Let Me Live In A House By The Side Of The Road Wrote Sam Foss; The Gravenhurst Folk History We Won't Compromise

A TOWN JUST LIKE THIS - AND THE COMMONPLACE WE ONLY THINK ABOUT WHEN IT'S GONE!

GRAVENHURST BEYOND THE POLITICS, FAR BEYOND THE SOCIAL CLIMBING, MILES BEYOND THE GRANDSTANDING!

     ON THE SNOWY AND BITTER CUSP OF THE OCCASION OF A NEW COUNCIL BEING SWORN INTO OFFICE, I THOUGHT IT WORTHWHILE TO TOSS OUT A FEW NOTES ABOUT THE VALUE AND INTEGRITY OF LOCAL SOCIAL/ CULTURAL HERITAGE, JUST IN CASE THEY (COUNCILLORS ELECT) WERE SHORT OF BEDTIME READING MATERIAL. THERE IS MORE TO HISTORY AND HERITAGE, THAN VINTAGE ARCHITECTURE. IN THE MATTER OF BUILT-HERITAGE, WE'RE DOING A BANG-UP JOB. AS FAR AS COMMUNITY ARCHIVES, WE HAVE MANY STELLAR EXAMPLES OF CURATORIAL EXCELLENCE. I'M SURE OUR MARINE-THEMED HERITAGE INTERESTS ARE BEING EQUALLY WELL CONSERVED, AND SUITABLY SHOWCASED. AS FOR WHAT HAS NO REAL OBVIOUS ANCHOR, OR GUIDEPOST TO KEEP US ON THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW, THAT WOULD BE OUR POORLY DOCUMENTED, SOCIAL / FOLK HERITAGE, AND ALL ITS COMPANION TRADITIONS. THEY ARE BY THEIR WORD-OF-MOUTH, HEARSAY NATURE, VULNERABLE TO INTERPRETATION, EXCLUSION FROM FORMAL HISTORIES, AND POTENTIALLY, CAST ASIDE, BY THOSE WHO COULDN'T CARE LESS ABOUT WHAT ISN'T ETCHED ONTO STONE, OR PUBLISHED IN A NEATLY BOUND TEXT; OR FOR THAT MATTER, EXHIBITED UNDER SHOWCASE GLASS. THESE ARE STILL LARGELY VERBAL AND PASSED DOWN STORIES, THAT A FEW OF US, ARE WORRIED WILL SOON BE LOST ALTOGETHER. EVEN BEFORE I HAD A CHANCE MEETING, IN THE DRIVEWAY OF OUR HOUSE TODAY, I WAS THINKING ABOUT ARTIST / PRINT MAKER FRANK JOHNSTON, WHO MAY HAVE RANKED AS ONE OF GRAVENHURST'S MOST COLORFUL, NOT TO MENTION, ARTISTIC CHARACTERS, TO EVER CALL THIS TOWN "HOME." NO SOONER DO I PONDER THINGS LIKE THIS, THAN SERENDIPITY, IN ALL ITS WILD ABSTRACTIONS, HITS CLOSE TO HOME. REAL CLOSE. THE KIND OF CONNECTION THAT LEAVES YOU SCRATCHING YOUR HEAD, BUT PAYING ATTENTION TO ALL THE SPARKS FROM THE UNKNOWN. CALL IT COINCIDENCE IF YOU WISH, KARMA IF YOU ARE SO INCLINED, OR JUST A NEAT SHARING EXPERIENCE BETWEEN THE "LOCALS."
     I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF WRITING THIS OPENING PARAGRAPH, AS A MATTER OF COINCIDENCE, SITTING IN OUR VAN, PARKED AT HOME, WHEN I MET UP WITH CHARLIE PAINTER, A LONG TIME FRIEND OF FORMER GRAVENHURST ARTIST, FRANK JOHNSTON; AND BY GOLLY, HE AND I HAD THE MOST INTERESTING DRIVEWAY CONVERSATION, SINCE CIVIL WAR RE-ENACTOR, TOM BROOKS, SHOWED UP HERE ONE AFTERNOON, DISMOUNTING FROM HIS HORSE, "SPIDER," STANDING ON THE SAME TEN FEET OF BIRCH HOLLOW DRIVEWAY. TOM, THAT DAY, QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK, HAD COME TO THE HOUSE TO BUY A BOOK I'D WRITTEN ON WASHINGTON IRVING'S RELATIONSHIP TO BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO. WHILE HE WAS HERE, I GOT HIM TO SIGN OUR COPY OF THE MOVIE "GETTYSBURG," THAT HE HAD BEEN A PARTICIPANT, AS A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER. CHARLIE HAD ALSO KNOWN TOM, AS WELL AS MY OLD NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUE, HUGH CLAIRMONT. CHARLIE HAD A FILE FOLDER UNDER HIS ARM, AND OPENING IT FOR ME TO SEE, UNFOLDED A PRISTINE COPY OF THE 1981 APRIL FOOLS "MOCK" NEWSPAPER, ENTITLED "THE GRAVENBURST BANLEA", A SPOOF ON LOCAL NEWSPAPERS, THE GRAVENHURST BANNER, AND THE GRAVENHURST LEADER. THE FRONT PAGE DRAWING, WAS AN IMAGE PENNED BY FRANK JOHNSTON, SHOWING THE "SEGWUN SINKING." AT THE TIME IT WAS PUBLISHED, I WAS EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZATTE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, AND IF MEMORY SERVES, IT WAS HUGH CLAIRMONT, WHO BROUGHT IT DOWN TO OUR DOMINION STREET OFFICE, ONE FRIDAY, WHEN HE WAS ATTENDING A BRACEBRIDGE ROTARY CLUB MEETING. IF HE CAME DOWN FOR A ROTARY LUNCH, HE USUALLY DROPPED IN FOR A VISIT TO OUR NEWSROOM. THE APRIL FOOLS SPOOF TICKED OFF QUITE A FEW PEOPLE, WHO DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO TAKE THE IMAGE AND TEXT, IN WHAT, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, LOOKED LIKE A REAL PUBLICATION. MOST LOCALS TOOK IT AS A JOKE, AND FRANK JOHNSTON WOULD HAVE GOT A KICK OUT OF CHARLIE AND I LAUGHING ABOUT IT ALL MORE THAN THREE DECADES LATER. CHARLIE, BY THE WAY, WAS ONE OF NUMEROUS CITIZENS IN THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, WHO HELPED LAUNCH THIS ONE DAY, ONE YEAR "BANLEA" RELEASE.
     CHARLIE KNEW THAT I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON A BIOGRAPHY OF FRANK JOHNSTON, AND WANTED TO SHARE THIS "FOR FUN" PUBLICATION, AND TO TRADE A FEW STORIES ABOUT THIS OUTSTANDING CANADIAN ARTIST, KNOWN BY THE WAY, AS ONE OF THE FINEST PRINT MAKERS IN CANADA. I HOPE TO GET TOGETHER WITH CHARLIE AGAIN, SOMETIME SOON, TO TALK MORE ABOUT THIS ASPECT OF OUR HERITAGE, WHICH IN LARGE AMOUNT, IS AS MUCH FOLK HISTORY, THAT HAS NEVER BEEN FULLY DOCUMENTED. I DON'T WANT THESE STORIES TO BE LOST, BECAUSE THEY ARE JUST AS MUCH A PART OF OUR HERITAGE, AND IDENTITY, AS HERITAGE BUILDINGS, MARINE HISTORY, OUR OLD PHOTOGRAPHS AND LEGACY DOCUMENTS. THANKS CHARLIE FOR A NICE VISIT.
      
     WHO WAS SAM WALTER FOSS, AND WHY DID I CHOOSE TO OPEN TODAY'S BLOG, WITH A PASSAGE FROM THIS AUTHOR'S PEN? FOR ANY NUMBER OF REASONS, THE LITTLE POEM, I REMEMBER FROM AN OLD SCHOOL TEXTBOOK, I USED BACK IN PUBLIC SCHOOL, REMINDED ME A LITTLE OF GRAVENHURST. I FOUND THE SHORT VERSE, WITH A COMPANION GRAPHIC, NEATLY FRAMED UNDER GLASS, IN A BOX OF SIMILARLY PRESENTED MOTOS, SOMEONE HAD TURNED OVER TO A LOCAL CHARITY SHOP. I READ IT TWICE, WHILE STANDING IN A BUSY AISLE, AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, I COULD SEE THE ANIMATED FACE OF MY PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHER, YELLING AT US TO BE QUIET, ONE MOMENT, AND THEN SOFTLY RECITING THESE LINES FROM SAM FOSS. THE SECOND TIME I READ IT, IT REMINDED ME SOMEWHAT OF OUR OWN LITTLE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, IN A GENERALLY SEDATE NEIGHBORHOOD, A FEW BLOCKS FROM THE MAIN STREET OF TOWN. THE VERSE, WHICH YOU MAY RECALL, (IF YOU'RE AS OLD AS ME) READS AS FOLLOWS:
     "LET ME LIVE IN A HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, WHERE THE RACE OF MEN GO BY. THE MEN WHO ARE GOOD - AND THE MEN WHO ARE BAD; AS GOOD AND AS BAD AS I. I WOULD NOT SIT IN THE SCORNER'S SEAT, OR HURL THE CYNIC'S BAN. LET ME LIVE IN A HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, AND BE A FRIEND TO MAN."
     THE DUSTING OF SNOW OVER THE SPENT CAT-TAILS IN-FILLING THE BOG, THIS MORNING, MADE WHAT IS ALWAYS PICTURESQUE, MORE REFINED AND SILVERY, AS IF A BRILLIANT LIGHT SHINING THROUGH A PHOTOGRAPHIC NEGATIVE. GRADUALLY, WITH THE CASCADE OF MID-MORNING BRIGHTNESS, THE WHITE OF THE SNOW SPARKED IN THE DIAMOND CRUST, WEIGHING DOWN THE FIELD GRASSES INTO A HUMBLING ARCH. MY MONDAY MORNING GARBAGE ENEMIES, THE VENERABLE CROWS, SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE HORIZON LIGHT, AS THEY SIT ON DEAD PINE BOUGHS, STRETCHED OUT OVER THE HOLLOW OF THE LANDSCAPE. IT HAS BEEN QUIET FOR THESE FEW MOMENTS, WALKING ALONG THE LANEWAY. ONE STEP INSIDE THE WOODLAND, ALONG A PATH I AM ALL TOO FAMILIAR; THE ICED-OVER LEAVES, MAKE A CRACKING SOUND UNDER MY FEET. THE SCHOOL KIDS HAVE LONG SINCE MADE THEIR WAY UP THE STREET, TO CATCH THE BUS, AND MOST OF THE RESIDENTS, WHO GO TO WORK, HAVE ALREADY PASSED ME BY, ON MY VIGIL, STARING OUT OVER WHAT I CONSIDER A LITTLE SLICE OF HEAVEN ON THIS EARTH. WALKING DEEPER INTO THE WOODS, TO GET A CLOSER GLIMPSE OF THE LOWLAND OF THE BOG, THERE IS SUCH A PLEASANT SOLITUDE, DESPITE THE FACT, THE OPEN SPACE IS TUCKED INTO AN URBAN ENVIRONS, WITH THE FAMILIAR NOISES OF A BUSTLING COMMUNITY.    LOOKING OUT OVER THE FROZEN WETLAND, I CAN SEE TWO SQUIRRELS DARTING THROUGH, AND OVER THE FALLEN BIRCHES, BROUGHT DOWN BY THE SUMMER STORMS THIS PAST SEASON, AND I'M PRETTY SURE, I COULD SEE THE MOVEMENT OF AT LEAST ONE DEER, QUITE A WAY BACK, WANDERING THROUGH THE THICKER TREES, ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE HOLLOW. I ALWAYS ENJOY, THE SOUNDS OF THE INVISIBLE CATARACTS, ON THE MYRIAD OF LITTLE WATER COURSES, THAT CRISS-CROSS THE MOUNDS OF OLD MARCH GRASSES, FOLDEF UPON THEMSELVES, SEASON AFTER SEASON. FROM THE KNOLL ABOVE, I CAN SEE A FEW OF THE BLACK RIBBONS OF RUN-OFF WATER, TRICKLING DOWN TOWARD THE LAKE, AND SEE SOME OF THE REFLECTIVE POOLS, NOW SILVER AGAINST THE WHITE AND BROWNS, OF THE MERGING OF ONCOMING WINTER, AND RETIRING AUTUMN. I CAN HEAR A DOG BARKING OFF IN THE DISTANCE, AND THERE IS THE DISTINCT RUMBLE OF HEAVY EQUIPMENT, AT SOME CONSTRUCTION SITE, JUST BEYOND THE NEIGHBORHOOD. WAY OFF IN THE DISTANCE, IS THE SOUND OF A BOAT ENGINE, OF WHICH WE ARE EXPOSED-TO CONSTANTLY, THROUGH THE SUMMER SEASON. THERE IS A PLANE FLYING SOMEWHERE OVER THE TALL PINES, ALONG THE NORTH HORIZON, AND A NEIGHBOR DOWN THE STREET, HAS BEEN HAMMERING AND SAWING FOR THE PAST TEN MINUTES. IT'S ALL THE REMINDER NOW, THAT WE SHALL SOON BE FORCED TO HEARTH-SIDE, TO WARM BY THE CRACKLING FIRE, OR HEATER, HOT TEA IN HAND, COMFORTED IN OUR "LITTLE HOUSES BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD."

