ALL OF A SUDDEN I WANTED TO HOLD A GOLF CLUB AND TEE OFF WITH THAT OLD GANG OF MINE; BUT HALF OF THEM ARE GONE
Today offered the kind of weather an old golfer can't resist. One that a nostalgic old fart like me gets hung up on, for some pretty obvious reasons. I miss those guys. The Herald-Gazette gang, used to break away in the late afternoon, on sunny and warm Thursdays just like this, which was one of the most boring days to hang around the newspaper office; and head out to Bracebridge Golf Course to keep the Pratts company. I'm not sure they liked to see us coming, because we left a lot of carnage out on the fairways, and not just divots. But I suppose it was our support of the clubhouse offerings, that made up for everything else.
I thought, with full and glorious reminiscence, about standing out there on the first tee, overlooking the magnificent first fairway sprawling out in front, and the good company of my golf buddies, including Brant Scott, Harry Ranger, and Alistair Taylor, who was an honorary editor with our paper. We'd all have sparkling new golf balls, purchased from the sports department of the clubhouse, and the idea, was that we would use one ball each for the entire nine holes. That's what our ambition and dream was, but you know that never happened. By the end of the first hole I would have already lost two of the three I purchased.
But there we were, that close-knit bunch, who also made up the core of the Herald-Gazette Rink Rat hockey team, hacking and thwacking, shanking and slicing all over God's half acre, in the spirit of that great highland game, of golf. We loved it all. All the terrible things that happened out there, were part of the sport; sliding and then tumbling down hillsides, looking for our lost balls, and sinking down into the muddy quagmires, too proud to admit the swamp got the only ball left in our bag. How content we were to be out in the open air, until the storm came along, and once again, we were too proud to put the clubs back in the bag, and run to the clubhouse for fear of being electrocuted. We took the lightning flashes like manly men, and played through whatever the devil could throw at us intrepid part-time athletes.
We laughed, and cried, and cursed the Bogies that drove our scores into almost fictional excesses, and we shouldered each other after injury, at times when the ball came thwacking back after hitting a tree, striking one of us in the groin or worse. We consoled each other when our golf carts slid slowly and quietly into the murky depths of the water hazard; crafting cleverly devised poles out of ball retriever gadgets, to haul them out, with snakes and assorted sea creatures trapped inside. Good times.
It wasn't as if my memory was recalling great games of golf. Quite the opposite. It reflected on some of the most incredibly horrible games in golf history. It reminded me that we played golf because it was a respite in life and work, from everything else that was going on in our lives. For those nine holes, sometimes played twice a week, we were free spirits, like Fonda and Hopper on that wild cross-country ride on their choppers. We used golf clubs and balls as a source of liberation, and the occasional cold pop, if you know what I mean, as a stress inhibiter. Instead of having to buy motorcycles to find our lost mojo. In retrospect, I think I enjoyed the good humour out there on the links, more than the act of hitting a little white ball into a tiny hole on carpet-grass. When we teed off, on that first hole, it was the beginning of a mini vacation, and in other ways, a sort of recreational therapy, where we felt comfortable admitting some of our personal issues, at about the same time as cursing the heavens, because our ball just hit the sand trap, or became hidden in the fern cover of a lush border forest. It was, in a therapeutic way, good to let our frustrations loose, and farting around nine holes, just seemed to pacify us by the end of the round. The only real upset would be if the golf bag containing refreshments, was the one that sunk to the bottom of the hazard lagoon.
Today I must admit, I became very nostalgic for those days of golf, the old fashioned way; where it was the social occasion, and the sporting culture, that was more important than what was pencilled onto the scorecard. Two of the old gang, Harry Ranger and Brant Scott have since passed away, and well, that certainly messes up the foursome. I think I might take a drive past the golf course, for old times sake, and you never know; I might just pick up a club, and slice or shank for old times sake. But most likely, I will just get misty-eyed and try to forget about golf altogether. That's why I went to the effort of writing this down, just in case I was to ever truly forget, what got me from then, to now, with such respect for all that has been stuffed into my golf-bag like biography.
THE RESIDENT PEACE OF A GRAVEYARD - THE BIRD, SQUIRRELS, CHIPMUNKS, AND OTHER WEE CRITTERS OF EARTH, AND SKY, ANIMATE SOLITUDE
I STOOD BETWEEN THREE OF THE BEST KNOWN HISTORIANS IN BRACEBRIDGE - WHAT A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE
KEEPING THE DECEASED COMPANY. FOR ME, I THINK IT'S THE OTHER WAY AROUND. AFTER ONLY A FEW MINUTES OF ADJUSTMENT, IN A CEMETERY SETTING, I CAN BECOME VERY CALM AND QUITE THOUGHTFUL. I HAVEN'T TRIED WRITING COPY IN SUCH A PLACE, BUT I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING. THE STORY-LINE OF CHOICE, WOULD HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH GHOSTS. IT WOULD HAVE EVERYTHING TO DO WITH HISTORY. WHAT THESE CITIZENS LIVED THROUGH AND ACCOMPLISHED, AND WHAT I HAVE SEEN OF THEIR FORESIGHT EVER SINCE. I THINK I MAY HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT GHOSTS IN GRAVEYARDS WHEN I WAS A KID, AS A VICTIM OF HOLLYWOOD THRILLERS. AS AN HISTORIAN, TODAY, I SEE THESE PLACES AS BEING SPIRITUALLY ENHANCED, BUT ENTIRELY POSITIVE PLACES IN WHICH TO STROLL ABOUT; EVEN IF YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE ANY OF THE NAMES. I COULDN'T WRITE LOCAL HISTORIES, WITH ANY SENSE OF ACTUALITY, WITHOUT KNOWING THESE PLACES, AND THESE NAMES. THE FAMILY NAMES ON THE TOMBSTONES, REPRESENT THE FIRST DOZEN CHAPTERS OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORY. MANY OF THOSE FAMILY NAMES ARE STILL REPRESENTED IN OUR COMMUNITY, EVEN AFTER ALL THIS WATER HAS PASSED UNDER THE BRIDGE. THEY GAVE A COMMUNITY TO THE MODERNISTS, AND THEY SHOULDN'T FORGET THAT FACT, WHEN TODAY, THEY'RE (COUNCILLORS INCLUDED) MULLING OVER WHAT CHANGES THEY'D LIKE TO MAKE, IN ORDER TO RE-INVENT BRACEBRIDGE. I'D LOVE THE OPINION OF THOSE WHO RESIDE IN THESE QUIET PLACES, WHO CREATED OUR DESTINY, FROM ABOUT THE 1860'S, BASED ON COMMON SENSE AND ORDERLINESS. WE DO HAVE THEM TO THANK FOR GETTING THIS FAR ALONG. I DON'T FEEL WE USE THEM AS ROLE MODELS AT ALL. BUT YES WE SHOULD.
