IN A WAY, I MISS THE WAY WRITING WAS IMPOSED ON US, WITH THE CONFIDENCE WE COULD ALWAYS DELIVER BY PRESS DEADLINE
I SUPPOSE IT'S THE CASE I'VE GROWN SOFT IN MY PROFESSION, OF BEING ABLE TO CREATE, WHEN REQUIRED - IMMEDIATELY
It was a wild day at the shop, here in Gravenhurst, after a fairly light week, in terms of customer volume. It happens when you have sunny, warm, cottage-swimming weather. Give us an overcast, rainy, chilly day, and we will have wall to wall customers. It's one of the curiosities of running an antique business in a season economy. What the day brought, other than good commerce, was a lot of unexpected gopher jobs, for me, which I'm good with, as long as the boss doesn't start berating me in front of customers.
Every time I got working on this blog, with a little bit of a theme ingrained, Suzanne would beckon that a painting had to be lowered, or a piece of furniture moved to the front of the shop, to then load in a customer's vehicle. This is a nice part of the business, at any time of the year; so you won't read any complaints in this regard. We got back to the store late this morning, because of sales we had to attend, and then guitar lessons forced me to relocate my writing venue around the shop. It got a little better, but largely, it was the case, I had to fall back on some old tricks of the trade, and old inspirations to get any kind of blog at all. So here goes.
It was quite frequent, the publisher or general manager, would come to the news staff, to announce a full page advertisement has just come in over the front counter, and the paper would have to be bumped up by four pages. This may not seem like a big deal, except if you have copy shortfall, and you're expected to whip up three or four stories in a couple of hours, maybe less, to fill the white space the increase has created. It's a newspaper percentage thing, that's difficult to explain. But if the ad percentage was just over fifty percent, it would be a nightmare scenario to be forced to write the kind of feature stories that could fill almost a full page of broadsheet newspaper. The only thing it did for me, was keep me tuned-up all the time, to what could happen with short notice, but always great expectation. I've been trying to push myself back to that level of creative enterprise, and print production, but so far, it's been wildly off base; like a major league pitcher, being retired for a decade, and then hitting the mound again, and expected to strike-out batters wishing to explode each pitch into a homerun. I'm not adverse to taking another stab at pressing deadline writing, even just to satisfy myself, that I've still got the creative mojo to pull it off. It's one of those self-abuse things, I'm sure. I suppose it would make me feel better about turning sixty and not even having written down my bucket list. See, that's the value of a hard ass deadline.
Former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, with a hangover, having been staying with Gravenhurst writer, and musician, Hugh Clairmont, remembered when he finally awoke in Hugh's Bay Street abode that day, he hadn't written a column for the next edition, and it was precariously close to deadline. Instead of requesting that the newspaper repeat one of his previous columns from that year, he decided to dictate a column over the phone to a Toronto Sun secretary, to cover the bases for that issue. He was that good! A marvel of creativity. Off the cuff. A great asset for any writer, is to have this kind of recovery capability, to infill whenever, and wherever crisis rears its ugly head. Rimmer's column would have been about "not having a column, being hungover, and hanging-out with Hugh Clairmont," trying to normalize. He used actuality to his full advantage, and that's what his readers liked about him; he was the genuine article, and worts and all, he laid his life and foibles out, for us all to see, and yes, feel for him, because he had some bad moments as well. He could roll with just about anything, and he did; and a lot of it was pretty funny, proving that personal problems have a lighter side, if you've got a good sense of humor, and, in Rimmer's case, a drink in hand; or on the table beside.
As Rimmer, was our unofficial mentor, we tried to copy the way he could rally within minutes, at his typewriter, and come up with a brilliant column, without having to do a lick of research. His columns were real-life dramas, and then some. He appealed to readers who could sympathize with his misadventures, and his problems became their concerns, and that's why he had such a great day to day following, of folks who felt, for the price of a paper, they had an inherent right to be consulted on the next big turn of his life, or the very next time he was heading off to Mexico to write a novel - which might again turn into a story about a bar and some drinking buddies. He was quick on the draw, for a plodding kind of guy, but us over-worked, under-paid writers, loved to share his highs and lows as validation of their own woes; a huge talent to create a story out of thin air, and a big thirst as part of his victory celebration.