STRIPPING AWAY SOCIAL, POLITICAL FACADES, TO FIND THE HOME TOWN CONCEALED BY PROPAGANDA

     I will not allow a local politician, to go unchallenged, if and when they should awkwardly attempt, to overview our community character, and traditional values, on the shaky premise they actually know what they're talking about. Whenever one of them suddenly gets the urge to cast down their self righteous opinion, as a generalization, to analyze us, and how we have grown as a community, over the centuries, I find it ludicrous, and insulting, considering very few of them know much about local history at all. They might have been elected to office, by a small fraction of those eligible to vote, but it sure as hell doesn't qualify them to pontificate about the intricacies of town heritage, to create poorly crafted summaries, in order to fit the purpose of some unnecessary explanation; which may or may not make the pages of the regional press. It happens more than you would think, that a local politician assumes the unexpected, uninvited role of historian, and biographer, in making happenstance remarks, about the community they are supposed to know intimately; even, in some cases, as a relative newcomers. I can not support any council representative who is not prepared to ask for tutoring, in order to understand the true character of this historic community, the gateway to Muskoka.
    I have serious concern, that Gravenhurst has become the open canvas for political dabbling, and social grandstanding, and there is considerable evidence, that Family Compact-like intrusiveness, and the propaganda to suit agendas, is creating an image of hometown life, times and heritage, that is not in keeping with what is real, and frankly, as genuine as the frosted-over bogland, attired in the honest, natural progression of the rolling year. There are facade builders, busily crafting the town into what they see as best suiting their needs. Instead of being proud of what has been achieved by many thousands of community builders, and good neighbors, they negate the value of commonplace attributes, naively believing, they can change what can never be changed; building over what can never be obstructed. They will surely try, and thrust out their chests, full of pomposity, and claim to be saving us from our resident dullness, and lack of inspiration. They will always fail, and look foolish in the process, but in the meantime, their meddling inspires a fog of misunderstanding; where at times, hometowners start to wonder, what has become of the place they planted their roots. Why would anyone wish to change the character of what has always been a good and nurturing home town, in one of the most beautiful places on earth? I call them, the "Company of Revisionists," who seek to change what doesn't fit their model of social, political, economic romanticism, a presumed correctness that affords them the privileges of a fiefdom, they feel rightfully entitled. Of course they would be wrong to assume this, but they don't think of it in this way, of in any instance, being in error, in haste to feed on social intercourse, as the self proclaimed, supreme commanders. Most of us realists, and contented townsfolk, have come to expect this kingdom building nonsense, and go about business in general disregard. In the double image, however, grows a strong shadow of doubt, amongst some citizens, about the future of what we have known as our hometown, contrary to the opinions and mission statement of those who wish to mold us in their own collective image. I for one, will not conform to their plan. Their ideals about what would make us, as a community, so much better, and more progressive. I would answer these assertions, to adopt change, and development they deem progressive, by suggesting, any one of the political and social elite, who genuinely cares about the community they wish to represent, and re-align, in a "moving forward" political-speak, should as a first step, subject themselves to some beefy history lessons. It is unconscionable to make changes without appreciation for what we have built upon; and what might topple as a result. Misunderstanding the security, of what was assumed, worthy of the added burden. I may come off as a radical in this regard, and this would be a truthful assessment.
     I suppose this is a personal notice, to those of our political and social elite, to tread carefully, on the mission to change us into something we are not, or have ever been. The coming four years of political office, will challenge our leadership, and all those who hang off each decision, each project, as if a charity of the divine. The plan to propagate positivism, and advance our economy, at all cost, can mean compromises of our heritage values, traditions, and our hometown sensibilities; about what is proportional, and truly in our best interests overall. More than just a few of us, in this town, are unwilling to allow our elected local governance, to step one toe's length beyond their jurisdiction, when it comes to re-shaping what we see already, as a capable, diversified and successful community; despite what they may offer-up as a doom and gloom scenarios, with the help of their enablers who preach the same.
     It's time for the defenders of Gravenhurst, and South Muskoka, to wake up, and embrace what may or may not come thundering down the pike, from those who mistakenly believe, they have the sole right, to define us, and lead us, where we may not wish to go! There is a limit to our patience you see, and while it would be hard to find anyone in this town, who doesn't believe improvements and progress are needed, in virtually all areas, we also want our interests to be respected, when it comes to impositions decided by the few, for the majority. There are many potentials in the immediate future, for our elected officials to imbed dramatic changes, on the town, that may divide loyalties. It has happened before, so it is to be expected, it will occur again, that we are thrust into a situation of development, we don't necessarily agree is in our best interests. This is not to suggest, we form a line of defense, as an action group, on the thin evidence, our council may opt to approve a development the public generally disapproves. Yet we must look at the odds, for example, of the former Muskoka Centre property, being put up for sale by the province, and then finding our interests are being circumvented, because of a sudden worry a big fish might get away; you know, when we are informed, time is of the essence, and we need to embrace change or else. In Muskoka, there have been many examples of this, and it is the ploy of politicians, to make us believe we will be big losers, if we don't agree with their collective decisions in a hurry-up offense. I am particularly sensitive, when, in this same vein, they feel no compunction, in their opining, about the history and character of the community they profess knowing intimately well. I challenge them on what they think they know, and generally, it is sorely lacking when it comes to a proper historical overview, that is firm under-foot; and even more durable in the abstract of perception. A community, as much as it might be manipulated by those with a vested interest, is etched by the resilience, determination, and goodwill of its citizenry. The citizens of Gravenhurst imprint their individual values every hour, of every day, of every week, month and year, by networking in their neighborhoods, and within the larger community; supporting everything from minor athletics, to the operation of the supper club, including the generosity of churches, fraternal organizations, community outreach activities, and generosity of local industry and businesses, to facilitate what needs network support, volunteer and financial assistance. There is negative etching as well, and we can certainly not boast of being a crime free community. There are citizens who couldn't care less about the welfare of their community, as it is only a place to claim permanent residency. A place to hang a hat. There are those who live here, but never want to get involved in anything, other than day to day living. Which is perfectly fine. There are others who enjoy setting out obstacles, and who complain about what the town doesn't have, but offer nothing in the way of assistance, to resolve what they perceive to be wrong. There are people who hate, and citizens who wish they lived some place else; and those who get into frequent spats with neighbors, forging feuds that can last a lifetime. Yet in the simple framing of commonplace, it is all part of the unique mosaic, that is our town, worts and all. It can generally be said, I think, in historical terms, it has evolved together, the positive outweighing the negatives, if in fact, you had been keeping score.
     As much as local politicians might believe, I am the bane of all existence, with my historical impositions, and general obstinence, I can at the very least, argue in response, that I have never once, in my relationship with Gravenhurst, felt it was incumbent, or in any way proper, even as as a quarter-century local, to attempt a deep furrow into its traditions; as I might, for example, in Bracebridge, or Windermere, in Watt Township, where our family roots do run deep. Gravenhurst history has its stewards and a well stocked archives to prove the way it was! I would like to know, how many of the present Gravenhurt Council, has visited, and been informed, about the resources, stewarded by the Archives Committee? Can we expect a similar attendance, and interest from the incoming council? I heartily recommend, that these councillors, who have never attended the archives room, at the Gravenhurst Public Library, make an appointment to chat with one of these informed, insightful curators, who protect the details of our past. It's a pretty interesting history. All the precedents are there to learn and benefit from. If I was mayor? Archives immersion would be mandatory for all elected officials.

Everyone, Everything Goes Through Changes - Much We Miss, Looking The Other Way

     I returned to The Bog this afternoon, to tend a household chore. As the temperature was still below freezing, the only real change was the sculpting of snow on the bullrushes, from the light wind crossing over the north ridge, and the illumination, which was overhead, with occasional sun breaks. For quite a few years, this little patch of hinterland, in a pocket of the urban landscape, has been symbolic, in my mind, about the way Gravenhurst has grown respectively, within the sensible proportion of its own natural resources; such that it may be defined by standard urban measure, but not conflicted in appearance, or functioning, as only urban
in characterisitic. If I was to suggest it is an urban neighborhood, "nestled" into the forest and lakeland of South Muskoka, there are those who would claim I was being overly sentimental and waxing poetic. Yet, on close inspection, while "nestled" reads like a tourism promotion, it is pretty truthful, should the artist decide to paint a broad landscape. Despite what the general opinion might be, it doesn't take much investigation, before the voyeur simply has to admit, our hometown wear's its natural qualities and quantities, as if custom tailored by the hand of particularly insightful founders. The main street, in particular, is unmistakably historic, but unquestionably influenced by the venerable trees native of South Muskoka. Some would stretch it, to suggest, Gravenhurst wears natural heritage very, very well.
     There are intricacies of nature and history, that become invisible the result of indifference. This is the greatest threat we have, as a community, because what is missed, and considered insignificant, can be very much the opposite; and this has proven so in the past. As citizens we have a duty, to speak up, and protest if necessary, to impositions we feel are negative, to the integrity of our community. It isn't to suggest that every council move should be challenged, or every proposed development opposed. I would never lead a protest for the sake of blocking progress, just because I felt it was worth a show of opposition. My grievance, as it has been with other councils in the past, is that they thoroughly recognize and admit their shortfalls of knowledge, even about the history of their own town, and that instead of being resistant to public input, welcome counter-point with the same enthusiasm, they embrace supporters. As I readily admit how little I know, in the field of regional history, because it's true, I make up for my shortfalls, with a willingness to be schooled, for however long it takes; in order to upgrade my knowledge, and then, and only then, having the right to overview and generalize, where others should never tread.
     As I have, for the past three years, I will be dedicating an entire Christmas-season compliment of blogs, to highlight the festive season in Gravenhurst, Bracebridge, and Muskoka generally. It's not a paid-for promotion, but I hope it will, as it has been in the past, viewed as a hale and hearty endorsement of life and times, in our beautiful part of the province; especially during the Christmas season. The festive season series, which I love to write, especially at Birch Hollow, will commence on the 12th of November, and continue until the final column, on New Year's Eve, heralding the joyous arrival of 2015.
     Thanks so much for visiting with me today, and I hope you will join me for a great Muskoka Christmas celebration; unapologetically nostalgic.

On Hitting A Personal Best, No Home Run But A Stand Up Double; A Cricket In The Archives

A HOT STOVE LEAGUE CHAT ABOUT THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF NEWSPAPERS, AND WHAT I LIKE MOST ABOUT CONTENT OF "THE GREAT NORTH ARROW"