AS I NOTED IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, SUZANNE AND I TOOK A STROLL THROUGH SEVERAL BRACEBRIDGE CEMETERIES YESTERDAY, AND VISITED WITH SOME OF MY OLD CRONIES THAT I THINK ABOUT OFTEN. BILL ANDERSON, THE PAINTING-BARBER, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE UNION CEMETERY IN FALKENBURG, AND WITH FRED AND MARY BAMFORD, IN THE ANGLICAN CEMETERY, ON NORTH MANITOBA STREET. I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT GOING TO CEMETERIES, OR MEMORIAL SITES, BUT I BECOME VERY SUBDUED. I AM NOT A SUBDUED HUMAN BEING, BUT THESE PLACES OF SPIRITUAL SOLITUDE, MAKE ME FEEL AS IF I'M ONE STEP AHEAD OF MY OWN HEARSE. I HAVE ALWAYS FELT LIKE THIS, AND IT'S AS IF ALL THE FOLKS I HAVE KNOWN, WHO ARE BURIED, OR IN MEMORIAL CAIRNS, ARE WHISPERING TO ME, "YOU KNOW TED, THE AFTER-LIFE IS A PRETTY DECENT GIG. WE'RE ALL FRIENDS IN HERE, AND BEYOND."
I FOUND MYSELF YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, STANDING BETWEEN SIX OF BRACEBRIDGE'S WELL KNOWN HISTORIANS. I CALLED TO SUZANNE, WHO WAS VISITING SOME OF HER RELATIVES, BURIED ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE CEMETERY, TO LET HER KNOW THAT I WAS STANDING IN A SORT OF HISTORIC MATRIX IN REAL LIFE, REAL TIME. NOW CONSIDERING WHAT I WRITE ABOUT EACH WEEK, AND WHO MY MENTORS HAVE BEEN, INCLUDING THE BOOKS THAT HAVE BEEN MY CRUTCH FOR YEARS AND YEARS, IT WAS A POWERFUL SENSATION, TO BE STANDING BETWEEN G.H.O. THOMAS, HIS SON REDMOND, WHO I HAVE BEEN QUOTING FOR THE PAST WEEK, AND GEORGE BOYER, HIS WIFE VICTORIA, ROBERT BOYER AND HIS WIFE PATSY, EACH HAVING WRITTEN A BOOK OR TWO ABOUT MUSKOKA HISTORY. G.H.O. THOMAS, WROTE A HISTORY OF BRACEBRIDGE, WHICH I HAVE QUOTED FREQUENTLY, DURING THE PAST THREE MONTHS, AND WAS FORMER EDITOR OF THE BRACEBRIDGE GAZETTE. HIS SON REDMOND, A MAGISTRATE, WAS ALSO A WRITER FOR THE PAPER, AND THEN WROTE A COLUMN FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE, IN THE LATE 1960'S, AS WELL AS COMPILING THE BOOK "REMINISCENCES." GEORGE BOYER WROTE A HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, THAT IS STILL HIGHLY SOUGHT AFTER BY COLLECTORS; VICTORIA WROTE AND PUBLISHED A HARDCOVER TEXT, PROFILING THE HISTORIC HOMES OF BRACEBRIDGE, (MY OLD NEWSPAPER CHUM, BRANT SCOTT TOOK THE PHOTOGRAPHS FOR VICTORIA'S BOOK), PATSY BOYER WROTE SEVERAL BOOKS OF HERITAGE STORIES, AND OPINION PIECES, ABOUT HER HOME TOWN, AND ROBERT J. BOYER, OF COURSE, WROTE NUMEROUS BOOKS, HIS MOST POPULAR BEING "A GOOD TOWN GREW HERE," PUBLISHED IN 1975. IT WAS REALLY SOMETHING, TO STAND THERE, AMIDST ALL THE FRIENDLY DIN OF BIRD-SONG, CHIPMUNKS RUSTLING IN THE NEWLY FALLEN LEAVES, THE SQUIRRELS SCOLDING EACH OTHER IN THE PINE BOUGHS, AND WATCHING BEES HOVERING AROUND SOME BORDER WILDFLOWERS. THIS WAS AN UNANTICIPATED SITUATION. I HAVE BEEN TO THE CEMETERY BEFORE, BUT I WAS DRAWN HERE ON THIS DAY, INITIALLY TO SEE THE "BROWNING" FAMILY PLOT, AS RELATES TO REDMOND'S WRITTEN ACCOUNTS; ROBERT BROWNING, OF COURSE, BEING THE ONE EJECTED FROM THE HORSE-DRAWN HEARSE, WHEN SOMETHING STARTLED THE TEAM. THE PALL BEARERS WERE STILL IN PLACE, AND CAUGHT MR. BROWNING BEFORE HE HIT THE SURFACE OF THE ROAD. SO I HAD TO SEE HIS FINAL RESTING PLACE, KNOWING THIS INTERESTING HERITAGE ANECDOTE. IT IS A PROMINENT STONE, AND FAMILY PLOT, ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE ENTRANCE, OFF MANITOBA STREET.