Every now and again, I think back to what makes me write, and frequently so; almost as if I am still trying to be as competent to the task as Rimstead was, most accomplished, when the chips were down, and he was in the hole by a dozen. He made us want to work harder, and folks, I can't explain it better, than to say, he was what we all wanted to be, as a creative engine; to be able to rise to any occasion of copy shortfall, and be able to whip up a few feature stories, to fill the dreaded white space of a newspaper, in a fraction of the time, it would take during the rest of the week. It was the pressure test that we might have dreaded, if we had been asked our opinion, but a challenge we accepted because it was what we needed, to stay sharp for the big day, when a daily called us up from the minors, to pitch in the big leagues. He made it seem like so much fun, to be the underdog; the lowly hack, trying to make a living in a profession that demands the well of creativity to never, ever run dry, or else. I can remember many occasions, when I was exhausted by press night, and being asked to come up with a half page feature article, the manager supposed I had in reserve. I had to tell him that he had already consumed all the back-burner copy earlier that day. It's not like we had a big writing staff, to cover this kind of territory at the last minute. Maybe it was feeling a little bit of Rimstead courage that I decided to go with a story I was still researching, and make it clear to readers that it was still a work in progress, but they were lucky to be getting a sneak peak, a couple of weeks in advance of when it was supposed to run. I managed to fill the space set aside for me, and although I was sweating pretty heavily, to pull it off, I did, later that evening, with my writing colleague, Brant Scott, hoist a couple of cold ones as a tribute to Rimstead, (Rimmer) for teaching an underdog to bite.
Here now is a little Rimstead retrospective, I like to re-read now and again, to keep my spirits up, and show me how I used to write, when my job depended on last minute rallies; sort of the Hail Mary passes downfield, for a touchdown.
BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES WAS A HAVEN FOR THE WEEKLY MEETINGS OF THE "LIARS CLUB."
I BORROWED THIS NAME FROM PAUL RIMSTEAD'S BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS"
MY SON ROBERT, ASKED ME A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT OUR FORMER ANTIQUE SHOP, WHICH WAS LOCATED IN THE UNFINISHED BASEMENT OF A MANITOBA STREET BUILDING, IN CENTRAL BRACEBRIDGE. I USED TO LOOK AFTER HIM AT THE STORE, IN THE YEARS BEFORE HE WAS ATTENDING SCHOOL FULL TIME. FOR AWHILE, I EVEN HAD OUR OTHER SON ANDREW IN THE SHOP FOR HALF THE DAY, WHEN HE WENT TO KINDERGARTEN. IT WAS LIKE HELL ON EARTH TO BE HONEST. WE HAD NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER. SHORTLY AFTER WE SIGNED THE LEASE AGREEMENT, OUR FLIGHTY PARTNERS DECIDED THEY DIDN'T WANT TO BE IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS ANY MORE, SO IN ORDER TO MAKE UP FOR THE STAFFING SHORTFALL, I HAD TO WORK FIVE DAYS A WEEK, AND SOMETIMES SIX IF SUZANNE HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO ON SATURDAYS.
