUPPOSE, THAT THERE WAS NO GROUND TO FIGHT BACK, BECAUSE AN ERROR IS AN ERROR REGARDLESS. IT WAS APPARENTLY TREASONOUS TO CHALLENGE ACCEPTED FACT. SO I HAVE WORN THE TRAITOR'S STRIPES FOR AS LONG AS I'VE BEEN AN ACTIVE HISTORIAN, WHO KNEW THAT THE REAL HISTORY MAKERS, WERE EVERYDAY FOLK, WHO HAD THE CHORE OF SETTING THE GEAR-WORK, FOR THE COMMUNITY TO FUncTION PROPERLY. NOT JUST THE POLITICAL TYPES, POSTURING ALL OVER THE PLACE, AS IF THEY OWNED THE COMMUNITY, AS PART OF THE PRIVILEGE OF THEIR ELECTED POSITIONS. THEY DIDN'T LIKE ME EITHER. AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I WOULD MOST LIKELY HAVE A HEART ATTACK, AND DIE ON THE SPOT, TO FIND OUT THAT I HAD WON SOME SORT OF A MERIT AWARD, OR BEEN GIVEN A COMMENDATION BY A HERITAGE GROUP, BASED ON PAST ACCOMPLISHMENTS. I HAVE BEEN AN OUTSIDER FOR FAR TOO LONG, TO FIND ANY REWARD IN GENERAL ACCEPTANCE. IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH OF A SHOCK TO MY SYSTEM, TO CHANGE NOW, TO ASSUME THE ROBE OF TOWN HISTORIAN, AS LONG AS IT MEANT COMPLIANCE TO THE OLD STANDARDS, OF WHAT CONSTITUTED HISTORY WORTH RECORDING IN THE OLDEN DAYS. SO DON'T SHED A TEAR FOR TED, BECAUSE IT IS MY OWN ORCHESTRATION OF HERITAGE VALUES, THAT HAS REDUCED ME, TO "SNEAK" IN CONTRARY INFORMATION SIDEWAYS, TO AVOID THE WRATH OF MY PEERS. WHO ALREADY SEE ME AS A HERETIC.
OVER THE PAST SEVERAL BLOGS, WHICH WERE INTENTIONALLY SUPER-BIOGRAPHICAL, I HAVE QUALIFIED MY LONGSTANDING BELIEF, THAT SURFACE HISTORY DOESN'T CUT IT FOR ME. IT NEVER HAS. IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND WHAT I INTEND TO WRITE ABOUT, IN THE COMING MONTHS, AND SOMEWHAT, WHAT I'VE BEEN WRITING DAILY FOR NEARLY THREE YEARS NOW, I INTERPRET REGIONAL HISTORY AS IF I WAS ACTUALLY PAINTING A MURAL. NOT A PARTICULARLY SERIOUS MURAL, IN APPEARANCE, BUT MORE LIKE A COLORFUL MAUD LEWIS, OR GRANDMA MOSES, PANEL OF NAIVE FOLK ART; THAT TELLS A STORY IN IMAGES. I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE AN ARTIST, BUT GOD HAD OTHER PLANS. SO AS MUCH AS I CAN, I TRY TO PAINT A WORD PICTURE, AND WHEN I DO IT RIGHT, YOU SHOULD BE SENSORY STIMULATED, ABOUT THE PARTICULAR TIME IN HISTORY, AND LOCATION, I'M WRITING ABOUT. IF I CAN'T MAKE YOU SMELL THE ENVIRONS, FEEL THE COOL MORNING MIST, IN THE LIGHT BREEZE, OR HEAR THE BACKGROUND ROAR OF THE BRACEBRIDGE WATERFALL, OR THE DISTANT HORN BLAST OF THE AFTERNOON TRAIN, HEADING SOUTH, OR, FOR THAT MATTER, SEE THE BRIGHT RED SNOW SUITS OF THE YOUNGSTERS, PLAYING IN THE NEWLY FALLEN SNOW ADORNING MEMORIAL PARK, THEN I HAVE NOT EXECUTED THE STORY PROPERLY. I WILL IMPROVE OVER TIME. THIS IS, YOU SEE, MY BUCKET LIST SUMMATION, OF ALL THE YEARS I'VE BEEN WRITING ABOUT MY HOMETOWN, WHICH HONESTLY BEGAN IN 1977. DESPITE THE FACT I LIVE TEN MILES SOUTH, AND NOW CALL GRAVENHURST MY HOMETOWN, THESE ARE TWO RIVAL COMMUNITIES I'M TREMENDOUSLY FOND OF, AND I HOPE IT SHOWS VIA THESE BLOG-ATORIALS. I LOVE BOTH COMMUNITIES DEARLY, JUST NOT THE POLITICAL ASPECTS WHICH TRANSCEND THE COUNCIL CHAMBER, SHOWING UP IN PLACES IT DOESN'T BELONG.