TRADITIONS ARE STILL WORTH FIGHTING FOR - AND THE PUBLIC APPRECIATION FOR "CONTEMPORARY" NOSTALGIA IS STILL KEEN

     ALTHOUGH I WOULD LIKE TO LIVE FOREVER, AND WORK TO THAT END, I FEEL QUITE BLESSED, TO HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO PLAY AROUND IN WRITING, SERIOUSLY AND NOT SO SERIOUSLY, FOR SO LONG. I HAVE BEEN SERIOUSLY AFFECTED, IN THE PAST FEW YEARS, BY THE DEATHS OF SEVERAL OF MY MENTORS IN HISTORY, AND THE CREATIVE ARTS. MOST RECENTLY, THE SUDDEN PASSING OF FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE WRITER, AND MENTOR, BRANT SCOTT, MADE ME WONDER ABOUT RETIRING MY LAPTOP AND CONCENTRATING ON THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS, WHICH AFTERALL, WAS DESIGNED SHORTLY AFTER SON, ANDREW WAS BORN, TO BE OUR RETIREMENT ENTERPRISE. I BEGAN TO QUESTION WHY I WRITE IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU'VE UNDOUBTEDLY FELT THE SAME, ABOUT THE PURPOSE OF LIFE, WHEN SOMEONE YOU RESPECT AND LOVE DIES. I FELT TERRIBLE WHEN MY PHOTOGRAPHER FRIEND, AND FORMER NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUE, JOHN BLACK, OF GRAVENHURST, PASSED AWAY AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS. WE WERE THE THREE AMIGOS, IN OUR NEWSPAPER DAYS, AND NOW, I'M THE LAST OF THE BUNCH. OUR SECRET STORIES ARE NOW MINE. THEY WILL OF COURSE REMAIN IN CONFIDENCE. IN HISTORY, NEWS THAT MY ARCHIVIST CHUM, HUGH MACMILLAN, HAD PASSED AWAY, WAS ANOTHER SERIOUS BLOW, BECAUSE HE PLAYED SUCH AN IMPORTANT MENTOR ROLE, IN THE HISTORICAL RESEARCH PART OF OUR BUSINESS. I HAVE A SCORE OF OTHER FORMER ASSOCIATES AND COLLEAGUES WHO HAVE BEEN EXPERIENCING SERIOUS HEALTH PROBLEMS, AND FORGIVE ME, BUT I'M STARTING TO FEEL A LOT OLDER THAN MY FIFTY-NINE YEARS. THERE'S A LOT MORE I WANT TO ACCOMPLISH, EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT AT ALL SURE WHY I FEEL SO COMPELLED TO INVEST WHAT WOULD OTHERWISE BE FREE TIME, TO PLAY WITH MY BUDDING STAMP COLLECTION, FOR EXAMPLE. MAYBE THE BEST WAY TO PRESENT THIS, IS WITH THE STORY PRINTED BELOW. THIS OPENING WAS ADDED JUST PRIOR TO PUBLISHING THE BLOG, BUT IN KEEPING WITH THE INTENT AND CHARACTER OF THE BLOG WRITTEN HOURS EARLIER. I ALSO WANT TO CLARIFY THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN WHAT WOULD BE CONSIDERED A RAGING ALCOHOLIC. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ON A MULTI-DAY BENDER, OR SUFFERED FROM ANY DELUSIONS AS A RESULT OF ALCOHOL ABUSE. I WAS A CELEBRATORY DRINKER, AND A STUPID ONE AT THAT! I MISTAKEN CAME TO BELIEVE I NEEDED BOOZE IN ORDER TO WRITE. IT WAS NONSENSE, BUT WHAT CAN I SAY. I WAS YOUNG AND FOOLISH, AND THINKING I WAS A MUSKOKA HEMINGWAY. I STOPPED DRINKING SOCIALLY, AND HEAVILY, SHORTLY AFTER ANDREW WAS BORN. I HAD TO PROVE TO MYSELF, THAT I WASN'T ADDICTED TO BOOZE, AND THAT I COULD WRITE WITHOUT ITS INFLUENCES. GRADUALLY, I WAS ABLE TO PROVE THIS, BUT THEN, BELIEVING AS BOOZE HAD BEEN A REWARD FOR A HARD DAY'S WORK IN THE NEWSROOM, I TRADED BOTTLES OF BEER AND GLASSES OF SCOTCH, FOR TURKEY LEGS AND SUBMARINE SANDWICHES. I HAVE FOR YEARS, WAGED THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE, BUT ALWAYS SOBER. SUZANNE HAS WORKED WITH ME, TO REMOVE MY WHOLE REWARD PROTOCOL, BY INFUSING CONVERSATION, AND JUST THE PLEASURE ACHIEVED, KNOWING THAT I STILL HAVE SOME READERS. WHEN, AT THE END OF MY BLOGS, I FREQUENTLY THANK YOU FOR JOINING ME, I AM BEING SINCERE. ABSOLUTELY SO. AGAIN, THE FOLLOWING COPY WILL EXPLAIN THIS, AND THE THERAPEUTIC VALUE OF WRITING EVERY DAY, AND LETTING EMOTION DO WHAT IT WANTS, IN TERMS OF EXPRESSION.
     ONE NOTE, I WOULD LIKE TO START WITH, IS THAT OUR GRAVENHURST SHOP, WILL NOW STOCK COPIES OF THE GREAT NORTH ARROW, THE WONDERFUL RURAL-CLIME PUBLICATION THAT HAS GIVEN ME SO MUCH TO LOOK FORWARD TO EVERY MONTH; WRITING FOR AND THEN READING.
     HONESTLY, I'M SO PLEASED WITH MYSELF, THAT IF IT WAS THIRTY YEARS AGO, AND I WAS SITTING NEXT TO MY WRITING CHUM, BRANT SCOTT, IN A DANK, MUSTY CORNER OF THE OLD ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, I'D HAVE A NICE COLD PINT IN CELEBRATION. MAYBE FOUR OF THEM! FOUR AT EACH WATERING HOLE! FOR GOSH SAKES, I'M A LOT OLDER, AND A TAD (NOT BUD) WISER, IN THIS AUTUMN SEASON OF 2014, SO ANY CELEBRATORY HOISTING OF BEVERAGE, WOULD HAVE TO BE A CEREMONIAL TOAST WITH A PINT OF MILK OR ORANGE JUICE. I GAVE UP DEMON RUM A LONG TIME AGO, BECAUSE INSTEAD OF TOASTING MILESTONES, AS HAD BECOME TRADITION, AND OTHERWISE GREAT ACCOMPLISHMENT, (A TIME TO SELF CONGRATULATE), I WAS INSTEAD TOASTING THE FACT I HAD JUST BOUGHT ANOTHER BOTTLE, OR A TWENTY-FOUR OF BEER. THERE WAS A TIME IN MY LIFE, WHEN I WAS TOASTING MANY TIMES IN A DAY, AND MY WRITING, WAS, WELL, LIKE A LEONARD COHEN POEM, BUT I WAS WRITING EDITORIAL COPY MEANT FOR THE FRONT PAGE. IN CONTEMPORARY TIMES, AND IN RECOGNITION OF TODAY'S MILESTONE, I HAD A HONKING BIG BUTTER TART INSTEAD, WITH SO MUCH LIQUID, IT WILL TAKE ME AN HOUR TO FLUSH IT OUT OF MY BEARD. IT WAS PRETTY LOW-KEY CELEBRATION, IF YOU COULD EVEN CALL IT THAT, AND I NEVER ONCE HAD THE URGE TO DO THE LIMBO, OR SWING FROM A CHANDELIER, OR EVEN DISROBE AND STREAK ACROSS THE MAIN STREET TO GET A SLICE OF PIZZA. THIS WRITING MILESTONE, WHICH I CALL THE "LUCKY TO BE ALIVE," PROFESSIONAL ACHIEVEMENT CITATION, PARALLELS THE KIND OF FEELING ONE GETS, HOLDING BACK AT THE RESTAURANT FOR AN EXTRA CUP OF COFFEE, AND THEN FINDING OUT LATER, THE DELAY KEPT US FROM BEING INVOLVED IN A CAR WRECK UP THE ROAD. I HAD A LOT OF NEAR MISSES IN MY NEWS WRITING DAYS, AND AS FAR AS WRECKS ARE CONCERNED, FRIENDS ASSUMED I HAD SOME SORT OF DIVINE PROTECTION. IF YOU READ ABOUT MY GUARDIAN ANGEL, WHO I WAS INTRODUCED TO AS A CHILD, DURING A LENGTHY ILLNESS, MAYBE THIS OVERVIEW HAS SOME SUBSTANCE. ANY WAY YOU LOOK AT IT, MY ONLINE ACHIEVEMENT HAS PROVEN ONE THING ABOVE ALL ELSE. THAT I CAN WRITE WITHOUT THE LUBRICATION OF BOOZE. FOR A LOT OF YEARS, I WASN'T SURE HOW THIS WOULD WORK, BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH I HAD SLOWED DOWN TO A TRICKLE OF ALCOHOL IN ANY GIVEN YEAR, I WAS PRONE TO MARK DATES OF UNSPECIFIED ACCOMPLISHMENT, WITH TREATS FROM THE LIQUOR STORE. IT ALL BEGAN IN THE NEWS BUSINESS, I'M SORRY TO SAY, BUT HONESTLY, IT HAS BEEN A PROFESSION WELL KNOWN FOR ITS EXCESSES. WRITER WORK HARD AND PLAY HARD. SUZANNE USED TO KID ME, THAT IF A MOVIE WAS TO BE MADE ABOUT MY LIFE, IT WOULD MIRROR RAY MILLAND'S PERFORMANCE, IN THE MOVIE "LOST WEEKEND," ABOUT AN AUTHOR WHO HAS GREAT IDEAS FOR A BOOK, BUT TOO MUCH THIRST FOR HIS OWN GOOD. I THINK SHE'S KIDDING, BUT THERE WERE TIMES, WHEN I WAS A SINGLE WRITER, THAT I DID HAVE THOSE MOMENTS OF BRILLIANT IDEAS, SITTING IN A TAVERN, ONLY TO LOSE THEM WHEN I GOT HOME, OR BACK TO THE NEWS ROOM. I'D FALL ASLEEP SITTING AT THE TYPEWRITER. SUZANNE RESCUED ME FROM MYSELF, AND MY PROFESSION, AND THUS, MY RE-INTRODUCTION TO SOBRIETY. I HAVE TO DEDICATE THIS MILESTONE OF READERSHIP ATTAINED, TO SUZANNE, FOR KEEPING ME OFF THE BOOZE, AND MOTIVATING ME TO WRITE TO ATTAIN AN OBJECTIVE. PROVING TO MYSELF, THAT BOOZE WAS AN ANCHOR, NOT A LIFE-SAVER.  
     AS OF THIS MOMENT, HAVING NOW PUBLISHED TODAY'S BLOG, YES SIREE, I HAVE FINALLY HIT THE 250,000 "VIEWS" PLATEAU. IT'S NOT A HUGE ACCOMPLISHMENT, BY TODAY'S ONLINE MEDIA STANDARDS, AND THE STATUS RUNG-UP BY THE SUPER STARS OF BLOGGING, BUT WHAT THE HELL. IF I WAS WRITING FOR A MAJOR DAILY NEWSPAPER, I'D HAVE HIT THE 250,000 CIRCULATION LEVEL BEFORE THE PAPERS WERE SHIPPED OUT OF THE MAIL ROOM, JUST THROUGH SUBSCRIPTION. IF I WAS A WRITER FOR THE HUFFINGTON POST, I'D BE BOASTING A STAGGERING NUMBER OF VIEWS. YET, MAYBE I'M TOO COMPLACENT FOR MY OWN GOOD; BUT I'M QUITE HAPPY TO HAVE HIT THIS JUNIOR ONLINE MILESTONE, AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, IT HAS BEEN DIFFICULT AT TIMES. FIRST OF ALL, I GREW UP IN A NEWSPAPER WRITER'S DOMINION. IT'S COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, THAN SETTING DOWN TO WRITE FOR ONE WEEKLY NEWSPAPER ISSUE, BECAUSE YOU HAVE AN AUDIENCE THAT DEMANDS A LITTLE SOMETHING DIFFERENT, AND UNIQUE, SEVEN DAYS EACH WEEK. AND I NO LONGER DRINK. NO FUEL FOR MY MULE. WHY IS THIS IMPORTANT? SOME OF MY MOST PROLIFIC WRITING PEAKS, FOR DAYS AT A TIME, CAME DURING PERIODS WHEN OUR REPORTING STAFF, HAD A REGULAR TABLE AT THE FORMER ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, (NOW A TARPED PILE OF RUBBLE) WHERE WE PENNED OUR ROUGH NOTES, GARNERED BY IN-TAVERN INTERVIEWS, OFFERED US, COURTESY OUR DEEP THROAT SOURCES, WITH A JUG OF BEER ALWAYS WITHIN ARM'S REACH. THEN, HAVING A SNOUT FULL, WE'D HEAD BACK TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND WRITE LIKE THERE WAS NO TOMORROW. I COULD HAMMER OUT TWENTY NEWS STORIES IN TWO DAYS, A COLUMN AND A COUPLE OF EDITORIALS, INCLUDING THE TIME WE'D SPENT ON THE PHONE AND IN PERSON, DOING INTERVIEWS. WE OFTEN WORKED THROUGH THE NIGHT, LIVING ON BEER, A LITTLE RUM WITH OUR EGG NOG (IN SEASON OF COURSE), WHEN WE WERE FLUSH WITH CASH, AND GALLONS OF COFFEE. WE WERE ON FIRE. AND THE COPY, FOR ALL THE DURESS, AND THE BOOZE, WAS PRETTY GOOD STUFF. I WON'T KID YOU, I NEEDED THE BOOZE, AND SO DID MANY OF THE OTHER WRITERS, I KEPT AS COMPANY. WHILE WE DIDN'T WRITE WHILE LEGALLY INTOXICATED, (JUST A LITTLE BUZZED) IT WAS THE KIND OF ALIXIR THAT SEEMED TO DO THE TRICK, AS FAR AS KEEPING US ON TASK. AND WITH A STRICT DEADLINE, WE WERE GEARED TO BEAT DEADLINE, AS IF IT WAS AN OPEN COMPETITION. THE NEWSROOM WAS A FRANTIC PLACE LATE OF TUESDAY AFTERNOON, AND IT WAS SO DAMN EXCITING TO BE A PART OF THIS SCENE, PLAYING OUT EVERY WEEK THROUGH THE ROLLING YEAR. ONCE THE PAPER WAS PUT TO BED, ON THOSE LATE TUESDAY NIGHTS, AND WE HIT THE HOLIDAY HOUSE, FOR THE PRESS DAY VICTORY LAP, THE NEXT MORNING, HAVING TO PRY OUR EYELIDS APART, WE ALL CAME CRASHING DOWN UNTIL THE VERY NEXT MONDAY. OUR MAIN OUTPUT, WITHOUT QUESTION, WAS FROM FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING, UNTIL TUESDAY NIGHT. WE WOULD CONDUCT INTERVIEWS FROM WEDNESDAY TO SUNDAY, BUT WE FELT IT WAS A TIME HONORED TRADITION, OF WHICH WE ADHERED RIGOROUSLY, TO WORK LIKE THOSE OLD TIME REPORTERS FROM THE DEPRESSION YEARS, LIVING ON CIGARETTES AND WHISKY, AND JAMMING EVERYTHING THAT NEEDED TO BE DONE, INTO NO MORE THAN A FORTY-EIGHT HOUR DASH TO COPY DEADLINE, AT AROUND FIVE O'CLOCK EVERY TUESDAY NIGHT. WE WERE BAD, BAD, BAD BOYS, BUT WHAT A CRAZY, ELECTRIC, WILD LIFE IT WAS, BEING IN THIS GREAT PROFESSION, POUNDING OUT STORIES ON MANUAL TYPEWRITERS, THE WEIGHT OF A COMBINE HARVESTER. WE WERE KILLING OURSELVES WITH EXCESSES, BUT WE FELT DEEPLY INGRAINED IN A PROFESSION THAT PUT US INTO THE MIDDLE OF CANADIAN NEWS AND POLITICS. WE WERE RESPECTED BY THE PUBLIC, WE HAD A PAID FOR CIRCULATION, AND ALTHOUGH WE DIDN'T WEAR FEDORAS WITH "PRESS" CARDS STUFFED UNDER THE HAT BANDS, WE BELIEVED THE VERY NEXT CALL, WOULD BE FROM THE EDITOR OF A TORONTO DAILY, OFFERING US A WRITING GIG. THE DOWN SIDE? IT TOOK YEARS TO GET OUT OF THE HABIT OF REQUIRING BOOZE IN ORDER TO WRITE ANYTHING. IT TOOK ME YEARS TO LEARN HOW TO WRITE COPY DURING THE OTHER FIVE DAYS OF THE WEEK. EVEN YEARS AFTER LEAVING THE PAPER, I USED TO GET WEIRD ON TUESDAY EVENINGS, FEELING LIKE I HAD TO PUT A NEWSPAPER TO BED (OFF TO THE PRINTER).
     THE VICTORY FOR ME, IS AN INTIMATE ONE, AS I HAVE ELUDED TO PREVIOUSLY. WHEN SON ROBERT SUGGESTED THAT I TRY WRITING A BLOG FOR A POTENTIAL INTERNET READERSHIP, I THOUGHT ABOUT IT FOR SIX MONTHS, AND THEN ON HIS URGING, TOOK THE PLUNGE ABOUT FIVE YEARS AGO THIS FALL. I DID USE THE BLOG-FORMAT, TO FIGHT TO SAVE "THE BOG," WHICH WORKED EXTREMELY WELL, AND THEN I STARTED TO WRITE A FEW POLITICAL BLOGS EACH MONTH, BUT GENERALLY, I WAS ONLY WRITING FOR PUBLICATION, SIX TO TEN TIMES EACH MONTH; AND MY READERSHIP WAS UNDER TWENTY-FIVE PER BLOG. WHEN ROBERT SUGGESTED THAT I SHOULD TRY WRITING A DAILY BLOG, THREE YEARS AGO THIS WEEK, I INITIALLY DECLINED SUCH AN AMBITIOUS PROJECT, SOMEWHAT, I SUPPOSE, BECAUSE I NO LONGER HAD A LIBERAL RELATIONSHIP WITH LIQUID COURAGE, AS SUZANNE USED TO CALL MY LIQUOR CABINET. WHILE I COULD WRITE LARGE QUANTITIES OF COPY WHEN REQUIRED, TO KEEP PUBLISHERS OF REGIONAL MAGAZINES HAPPY, AS A MONTHLY COMMITMENT, I BOLSTERED THOSE OCCASIONS WITH FOOD. GOOD FOOD. PIES. YES, BUTTER TARTS. INSTEAD OF ALCOHOL, I WAS TREATING MYSELF TO HIGH CALORIE FOODS, AS A REWARD FOR ACHIEVING MY WRITING OBJECTIVES FOR ANY GIVEN DAY OR WEEK. SUZANNE BLAMES THIS LATEST WAY OF TRYING TO KILL MYSELF, AS THE REASON I NEEDED TO CHANGE MY WHOLE WRITING PROFILE AND HABITS. I WAS SCARED TO GET ON THE SCALES, TO SEE IF I WAS AS BAD AS SUZANNE WAS ESTIMATING, BY EYE-BALLING MY PHYSIQUE. I ASKED ROBERT IF HE THOUGHT I COULD HANDLE A DAILY BLOG COMMITMENT. "OF COURSE YOU CAN DO IT, DAD, AND IT WILL BE GOOD FOR YOU," HE SAID. IN THE PAST, QUITE TO THE CONTRARY, WRITING DROVE ME TO DRINK, AND THEN TO EAT IN EXCESS, ALL BECAUSE OF THE CREATIVE PROCESS AND ITS WICKED NEEDS FOR FUEL AND REWARD.
     TO MANY READING TODAY'S BLOG, IT WILL SEEM YET ANOTHER TOME IN A SERIOUS OF SELF-CONGRATULATORY EDITORIALS, ABOUT MY GREATNESS IN THE UNIVERSE. THIS HOWEVER, SHOULD SHOW, WORTS AND ALL, THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE. HAVING MADE IT THROUGH THREE YEARS, OF ALMOST DAY TO DAY WRITING, (I HAVE MISSED A FEW DAYS DUE TO ILLNESS, NOT DRUNKENNESS), I HAVE PROVEN TO MYSELF, THAT I CAN FUNCTION WITH NO OTHER INCENTIVE, THAN THE GOOD FEELING OF HAVING LIVED UP TO AN OBLIGATION I IMPOSED OF MYSELF. I HAVE EVEN ENJOYED THE OCCASIONAL BOTTLE OF IMPORTED BEER, THE BOYS HAVE BOUGHT FOR ME AT CHRISTMAS, AND FOR MY BIRTHDAY IN JULY, WITHOUT FEELING ANY NECESSITY TO DRINK BEFORE OR DURING A WRITING ASSIGNMENT. I AM CONTENTED, YOU SEE, BY KNOWING THAT I HAVE AN AUDIENCE, THAT MAY, BY NOW, REALIZE, MY IMMERSION IN WRITING, IS VASTLY A THERAPEUTIC EXERCISE, FOR EXPENDED CREATIVE ENERGY THAT MIGHT OTHERWISE BE USED TO ABUSE BOOZE AND FOOD, TO SELF MOTIVATE. WHILE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THE WAY IT USED TO BE, AND THE GRIP NEAR ALCOHOLISM HAD ON ME, BUT I WAS YOUNG, FOOLISH, AND MY GIRLFRIENDS OF THE TIME, WERE WHAT DR. PHIL REFERS TO AS "ENABLERS." THEY LIKED TO PARTY, AND THEY TREATED ME LIKE I WAS PRESS ROYALTY. IN A SMALL TOWN, THE MEDIA FOLKS DID GET PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT; AND I GOT TO ATTEND ALL KINDS OF SPECIAL EVENTS WITH PARTNERS FREE OF CHARGE. EVEN AT THESE SOCIAL EVENTS, I WAS FED BOOZE BY ALL KINDS OF GENEROUS FOLKS, WHO THOUGHT THEY WERE BEING KIND, BUT QUITE TO THE CONTRARY. THUS, I AM TELLING THE TRUTH, WHEN I SUGGEST, I WAS BEING EATEN ALIVE BY THE WAY I DECIDED TO CELEBRATE MY INVOLVEMENT IN THE WRITING PROFESSION, AND AS A NEWSPAPER EDITOR. MY GAL PALS LIKED THE PRIVILEGES I HAD, AND THE SOCIAL BUTTERFLY REALITIES, OF SOCIALIZING WITH THE LOCAL BUSINESS ELITE. IT WAS ENTERTAINING THEM, BUT KILLING ME. WHEN SUZANNE CAME ALONG, SHE HAD TO BACKTRACK A LONG, LONG WAY, TO BRING BACK THE WRITER, AND LOSE THE LUSH. SUZANNE GREW UP IN WINDERMERE, AND THE LAKE COMMUNITY, AND SHE WASN'T IMPRESSED AT MY IDEA OF SOCIAL CLIMBING. BEING UNIMPRESSED, SHE MADE ME RE-ASSESS WHAT I ASSUMED WAS THE BIG LEAGUES OF SMALL TOWN ONTARIO. I WAS, I THINK, BECOME A CHARACTER IN MY OWN FICTION. MY SOON-TO-BE WIFE, REMINDED ME OF WHY I GOT INTO WRITING IN THE FIRST PLACE. STICKING WITH A BLOG, IN A CYBERSPACE I DON'T FULLY UNDERSTAND, AND USING A LAPTOP DEVICE THAT FRIGHTENS ME WITH ITS NUMBER OF OPTIONS, THAT GIVES ME TROUBLE CONSTANTLY, THE ACCOMPLISHMENT OF DAILY BLOGGING IS A MUCH DIFFERENT MILESTONE THAN YOU MIGHT EXPECT. WHILE A WRITER WANTS TO BE RECOGNIZED FOR ONGOING EXCELLENCE, PRODUCING COMPELLING, PROVOCATIVE EDITORIAL COPY, I MUST OFFER THIS APOLOGY, IN CONTRAST; THAT I FEEL SUCCESSFUL, BECAUSE I HAVE LEARNED TO DO SOMETHING I THOUGHT WAS IMPOSSIBLE, AND DOING SO, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A BRANDY-FILLED CHOCOLATE PASSING MY LIPS.
     AT THE TIME ROBERT CREATED AN ONLINE, GOOGLE ENDORSED, AND INTERNATIONALLY PROMOTED BLOG SIE, FOR HIS OLD POP, I ALSO JOINED THE WRITING STABLE OF A FEATURE PUBLICATION, I'VE MENTIONED IN THIS BLOG MANY TIMES, KNOWN AS THE "GREAT NORTH ARROW," PUBLISHED FROM DUNCHURCH, ONTARIO, FOR THE MARKET OF THE NEAR NORTH. I HAD ALREADY BEEN WRITING FOR THE GERVAIS FAMILY OF "CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE," SO JOINING THE "ARROW," ALONG WITH THE DAILY BLOG, ELEVATED MY DAILY AND MONTHLY EXPOSURE TO THE HIGHEST LEVEL SINCE I BEGAN WRITING PROFESSIONALLY IN THE LATE 1970'S. IT'S NOT A NUMBER SKIRTING "A MILLION," BUT THE NUMBERS KEEP ESCALATING IN PART DUE TO WHAT I DON'T UNDERSTAND ABOUT FACEBOOK (THAT I CO-OP WITH OUR SONS MUSIC BUSINESS) AND GENERAL CYBERSPACE CIRCULATION. I HAD A NICE VISIT WITH CYNDI CULBERT, PUBLISHER / EDITOR, OF THE GREAT NORTH ARROW, HERE AT OUR MUSIC SHOP, IN WHAT I CALL ONE OF MY HOT-STOVE-LEAGUE CHATS, AND I TOOK THE OPPORTUNITY TO THANK HER FOR GIVING AN OLD GEEZER LIKE ME, A SHOT AT A JOURNALISM RE-BOOT, A SORT OF DO-OVER, OF DAYS I LOST IN MY YOUNGER NEWSPAPER DAYS, WHILE DRINKING TOO MUCH AND LIVING TOO HARD. THE GREAT NORTH ARROW IS FULL OF THE TRADITIONAL NEWSPAPER QUALITIES AND QUANTITIES I GREW UP WITH, AND ADORE FOR ITS COMMUNITY OUTREACH. THIS IS A PAPER FOR THE CROSS ROADS NEIGHBORHOODS, THE HAMLETS, VILLAGES AND TOWNS, JUST LIKE WE USED TO HAVE SERVING THE MUSKOKA REGION IN THE SO CALLED GOOD OLD DAYS. I JUST WISH I REMEMBERED MORE ABOUT THEM. THERE'S A FAIR AMOUNT OF HAZE TO GET PAST. ALL I KNOW, IS THAT WRITING FOR CYNDI'S WELL RECEIVED MONTHLY PAPER IS AN HONOR AND PRIVILEGE, AND BELIEVE ME, I APPRECIATE THE TRADITIONS IT HONORS OF RURAL HERITAGE. THEY SAY YOU CAN'T RELIVE YOUR YOUTH, BUT THEY'RE WRONG. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE NOW, IS THAT I DON'T NEED BOOZE TO GET EXCITED ABOUT MY JOB, AND I DON'T HAVE AN ENABLER; I HAVE A MENTOR, WHO HIS ALSO MY WIFE.