I HAVE ENORMOUS RESPECT FOR ALL THESE FORMER CITIZEN - HISTORIANS OF BRACEBRIDGE, AND I CONFESSED TO THEM, AUDIBLY, THAT THEIR DILIGENT WORK TO CONSERVE HISTORY, HAS KEPT ME IN RICH SUPPLY OF RESOURCES FOR THE PAST THIRTY-FIVE YEARS. I COULDN'T GET THROUGH A MONTH, IN MY PROFESSION, WITHOUT REFERENCING THEIR WORK, IN SOME FASHION, AND TO SERVE SOME HERITAGE PURPOSE. I WISH I HAD KNOWN G.H.O. THOMAS, AND SON REDMOND BETTER, AND BY TIME I BEGAN WORK AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BOB HAD ONLY RECENTLY LOST HIS WIFE PATSY. VICTORIA AND GEORGE HAD DIED EARLIER. BUT I DO FEEL PRETTY GOOD, ABOUT THE FACT, I SPENT A LOT OF TIME WITH BOB BOYER, HUDDLED WITH HIM IN HIS DICKENSIAN OFFICE, ON 27 DOMINION STREET, LOOKING UP, AND CONFIRMING SOME HISTORICAL DETAIL, FOR THAT WEEK'S ISSUE. HE'D INVITE ME IN, IF I WAS IN NEED OF SOME INFORMATION FROM BACK ISSUES, AND WHILE CHEWING THE END OF HIS ENORMOUS CIGAR, AND BEING BARELY VISIBLE THROUGH THE BLUE HAZE, HE COULD SWIVEL HIS CHAIR, STICK HIS HAND IN THE MIDDLE OF A PILE OF PAPER AND BOOKS, THREE FEET HIGH, AND PULL OUT EXACTLY WHAT HE WAS LOOKING FOR. EVERYONE WHO HAD A SIMILAR QUESTION TO RUN BY BOB, WOULD ASK ROUGHLY THE SAME QUESTION WHEN LEAVING HIS OFFICE, INFORMATION IN HAND. "HOW DID HE JUST DO THAT? THERE MUST HAVE BEEN A THOUSAND PAGES ON THE PILE, BUT HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE THAT SPECIFIC PIECE OF NOTEPAPER WAS BURIED." IT WAS THE BOB BOYER MAGIC. I SAW IT UP CLOSE, AND I STILL COULDN'T FIGURE OUT HOW HIS MIND WORKED IN THIS RESPECT. HE WAS DEFINITELY AN ARCHIVIST.
WHEN THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICES WERE RENOVATED, SOME TIME IN THE MID 1980'S, I THINK IT WAS, BOB SUFFERED A HUGE SET-BACK IN HIS OWN COMFORTABLE COMMONPLACE, OF BEING MUSKOKA SUN EDITOR. THE SIZE OF HIS OFFICE WAS SERIOUSLY REDUCED, AND ALL OF US STAFFERS THOUGHT THIS WOULD CAUSE A MAJOR STIR FOR BOB, BECAUSE OF ALL THE CLUTTER HE POSSESSED, OVER SQUARE EVERY INCH OF THE LARGER OFFICE. THERE WAS NOTHING BUT SMOKE RESIDUE ON THE CEILING. DURING THE RENOVATION, BOB SPENT MORE TIME WORKING FROM HOME, OR AT THE BACK OF THE SHOP, WHERE THE LAYOUT CREW, CUT AND PASTED EDITORIAL COPY, AND PHOTOGRAPHS, ON THE NEWSPAPER FLATS; THEIR KNIVES DRAWN AND THE SMELL OF NEWLY WAXED EDITORIAL COPY PERMEATING THE AIR, WITH A STORIED, NEWSPAPER TRADITION, THERE BEING A TRACE SCENT OF CIGAR. HE THREW PLASTIC OVER HIS IMPORTANT PAPERS, TO KEEP THE DUST OFF THEM, BUT I REMEMBER GOING BY HIS OFFICE ONE DAY, WHILE THE WORK CREWS WERE USING A POWER SAW, AND SEEING HIM SITTING ON HIS CHAIR, IN FRONT OF HIS COVERED DESK, READING SOME COPY FOR THE "ALGOMA ANGLICAN," WHICH HE ALSO HAD SOME EDITORIAL INPUT. HE WAS BEING DUSTED AT THE SAME TIME, FROM THE NEARBY SAW, CUTTING THROUGH DRYWALL. HE WAS BEING COATED BY WHITE DUST, AND I'M SURE INHALING SOME AS WELL, BUT WHEN BOB LOCKED ON TO SOMETHING, LIKE PROOFING EDITORIAL COPY FOR THE TYPESET DEPARTMENT, HE WASN'T GOING TO BE RUFFLED BY SOME MINOR CONSTRUCTION IN THE VICINITY. I DON'T KNOW IF THERE WAS ANY DANGER WITH THE DUST, AND SMOKING HIS CIGAR, BUT NOTHING BLEW UP, SO I GUESS IT WAS BENIGN.