I HAVE DESCRIBED MYSELF PREVIOUSLY AS A FOLK HISTORIAN. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FAR MORE INTERESTED IN THE CHARACTER CHANGES OF THE COMMUNITIES, VERSUS BEING STUCK ON THE NORMAL FARE GENERAL HISTORIANS FEED FROM. IT'S NOT THAT I DISMISS THE HARD TRUTHS OF OUR PAST, BUT MY INTEREST, LIES IN THE WAY ALL THE CITIZENS COME TOGETHER, TO MAKE THE WHOLE MECHANISM FUNCTION; AND SOMETIMES, MALFUNCTION. I HAVE VERY LITTLE INTEREST IN FOLLOWING THE POLITICAL SIDE OF COMMUNITY LIFE, ESPECIALLY TODAY, WHEN SO MANY ELECTED OFFICIALS REPRESENTING US, HAVE LITTLE REGARD FOR THE SOCIAL / CULTURAL HERITAGE, THAT HAS GIVEN US OUR RICH CHARACTER-PATINA. TO ME, THEY ARE BY MAJORITY, "LIVE FOR THE MOMENT" CONTEMPORARY-MINDED INDIVIDUALS, WHO MOST LIKELY, ONCE UPON A TINE, FELL ASLEEP IN HIGH SCHOOL HISTORY CLASS; AND WOULD FALL ASLEEP DURING A MUSEUM TOUR IF THEY WERE ALLOWED, FOR A MOMENT, TO SIT DOWN. SO I SIMPLY DON'T WASTE MY TIME TRYING TO IMPRESS THEM WITH MY KNOWLEDGE OF THE TOWN, OF WHICH THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE STEWARDS. I DON'T THINK THEY'RE INSULTED BY MY AVOIDANCE, LET'S JUST SAY THAT!
IT'S HAS BEEN A PRE-OCCUPATION WITH ME, TO PEOPLE WATCH, AND THAT WILL INCLUDE THE CHECK-OUT STAFF AT THE LOCAL GROCERY STORE, THE WAITOR OR WAITRESS AT THE DINER DOWN THE ROAD, THE CROSSING GUARD AT THE PUBLIC SCHOOL, THE BRICKLAYER, AND CANDLESTICK MAKER. I CAN FIND ALL KINDS OF FASCINATING STORIES TO TELL, BY JUST WATCHING THE PEDESTRIAN TRAFFIC, ON THE MAIN STREETS, OF BOTH GRAVENHURST AND BRACEBRIDGE. AS A KID, I LEARNED A LOT ABOUT THE TOWN, JUST SITTING IN BILL ANDERSON'S CORNER BARBER SHOP, IN THE FORMER PATTERSON HOTEL, ON MANITOBA STREET, ADJACENT TO THE RETIRED FEDERAL BUILDING, AND CLOCK TOWER. ON A TYPICAL SATURDAY MORNING, YOU COULD WATCH REAL THEATRE HAPPENING JUST BEYOND THE GLASS WINDOW PANES. MOTHERS CHASING TODDLERS, SCREAMING FOR THEM TO STOP AT THE BUSY INTERSECTION. THERE WAS THE SOUND OF SCREECHING BRAKES, HONKING, BICYCLES WHIPPING BY, LOUD CONVERSATION, THE CHIME OF THE CLOCK TOWER BELL, AND THE SOUND OF BILL'S ELECTRIC KETTLE WHISTLING UNDER FULL STEAM. THERE WERE HUDDLES OF BUSINESS ASSOCIATES, GETTING READY TO CROSS THE ROAD, DEALS BEING MADE BEFORE THE STREET WAS CROSSED, SHOPPERS WALKING BY IN GROUPS, WITH BAGS OF NEWLY PURCHASED CLOTHING AND MERCHANDISE, FROM ELLIOTS FIVE & DIME, AND EVEN KNOCKS ON THE WINDOW, FROM EITHER MY MATES, WAITING FOR THE BARBER TO FINISH MY HAIR, OR FROM THOSE WHO WERE JUST EXTENDING MORNING GREETINGS, TO THEIR FRIEND BILL ANDERSON. IN THE MEANTIME, THERE MAY HAVE BEEN THE BLARING, UNSETTLING SOUND, OF THE MAIN FIRE STATION ALARM, THAT ALWAYS MADE ME THINK OF AN AIR RAID SIREN, LIKE THE ONES THAT WERE HEARD IN LONDON, ENGLAND, DURING THE BOMBINGS OF THE SECOND WORLD; AND THEN THE FRANTIC RUSH OF VOLUNTEER FIREMEN DRIVING THEIR CARS AND TRUCKS TO THE FIRE HALL ON DOMINION STREET (WHEN IT WAS IN THE TOWN HALL BUILDING), AND THE SUBSEQUENT SIRENS AND HEAVY ACCELERATIONS OF THE EMERGENCY VEHICLES, POTENTIALLY HEADING TO AN ACCIDENT ON HIGHWAY 11, WHICH IN MY YOUTH, WAS A WICKEDLY UNFORTUNATE SUMMER REALITY 24 HOURS A DAY.