I STILL HAVE A LOT TO WRITE ABOUT - AND HOPEFULLY, THE KIND OF UNIQUE STORIES THAT WILL APPEAL TO YOU ALL OVER AGAIN

     I like to write about actuality. When I commenced these daily blogs, three years ago this month, I would start by identifying some of the strange intrusions I was exposed to, working in my Birch Hollow office. Not because it was a particularly important detail, but because I wanted to establish, that my blog would be tied to the actuality of the moment. For example, I am now writing this concluding piece, working in the front seat of our van, waiting for Suzanne to retire the business shingle for the day, so we can head home to our cozy hearth, to enjoy a bowl of gruel. It's still raining, looks colder than it is, but the pedestrian traffic is peaking with the after-work crowd, especially around the main street banks. A couple of friends have ambled by, in the past few minutes, rapping on the passenger side window, to extend afternoon greetings. I like that! At Birch Hollow, in those first blogs, I made many references to an annoying wee cricket, that was chirping all the while I was writing. I would try to position it, in the room, and wonder if there was some possibility of trapping the little beast. I gave up on this plan, because Jimney was pretty clever about me getting used to his hiding places, and besides, it was pretty cold outside, if I did catch him, for release back to the wilds. This room in this urban cottage, was the bandy legged wee beastie's home. Not outdoors. So unless I was prepared to crush the little bugger, to free the room of his incessant chirping, I had no significant reason to hunt him down. I still felt it necessary to make reference to the cricket, at times its chirping was most intrusive, and mildly annoying, to the story I was trying to piece together. I had cats on my lap, around my neck, hanging off my shoulder, and sitting on my desk, looking at what was bouncing around on the screen of the lap top. If the rain was blowing horizontal, during an autumn storm, it was reference in the blog. The same with the first snowfall, the sleet, freezing rain, and the sound of raspberry canes snapping at the window pane of my office, blown violently by the raging wind. I wanted to reflect just how contemporary my blogs would be, a tad down the road, and what readers might come to expect, from a writer, gnashing to produce, sometimes on no more inspiration than a cricket on the hearth; talking to me about the ways and traditions of the insect community, in the humble quarters we call our home.
     At the same time, like learning to walk after a devastating accident, I had to learn to control my craft, and balance my creative enterprise, stone cold sober. I had to find other ways to celebrate milestone achievements, and self congratulate, for staying the course, no matter what the odds. If you don't have much background in writing, or understand what it means to suffer from writer's block, suffice to say, it's a living hell. Losing faith in your ability to create, is devastating and draining, because like being stuck in quicksand, it's natural to struggle versus, carefully untangling what constrains you. Some writers have career ending writer's block, and others feel they have no choice, but to resort to booze, or even drugs, to re-inspire the cluttered mind. It might work for a while, but it is not a solution. Achieving 250,000 views, for me, has proven that I can overcome any writer's block that may slide into my path, like the iceberg that took down the Titanic. If there is any resource I am thankful to possess, over all others, it's my ability to self inspire, and maintain a daily schedule of writing, because I want to!
     I owe this, as an explanation to my readers. It's is quite daunting, to plan writing projects, and daily editorials, that will meet the interests of what I can only believe, is a vastly diversified audience. I have readers around the globe, who have some ex-pat relationship with this part of Ontario, and there are others who check in with me frequently, in case I'm writing about antiques and collectables, because this is their interest. Many have told me they like it when I rag on local elected officials, and there are those who enjoy my tales of rambling and roaming about the region, and Algonquin Park. There are those who like the inclusion of actuality, but at the same time, I lose readers, because I can't diversify enough to satisfy all interests. It's certainly not for the lack of trying. I have a lot of stories yet to tell, and the kind of acquiantances that keep me in the loop, with their own fascinating recollections and folk tales, I love to publish via this blog. But alas, I am mortal, and there are times, when I am just exhausted, and running on empty. Helping to run our antique and vintage music shops, here in Gravenhurst, and writing for several other papers, including the Great North Arrow, does drain the well, as far as coming up with ideas is concerned. Never once, in three years of this daily exercise, have I thought about hoisting a cold beer, or having a shot of whiskey, to inspire a column. When Robert set me up, with Google approval of my site, based on readership and advertising appeal, I would never have believed that I would make it through even the first year. To have hit three full years, and have registered 250,000 views, is small to those bloggers who use celebrity names, and write about major events, to bolster their stats, but to me, it has re-enforced the very real evidence I needed to possess, about the level of commitment, at my age, I am still prepared to dedicate, to make my own small contribution to Canadian authordom.
     At times, my blog may read as if a deflated balloon. Occasionally, it will seem as if I am writing from another planet, or in another dimension. There may be a return of my cricket friend one day, or the woodpecker, that insists on rapping on the posts of our verandah, at those times when, for me, it is most distracting. If I am writing about Bracebridge, my old home town, or Gravenhurst, where we work and live today, or even about the wider Muskoka, it will be based in large part, on the actuality of the moment and the experience of travel and participation in events. If my blogs occasionally appear far too self-important, as if I am trying to give the appearance of being far more accomplished, than my biography can honestly support, it is probably the net result, of being happy and content, more than I can describe about surviving in a profession that nearly swallowed me in its excesses. Every day that I can write, and do so feeling unfettered, and excited about the free enterprise of creativity, I am, without apology, thrilled to publish my little stake in Canadian arts and culture. I have told my dear wife, who is so abundantly patient with me, and understands my mood shifts, and occasional blues, that I will tell her one column in advance, of when I wish to retire from active duty. I have, you see, insisted, that the person responsible for restoring my career, must then, be the author of the last word, as my on earth, spirit guide. If one day, sooner or later, you visit this blog, and find that the author is Suzanne Currie instead, please give her a few moments of your time; she will, better than I could, provide a shorter, neater, more poignant conclusion, than if I was to pen it, with regrets, myself.
     Thanks for being a part of a milestone exercise in a writer's rehabilitation to the conventions and conveniences of the modern era; this blog has given me reason to quest for new sources of inspiration; but never again from a bottle. I am greatly indebted to you, for your ongoing support of this blog.