WHEN THEY GOT HIS OFFICE RE-ADJUSTED, IT WAS SUBSTANTIALLY SMALLER. WE ALL COMMENTED TO HIM, HOW HE WAS GOING TO STORE ALL HIS ARCHIVES WITH THE MUCH SMALLER DIGS. "OH, I WILL GET IT ALL IN EVENTUALLY," HE'D MUTTER, CHOMPING DOWN ON WHAT APPEARED, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, LIKE A HALF-EATEN CIGAR. ABOUT A WEEK AFTER COMPLETION, OF THE REMODELLING OF THE LOWER OFFICES, I WAS WHIPPING BY BOB'S OFFICE, ON THE WAY TO THE DARKROOM, WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, HIS ARM REACHED OUT AND GRABBED ME BY THE ELBOW. THIS WAS HIS HABIT, AND I HAVE NO IDEA, HOW HE KNEW WHO WAS COMING DOWN THE HALL, BECAUSE HE HAD LIMITED VISIBILITY THROUGH HIS AVERAGE SIZED DOOR, WITHOUT ANY WINDOW, EXCEPT TO OUTSIDE. MOST OF US WHO WORKED, IN THOSE DAYS, AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, KNEW THAT AT ANY MOMENT, PASSING BY HIS OFFICE, HIS ARM WOULD REACH OUT, TO PULL US TOWARD HIS INNER SANCTUM. SO ON THIS PARTICULAR DAY, I WAS HALF EXPECTING TO BE HAULED INTO HIS OFFICE, BECAUSE THERE HAD BEEN SOME HEADLINE ERRORS IN THAT WEEK'S ISSUE OF THE MUSKOKA SUN; BUT TO MY GREAT SURPRISE, BOB JUST WANTED TO SHOW ME HOW HIS NEWLY RENOVATED OFFICE LOOKED. IT WAS WEIRD. I MEAN IT. THE MAN HAD SUFFERED THE LOSS OF A LARGE PART OF HIS OFFICE, YET IT LOOKED EXACTLY THE SAME AS IT WAS BEFORE THE CONSTRUCTION. ALL THE BOOKS AND PAPER WERE STACKED AS THEY WERE BEFORE, AND ALTHOUGH THERE WAS THE NAGGING SENSATION OF BEING CLOSER TO BOB THAN BEFORE, WHILE WE CHATTED, EVERYTHING WAS WHERE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, INCLUDING THE SEVERAL CRUMPLED PIECES OF PAPER, HE HAD RIPPED OUT OF HIS TYPEWRITER CARRIAGE, AND HAD TUMBLED ONTO THE FLOOR. IT WAS LIKE TIME HAD STOOD STILL. YET THE PLACE HAD BEEN TORN APART A FEW DAYS EARLIER, AND MUCH OF THE PAPER AND BOOKS, BOXED AND STORED UNDER PLASTIC, BUT IN THE SAME SPACE. "BOB, HOW DID YOU DO IT" I ASKED, ABOUT LOSING TEN FEET OF OFFICE SPACE, BUT HAVING IT LOOK AS IF HE HADN'T LOST AN INCH. "IT'S A LITTLE SMALLER," HE ANSWERED. "YOU SEE, I CAN'T MOVE MY CHAIR BACK AS FAR ANY MORE, AND I'VE HAD TO PUT THE BOOKS HIGHER ON THE SHELVES." WHICH WAS TRUE. YET WHEN HE WANTED TO SHOW ME SOME ARTICLE HE FELT WAS RELEVANT, TO A STORY WE WERE WORKING ON FOR THE NEXT ISSUE, HE ONCE AGAIN, BIT HARD ON THE END OF HIS STOGIE, AND WITH BOTH HANDS, MANIPULATED A LEANING STACK OF DOCUMENTS, AND PULLED OUT THE EXACT ONE HE WAS LOOKING FOR; AND AS BEFORE, SEEMINGLY AWARE, AS IF BY SENSORY PERCEPTION, WHERE EVERY PAPER OR NOTE WAS LOCATED, EVEN THOUGH IT SEEMED AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK.
I WAS SO IMPRESSED BY ROBERT BOYER, AND THE WAY HE TREATED ME AS AN APPRENTICE, FOR THOSE TEN YEARS AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, THAT SUZANNE AND I NAMED OUR SECOND BORN SON IN HIS HONOR. IN FACT, ROBERT USED TO COME WITH US, WHEN I WOULD DRIVE BOB DOWN TO ORILLIA FOR HIS EYE EXAMINATIONS AND SURGERY, AND THEN HE WOULD TAKE US OUT TO LUNCH, AT THE FORMER SUNDIAL RESTAURANT, WHERE HE'D INSIST THAT ROBERT SHOULD HAVE A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE. I REMEMBER ONE OCCASION, FOLLOWING A PERIOD OF FREEZING RAIN, DRIVING HIS CADILLAC DOWN ONE OF THE LONG SLIPPERY HILLSIDES IN ORILLIA, WITH BOB IN THE FRONT SEAT, AND ROBERT IN THE BACK, LOSING CONTROL, AND SPINNING WILDLY THROUGH AN INTERSECTION. BOB WAS READING INFORMATION ABOUT HIS EYE CONDITION, AND THE YOUNGER ROBERT WAS READING A STORY-BOOK I'D BROUGHT ALONG TO ENTERTAIN HIM. WHEN THE LIGHT CHANGED, TO RED, I JUST TOUCHED THE BRAKE, AND GOSH, I WAS SENT INTO A SPIN. RIGHT THROUGH THE RED LIGHT, MISSING TWO CARS CROSSING, AND NOT STRAIGHTENING OUT UNTIL WELL PAST THE INTERSECTION. I WAS ABSOLUTELY WILD WITH