I WATCHED THE COMMUNITY, JUST AS I DO TODAY, TO GUAGE THE REACTION OF THE CITIZENRY, WHICH I FIND MOST FASCINATING, AND REVEALING ABOUT THE RESPECTIVE TOWN'S CHARACTER; AND I'M CONTINUALLY MAKING COMPARISONS WITH OTHER TIMES, PAST DECADES, AND EVEN PAST CENTURIES, OF WHICH FOR THIS, I RELY ON THE FORMALLY PRODUCED HISTORIES, WHICH OFTEN IGNORE THE EVERYDAY COMMONPLACES I FIND SO FASCINATING. I CAN READ BETWEEN THE LINES, BECAUSE I HAVE ALSO HAD IN MY POSSESSION, MANY PIONEER JOURNALS, HANDWRITTEN AND HONEST ABOUT WHAT THE PREVAILING SOCIAL / CULTURAL / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL INFLUENCES WERE, ON THE COMMONPLACE OF DAILY LIVES. AS AN EXAMPLE, I HAVE A COPY OF A JOURNAL WRITTEN BY BERNARDO BOY, JOHNNY MOON, FROM THE FIRST QUARTER OF THE 1900'S, WHO WAS SENT BY THE FAMOUS DR. BERNARD'S ORPHANAGES, IN ENGLAND, TO MUSKOKA, TO WORK ON AN AREA FARM, AS CHEAP LABOR. HIS DIARY WAS FOUND IN HIS LITTLE SHANTY, HE HAD CONSTRUCTED, NEAR WILSON'S FALL, ON THE MUSKOKA RIVER, NOT FAR AFTER THE BASS ROCK RAPIDS, ADJACENT TO BRACEBRIDGE'S RIVER ROAD. HE WAS AMONGST THOUSANDS OF BRITISH PARENTLESS YOUTH, SENT TO CANADA BY THE BERNARDO HOMES, WHO HAD LESS THAN PROSPEROUS RELATIONS WITH THE FAMILIES THEY WERE SENT TO HELP. THE ORIGINAL HANDWRITTEN COPY, OF THE PERSONAL JOURNAL, IS IN POSSESSION OF THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. IT IS ONE OF THE MOST REVEALING DOCUMENTS, ABOUT THE SOCIAL CIRCUMSTANCES OF EARLY 1900'S BRACEBRIDGE, AND MUSKOKA, THAT I'VE EVER READ, AND IT HAS INFLUENCED ME GREATLY; ESPECIALLY AS REGARDS, HOW HISTORIANS HAVE TAKEN THE HIGH ROAD, AND SO FREQUENTLY, REFUSED TO EXAMINE THE ETCHING OF POVERTY, AND CRIMINAL ACTIVITY, ON THE MATURING CHARACTER OF THE COMMUNITY. IN THE CASE OF JOHNNY MOON, WHICH I WILL LOOK AT MORE CLOSELY NEXT WEEK, IT IS OBVIOUS BY THE TEXT, THAT HE FELT BADLY TREATED, AND CHEATED BY HIS HOST FAMILIES. AND ONE OCCASION, NEW BOOTS HE WAS AFFORDED, BY A FARM FAMILY, WERE TAKEN BACK FORCIBLY, WHEN BECAUSE OF ILL TREATMENT, JOHNNY TRIED TO RUN AWAY. THE BOYS OF THE FAMILY, CHASED HIM DOWN, WRESTLED HIM FOR HIS NEW BOOTS, AND LEFT HIM THE OLD DESTROYED PAIR INSTEAD. HE WAS NOT WELCOME BACK AT THIS FARMSTEAD. WHILE IT IS IN HIS WORDS, IT IS PROBABLY AN HONEST PIECE OF BIOGRAPHY, BECAUSE HE NEVER INTENDED IT TO BE PUBLISHED, OR EVEN SEEN BY ANYONE ELSE. HE SUFFERED MANY EMOTIONAL SETBACKS, AND HARDSHIPS, ESPECIALLY LONELINESS, AS A YOUNG MAN, BUT LOVED HIS LITTLE HOMEMADE CABIN NEAR THE RIVER, AND THE LITTLE ROWBOAT HE USED TO NAVIGATE TO A LANDING, ABOVE THE TOWN FALLS, WHEN HE WAS PICKING-UP SUPPLIES. IT IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE FOLK HISTORY OF THE OLD TOWN, AND FOR ONCE, I SIDE WITH THE TOWN, FOR HAVING THE SENSIBILITY TO KEEP THE JOURNAL FOR FUTURE POSTERITY. IT SHOULD BE MORE PUBLIC THAN IT IS, BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT TO BE LEARNED FROM ONLY A FEW PAGES, ABOUT HOW CITIZENS COULD TURN ON ONE ANOTHER, AND HOW MEAN SPIRITED NEIGHBORS, EMPLOYERS AND COMMUNITY PILLARS, COULD BE WHEN IT CAMES TO MONEY AND CONSCIENCE. BUT ALAS, IT IS WHO WE ARE, AND NOTHING IS GOING TO CHANGE HISTORY. LEARNING ABOUT IT, AND ADJUSTING OURSELVES ACCORDINGLY, SEEMS DESIRABLE FOR A BETTER FUTURE.
FUNERAL OF A COMMON, DECENT, HARDWORKING CITIZEN