From The Archives November 2011, "The Cricket In My Archives"

CHRISTMAS SEASON IN GRAVENHURST - A WRITER IN RESIDENCE

Listen! Do you hear it? What about now? There it is again! My guest. My unexpected, uninvited guest. Keeping me company. Chirping. Chirping.

Somewhere at Birch Hollow there is a cricket, chirping away, as if attempting to communicate something or other about the prevailing comforts of the household. Each time I begin typing, and have a good idea what I'm going to compose two paragraphs into the future, this darn cricket will start its abrupt, annoying chatter, announcing its state of the union. Maybe it's looking for a mate. Possibly it's a disgruntled former friend or relative, who has returned to this mortal-coil as a cricket. I've tried addressing it by name but the cadence doesn't change. If it was any spirit that might re-incarnate to my office, it would be Dave Brown, my historian friend, who used to bunk-out on the couch over there, in the corner. He was an outdoor education co-ordinator and he wouldn't hurt a cricket, let along any living creature. It couldn't be my mother, because it doesn't chirp loud enough. I couldn't kill it, even if I captured the wee beastie, because of this suspicion the intrusion had a purpose. Gads.

I'm very much a creature of habit. I like things to stay the same. Somethings I can't control. In my office, things are easy to organize and situate, such that each day, except for the sun and breeze coming in this window, I have the comfort of controlling what is normal. This cricket, in the natural scheme of things, is very much doing what is normal. It's just not normal that it has come to dwell in my comfort zone. While I'm very much against the idea of hunting this creature-of-the-shadows, and killing it, because the winter is upon us, I wouldn't be able to catch and release either. I'd feel real bad all winter, that I'd caused the poor little thing great discomfort. It's just hard to keep a story-line, because every time I stop, and look about to see where the chirping is coming from, I forget half what I was writing about. It took me a long time to get used to our cats jumping up on my lap, while I'm typing, but forgive me for saying that the purring of the felines, is much preferable to the start of the unsettling round of chirping; that by the way, always seems so urgent and of grave consequence. There's an interpretation issue, I'm sure, so I should seek out a cricket whisperer for clarification.

Strange as this may seem, I found a book at a local charity "Sale for Jesus" (I'm serious), on Saturday, containing a most appropriate passage. I thought that if Jesus had something to do with this sale, possibly he was trying to send me a message about toleration and harmonious living. The book is entitled "The Yellow Briar," by Patrick Slater, containing a most insightful overview of pioneering in Ontario. As if by some strange manifestation of providence, it contains a reference quite suitable to my present situation……as a writer and as a landlord here at Birch Hollow. It seems the best place to start this series of Christmas season blogs, for my hometown, and as an explanation, why I adore working and living in Gravenhurst. It reads as follows:

"And here I sit, a garrulous old fellow whose trials and troubles are all over, chirping away and as happy making noises for my own amusement, as any cricket in a crack by a glowing chimney corner. Sure an Irishman gets a lot of fun watching the world go by. But my warmth comes from memories of the long ago. So I ask you, folk, to fill your glasses with the moonshine of the hills where speckled trout still lurk in limpid streams." Here's to the worn-out hearts of those who saw a nation built, and to the proud, fun-loving young hearts that have it in their keeping." Ave Atque Vale - 1924.

If you have now wondered whether an old writer has taken leave of his senses, well, maybe I have. I'd like to believe in my celebratory frame of mind, like Scrooge, in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," that I've come to my senses. That I've awoken to the clear awareness, it is another day before Christmas, and there is still time to correct some wrongs, and resolve misadventures. There's time to compliment the town that has cradled our family, and created such enthusiasm in this writer's heart. And it all begins, in this humble little abode, this tiny office overlooking The Bog, with three cats nearby, and a cricket that's now home for the season. I hope you will find reason to join me, despite the wee chirping, now and again, mixed with the crackling of cedar in the hearth, and a background of Mozart, creaks and snaps of a house in the cold, and the permeating aroma of Suzanne's Christmas baking…….as much a distraction as the cricket these days. Pull up a chair, and I'll adjust the oil lamp so we can see each other. If you feel a hand on your shoulder, it's just a ghost. Friends of ours, who have attached themselves to a house they apparently enjoyed visiting. Nothing to worry about. They mean you no harm.

The fact that I have initiated this Christmas season tradition, as a blog this year, is greatly out of character for me. I have been writing Christmas journals since I was a kid, and I've written in many locations, in old houses, cottages by the lake, apartments and duplexes, and sometimes in hotels during my more adventurous youth. I have never sought to publish them because they have always been particularly personal. I've borrowed some themes, worthy of stand-alone features articles, in many different publications. I've long been fascinated by the Christmas ambience, and how it changes from place to place, town to town, and how my impressions change from year to year. Several years ago, my father Ed, who adored Christmas, and made a big fuss about shopping with the boys every year, had a stroke in mid-December, and our Christmas season was spent largely at the hospital. It was the first year we settled for a tiny table-top Christmas tree, with flickering lights (which I can't abide), because no one felt all that merry. We did okay, and had a good Christmas with Ed (in hospital quarters) but because we knew he wasn't going to survive, there wasn't much chance of lifting the melancholy for long. Still, that's the rigors of reality and the loop of the mortal coil. I still made copious notes, and that has always made things feel better, even if they weren't in fact, and it was one of the most prolific writing periods in recent memory. It lasted through that spring season. Ed didn't.

This year, as a way of carrying on a tradition, of journalling through the Christmas season, I decided to go public. I wanted to share some personal observations, about the town that has been our home since 1989. At a time when Gravenhurst has had to shoulder a great deal of economic chagrin, and random, unfounded comments that suggest, "the town is cursed," I felt it was time, to share a contrary opinion, based on personal history. As I have mentioned many times in the past, I am particularly fussy about the places I call home, even temporarily, and I'm more than just a little demanding about the place I write. I have written on the beaches of Florida, and on the fringe of Sherwood Forest, in Nottingham, England. I've penned lengthy tomes looking out over Lake Joseph, when I lived in an enchanted little home, known as "Seven Persons Cottage," on Lake Muskoka, and at the family cottage on Lake Rosseau. I've written from a canoe in Algonquin Park, while looking for Tom Thomson's ghost, and I've written in the attic of Bracebridge's former McGibbon house, an estate that was home to many, many wayward spirits. And since 1989, I have begun my Christmas journal in early November, concluding by tradition, on the strike of midnight, on New Year's Eve. It has been a most prolific period of my professional life, and I owe it to this neighborhood, this old town, and all of its interesting characteristics, with a provenance of tantalizing history, colorful community builders, surviving traditions, and a kindness of heart one can't mistake for anything else. I have written in many places, where I could not muster the enthusiasm to create for long, and even an interruption by this cricket of mine, would have been a welcome relief from the misery of creative hiatus. I have written, as with the old Herald-Gazette building, on Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, because I was employed to do so; and always with great volume to fill the white spaces of the weekly news. In my younger days as an editor and feature writer, I could force myself to write whenever or in whatever locale it was necessary to meet a publishing deadline. Today it's just not that free-flowing any more. That's why it is so important to the old author-me, to have such an inspirational place, such that finding a good time, to sit down in my office, and write, is never a burden….never something I won't heartily enjoy. I feel comfortable in this town, and while that may not seem enough credit, or endorsement to rid the town of this "curse" innuendo, well, maybe I can change that, by time we get to that New Year's toast….ending with that festive kiss on the cheek, between good friends, and family, who quite like it here…..at home in Gravenhurst.

GRAVENHURST AND MUSKOKA IN ART

I began as a collector of stuff, at about the same time that I began writing about similar stuff. When people ask what I do for jollies, I answer, "well, I'm an antique collector / dealer." When they ask what I do for profit, I answer politely, with a grin I can't erase, "well, I'm an antique dealer /collector." When they persist and ponder about my actual profession, I answer, "I'm a writer." And they get that tell-tale twinkle in their eyes, and usually respond something like, "That explains the antique thing." As I have been a starving artist most of my life, I'm pretty good at the antique thing. But there is still this confluence between professions, and the best way to deal with it, as it has been the case over many decades, I simply opt to write columns about our collecting adventures in Ontario. My antique-related columns date back to my first serious writing gig, in the late 1970's, for the fledgling Bracebridge Examiner. This afternoon, I will be preparing for a multi-year column series on collecting, for a wonderful publication known as "Curious; The Tourist Guide," which is available in Gravenhurst and Muskoka generally.

I have published a small painting that, for some time, has hung by my desk, which is a naive, folksy, intriguing little art-panel, purchased some time ago in Gravenhurst, that gives such a interesting sense of occasion and motion, as if the horse and cutter are whipping down into the treed valley. It is the apparent motion, and the way the artist has textured the landscape, that gives it the kind of impression of winter, history, and the allure of the Muskoka countryside. The writer needs the co-operation of the antique collector, who so kindly acquired the wee painting, and loaned it for inspiration. So I wanted to share one small example of my two curious professions, one feeding the other's interests. I dare say I'd be half as prolific without the many paintings hung here at Birch Hollow. The writer me, thinks the collector him, is pretty good at turning a profit as well. Much of my career in antiques, as it has been for writing, has been working in Muskoka. Since 1989, these combined industries have been working here in Gravenhurst, and I'm deeply indebted to the local environs on behalf of both writer and collector. Our boys, Andrew and Robert, of course, have carried this interest on, and have their own vintage music shop in the old Muskoka Theatre building, opposite the landmark Gravenhurst Opera house. Gravenhurst and Muskoka are not just places to live. They inspire our family daily, and we are so grateful.

Whether or not this little painting is a depiction of some Gravenhurst scene, or a wider Muskoka landscape, it is none-the-less an art piece that reflects Canadiana, my passion as a collector. I have many other regional, provincial and national paintings that remind us of our past. Suzanne's family were some of the earliest settlers to the Ufford, Three Mile Lake settlement (near Windermere), and I'm proud to say my family were of United Empire Loyalist stock, and fought in both the Revolutionary War, for the Crown, and then again, as volunteers, in the War of 1812. My attraction to Canadiana is, you might say, kind of a family-tree thing, and Suzanne is quite proud of her ancestry research most recently. Her great-grandfather's dug-out canoe is prominently displayed at the Muskoka Lakes Pioneer Museum. We're pretty passionate about home and country, and we have lots of items at Birch Hollow, that are heirlooms from a long line of family members who felt exactly the same.

I have been buying and selling regional art and antiques since my late teens, when I first started to attend local auctions. Over the memorable decades, we have helped build Muskoka archives for many private collectors, and placed important local heirlooms in the hands of museums, public archives, and galleries, locally and nationally. After many years of experience, we enjoy being referenced as Muskoka collectors, historians, antique dealers, and most important, "friends of." While this might not seem to be much of a Christmas-theme story, for this seasonal blog, it really is, from my perspective, surrounded here by art reminders of winter, spring, summer, and autumn landscapes, at home in Gravenhurst, in the beautiful District of Muskoka. If the news of the day gets a little ponderous, and it seems there is nothing uplifting to write about, either a walk in The Bog, or a casual glance at any one of these paintings, will evoke a sense of well being, and abundant potential. The painting I have included with this Blog, is just one example of the resources I possess, that remind me of the home district……the home town, all done by competent artists, craftspeople, who look out upon such landscapes, and seasonal activities, and find inspiration and contentment in the scenes many of us would take for granted. I have many more paintings that offer similar invigoration of feelings, and remind so poignantly, that we often don't see the whole picture. At times when it appears that our hometown is in great peril of collapse, or that bad things only happen in Gravenhurst, I'm constantly reminded how shallow we can be, when we fall into the depths of self-absorption, and refuse to allow brightness, and optimism, its capability to spring eternal…..even in the coldest, most severe part of an old fashion Canadian winter.