SO WHEN ROBERT ASKED ME WHAT I REMEMBERED OF THE STORE EXPERIENCE, BACK IN THE EARLY 1990'S, I MADE A GROAN, WINCED A LITTLE, HAD A WILD LOOK IN MY EYES, AND ANSWERED, "IT WAS GREAT……WHEN YOU AND ANDREW WENT TO SCHOOL;" MEANING THINGS GOT BETTER FOR THE WHIPPED ANTIQUE SHOP CLERK, WHEN HE DIDN'T HAVE TO CHASE KIDS THROUGH THE AISLES OF GLASS AND POTTERY. A YEAR AGO, ON HIS URGING, BASED ON THE FACT HE WAS PRETTY YOUNG AT THE TIME WE HAD THE SHOP, AND HAS FORGOTTEN SOME OF THE EVENTS THAT WENT ON THERE, I STARTED WRITING SOME TELL-ALL BLOGS LAST JANUARY AND FEBRUARY; AND WE ALL GOT QUITE A LAUGH AT SOME OF THE GENERAL MISADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED FROM 1990 TO ABOUT 1995 OR SO. WE CLOSED THE SHOP FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS, THAT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH FINANCIAL SUCCESS, BECAUSE IN FACT, WE HAD MANAGED TO SURVIVE A HUGE RECESSION, AND REAL ESTATE CRASH, WITH STILL A FEW COINS TO JINGLE IN OUR RESPECTIVE TROUSERS. I WAS OFFERED A POSITION AS PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR WITH THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, CREATED BY FORMER DETROIT RED WING GOALIE, ROGER CROZIER, (A NATIVE OF BRACEBRIDGE), AND SUZANNE WAS GIVEN AN OPPORTUNITY TO TRANSFER FROM BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL TO GRAVENHURST, WHICH IS WHERE WE LIVE. SHE IS A TEACHER LIBRARIAN AND WE WON'T GET INTO THAT WORK TO RULE THING, GOING ON HERE IN ONTARIO, WITH THE CURRENT DISPUTE BETWEEN TEACHERS AND THE PROVINCE.
ROB WAS MOST INTERESTED IN HAVING SOME OF MY IMPRESSIONS OF THAT TIME, AND THE BUSINESS CLIMATE IN BRACEBRIDGE FOR ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES. HE'S PARTICULARLY INTRIGUED BECAUSE HE AND HIS BROTHER ARE NOW IN THE 7TH YEAR OF THEIR OWN VINTAGE MUSIC BUSINESS, HERE IN GRAVENHURST; AND WE HAVE JOINED THEM THIS PAST YEAR, TO OPEN UP TWO ROOMS OF ANTIQUES AT THE REAR OF THE BUILDING. WE WORK UNDER ROBERT AND ANDREW NOW, AS ONCE MY WIFE RETIRES FROM TEACHING THIS JUNE, WE WANT TO SPEND A LOT MORE TIME TRAVELLING AND PICKING……INSTEAD OF JUST HANGING OUT BEHIND A COUNTER. OF COURSE, LAST YEAR, IT GOT SO BUSY WE COULDN'T LEAVE THE BOYS TO HANDLE THEIR SHOP AND THE EXTENSION AS WELL.
BUT GETTING BACK TO THE QUESTION ROBERT HAD ASKED ME, I IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT ABOUT PAUL RIMSTEAD'S COLUMN, WRITTEN IN MEXICO IN THE EARLY 1970'S, AS HE WAS PURSUING A NEWSPAPER HIATUS, TO TRY HIS HAND AT CREATIVE WRITING……AS WELL AS DOING REGULAR COLUMNS FOR THE TORONTO SUN. HE WANTED TO SEE IF HE HAD THE SAME STUFF AS ALL THE GREAT NOVELISTS, WHO FOUND THEIR INSPIRATION IN EXOTIC, TROPICAL LANDS. HIS CHOICE WAS MEXICO. THE REASON ROBERT'S QUESTION STRUCK A CHORD, IS THAT I HAD BEEN THINKING, OVER CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR, ABOUT THE INTERESTING GATHERINGS WE USED TO HAVE AT THE SALES DESK IN OUR LITTLE ANTIQUE SHOP. I DIDN'T MAKE MUCH MONEY OFF THESE WEEKLY GUESTS, BUT WHAT