FEAR, BECAUSE OF THE TWO VULNERABLE PASSENGERS, WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN HIT BROADSIDE, AS THERE WAS NOTHING COMING ON THE DRIVER'S SIDE. I REMEMBER THANKING GOD, ONCE SAFELY ON THE OTHER SIDE, HAVING STOPPED CURLING DOWN THE ROAD A PIECE, AND THEN LOOKING OVER TO BOB, IN PREPARATION FOR THE LECTURE I WAS GOING TO GET, ON SAFE DRIVING IN WINTER CONDITIONS. BOB WAS STILL READING THE MEDICAL INFORMATION, AND HAD MISSED THE WHOLE SPIN DOWN THE ROAD. ROBERT WAS ASLEEP. I HAD TO CLOSE MY EYELIDS MANUALLY FOR THE NEXT HOUR, I WAS STILL SO SCARED OF WHAT WE HAD NARROWLY MISSED, OF A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT. WHEN BOB ASKED ME LATER, IF I WAS OKAY, I JUST TURNED TO HIM AND SMILED, "EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW BOB, JUST FINE." HE PROBABLY SAW THE FEAR IN MY EYES, BUT HAD MISSED THE ENTIRE SHORT-LIVED EPISODE, AND I NEVER ADMITTED IT TO HIM LATER-ON EITHER. I DID SORT OF THINK OF IT, WHILE STANDING THERE, READING HIS NAME, ETCHED ONTO THE BOYER TOMBSTONE, AND I'M SURE MY THOUGHTS EXPLAINED THE WHOLE MISADVENTURE, AND HOW LUCKY WE WERE, ON THAT DAY, TO HAVE ESCAPED SERIOUS INJURY. AFTER THAT INCIDENT, I REFUSED TO DRIVE BOB'S CAR, AND INSTEAD MOTORED HIM TO HIS APPOINTMENTS IN OUR OLDSMOBILE WHICH WAS A NICE RIDE, BUT NOT AS LUXURIOUS AS THE CADILLAC. I WONDERED IF THE COMFORTS OF THAT CAR, HAD DRAWN ME INTO COMPLACENCY ABOUT THE DRIVING CONDITIONS, WHICH HAD BEEN SLOWLY IMPROVING, ON THAT DAY, BUT NOT IN ALL LOCATIONS. THERE WASN'T A LICK OF SAND ON THAT INTERSECTION. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN GOING SLOWER. I'VE NEVER CAUSED AN ACCIDENT IN MY DRIVING LIFE, WHICH BEGAN SHORTLY AFTER MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. I WAS MOVED BY A NUMBER OF MEMORIES, STANDING THERE, THINKING ABOUT BOB BOYER, AND OUR TIME SPENT TOGETHER AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND OTHER PLACES AROUND THE REGION. I'M NOT AT ALL SURE HOW BOB WOULD HAVE REACTED, HAD HE SEEN THE FULL SPIN OF TERROR, BUT WELL, THAT'S HISTORY NOW AS WELL.
I MOVED ON THROUGH THE CEMETERY, TO TOUCH THE MONUMENTS (THIS IS MY WAY OF CONNECTING) BELONGING TO OTHER FRIENDS, WHO HAVE DEPARTED, SOME EVEN RECENTLY. I SAID HELLO TO GORD "GORDO" LOMAS, WHO I WORKED WITH IN THE PRINT MEDIA FOR MANY YEARS, TIM ROWE, WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO PLAY THE BARITONE IN JOHN RUTHERFORD'S MUSIC CLASS, AT BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, BUS BRAZIER, WHO PLAYED CHIEF MUSKEUQUE, (SPELLED MANY DIFFERENT WAYS) IN ABOUT A THOUSANDS PARADES AND FESTIVALS, (WEARING BEAR GREASE HE CLAIMED, WHILE BEING BARE CHESTED IN SANTA CLAUSE PARADES), AND GARTH "BUTCH" BRAZIER, AN ALL STAR PLAYER ON THE OLD INTERMEDIATE "C" HOCKEY TEAM, "THE HUSKIES," FROM THE LATE 1960'S. GARTH WAS DROWNED IN A HUNTING-SEASON BOATING MISHAP, AND I HANDLED HIS MEMORIAL DISPLAY AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, WHICH WAS ORIGINALLY ERECTED IN THE OLD LOBBY, A MONTH OR SO AFTER HE WAS KILLED. I HAD THE CHANCE TO SEE HIM PLAY, AND IT'S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY; HE WAS AN ALL-STAR PLAYER FOR SURE.
ON A QUICK COUNT, SUZANNE AND I ESTIMATED, ON THE CONSERVATIVE SIDE, TO HAVING KNOWN UPWARDS OF TWO HUNDRED OF THE FORMER CITIZENS BURIED IN THE ANGLICAN CHURCH CEMETERY. HER AUNT AND UNCLE, MARY AND REG BILLINGSLEY ARE BURIED THERE, ALONG WITH SUZANNE'S COUSIN, DOUG, VICKY AND THEIR INFANT DAUGHTER, SARAH, WHO WAS THREE YEARS OLD AT TIME OF PASSING. HER COUSIN DOUG, WAS MARRIED TO VICKY BOYER, BOB BOYER'S DAUGHTER. SO NOT ONLY WAS I BOB'S ASSOCIATE EDITOR, WITH THE MUSKOKA SUN, AND HIS OCCASIONAL DRIVER, I WAS ALSO AN IN-LAW THROUGH SUZANNE'S FAMILY RELATIONSHIP.