When the settlers arrived in Muskoka, on the encouragement of the Free Land and Homestead Grants, and all the hoopla of immigration agents, and steamship line story-weavers, they found little of what they had been promised, and lots of what they didn't expect. Such as huge, thick forests, great boglands that needed to be bridged, and a lot of rock. It was a generally poor agricultural area, with thin soil on rock, and a million trees to remove before there was enough open land to farm for sustenance, more than the thought of eventual profit. In the 1880's there was an Agricultural report that indicated, Muskoka was a good location, to experiment with settlers, from an assortment of overseas countries. The idea was that if the settlers in our region, could make farms and an economy out of the wilderness, then the same plan could also work in the more northerly regions of the province and country, with even harsher conditions and shorter growing seasons. The reality that many homesteaders perished on this land, we now reside, because they came overseas ill-prepared for the actual conditions of the 1860's onward, seems quite tragic and a poor way to start a region's settlement history. Many moved on before starvation, and others cleared homesteads, and after several failed crops, turned over the acreage to the government to find another brave soul to carry on. While local historians are pretty cautious about making such statements, it has always bothered me that so much emphasis has been placed on industry and business advancements, at this same time, without giving equal coverage to the destitution and starvation occurring in the midst of settlement progress. There are many unmarked graves in the hinterland, of families that perished in many unfortunate ways…..from sudden sicknesses and little medical help, to the rigors of farm life, and logging (where many settlers had to work), which was responsible for thousands of deaths. When we dwell on hardship today, in our hometown, or the wider region, excuse the historian, for thinking back, to an earlier time, when the old log shanties offered a thin layer of protection for a homestead family, and the wind-whipped snow of November, illustrated quite clearly, the vulnerabilities of the less capable…..the less fortunate, by the size of drifts inside the cabin. Whatever I witness, or read about today, I am always concerned yet, by important, mostly forgotten historical precedent as it is always incumbent then to look at the foundation of this community…..in order to realize that nothing has ever been achieved without serious consequence. When we are led to believe, by the media, that we are in dire straits, and our main street needs emergency action to reverse trends, again, it is impossible for this historian, to lose perspective on what life offers as a matter of progression,…..the reality that there is evolution of everything, and that some change is impossible to thwart.

My love and respect for Gravenhurst, is from an historian's privilege of experience. When the first snow begins to fall, this November, I will venture out, and celebrate this wondrous change of season. I will wander the path through the Bog, and watch in wonder, as the remaining cat-tails are dusted in snow. I will be haunted by the low moan of the wind over Muskoka Bay, as it rumples up over the evergreen fringe, along the ride of the hollow, and undoubtedly then, cherish a hearthside seat after a brief vigil in the winter woods. Later, a page will be inserted in this old Underwood typewriter, and I will be thrilled to represent what I witness beyond. I will think about the present reality, and fully appreciate what is happening this day, to my lads deep in main street commerce, ponder how my wife, the teacher, is getting along with her latest project, and feel quite comfortable with my own global positioning, in a town I've grown to know intimately in this creative enterprise. When the wind drives the snow against this warm pane of glass, and the light of the oil lamp flickers in the draught, through the imperfection of an older house, I will recall that pioneer cabin, where the family, on the cusp of severe winter, held nervously to the strong faith and mortal resolve to survive to see the dawn of a bright new spring.

I am excited about the coming Christmas season. This cricket and me have a lot of writing to do!

Volunteering To Work More Like An Internship, Okay By Me; Tom Thomson According To Albert Robinson

APPARENTLY, THE TABOO SUBJECT OF VOLUNTEERING - AS A MEANS OF ATTAINING EXPERIENCE - AND HONING SKILLS - BEST NOT SPOKEN ABOUT

GRUMBLING ASIDE, UNPAID APPRENTICESHIPS, ARE IMPORTANT MORAL BOOSTERS WITH LONG TERM DIVIDENDS

     LAST EVENING, I WAS SO PLEASED WITH MYSELF, FOR HAVING FOUND MY POSTAL COVER, AND COMPANION LETTER, REGARDING THE FIRST AIR MAIL FLIGHT BETWEEN MONTREAL AND RAMOUSKE, QUEBEC, IN 1928 (FOUND IN A BOX OF OLD COINS. MAKES SENSE DOESN'T IT?), AND THE FACT I GOT ONE HALF OF THE HOUSE GUTTERS CLEANED YESTERDAY, THAT I TOOK THE NIGHT OFF. I DEDICATED THE FREE HOURS TO SORTING MY COLLECTION OF STAMPS. I'M JUST STARTING-OUT AND I'M A LONG WAY FROM ACTUALLY KNOWING WHAT IT ALL MEANS. I'M INNOCENTLY IMPRESSED BY BOTH AGE AND THE KIND OF GRAPHICS THAT MADE IT ONTO STAMPS, COMMEMORATING ALL KINDS OF EVENTS AND INDIVIDUALS FROM AROUND THE WORLD. TONIGHT, I'M GOING TO STEAL AWAY ANOTHER FEW HOURS FROM DOMESTIC CHORES, BECAUSE I GOT THE GUTTERS ON THE BACK SIDE OF THE HOUSE CLEANED OUT, AND SUZANNE PROMISED TO LIGHTEN-UP ON THE ASSIGNMENT LIST. SHE DID FIX MY PANTS FROM YESTERDAY'S DEBACLE, EXPERIENCED WHILE UP THE LADDER, SO TODAY, THERE WERE NO CLOTHING MALFUNCTIONS. THE ONLY REAL PROBLEM, WAS THAT MY NEIGHBOR'S TWO TOWERING PINE TREES, ARE COVERING MY NEW SHINGLES, WITH CAST-OFF NEEDLES, WHICH I THINK MAY CONTRIBUTE TO SHINGLE-ROT. I MUST HAVE CLEARED TWENTY POUNDS OF HIS PINE NEEDLES OUT OF MY GUTTER. NOW BY WEIGHT ALONE, THAT'S A HELL OF A LOT OF PINE NEEDLES. I LOVE TREES, AND I WILL DO ALMOST ANYTHING TO SPARE THEM FROM THE WOODSMAN'S AXE, BUT THERE MAY COME A TIME FAIRLY SOON, WHEN I SUGGEST MY FRIEND COME OVER AND TAKE HIS DEBRIS OFF MY ROOF. SEEING AS WE DON'T TALK TO ONE ANOTHER, I MAY HAVE TO EMAIL HIM MY WARNING INSTEAD.
  
     YESTERDAY, WHEN THE HEAD OF THE BANK OF CANADA, AT A REGULARLY SCHEDULED PRESS CONFERENCE, SUGGESTED RATHER POIGNANTLY, AND I THOUGHT, QUITE ASTUTELY, THAT OUT-OF-WORK YOUNG CANADIANS, OF WHICH THERE ARE MANY THOUSANDS, SHOULD CONSIDER VOLUNTEERING IN THE AREAS OF THEIR EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE, IN THE PROFESSION THE THEY WISH TO PURSUE, THERE WAS AN ANGRY OUTCRY - ABOUT THE VERY IDEA OF "GIVING IT AWAY." EVERYTHING HAS A DOLLAR VALUE RIGHT? FREE ENTERPRISE IS EVEN TRYING TO ASSUME COPYRIGHT OWNERSHIP OF NATURAL ENTITIES OF THE HUMAN BODY, FOR GOSH SAKES. COULD THERE BE AN ANTI-VOLUNTEERING BACKLASH COMING? WHILE I UNDERSTAND THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE SITUATION, WHEN SUCH A HIGH RANKING CENTRAL BANK OFFICIAL, MAKES A COMMENT LIKE THIS, THAT IS TAKEN, ALMOST AS AN ACT OF WAR AGAINST UNIONS AROUND THE GLOBE, I ACTUALLY FOUND THE SUGGESTION RATHER SENSIBLE AND TIMELY. UNEMPLOYMENT AMONGST THE YOUTH OF THIS COUNTRY IS HIGH. MANY GRADUATE STUDENTS ARE FINDING IT NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE TO GET THE JOBS IN THEIR FIELD OF EXPERTISE. IT MIGHT NOT BE A POLITICALLY CORRECT STATEMENT, BUT THAT'S TOO BAD FOR THOSE WHO LOCKED THEMSELVES INTO THIS BOX OF STANDARDS. THE REAL WORLD FUNCTIONS ON DIFFERENT RULES OF ENGAGEMENT. I THINK THERE COULD BE ADDITIONAL COMMENTS, MADE BY THE HEAD OF THE BANK, IN THE COMING DAYS, THAT WILL SOFTEN, OR AT LEAST MORE FULLY CLARIFY, WHAT SEEMED, AT FIRST, LIKE A PRECARIOUS GENERALIZATION; POSSIBLY RE-DIRECTING THE FOCUS TOWARD PROFESSIONAL INTERNSHIPS. VERSUS FOR EXAMPLE, VOLUNTEERING, AT THE COST OF PAID STAFF, AS POTENTIAL PIZZA DELIVERY DRIVERS. USING VOLUNTEERS INSTEAD OF EMPLOYEES. THERE ARE BUSINESSES THAT WOULD DO THAT, IN A HEARTBEAT, BUT THIS ISN'T WHAT WAS MEANT, AT LEAST, AS I HEARD THE STATEMENT. IN MY INTERPRETATION, OF WHAT HE SAID, THE MOST IMPORTANT CONSIDERATION, OF THIS KIND OF UNPAID INTERNSHIP (VOLUNTARY COMMITMENT), OF WHICH HE HAD REFERRED, IS THAT UNEMPLOYED YOUTH GAIN EXPERIENCE ON-THE-JOB, TO MAINTAIN AND EVEN BOLSTER THEIR FAITH, GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT, IS LIKELY TO STEM FROM A POSITIVE APPRENTICESHIP. WE MIGHT DRAW A LITTLE ON HISTORY, TO CLARIFY WHAT APPRENTICESHIPS USED TO BE, AND FOR HOW LONG, AND WITH WHAT ATTACHED DEGREE OF HARDSHIP. IT WAS A COMMONPLACE PART OF OUR ANCESTORS' WORKING LIVES, WHETHER THE COBBLER'S APPRENTICE, OR THE HELPER IN THE PRINT SHOP. APPRENTICES WERE OFTEN PAID WITH FOOD AND SHELTER, AND NOT MUCH MORE. THEY WERE GLAD TO HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO LEARN THE TRADE, BECAUSE EVENTUALLY, THEY WOULD PROFIT FROM THIS DEEP IMMERSION WITH A TRADESMAN. WHILE WE DON'T WANT TO GO BACK IN HISTORY, BECAUSE THERE WERE A LOT OF ABUSES, IN THIS AREA OF APPRENTICESHIPS, THE IDEA OF LEARNING ON THE JOB IS THE CENTRAL ISSUE. SACRIFICE, TO GET WHAT IS MOST DESIRED, IS NECESSARY. IT WAS NECESSARY FOR OUR GREAT GRANDPARENTS, GRANDPARENTS, AND ALL THE KIN FOLK WHO LED THE WAY FOR US. SO WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL? THE DANGER, OF COURSE, IS THE POTENTIAL ABUSE BY COMPANIES, TO TAKE THE VOLUNTEER AS MEANING THEY CAN UNLOAD PAID STAFF, TO GET THE JOB DONE FOR FREE. IN THE REAL WORLD, THIS IS HAPPENING NOW FOR MILLIONS OF WORKERS, WHO HAVE UNWRITTEN ARRANGEMENTS WITH EMPLOYERS, THAT TREAT THEM AS CONTRACTORS AND NOT EMPLOYEES, TO AVOID PAYING BENEFITS; AND THE CASH RETURN IS LESS THAN MINIMUM WAGE. THAT'S HOW DESPERATE SOME FOLKS ARE TO HAVE ANY KIND OF JOB WHATSOEVER. SO THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS WORSE THAN SUGGESTING, THAT UNEMPLOYED AND EDUCATED YOUTH, INTEGRATE INTO THE PROFESSIONAL FORUM, BY WORKING AS UNPAID INTERNS UNTIL SUCH A TIME, THAT THEY CAN PROVE TO EMPLOYERS, THEIR WORTH TO THE COMPANY; OR TO A COMPETITOR. IT'S BEING DONE THIS WAY ALREADY, IN THOUSANDS OF CASES, PRESENTLY UNKOWN TO US, AND THERE ARE SUCCESS STORIES ATTACHED TO THESE EMPLOYMENT BIOGRAPHIES.
     TO GET A JOB, WHEN THERE WERE NONE, IN TORONTO, AT THE START OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR, MY FATHER AND HIS UNEMPLOYED MATES, FROM CABBAGETOWN, ENLISTED TO GET A PAY CHEQUE, CLOTHES, FOOD, HOUSING AND SOME ADVENTURE. THEY HAD NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE GETTING INTO, AND MY FATHER ADMITTED THIS MANY TIMES WHEN DISCUSSING THEIR ENLISTMENT. IMAGINE THAT? THEY WENT TO WAR, RISKING THEIR LIVES, TO GET A JOB, AND A SMALL AMOUNT OF PAY? SOME OF MY DAD'S SHIPMATES DIDN'T RETURN HOME. AND WE'RE GETTING ALL HOT AND BOTHERED, BECAUSE A SENIOR BANK OFFICIAL, SUGGESTS UNEMPLOYED YOUTH SHOULD TO DO WHAT EVERY THEY CAN, TO START THEIR CAREERS; EVEN IF IT MEANS GETTING EXPERIENCE AS A VOLUNTEER STAFFER. IN OTHER WORDS, INSTEAD OF SITTING AROUND, WHINING ABOUT THERE BEING NO JOBS, IN A CHOSEN PROFESSION, GET OUT THERE, AND BE PART OF THE STREAM OF ENERGY AND PROGRESSION, THAT HAS TO LEAD SOMEWHERE; AN INFINITELY BETTER PLAN, THAN WASTING PRECIOUS TIME, WORRYING ABOUT WHEN THE TIDE WILL TURN. IT MAY NOT FOR SOME TIME TO COME. JUST BECAUSE YOU ACHIEVE PROFESSIONAL STATUS, NOTED IN THIS REGARD, BY A DEGREE FRAMED ON THE BEDROOM WALL, DOESN'T MEAN A GUARANTEED JOB AFTER GRADUATION.
    IF MEMORY SERVES, CANADIAN BROADCASTER, GORDON SINCLAIR, DURING ONE OF HIS RADIO INTERVIEWS, WAS SPEAKING TO A WELL EDUCATED YOUNG MAN, BACK IN THE 1970'S, (AROUND THAT TIME), ABOUT HIS WOES, NOT BEING ABLE TO FIND EMPLOYMENT IN HIS FIELD OF EXPERTISE. SINCLAIR ASKED HIM TO NAME OFF THE UNIVERSITY DEGREES HE POSSESSED AT PRESENT, AND THERE WERE AT LEAST THREE, IF NOT FOUR IMPRESSIVE TITLES, EACH A SIGNIFICANT CREDIT FOR A GRADUATE STUDENT TO POSSESS. SINCLAIR CLEARED HIS THROAT, AND SAID SOMETHING LIKE, WELL THAT'S JUST GREAT. SO YOU'VE GOT A B.A., M.A., M.B.A. AND A PHD, BUT YOU DON'T HAVE A "J.O.B." THE POINT BEING, THE YOUNG MAN HAD DONE EVERYTHING RIGHT ON THE PATH TOWARD HIGHER EDUCATION, BUT THE MOST IMPORTANT CONSIDERATION OF ALL, WAS ACTUALLY HAVING A JOB TO TIE IT ALL TOGETHER. ME THINKS HE WAS POKING FUN AT THE INDIVIDUAL, FOR NOT HAVING PAID MORE ATTENTION TO ACQUIRING THE KIND OF PRACTICAL EDUCATION AND EXPERIENCE, THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN MORE DESIRABLE TO MORE THAN JUST A FEW EMPLOYERS. ALL THE TIME AND MONEY SPENT ON EDUCATIONAL UPGRADES, WASN'T PUTTING FOOD ON THE TABLE. THESE ISSUES HAVE BEEN AROUND FOR LONG AND LONG. I HEARD THEM WHEN I GRADUATED UNIVERSITY, IN THE LATE 1970'S. "YOU HAVEN'T GOT ENOUGH EXPERIENCE," BECAME THE MOST OFTEN HEARD REJECTION, WHEN EMPLOYERS LIFTED THEIR EYES FROM MY RESUME. THEIR EYES ALONE ASKED THE QUESTION, "SO WHERE'S THE BEEF?" MY GIRLFRIEND, GAIL, AT THE TIME, WAS IN HER FINAL YEARS OF COMPUTER TECHNOLOGY COURSES, AT UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO, AND WAS ACTUALLY RECRUITED, LIKE A FOOTBALL STAR, BY SOME OF THE BIGGEST CORPORATIONS IN THE COUNTRY. I WAS A GRADUATE OF CANADIAN HISTORY, WHO COULD WRITE WELL ENOUGH TO GET PUBLISHED. BUT AGAIN, I FELT GORDON SINCLAIR WAS DIRECTING HIS CRITICISM AT ME PERSONALLY; AND BELIEVE ME, IT WAS SPOT-ON. AND I HAD BEEN THE ARCHITECT OF MY OWN IRRELEVANCE TO THE WORK PLACE. THE ONLY WAY OUT OF THE BOX I HAD BUILT FOR MYSELF, WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS, WAS TO PUT WHAT EVER RESOURCES I COULD MUSTER, INTO BOTH FREE ENTERPRISE AND "FREE" SERVICES TO ANY EMPLOYER WHO WOULD GIVE ME A BREAK. I OPENED AN ANTIQUE SHOP, ON A TINY WEE BUDGET, IN PARTNERSHIP WITH MY PARENTS, AND I WROTE A COLUMN FOR THE FLEDGLING BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER, ON ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES, WITHOUT A PENNY OF RETURN. YET, IT WAS THIS SHORT STINT AS A COLUMNIST, THAT HELPED ME LAND A JOB THAT WOULD PROFOUNDLY CHANGE MY LIFE. DUE TO THE FACT I WAS ABLE TO SHOW THE EDITOR OF THE MUSKOKA LAKES-GEORGIAN BAY BEACON, THAT I HAD BEEN PUBLISHED IN A COMPETING NEWSPAPER, IN THE SAME REGION, AND THAT IT WAS BOTH READABLE, AND COMPENETLY COMPOSED, IT GAVE ME A STEP UP TO BECOMING A PAID REPORTER IN JANUARY 1979. I HAD ALSO CONTRIBUTED TO NUMEROUS OTHER PUBLICATIONS DURING THIS TIME, AND TOOK A PART TIME JOB AS A HERITAGE PROJECT CO-ORDINATOR, WITH THE MUSKOKA BOARD OF EDUCATION, FOR TWO MONTHS, JUST TO SAY I DID. MY VOLUNTEER WORK WITH THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND THE SOON TO BE OPENED, WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSUEM, ALSO LOOKED REAL GOOD ON MY RESUME, AND IN PART, CONVINCED THE NEWSPAPER'S PUBLISHER, AND EDITOR, TO GIVE ME A HAND-UP. I BECAME NEWS EDITOR A YEAR LATER, AND THEN EDITOR OF THE SISTER PUBLICATION, THE HERALD-GAZETTE, JUST OVER A YEAR AFTER THIS; ALL BECAUSE I WAS WILLING TO APPRENTICE AND VOLUNTEER FOR EXPERIENCE, BEYOND A PAY CHEQUE. IT WASN'T A LONG INTERNSHIP BUT A VALUABLE ONE.