FRIENDSHIPS WE HAD……AND WHAT AMAZING DISCUSSIONS WE HAD ABOUT EVERYTHING ON EARTH, IN HISTORY, THE FUTURE, AND A LOT OF OTHER WORLDLY STUFF TOO. WHEN RIMSTEAD ARRIVED IN MEXICO WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER, EAGER TO TROMP DOWN HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, TO MAKE IT MORE COMFORTABLE, LIKE A DOG CIRCLING ON A BLANKET, HE FOUND A BAR…..AND IN THAT BAR, HE FOUND SOME MATES. IT WASN'T LONG BEFORE THEY WERE HIS BEST FRIENDS. THAT BY THE WAY, WAS THE RIMSTEAD MAGIC. HE COULD MAKE FRIENDS FAST WHO WOULD BE HIS BUDDIES TO THE END. THE STORY HE WROTE ABOUT THIS, WAS THE WAY I THOUGHT ABOUT MY GOOD FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, WHO ARRIVED AT MY COUNTER WITH COFFEES AND BOWLS OF SOUP TO SHARE,……WINTER COATS AND GLOVES TO GIVE MY KIDS (THAT HAD BELONGED TO THEIR YOUNGSTERS)…..AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE ASSOCIATES MIGHT FEEL COMFORTABLE SHARING WITHIN THE GROUP. WHILE CLOSING THE SHOP WAS DIFFICULT, EMOTIONALLY, IT WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO HAVING TO SAY GOODBYE TO THESE WONDERFUL HANGERS-ON, WHO I SO ENJOYED, WHEN THEY BOUNCED DOWN THOSE STAIRS, YELLING AT ME BEFORE THEY HIT THE BOTTOM STEP. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING CURRIE? WHAT HAVE YOU SOLD TODAY?" IN THE WINTER, THE ANSWER WAS PRETTY MUCH THE SAME FROM DAY TO DAY. ""NOT A BLOODY THING……SO PLEASE MAKE MY DAY……BUY SOMETHING!" "I'M BROKE…..HAVE A COFFEE," MY SHOP GUEST WOULD CHORTLE, WITH VIBRANT HONESTY, DUSTING OFF THE SNOW SO THAT IT GOT ALL OVER MY BOOKS ON THE COUNTER.
"THANKS FOR RUINING MY BOOKS," I'D CHASTISE, WHILE BRUSHING OFF THE WATER DROPLETS. "YOU'RE SUCH A COMPLAINER. DO YOU WANT SOME CHEESE TO GO WITH THAT WHINE?" WELL YOU GET THE IDEA.
SOME OF MY REGULARS INCLUDED BILL PORTER, TOM MACFARLANE, HARRY RANGER, ASGAR THRANE, JACK KIERNAN, DICK IVEY, KEVIN PEAKE, AND AUDREY JUDD……OF THE WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA FAMILY WHO OPERATED JUDDHAVEN RESORT, ON LAKE ROSSEAU. THERE WERE MORE CUSTOMERS AND ANTIQUE COLLEAGUES WHO JOINED FROM TIME TO TIME, LIKE AUCTIONEER ART CAMPBELL, MIKE BEASLEY, WENDY SMID, RICK KRIST, SHARON AND BRIAN MILNE. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER THEY ENJOYED MY COMPANY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO THEIR VISITS. BUT I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING, WE TRIED TO SOLVE ALL THE PROBLEMS OF THE WORLD, BUT SETTLED INSTEAD FOR SOUND-GOOD RECREATIONAL DEBATING INSTEAD. WE'D GET SO EMBROILED IN ANTIQUE TALKS, THAT I'D FORGET ABOUT PICKING UP THE LADS FROM BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, ON THE NEXT BLOCK. I USED TO TRUST THESE FOLKS WITH THE STORE ROUTINELY, AND SOMETIMES BRIAN MILNE WOULD SUBSTITUTE, AND HEAD OVER TO THE SCHOOL AS AN ALTERNATE DAD. YOU KNOW, I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THIS ALOT…..BUT I DON'T THINK I THANKED THESE FOLKS FOR MAKING MY DAYS SO INTERESTING AND EDUCATIONAL, BECAUSE