THE MOST INTERESTING PART OF THE STROLL THROUGH THE CEMETERY, WAS MY CONNECTION TO THE HISTORIC FAMILIES OF BRACEBRIDGE, THAT I WRITE ABOUT EACH YEAR, INCLUDING NAMES LIKE MAHAFFY, LOUNT, BASTEDO, BROWNING, SALMON, AND PARLETT. I STOOD ON RUSS SALMON'S PLOT AND SAID HELLO. I USED TO TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS OF RUSS WHEN HE PLAYED "SANTA" AT BRACEBRIDGE'S "SANTA'S VILLAGE." HE WAS A REGULAR AT THE OLD CURLING CLUB, WHEN IT WAS LOCATED ACROSS FROM THE ARENA ON JAMES STREET. I'D SEE RUSS AT LEAST ONCE A DAY WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, AND HE NEVER GOT FAR DOWN MANITOBA STREET, WITHOUT STOPPING TO CHAT WITH HIS CRONIES. IT SEEMED EVERYONE KNEW RUSS SALMON BACK THEN, AND A LOT OF CONVERSATIONS HAD TO DO WITH SPORTS. HE LOVED REKINDLING MEMORIES OF OLD CHAMPIONSHIP TEAMS, MEMORABLE GAMES, AND RECOLLECTING THE EXPLOITS OF OLDER STARS FROM THE GOLDEN YEARS OF RIVER AND POND SHINNY. I WHISPERED A HELLO TO CANON DAVID MITCHELL, OF ST. THOMAS ANGLICAN CHURCH, WHO YOU COULD SET YOUR WATCH BY, AS HE WALKED FROM THE CHURCH TO THE MANSE, ON MCMURRAY STREET, THROUGH MEMORIAL PARK; I COULD WATCH HIS COMINGS AND GOINGS FROM MY ATTIC WINDOW, AT THE FORMER HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, ON MANITOBA STREET. HIS WAS QUITE A STRIKING PRESENCE, WEARING A BLACK ROBE, CROSSING THE PARK ON THE BITTEREST WINTER DAY, DURING A SNOW SQUALL. HE USED TO DROP IN TO SEE BOB BOYER, AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, QUITE FREQUENTLY, AS BOTH OF THESE FINE GENTS CONTRIBUTED MATERIAL TO THE "ALGOMA ANGLICAN." I STOPPED TO PAY RESPECT TO REVEREND STANLEY TOMES, ALSO FROM ST. THOMAS CHURCH, WHO USED TO DROP INTO THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ALSO TO SEE BOB; BUT OCCASIONALLY HE WOULD POP UPSTAIRS TO SHOW ME A MODEL BOAT HE WAS WORKING ON, WHICH IF MEMORY SERVES, WAS BUILT WITHIN A BOTTLE. I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT SUCH THINGS, BUT STANLEY DID.
I STOPPED, ON THE WAY OUT OF THE CEMETERY, TO CHAT WITH FRED AND MARY BAMFORD, FORMER OWNERS OF WOODLEY PARK COTTAGES, ON TORONTO STREET, AND OPERATORS OF THE FAMOUS BAMFORD'S CORNER STORE, AT THE NORTH END OF THE BLOCK, THAT ALSO HAD THE FORMER BLACK'S VARIETY STORE, WHICH LATER BECAME "LIL & CEC'S." MY MOTHER MERLE WORKED AS A CLERK FOR THE BAMFORDS, SHORTLY AFTER ARRIVING IN BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE MID 1960'S, AND I CAN SO CLEARLY RECALL STANDING WITH FRED IN FRONT OF HIS RENTAL COTTAGES, AS BIRDS LANDED ON HIS HEAD, AND ATE SEEDS FROM HIS OUTSTRETCHED HAND. I WATCHED AS A CHIPMUNK PULLED A PEANUT OUT OF A SHIRT POCKET ONCE. I EVEN WITNESSED SQUIRRELS AND BLUE JAYS DO THE SAME THING. HE KEPT MANY BIRD BOOKS IN HIS LIVING ROOM, AND HIS GENTLE, PATIENT WAYS, MADE HIM A FRIEND TO MANY CREATURES OF THE FOREST. HE WOULDN'T EVEN HURT AN INSECT, EVEN IF IT WAS BITING HIM. HE WOULD JUST BRUSH IT AWAY, SAYING "THAT'S FOOD FOR THE BIRDS, SO BEST NOT KILL IT!" BOTH FRED AND MARY PLAYED A LARGE ROLE IN MY CHILDHOOD, AS BAMFORD'S WOODS, WAS WHERE I HUNG OUT, UP ON ALICE STREET. FRED HAD A RULE. YOU COULD PLAY IN THE WOODS, AS LONG AS WE DIDN'T HURT THE TREES, OR ANY OF THE CREATURE INHABITANTS, THAT CALLED THE SMALL FOREST
THEIR HOME. I REMEMBER HIM GETTING AGITATED, WHEN ONE OF OUR FRIENDS, A YOUNG GIRL, FROM ONE STREET OVER, SLIPPED AND FELL OUT OF A SMALL PINE TREE, HITTING HER BACK ON AN EXPOSED ROOT. THEY HAD TO REMOVE HER BY AMBULANCE, AND FRED WAS VERY UPSET THAT HIS TREE HAD CAUSED SOMEONE ELSE PAIN. HE WAS LIKE THAT HOWEVER, AND ASSUMED THESE KIND OF EVENTS WERE CAUSED BY HIS NEGLIGENCE. THE GIRL WAS RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL LATER THAT DAY, HAVING RECEIVED NO SERIOUS INJURY, OTHER THAN SOME BAD BRUISING ON HER BACK.