WHEN I WAS CAST-OFF AS A PAID NEWSPAPER STAFFER, I PINED, WHINED, HATED MYSELF, AND THEN, WENT BACK TO WORK FOR FREE

     In the fall of 1989, after many years of service to Muskoka Publications, and after just buying a new house in Gravenhurst, the supreme editor, or "big giant head", at the time, who I loathed, approached me with a new plan he thought I'd have to take, because there was no other job opportunities, except with the dreaded competition down the road. His logic was a tad askew. It involved a massive cut-back of hours per week, and a lowering of the money I was to be paid. It would have been an occasional part-time position, and it was both insulting and disastrous; I really couldn't absorb the loss of revenue, and I suppose management knew I would probably have to suck-it-up, and live with the demotion. At the time, I was a full time Mr. Mom, looking after our two boys, while Suzanne taught at the Bracebridge High School. I had a home office, and because I'm a work-aholic, when it comes to writing volumes, I was out performing, in terms of usable editorial copy, all of my contemporaries; and even working on special business promotions, without shortchanging my kids, my wife, or my employer. I was proving that I could work at home, and keep up a high standard of editorial competence, with increased volume, and the publication would be getting a lot more than they were paying for every week. When this stooge informed me how it was going to be in the future, there were all kinds of actions and reactions I contemplated, but all I could offer in return, was a deep, resonating, final statement, "take a drag." This was a catch-all saying my colleague Brant Scott, and I had created, to let off steam, when management did something stupid that irritated us, in the front line of reporting. When the publisher phoned me later on, to carry on the discussion, about my future employment, I eventually told him to "take a drag" as well. I made a phone call to the competing newspaper, an hour later, and had a job within twenty four hours. It wasn't a great job either, with a lot of the same old, same old, but with a different commanding officer, and eventually, well, it was just better to work freelance thereafter. I had been seriously tainted by the original experience, and I didn't want to work for the competition, that I had been fighting ever since I'd joined up with Muskoka Publications. Suzanne respected my decision, and we put all our emphasis on raising our kids, and our antique enterprise, struggling in its first five years since opening; and then there was the real angst, about keeping a roof over our heads. Why is this relevant to volunteering, as this blog commenced today? Try this on for size!
     It wasn't long before I began to seriously miss my writing outlets of the community press. I craved being published. There were no jobs available, especially during the brutal years of the 1989 to 1993 recession. We were able to navigate through these years by the thinnest of margins, but I needed the moral boost of being "in-print." It's a strange professional obsession. I lived daily with the fear, that being on the outside of the publishing industry, was the commencement of my own death knell as a writer. If I didn't keep up my skills, I'd begin to falter as a writer generally. I needed motivation. After a brief period of withdrawal, which lasted most of a year, circa 1990-91, Suzanne convinced me to start writing again, even, God forbid, if it was a work of fiction; gads, "a novel." Reluctantly, I did play around with some creative writing projects. They went better than expected. Then a few history projects bumped into me, by happenstance, and one day, talking to a newspaper advertising representative, who had been trying to sell me a spot in the paper for our antique shop, I inquired whether or not, the publisher would entertain a for-free column, for a sister paper I had once been editor of, known as "The Muskoka Advance;" a free weekend paper delivered door to door around Muskoka on Saturday evenings (for the Sunday reading market). I realized the circulation numbers were excellent, and it was a way for me to hit the marketplace, and possibly get some advertising spin-off for our business. The publisher working on a tight recessionary budget, did, to my surprise, offer editorial space to me, and I think we negotiated for a small advertisement to be placed at the bottom of the weekly column, which was entitled "Sketches of Historic Bracebridge," a feature piece that morphed years later, into "Muskoka History Notes," or something like that, and then it became more of a personal opinion column, when I finally concluded it, early in the new century. At this time, I became a major "for free," contributor, to the summer season publication, "The Muskoka Sun," after once being its feature editor. Just because the publisher wouldn't pay me, for our later relationship in copy preparation, I wasn't going to miss the big picture, about what the paper could do for me as a writer and business owner. I was never really working for free at any time in our relationship, because there was always a silver lining of exposure and experience gained.
     If I had quit writing and dropped my historical services, just because I wasn't working in a salaried position, at a newspaper or museum, I would have died of a broken heart; we had enough money to survive from the small antique shop and my wife's salary. In my year hiatus, from active publishing, I got our business up to a higher level, which was critical, and learned how to benefit from what, on the surface, appeared to be a raging, wild, and unfettered case of extreme volunteerism. "You work for nothing," my writing colleagues used to ask, but always with the worry, I was setting a dangerous precedent in the industry. What if there were twenty "Ted Curries" out there, willing to work for the exposure, with no remuneration, even enough to pay for a bottle of beer at the local press club? There weren't twenty Ted Curries, so they didn't have anything to worry about. I wasn't being told what to write, or what I had to cover, because I was hip to their needs, and very much tuned to my own desires, of the outcome that would best serve my idea of upward mobility.  Suzanne had got it right, when she observed me losing interest in what gave me so much enjoyment in life, other than family times. She gave me encouragement and the time, to work on speculative projects for the local press, all of which paid off in many, many ways. But as for the nuts and bolts of the situation, I was working without pay, to improve my skills, and increase my exposure to the readers of the publications, in which I was boldly printed. There were many more positives to remaining in the public eye, and getting some extra advertising, via what was know in our day, as sweat equity. There times, in this period, without anything more than a small advertisement in return for my editorial submissions, that my circulation, from May to October, each week, was within a whisker of sixty thousand. Just like this blog, I was able to connect with newspaper readers, and it led to freelance writing jobs.
     When I left the local papers, circa 2000, I joined several other regional Ontario publications, including an antique trade magazine. During this time, I wrote and published four small books, one biography and three local histories, plus numerous other heritage projects I was co-ordinating. The best outlet I could have attached myself, was a feature publication known as "Curious; The Tourist Guide," published by the Gervais family, and I've been "free" lancing for these nice folks, longer than any other paper I've ever been associated; and they kindly give me an advertisement in return for my submissions. I have also been a part of the three year adventure. of a swell little publication covering the near north, known as "The Great North Arrow," which we hope to offer from our Gravenhurst shop in the near future. I love these editors and publishers, because they have allowed me enormous freedom to write what I like, and have never once in our relationship, told me a piece was too long, or not suitable for their publication. I will follow them to the ends of the earth, for their kindnesses bestowed. "But Ted, you're working for free? What kind of message are you sending to young writers, starting out on their careers?" Well, I guess the message is, you can't give up on aspirations, just because your original mission statement is dashed by the smack-down of harsh realities. Possibly, the problem is more with the propagation, of unrealistic expectation, than by the fact employment opportunities are greatly reduced after graduation. Stuff like this happens. The only way I could remain as an in-print writer, was to seize every opportunity to cover open editorial space, in whatever magazine or newspaper showed interest; because it's the means to get exposure, which is the most important consideration.
     By the end of this week, I will finally hit the magic number, at least being important for me, of "250,000" views of my blog, a figure that has taken three years of daily writing to attain. I haven't earned one penny writing these blogs. As far as experience and adventure, it has been a remarkable journey, and I've enjoyed all the contacts, made via the site, during these action-packed years. All gained by the willingness to engage a revenue neutral position, to get the most out of the writing experience, especially as it exists in this province. It has helped me in so many other ways, that in reality, there has been no financial disadvantage whatsoever. Should young people do roughly the same. It's up to the individual, but I can tell you from experience, the worse part of being unemployed, like a scene from "Death of a Salesman," is feeling worthless, and the job search hopeless. Suzanne got me to appreciate just how much damage I was inflicting on myself, by remaining steadfast to the mistaken notion, that you can only be successful in a chosen profession, if it is partnered by appropriate remuneration. We can't have a volunteer workforce to fill every position. Young people however, as one group in the spectrum of the unemployed, have to bulk up on experience, and gumption plays into this equation. A degree doesn't always guarantee a job. So get on with life. Look at all the options, and all the spin-offs that are potential, just being connected to a business or profession. Apprenticeships in antiquity, lasted years, for little return, except what was most important. The intimate knowledge of what the trade or profession was all about. Ultimately you have to be true to yourself, and if you're fed up with rejections, and want to work, then get in there any way possible, even as a volunteer, and get on-the-job experience, that will fill in the white space of a resume.
     As for old farts like me, I will never give up questing for the holy grail of professional accomplishment; even if I have to give it all the way to get what I want. "Death of a Salesman," was one of the most influential movies I ever watched, and the message was pretty clear. Either don't get old, or better stated, make sure you prepare for those who wish to cast you out because of elder age; knowing that employment opportunities diminish the older you get, build out-riggers in advance. Ours was an antique business. So if you want to stay relevant, then you have to play hardball, as they say, to guarantee a longer shelf life. It works the same for the youth of today, frustrated by the limited job market. Having a defeatest attitude, guarantees failure. The positive approach is the only way, to maintain the competitive edge; and it has to be pretty sharp these days, with so many folks applying for one job.
     I don't consider myself a role model in this regard. I won't be going out on the lecture circuit to preach my point of view. But I am writing every day, and I'm glad to say there is a small but significant demand for my columns. For a fellow, who, a quarter century ago, thought I was done as a writer, after only ten years in the profession, it is a little bit pleasing to pick up a feature publication, and see that I am still at least marginally relevant.
     I don't really like the word "volunteer," especially when looking at "unpaid" work, as the Bank of Canada official referenced on Tuesday. I prefer the overview of "internship," and "apprenticeship," instead.
     Just my opinion. A fellow who cleans out his own gutters, writes for the fun of it, and offers historical tutoring, because it's an enjoyable service to my community, and my friends. Yet despite what Suzanne and I offer for free, and as volunteers, we never sacrifice our standard of living, as a direct result. We just have to be creative and resourceful. It's our suggestion to today's youth. And as the old bards offer as sage advice, "where there is a will, there is a way!"