AMONGST THIS GROUP WERE SOME SAVVY COLLECTORS AND DEALERS, WITH A WEALTH OF INFORMATION AND EXPERIENCE TO SHARE. IN OUR PRESENT SHOP, I'M IN A KIND OF PERPETUAL TIME WARP, BECAUSE SOME OF MY MUCH OLDER CRONIES HAVE RETURNED, AFTER CLOSE TO EIGHTEEN YEARS ABSENCE FROM MAIN STREET RETAILING. IT'S QUITE A SHOCK TO LOOK UP OVER THE COUNTER, AND SEE SOME OF THOSE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I USED TO DEPEND ON……TO LIGHTEN THE BURDEN OF SO MANY SLOW DAYS IN THE OFF-SEASON. I LOOKED UP ONE DAY, JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR, AND THE OUTSTRETCHED HAND OF ROB BOUND, OF BRACEBRIDGE, COMMANDED A HANDSHAKE FOR OLD TIMES SAKE. I SPENT A LOT OF TIME TALKING ABOUT LOCAL POLITICS WITH ROB, AND I USED TO SELL HIS NEAT OLD WINDOW FRAMES HE HAD REFASHIONED, INTO STYLISH DECORATOR MIRRORS. I USED TO APOLOGIZE TO ROB FREQUENTLY, AS WITH MANY CONSIGNORS, BECAUSE IN THOSE YEARS OF THE RECESSION, ALL MAIN STREET ENTERPRISES WERE STRUGGLING TO HANG ONTO THEIR BUSINESSES. SO WE UNFORTUNATELY DIDN'T SELL A LOT FOR THEM. I ALWAYS FELT BAD ABOUT THIS FAILURE TO DEPLOY. I GOT SKUNKED SO MANY DAYS IN A ROW, I STARTED TO LEAVE MY METAL CASH BOX AT HOME IN THE MORNING.
WHEN I REFER TO THE "LIAR'S CLUB," AS RIMSTEAD USED TO CALL THE COLLECTIVE OF BLOKES HE MET AT THE BAR, IT WAS IN NO WAY MEANT TO BE DEROGATORY IN REFERENCE. QUITE THE OPPOSITE. IT WAS JUST KIND OF AN INFORMAL DEBATING SOCIETY, WHERE THE TRUTH WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO SPOIL AN OTHERWISE GOOD STORY. SO WHEN I CALL MY FRIENDS THE BIRCH HOLLOW LIAR'S CLUB, IT IS WITH ONLY THE GREATEST REVERENCE AND FRIENDSHIP…..BECAUSE THEY KEPT THIS ANTIQUE DEALER FROM GOING BONKERS……TRYING TO KILL TIME, AND FIGURE OUT NEW WAYS OF MAKING MONEY. ADMITTEDLY, THIS PERIOD WAS A BALL BREAKER FOR ANTIQUE DEALERS. BUT WE SURVIVED. IN PART, BECAUSE THEY WOULDN'T LET ME QUIT.
NOW HERE IN THE WORDS OF PAUL RIMSTEAD, FROM THE BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS," PRENTICE-HALL CANADA, 1980.
THE WRITER'S LIFE AMONGST FRIENDS…..AT A BAR……IN MEXICO…..WITH NARY A CARE
"On New Year's Day, 1972, we crossed into Mexico at Laredo, and as we cruised through Neuva Laredo, on the Mexican side, there was a sudden explosion. Someone had thrown a rock at the van and hit the window on the passenger's side, knocking off the Missus's glasses. Welcome to Mexico! Three days later we pulled into the picture-book town of San Miguel de Allende, with its church spires and cobblestone streets, and peddlers selling their wares from the backs of their donkeys. As we turned off from the main plaza and went down to our rented house, neither of us noticed the two little swinging doors that would change our lives. We lived on a street called Zacateros. This was where my book would be written, up in that studio on the roof. Conditions were absolutely ideal. It was everything that I had read in Writer's Yearbook,' wrote Paul Rimstead, eager to get cracking on the next bestselling novel.