It is a tiny grave marker, that currently rests atop the final resting place, of a local hero; fred "Bing" Crosby. It is a modest marker, compared to the thousands of hours "Bing" gave to the community, as a volunteer for Bracebridge Minor Hockey, and Bracebridge Minor Softball.
Of First Nations ancestry, Bing had suffered from emotional problems, most likely from ill treatment, and trauma, during his youth and his teenage years. Bing revealed very little about his past, especially to the youngsters he assisted, in a coaching capacity. He would do just about any odd job to earn his keep, but he was best known as part of the janitorial, maintenance staff at the Bracebridge Memorial Community Centre. He used to push the old 45 gallon drum on wheels, that had been fashioned from an old Maple Leaf Gardens model, to water the ice between hockey games.
Bing was broke most of the time, living as they say, from pay check to pay check. He could be seen many times, during the day, walking up and down Manitoba Street looking for coins that might have dropped accidentally, from the pockets and change purses of passersby. I remember watching him one day, bend over, and pick up a wad of bills, at the doorway of the former Parkview Restaurant. A reporter friend of mine and I watched him examine the amount of money he had found, saw the smile of delight on his face, and then walked in to the front door, possibly to buy himself a nice lunch. I think we did want him to do the right thing, although we both felt that Bing deserved a little windfall. Well sir, he went to the restaurant owner, and turned in the small bundle of money, which if memory serves, was about two hundred dollars. The owner told me so, a few days later. it had belonged to an elderly man, who was headed out to do some Christmas shopping, and had just stopped by the restaurant for coffee with his mates. I was mad at myself for thinking Bing would keep the money. The fellow who had the money returned, didn't see the point of leaving Bing a small token of his appreciation, or even pre-pay for a coffee. The waitresses of the Parkview, who knew Bing's kindness, slipped him a few treats on the house.
Bing was most often, ahead of team coaches, in preparation for games and practices. The weather cold or hot, didn't mean anything to Bing, who found great entertainment and fellowship, helping youngsters get into sport; and if we only really knew, how many times he dug into his pocket, to help a kid, from a poor family, finance the registration fee. i can only imagine that he spent a lot of money buying kids new skate laces, and post-game treats, knowing they wouldn't have had a nickle to spare for even a glass of pop. I saw this on road trips especially. He had also been my coach back in minor hockey and baseball, and it would be interesting to know how many skates he tied up for kids on his team, or baseball gloves he repaired over his decades' long stint in Bracebridge. How many times he had the tissue to wipe away a kid's tears, when a parent's promise to show up at the game, didn't manifest; or when there was an injury, and Bing had to whip out the medical kit, to administer iodine to a wound, bandaging accordingly. He was at the beck and call of every coach he worked with, and every sporting season, he had multiple teams he tended. Not just a couple.