I WAS TALKING ABOUT MARY, A FEW WEEKS AGO, WHEN I WAS WRITING A RETROSPECTIVE OF SOME OF THE TOWN'S TRAGIC EVENTS. ON A SUNDAY MORNING, THEIR LITTLE GENERAL STORE, HAD AN ELECTRICAL MALFUNCTION, AND CAUGHT FIRE. THERE WAS SO MUCH INVENTORY JAMMED INTO THE SMALL ROOMS OF THE SHOP, IT WAS LUCKY, ON THAT MORNING, FIRST RESPONDERS WERE ABLE TO GET EVERYONE OUT ALIVE. MARY HOWEVER, AND I REMEMBER WATCHING THIS WITH MY OWN EYES, RAN BACK INTO THE BLAZING STORE, AFTER BEING INTITIALLY RESCUED WITH ONLY MINOR BURNS. SHE HAD A WALL SAFE, AND WANTED TO GET THE MONEY OUT BEFORE THE FIRE CONSUMED THE WHOLE BUILDING. I DON'T KNOW IF SHE RETRIEVED THE MONEY OR NOT, BUT SHE DID GET SEVERE BURNS TO HER HANDS, AS A RESULT OF TRYING TO GET TO THE WALL SAFE. THEY WERE TRYING TO WRAP HER HANDS, WITH TEMPORARY BANDAGES, BUT SHE KEPT TRYING TO BREAK LOOSE FROM THE AMBULANCE ATTENDANTS. THE BRACEBRIDGE FIRE DEPARTMENT WAS ABLE TO SAVE THE STRUCTURE, AND IT STILL EXISTS ON THAT CORNER OF TORONTO STREET, BUT NEVER RE-OPENED AS A CORNER STORE. MARY DIED A SHORT WHILE LATER, BUT I CAN'T RECALL NOW, IF IT WAS THE RESULT OF THE BURNS SHE RECEIVED THAT DAY. FRED HAD SUFFERED FROM HEART RELATED PROBLEMS FOR SOME TIME, AND I BELIEVE THIS IS WHAT EVENTUALLY CLAIMED HIS LIFE. ALL OF US KIDS IN THAT NEIGHBORHOOD, BENEFITTED FROM THE KINDNESS OF THE BAMFORDS, SO I DID FEEL IT NECESSARY TO LET THEM KNOW HOW I FELT, BEFORE LEAVING THE CHARMING SOLITUDE OF THE ANGLICAN CEMETERY. I CAN'T REMEMBER ALL THE NAMES NOW, AND ALL THE STONES I TOUCHED OUT OF RESPECT, BUT THERE WERE DOZENS I PAUSED BESIDE, IN THOUGHTFUL MEDITATION, ABOUT THE WAY OUR PATHS HAD CROSSED IN THE PAST; MANY TIMES, THROUGH MY WORK AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND IN ASSOCIATION WITH MR. BOYER, WHO HAD A PARADE OF VISITORS, ON MOST DAYS OF THE WORK WEEK. I REMEMBER ONCE, SEEING FOUR OF HIS FRIENDS IN HIS OFFICE, BUT ONLY TWO LEAVE. I ASKED HIM ABOUT THIS, BECAUSE IT HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCE. "DO YOU HAVE A TRAP DOOR IN HERE BOB, BECAUSE HALF THE TIME, I DON'T SEE YOUR GUESTS LEAVE YOUR OFFICE OR THE BUILDING." HE'D WOULDN'T VERBALIZE A RESPONSE, JUST WINK, SMILE, CLENCH HIS CIGAR WITH THE SIDE OF HIS MOUTH, AND RETURN TO HIS TAPPING AT THE KEYBOARD IN FRONT. MAYBE HE DID HAVE A TRAP DOOR, OR AN ALTERNATE EXIT I WASN'T AWARE OF. I WAS ALWAYS FASCINATED BY THE COMINGS AND GOINGS AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICE, WHICH I ALWAYS FELT WAS, BY TRADITION OF THE PROFESSION, SPIRITUALLY WELL-ENDOWED. I NEVER PASS THE OLD BUILDING TODAY, WITHOUT THINKING THAT I CAN SEE BOB'S SILHOUETTE, THROUGH THE WINDOW, THAT WAS ONCE THE PORTAL FROM HIS OFFICE, ONTO THE REST OF THE WORLD.
WHEN I ENTER A CEMETERY, ON SOME HISTORICAL MISSION OR OTHER, I INITIALLY FEEL THE SOLEMN REALITY OF THE MEMORIAL PROPERTY. I FEEL HUMBLE AND A LITTLE LOWLY IN THE PRESENCE, OF THOSE WHO BUILT THE COMMUNITY, FROM THE FIRST LOG CABIN AND CULTIVATED YARD, TO THE PRESENT HUSTLE AND BUSTLE, OF WHICH THEY LAID THE FOUNDATION TIMBERS. I STOPPED FOR A FEW MOMENTS, YESTERDAY, TO LISTEN TO ALL THE SOUNDS OCCURRING AROUND THE PROPERTY, AND IT WAS FULL AND ROBUST WITH BIRDSONG, AND SQUIRREL CHATTERING, EVEN THE SOUND OF A WOODSMAN'S AXE, SOMEWHERE OFF IN THE DISTANCE. THERE WERE THE REPEATED SOUNDS OF GOLF CLUBS HITTING BALLS, ON NEARBY SOUTH MUSKOKA CURLING AND GOLF CLUB, WHICH ONCE BELONGED TO LANCE HARDY, AND FAMILY, WHO, IN MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, I ALSO VISITED WITH YESTERDAY AFTERNOON. I DID A RECENT HISTORY OF THE GOLF CLUB, DATING BACK TO THE FARMSTEAD OPERATED BY THE ELDERLY MR. HARDY. NOTHING I COULD PREOCCUPY WITH, TOOK ME AWAY FROM THE SOMBRE REALITY, THAT THESE FOLKS AND I WERE A DIMENSION APART NOW. BUT AS THE HISTORIAN CAN DO, WITH THE STROKE OF A PEN, I OFFERED SOME OF THESE OLD FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, THE GUARANTEE, THAT OUT OF RESPECT FOR THEIR ACCOMPLISHMENTS, THEIR NAMES WOULD BE REPEATED OFTEN, FOR THE BALANCE OF MY OWN LIFE; BECAUSE IT'S THE WEIGHT I PLACE ON ALL THEIR AMAZING CONTRIBUTIONS, TO TRULY GIVING US "THE GOOD TOWN THAT GREW HERE."