"We bought our food in the outdoor market and even had a maid. The Senora, a wonderful lady who spoke no English but who remains a friend today. She lives in what is little more than a mud hut and, by herself, raised a large family, including a twenty-year old son named Elauterio who found the house for us and became my most valuable contact in the Mexican community. The Missus, who was quite a good equestrian, began working as an instructor each morning at the Escuela Ecuestre, an internationally known riding academy, operated by an American named Harold Black. Our daughter Tracy was enrolled in John F. Kennedy School in Queretaro, 45 kilometers south, where subjects were taught in English in the mornings and Spanish in the afternoons. I would walk her up to the plaza very early each morning to catch her school bus and, on the way back to the house, stop for a cup of coffee with sculptor Ronn Crabbe, who would already be working in his studio. The Senora would have prepared a breakfast of fresh fruit - papaya, grapefruit, oranges, pineapple - and, after eating, The Missus would drive up the mountain to the riding academy, and I would go up to my studio to write. I had brought paper, typewriter, ribbons, carbon, three ring binders, and even a three-hole punch," he wrote. "Life should have been perfect. It wasn't. Remember those swinging doors I mentioned earlier? I went through them one day and discovered the greatest little bar in the world. It was called 'La Cucaracha (The Cockroach) and was known plainly as 'The Cue' (Kook). In not time at all, I was accepted by the inner circle and became a regular. I called it the 'Literary, Intellectual, Artistic, Reading Society' which, when shortened, was the 'LIARS' CLUB '."
Rimmer writes, "Club members were people like 'The Judge,' 'Tony the Painter,' 'Deathmarch Hal,' 'The Midnight Cowboy,' 'Torpedo Sam,' 'Nursey,' 'Racetrack Sandy,' - characters who were known by the uppity Americans and Canadians on the hill, as 'those horrid people at the Cucaracha'. But, they were the best conversationalists and most intriguing circle of friends I ever had. The bar was a tiny place with just a few wooden tables and chairs in the front room, and a standup bar in the back, where the Mexicans drank. Drinks were cheap and Chucho, the proprietor, was the guardian angel of the gringos, running bar tables until the money came from home. San Miguel was considered to be an artist's colony but rather, it was a home for lost souls, widows, divorcees, and people who were trying to survive on small pensions. They pretended they were writing, pretended they were painting. They were drinking and laughing. Drinking and talking. The bar was famous enough to have been written about in feature stories in major magazines, including a long piece in Esquire. Norman Mailer drank there, so did the guy who wrote 'The Hustler.' Nobody got to know it better than me. I was a regular, arriving at noon each day, drinking until two or three in the afternoon or until The Missus came in, leading Miss Wigglebum (their dog) on a leash, and firing me one of her patented looks."
He concludes, "I suppose, in agreeing to go to Mexico, The Missus thought things would be better down there. At least we would be together. But, when we were together all the time, she discovered she didn't really like me at all. We had been in San Miguel three months when she decided that she had enough. She took Tracey and left me." Rimstead wrote, "After she left, I threw myself into single life with a vengeance and several bottles of tequila. I closed the three-ring binder forever, kept writing my columns, and took up permanent residence at the Cucharacha. When I heard, in 1979, that the Cue had been sold and closed, It was as if I had lost a good friend."
Well, the LIARS' Club of the former Birch Hollow Antiques was a sober bunch. We never shared anything more than good conversation, some cough lozenges when we had colds, and a few "looks," when spouses had to come downstairs to break up the meeting, in order to get home for dinner. Rimstead's "LIARS Club," was admittedly hard core to our much softer approach to togetherness…..and for professional purposes as well. But I know what Rimmer meant about the gathering of kindred spirits. We were all a little bored back then, and we found that discussing antiques and collectibles passed the time rather nicely. I will always think fondly of that group of conversationalists. And by the way, during this time, in between customers and the LIARS' Club get-togethers, I wrote four manuscripts, and handled two other freelance writing jobs……while having a regular newspaper column in the Muskoka Advance, and feature articles in The Muskoka Sun. Of course, I waited to get home to have a wee pint of ale. That pleased my Missus.
I don't know if another "LIARS' Club,' will form in our new location. I'm certainly open to the idea. I'm just not sure my conversation is as sensible as it was back in my youth. I find myself repeating stories so often, Suzanne calls me her "broken record," companion. I suppose I should be concerned she thinks I'm losing my marbles, but hey, I get away with a lot of stuff these days because of it. Like, "I'm sorry dear. I forgot what you told me to do!" It works for me.
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