From The Archives

IN QUEST OF TOM THOMSON - THE CONCLUSION, AS WRITTEN BY ARTIST ALBERT H. ROBINSON, CIRCA 1937

A BOOK ON THOMSON I JUST COULDN'T LIVE WITHOUT -

WHAT AN AMAZINGLY BRIGHT AND CHEERFUL LATE WINTER DAY, HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. I HAVE JUST TAKEN A LITTLE JAUNT THROUGH THE WOODLANDS ABOVE THE BOG, AND THE SUNLIGHT IS DAZZLING ON THE NEW SNOW, SCULPTED AROUND THE TRUNKS OF HARDWOODS AND VENERABLE OLD PINES, FROM THE WEEKEND'S STORM. THE PATH IS ICE-COVERED ALREADY, THE SLIDING WORK OF MANY FEET OVER THE PAST SEVERAL DAYS. IT IS LIKE WALKING INTO A TOM THOMSON PAINTING, WITHOUT CAUSING ANY DAMAGE. THE PLAY OF LIGHT AND SHADOW OF HARDWOOD AND EVERGREEN, IS SPECTACULAR, AND FROM SO MANY VANTAGE POINTS, I CAN FRAME A HALF DOZEN PAINTINGS I'D LOVE TO OWN…..DEPICTING THE PLACE I LOVE TO ESCAPE. I HAVE BEEN WRITING ALL MORNING, TRYING TO GET A START ON THE BIOGRAPHY OF MUSKOKA ARTIST, RICHARD KARON, AND CAN ADMIT HAPPILY, I HAVE GOTTEN PAST THAT FIRST HURDLE MOST WRITERS DREAD……"CHAPTER ONE." IT WILL TAKE A FEW WEEKS YET TO COMPOSE THE "ON-LINE" BIOGRAPHY, I INTEND TO PRESENT ON THIS BLOG-SITE, LATER IN MARCH. ADMITTEDLY I WAS THINKING ABOUT MR. KARON, WHILE WALKING THROUGH THESE SUNLIT WOODS, WONDERING HOW HE MIGHT HAVE PAINTED THIS GRANDLY ILLUMINATED SCENE. I WAS ALSO THINKING ABOUT TOM THOMSON, THE NEXT PROJECT FOR ME, AFTER RETURNING HOME TO BIRCH HOLLOW. IT IS THE CONTINUATION OF THE REVIEW OF MY NEWLY ACQUIRED, ALBERT ROBINSON BOOK, (ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1937), WHICH IS A BRIEF BUT HIGHLY REGARDED THOMSON BIOGRAPHY…..A BOOK I NEEDED MANY YEARS AGO, BUT EITHER COULDN'T AFFORD, WHEN I DID FIND A COPY, OR ONE THAT WAS MISSING PAGES OR EVEN THE FULL COLOR IMAGES IN THE BACK. I FOUND A FINE CONDITION COPY THAT HAS ALL OF ITS PAGES, AND A NICE CLEAN GREEN CLOTH WRAPPING ON PERFECT BOARDS (COVER STOCK). NOT ONE DOG EARRED PAGE IN THE BOOK. AS AN ENTHUSIASTIC THOMSON RESEARCHER, AND COLLECTOR OF RELATED MOMENTOS (CAN'T AFFORD HIS ORIGINAL ART), IT WAS THE FIND OF 2012. IT'S LOOKING LIKE A GOOD YEAR OUT ON THE ANTIQUE HUSTINGS.

WHILE THE PICTURES HE PRODUCED BETWEEN 1913 AND 1917 REPRESENT HIS MAJOR CONTRIBUTION, THE BACKGROUND AND TRAINING FOR THIS MAGNIFICENT OUTPOURING EXPLAINS TO SOME EXTENT THE QUALITY OF HIS WORK. THOMSON LIVED AS A BOY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF GEORGIAN BAY, AND HERE HIS INBORN LOVE OF THE LAKES, WOODS AND STREAMS WAS NOURISHED THROUGHOUT HIS CHILDHOOD. HE WAS PASSIONATELY FOND OF FISHING, AND IN LATER YEARS ATTAINED AN ENVIABLE REPUTATION AS AN ANGLER EVEN AMONG THE PROFESSIONAL GUIDES OF THE (ALGONQUIN) PARK. IN THE EARLY SPRING, BEFORE THE ICE BROKE FROM THE STREAMS AND RIVERS, HE MADE HIS OWN TACKLE FROM BEADS, FEATHERS AND PIECES OF METAL, WITH THE LOVING HANDS OF A TRUE ENTHUSIAST."

The above passage was written by Canadian Artist, Albert H. Robinson, in a 1937 "Canadian Artist Series" booklet, entitled simply "Tom Thomson." Robinson had known Thomson from the graphic arts business in Toronto. He was a friend and traveling companion of painter A.Y. Jackson, and he was familiar with the other artists of the Group of Seven. It is a small but important book in the study of the early life and work of this Canadian landscape painter. The book, which has evaded me for about a dozen years, was found in the used books offered by the Gravenhurst Book Store, located on Muskoka Road. I am grateful to the book shop proprietor, for offering this wonderful piece of Canadiana. Thanks to them, I have now acquired this missing component of Thomson biography. In reality, I've been trying to acquire a "fine condition" copy of the Robinson book, but most of the books I found, in the past five years, were badly damaged, and seriously over-priced. I've been rustling-up Thomson reference material, since the mid 1990's. My personal "Thomson archives," built-up one book, one article, one document at a time, has been used extensively in four previous feature series, which have run in regional publications, primarily in the examination of the artist's mysterious death in July 1917, while traversing Algonquin Park's Canoe Lake. The little booklet was published by The Ryerson Press, of Toronto, and designed and printed by one of the best known graphics company, in Canada at the time…….Rous & Mann Limited, where many of Canada's painters got their start in the art profession. Both Thomson and Robinson came to work for Rous & Mann by 1912, leaving the Grip Co.

In 1937 when Robinson published the brief biographical text, on Thomson, accompanied by full color reproductions of the artist's best known creations, there had only been a few books and articles written about his life and art, following his sudden death. Only several months after Thomson's death, his biggest supporter, Dr. J.M. McCallum had contributed an article on his friend, to the Canadian Magazine, dated October 1917. F.B. Housser made mention of Thomson in his book, Canadian Art Movement, in 1926. In 1927, O.J. Stevenson wrote about Thomson in a text entitled "A People's Best," and in the same year, Newton MacTavish mentioned him in the book, "The Fine Arts in Canada." Blodwen Davies came next, with one of two pieces on Thomson, the first being "Paddle and Palette," in 1930, and then "Tom Thomson," in 1935. Robinson had begun the Canadian Landscape Painters in 1932. I'm still missing several of these early Thomson references, but I'm forever hopeful I can fill these in before the 100th anniversary of his death, in July 2017, when I hope to launch another series of articles on his art career in Canada.

"My first meeting with Thomson was about 1908. A tall, lanky young man in a dark blue serge suit and gray flannel shirt applied for a position in the art department of Grip Limited, where I was art director. He was clean cut, almost classical in features, with a mop of black hair combed down over his right forehead. There was something intriguing about Thomson, a quiet reserve, a reticence almost approaching bashfulness. There was no bombast or assertiveness as he handed me a bundle of his work and asked if there was an opening in the art department."

Robinson writes, "His samples consisted mostly of lettering and decorative designs applied to booklet covers and some labels. A quick glance at his drawings revealed something more than mechanical and technical proficiency; there was feeling for spacing and arrangement, an over-tone of intellectual as well as aesthetic approach to his work, and we quickly closed arrangements for him to join the staff. Shortly after hiring him, I received a gratuitous and unsolicited telephone call from his previous employer, belittling Thomson as an erratic and difficult man in a department. This was as absurd as it was untrue. Thomson was a most diligent, reliable and capable craftsman. Nothing seemed to disturb the even tenor of his way. Only once did I see him lose his temper and that was in 1912. A man under the influence of liquor got into the studio and made himself as objectionable as possible. Tom tried to continue his work, but when the visitor became personally abusive, Tom's slow temper finally rose. He took off his coat and threw the visitor out of the building. The noise of overturning chairs and tables attracted my attention, but by the time I got there, Tom was brushing imaginary dust off his hands and settling back in to finish his drawing."

"Tom Thomson possessed a complete and satisfactory world within himself." wrote Albert Robinson, adding, "He apparently did not feel any great need for human companionship, and so made friends slowly. When he joined "Grip" (graphic company in Toronto), it was some time before he found common interests with other members of the art staff. Among his fellow workers in the department, were such men as J.E.H. MacDonald, F. Horsman Varley, Frank Carmichael, Arthur Lismer, William Broadhead, Frank (Franz) Johnston, T.W. McLean, Ben Jackson, Ivor Lewis and many others. These men sketched and painted in their spare time and during their holidays. Ben Jackson was an enthusiastic fisherman who arranged his sketching trips with angling opportunities. Thomson and Jackson were soon planning trips together, lunge fishing in Scugog Lake, or trout fishing in some favorite stream known to Tom. Jackson took his paints along as a mild diversion from fishing, and on one of these trips made a sketch of Tom which now hangs in the National Gallery, Ottawa. Jackson who had fished the streams of New Brunswick, with crack fishermen from the New England states, said that he never saw anyone who could cast a fly with the ease and precision of Thomson. On some of these trips Tom began making the casual sketch, and occasionally joined other members of the staff on their sketching trips round Toronto."

There is a well known black and white photograph of Thomson fly fishing below the Tea Lake Dam, just west of Tea Lake, and Canoe Lake where Thomson resided when not on a fishing or sketching trip. Our family always stopped in at the Tea Lake dam, on our camping or day trips to the park. We have stood on those same rocks as Thomson did, in the early 1900's, and where he anchored himself, to sketch the original dam. It is a beautiful and quiet little place, that afforded him a perfect campsite to both fish and paint.

Robinson points out that, "William Broadhead, a brilliant young English artist, after listening all winter to McLean's stories of canoeing and camping in the wilds, was fired with a desire to see the country himself, and in the summer of 1911, Broadhead and Thomson set out on a canoe trip through the Mississauga Reserve, leaving the rails at Biscotasing. This was, I believe, Thomson's first experience on an extended camping trip in the north. It was also Thomson's first serious sketching trip. He brought back a number of sketches although he lost some in a canoe upset. These sketches were timid and self conscious in execution, but had caught the real northern character. I recall one in particular of drowned land which impressed me as having the weird loneliness of the country. It was on this trip also, that Thomson met Grey Owl, (before he was exposed as englishman, Archie Belaney) now known in America and Europe as author and lecturer, who visited him in Toronto the following winter."

The artist Robinson, writes of his friend Thomson, by noting a change in employment status in the Ontario printing industry. "In 1912 I became associated with Rous & Mann Limited, and several of the artists, including Thomson, followed to the new art department, where he worked until the spring of 1914. In the summer of 1912, Thomson took his first extended vacation in Algonquin Park, and brought back a series of sketches which showed a tremendous advance in technical power and purity of color. Strolling up from the station (in Toronto) in his woodsman outfit and carrying the bundle of sketches, he reported his return to work and left the sketches for inspection. We urged him to paint one of his sketches upon a large canvas. So 'A Northern Lake' came into being in 1913, his first attempt on a large canvas. It attracted the admiration of his fellow artists, and to his astonishment was purchased by the Government of Canada."

"J.E.H. MacDonald told Dr. J.M. McCallum of Toronto, about Thomson's north country sketches. The genial doctor soon looked him up and persuaded him to devote his entire time to painting. His art training had been and continued to be the association with competent painters. The few remaining years of his life he devoted whole-heartedly to painting, sketching in the spring, summer and fall, and returning to his studio "Shack" on Severn Street to work on large canvases during the winter months." wrote Robinson, adding, "The basic knowledge of design obtained through his commercial art training explains the decorative beauty of composition and arrangement which so marks his painting. In this respect, there is a common bond between Thomson and J.E.H. MacDonald. Both were eminent and capable designers, and both approached the problem of landscape painting with a finely discriminating knowledge of form and arrangement. MacDonald, however, felt the appeal of a greater variety of subject matter, while Thomson concentrated with intensity on the Northern Ontario wilderness which claimed his whole devotion. Both of these men made important contributions to Canadian painting, evolving technics which were personal and adequate and unclouded either by convention or tradition. The work of each was alive with charm of design and beauty of color."

Robinson suggested that "From year to year Thomson grew in ability to summarize, in the beauty of his color arrangements, in confidence, and brilliancy of technique. His paintings are frank and beautiful statements of the moods and inner meanings of the scenes freed of all extraneous and distracting detail. His sense of design and color wove enchantment into a sketch, never cluttering or confusing it, but rather adding a richer and more subtle significance. Thomson left probably more than four hundred sketches, perhaps twenty important canvases, with as many slighter or experimental pictures. His tragic and untimely death on Canoe Lake robbed our Dominion of a great interpreter of the Canadian wilderness - a faithful student whose sincerity, unresting passion for true and swift insight into the heart of all that was beautiful, gave him skill and power to isolate essentials, which lifted his landscapes from the purely representative to the realms of personal creative art."

It was Thomson's friend, J.E.H. MacDonald, who penned the inscription, on the plaque of the memorial cairn, on Canoe Lake's Hayhurst Point, that reads, "To the memory of Tom Thomson, artist, woodsman, and guide, who was drowned in Canoe Lake, July 8th, 1917. He lived humbly but passionately with the wild. It made him brother to all untamed things in nature. It drew him apart and revealed itself wonderfully to him. It sent him out from the woods only to show these revelations and it too him to itself at last."

For a wee bit more on Tom Thomson, please join me for tomorrow's blog. Thanks for visiting today.