At the arena, working for Manager Doug Smith, he was our constant supervisor, big brother, teacher, and surrogate parent, who had a direct line to our parents; and I mean that from experience. He had no compunction whatsoever, telling on us, if we stepped up our misconducts to what he perceived as vandalism of public property; like when we used to play mini-games of hockey in the open area of the bleachers, at the entrance to the rink. We would use the broken sticks we found after hockey games, dumped over the boards, and the pucks shot into the stands, left for the benefit of the rink rats, of which I was proudly one of the gang. The puck left an ugly black mark on the painted block wall, and on the metal fire doors at the stairs, not to mention the marks the friction tape on the blades of the broken sticks, left on the concrete floor. Bing had to clean them up, and it was the one job he despised.
Bing was a sports icon. He was an outstanding skater, and an even better ball player. He knew his stuff, and he worked well with all the kids. He had a gruff voice, and no patience, but we all understood his battle-cry, and we played hard to pull off a win for him, on the ball diamond, or hockey rink.
When I was editor of The Herald-Gazette, I used to meet Bing, and his close friend Tommy Holiday, another die-hard sports fan, on my walks to and from work. I had a two block walk from my apartment in the McGibbon House, and Bing and Tommy used to sit out on the concrete step of the former Armstrong boarding house, on north Dominion Street. It's where I got most of the most important community news, because Tom and Bing talked to all the local notables, who passed their way. It's also where I got my baseball scores, and early season hockey results. They would both sit out there until the first snowfall made it uncomfortable. It was from this meeting place, when only Tommy would be on the stoop, that I heard about Bing's various illness; the diabetes and the heart condition, which would ultimately claim his life. Bit by bit, Bing was cut apart, because of the damage diabetes had done to his feet and legs. Bing was losing his battle day by day, and I had daily reports from those more intimate with him than me.
I remember being in the news room one day, when a friend came in to tell us, Bing had died earlier in the morning. He had felt some nausea, when called for breakfast, and had simply slumped over to the side of the bed, and his kindly old heart ceased its beating. There was nothing that could be done, and truth be known, he wouldn't have wanted to survive such an attack, because he had lost all ability to live independently; and could only ever have attended the hockey and baseball games he adored, if people picked him up and assisted him into the bleachers, which he hated. He was a behind the bench guy. The fellow who opened the door of the bench to change players. His was the hand of support, when he was close enough to players, to hit them on the back as congratulations for strong play, or a scored goal. It was not who he wanted to die. But he was unhappy as he was, at that time, sidelined from being a volunteer in the town he thought so much of, for so very many years.
On the day of his funeral, I sent to photographers, to cover Bing's own last inning, the final period, and when the manager asked why I was covering the service, I looked through him, and said, "I'm the editor and this is my call!" I headed over to Reynold's Funeral Home, to do the story part of what I planned to be front-page coverage for that week's issue. His pall bearers were his minor sports friends; all who had benefitted in some way, from Bing's coaching prowess, and his big brother guardianship. We were all Bing's kids back then. He showed up at the rink and ball field all the time. Our parents, not so much!
I was challenged about running the photograph of Bing's casket being carried down the funeral home steps, as not being important enough for news placement. I wanted to respond, "why, wasn't he important enough to deserve a little ink?" As I was used to having to fight for what I thought was right and proper, for the editorial content of the paper, I stood my ground, and so did everyone else, even those in production, who had no say in editorial priorities. Opposition remained until the next morning, when we were flooded with calls, from subscribers, praising us for our coverage of the funeral, which was the only one we covered in this fashion, in my decade with Muskoka Publications.
Every now and again, when I'm in the neighborhood of Annie Williams Memorial Park, I will take a purposeful stroll into the adjacent United Church Cemetery, and visit two graves in particular. The family plot of Dr. Peter McGibbon, which has a large monument, and the hard to find, in ground marker, identifying the plot occupied by my old friend, and this community's hero, "Fred Bing" Crosby, who died as penniless as he came into the world, but only ever complained, in the final days of his life, that he couldn't skate any more, because his legs had been amputated. It had never mattered, you see, that he was poor, only that he could fulfill his ambitions, of being involved in sports; and thats's how I shall always remember him, and I'm not alone in this remembrance.
When I write about the color of Bracebridge history, or any community history, folks like Bing were the sources of the imprint; the character contributors to what our history really means beyond the black and white of what is written in the formally prepared chronologies. While Bing's name has been recorded for historical posterity, especially in the press, as I insisted when he passed away, another town history does document the year he died. Not much more. But it would seem more disrespectful of town history, to ignore his multitude of contributions, than to prioritize him, as being an average citizen doing what he was supposed to; nothing more, nothing less. I could never leave this story alone, and today's blog probably ranks as the twentieth feature I've written and published since his death in the 1980's.
Bing was one of thousands of resident-contributors, and participants in day to day improvements we all desire, and very much a character in the real life production of "Our Town," no holds barred.
Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule, to join me for today's column. God bless!
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