AT TIMES WHEN I READ ABOUT CERTAIN BRACEBRIDGE CITIZENS, BEING UNHAPPY WITH THE WAY THE TOWN IS PROGRESSING, AND HIGHLIGHTING ITS DEFICIENCIES, AND LACK OF IDENTITY, I WANT TO YANK THESE CRITICS INTO MY OWN OFFICE, AND GIVE THEM A NEEDED HISTORY LESSON. THE CITIZENS BURIED IN THIS BEAUTIFUL PLACE, GAVE US THE FOUNDATION ON WHICH TO BUILD A PROSPEROUS COMMUNITY. YET I KNOW FOR SURE, THAT MOST OF THOSE WHO COMPLAIN ABOUT WHAT THE TOWN DOESN'T POSSESS OF ADVANTAGES, HAVE LITTLE IDEA HOW HARD THESE FOLKS WORKED, IN THEIR LIVES, TO GIVE US THE "GOOD" TOWN STATUS. JUST BECAUSE WE DON'T ALWAYS FOLLOW THROUGH, IN THE CONTEMPORARY SENSE, DOESN'T MEAN WE HAVE A WEAKENED IDENTITY, OR A LESSER RESOLVE TO SOLIDER-ON, AND MAKE IMPROVEMENTS, AS THE YEARS GO BY. A STRONG FOUNDATION WILL NEVER LET A BUILDER DOWN. MAYBE I SHOULD OFFER THESE FOLKS A WALKING TOUR, THROUGH SOME OF OUR CEMETERIES, TO FORMALLY INTRODUCE THEM TO THE GOOD NEIGHBORS, WHO HAD SUCH MASSIVE INFLUENCE, ON WHAT THE TOWN WAS TO BECOME. THE IMPACT, SMALL AND LARGE, THAT THESE PEOPLE HAVE HAD ON THE WAY IT HAS ALL COME TOGETHER, DATING BACK TO THE LATE 1850'S. WE HAVE TO BE REVERENT OF THE BUILDERS, WHO CREATED OUR NEIGHBORHOODS AND OUR TOWN IDENTITY, AND OF THIS, AFTER A TOUR LIKE WE ENJOYED, I HAVE FULL CONFIDENCE, IN THE STABILITY OF THAT FOUNDATION TO SERVE LONG INTO THE FUTURE.
I KNOW ONE THING FOR SURE. I WILL CONTINUE, AS LONG AS GOD ALLOWS THE WRITER TO COMPOSE, TO KEEP BRINGING UP THESE NAMES, AND CITIZEN CONTRIBUTIONS, FOR BENEFIT OF THE MODERN GENERATION, WHO HAVE NEVER HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF A CHAT WITH ROBERT BOYER, OR REDMOND THOMAS, AND NEVER EXPERIENCED THE GOOD FUN, AND CHEER, OF HAVING AN ANIMATED CONVERSATION WITH THE LIKES OF RUSS SALMON, OR BUS BRAZIER. IF EVER I WAS ASKED ABOUT MY RELEVANCE AS AN HISTORIAN, TO THE COMMUNITIES I SERVE, I CAN SAY WITH CALM RESOLVE, THAT "IT IS TO REPRESENT, AND CELEBRATE THE INTEGRITY, THESE CITIZENS IMBEDDED, FOR LASTING POSTERITY, IN THEIR CHERISHED HOMETOWN." BET YOU NOBODY WILL EVER ASK ME, TO DEFINE MY ROLE IN THE HISTORY PROFESSION. READING BETWEEN THE LINES, ONE MAY HOWEVER, SENSE THAT I DO HAVE ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVEYARD, NOT BECAUSE I'M CLOSE TO DEATH (OR AS FAR AS I KNOW), BUT BECAUSE I FEEL IT INCUMBENT, TO KEEP THESE CITIZENS RELEVANT IN CONTEMPORARY TIMES. THERE IS MORE TO LEARN, AT A COMMUNITY CEMETERY, THAN YOU WOULD EVER BELIEVE, ON YOUR FIRST STEP PAST THE MEMORIAL GATE.
SUZANNE ASKED ME WHAT I WOULD WISH TO BE WRITTEN ON MY OWN TOMBSTONE, AND AT FIRST, I HAD TO LOOK BACK AT HER, AS IF SHE KNEW SOMETHING I DIDN'T. "WELL, IF WE HAD THE MONEY TO PAY FOR THE EXTRA LETTERING, AFTER MY NAME, DATE OF BIRTH AND EXPIRY DATE, I WOULD LIKE SOMETHING THAT SAID, "BY GOLLY, HE TRIED TO BE AS GOOD AS HIS MENTORS; MAYBE HE WAS, MAYBE HE WASN'T; NUFF SAID."
THANKS SO MUCH FOR VISITING WITH ME TODAY. DON'T BE SHY ABOUT VISITING OUR MANY MUSKOKA CEMETERIES. THEY ARE TRULY INTERESTING PLACES, OF INSPIRING AND PLEASANT SOLITUDE. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO YOU ARE GOING TO RUN INTO. BUT I'LL TELL YOU WHAT. IF THE HISTORIANS FIND THESE PLACES REMARKABLE, FOR SO MANY REASONS, SO WILL YOU!
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