A defender of small town life

When you remark to someone on the local Economic Development Committee that you prefer the small town character, it’s as if you’ve uttered the ultimate offence, stabbing the collective heart of progressive mankind the world over. I do it all the time and I make no apology. And when they grimace in my company, I know I’ve made a positive impact on the city-builders. They won’t be sending me an invitation to any sod-turnings for local development, otherwise known here in Muskoka as run of the mill urban sprawl.
If I’m afforded an opportunity to explain my editorial opinion, which I freely bestow to the land sharks and associated progressives who wish to pave paradise, I explain that to label me “anti development,” is fundamentally in error. I have never opposed any development strategy that was sensible, required in the community, proportional to the projected growth expected, and good for the citizens in general. I do not lump the handiwork of speculators into this mix although there is a fine line of distinction at times. The “if you build it they will come,” speculation isn’t something I endorse, particularly if it involves gouging out the hinterland simply to make big money. There has been a great deal of speculation in our region over the past ten years, and it has resulted in the kind of urban sprawl that does nothing to enhance the well being of a community, but everything to tax existence generally. When a developer decides to plunk down three hundred homes upon the hundreds of others opened in a given year, you won’t find evidence that building is proportional to population increase. It isn’t. Investors and speculators as well as building them, buy them to rent, use seasonally instead of lakefront cottages, and to hold onto in order to flip for a profit down the road. The illusion is that with all the new subdivisions being constructed, our communities are bursting with population increase. When the reality is many of the new homes are for short and long term investments; the inventory belonging to those who own multiple properties and who are simply, and in some cases even patiently awaiting a big pay-off.
Gravenhurst is facing the wrath of speculators; developers who will attempt to change our community to meet their financial objectives. I’m not confident we have the checks and balances to ensure the development we encourage, and accept, will make this a stronger, more dynamic community for residents. We need to make it abundantly clear to developers, particularly from Southern Ontario, that we don’t wish to inherit the urban conundrum of over-development and sprawl just to brag to our neighbor communities….”look what we’ve got!”
We still have a chance in Gravenhurst, to assess what damage urban sprawl has played upon both the future economic well being of Bracebridge, and Huntsville before we whole heartedly adopt the same strategy here. Despite what the movers and shakers of Muskoka might call Gravenhurst’s malady, our stubborn interest to protect our heritage and legacy, our small town, neighborly way of life, is the asset, the mindset I admire the most in my hometown.

The inspiration of a snowy forest, a biographical retrospective and unresolved issues

After weeks of a snow-free Muskoka, and a woodland scene looking more like late April than January, we here in the Ontario hinterland have experienced a few snowy, blustery days, enough to make this Gravenhurst neighborhood look seasonal and postcard “wintery.” I can hear a soothing natural Mozart just by listening to the cold, forceful brush of wind down through the evergreen boughs, onto the dried marsh grasses wavering now in the sudden gusts. I can visualize a Tom Thomson landscape, by the way the barren trees silhouette as legend, against the birch and remnants of receding forest, claimed over by the higher water in The Bog. As I have written as a deep imprint onto every notepad in my possession, I find solace here in this tiny parcel of urban green space. As I continue to entwine myself in the politics and history of Muskoka, as the small “a” activist I’ve sort of become over the past few years, I find myself sojourning a lot these days, as much as to restore my faith as to escape controversy. If I could slip my old canoe into the water at this moment, I would without hesitation….but commitments keep me close to phones and computer.
I broke a promise to my partner Suzanne this week. I had told her that I was giving up my ongoing forays of political agitation with local governance, and settling down to be the modern day Thoreau here at Birch Hollow. Just when I pen poetic for a day or two, some friend or political ally will call or email, and set me on another binge of “Shanesque enterprise.” My favorite all time movie favorite was “Shane,” starring Allen Ladd (have to check spelling of Allen). I’ve always held great affection for those citizens who aren’t afraid to stand up to the bullies out there, whether they happen to be next door neighbors, work mates, bosses, or politicians. My biggest fight these days is with local government only because I’ve finally given up trying to reform the unreformable. On the local level I have some weighty issues, and while I won’t bother the reader with specifics, it’s enough of a task, day to day, to be considered at the very least a part time job. Here’s why.
As a reporter and editor for more than a decade with the Muskoka press, and having been a researcher for my own historical resource business since the early 1990’s, I have a personal and business interest in how our region is being run by its elected officials and related hired help; both at times believing they are immune from scrutiny….or they simply haven’t the time to care who’s watching from the wings. My number one argument, as with most governments in power in this country and abroad, is that we are provided a less than half democracy. I once remarked to a well established political historian that an elderly woman I know had made the rather profound statement to me that, “democracy is the right for us to elect the very next dictator.” I asked him what he thought of this kind of reasoning. He said quite bluntly, “it’s too bad she thinks that way because it’s not true.” And while I respected the man’s reputation and expertise, I never have forgotten the implications of what she had said.
The more I witness of local government these days, her measured, well thought-out statement, has had its merits. I have found numerous local examples of power-questing and indifference to stewardship of town resources, with frightening relevance to dictatorial rule. I have watched democracy, as an illusion, work for the pro side of a local government issue (agenda); for example, the citizenry supporting a town initiative will say democracy is hale and hardy, whereas a group opposing the town will say “democracy is clearly dead.” To understand if there is more than just sour grapes or NIMBY at play (NIMBY being “not in my back yard”), I have immersed myself in several recent situations in South Muskoka that became emotional bombshells. I observed far more than I reacted in-person, because frankly what I was most interested in was the conduct of the folks elected to look after our citizen-rights, our privileges as ratepayers and residents, and our physical resources such as a park for example. What I experienced up close and personal with both sides of the argument was not only dictatorial by hallmark but an unhealthy withdrawl of compassion, sensitivity, and sensibility to those of the citizenry who dare challenge authority.
From the moment I told the cub scout leader I wasn’t going to play the game “British Bull-dog” any more, unless the opponents stopped trying to rip my shirt off, my clashes with authority figures commenced. Geez I was about thirteen years of age. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would have to leave, if I wasn’t going to play along with my team-mates. When he dismissed the fact my shirt had been destroyed and that I should get over myself, he couldn’t have known a free-thinker had arrived. Well, I may have flipped the bird so to speak, and I sure didn’t let the door hit my arse on the way out. My Shane fixations I’m afraid kicked in at an early age, and I’ve had a fair number of scrapes standing up to the bullies of the neighborhood. No matter how many times I’ve been kicked in the slats, I’m apparently too stupid to know my place.
When an elected official begins to act as a dictator, and demonstrates in a crystal clear manner that democracy’s place is a one-off at election time, then it’s time to kick arse around here. And no matter how many new powers the province continues to pour out for the local municipalities to get drunk on, I’ve never given up on the power of right and honesty to win the true privileges of democracy and free speech. If you see my name occasionally attached to a local initiative, a political uprising, an environmental cause or neighborhood action, it’s not because I’m bored as some of my adversaries opine. Rather it’s based on what I believe is a clear abuse of power by people who have taken what they desire of democratic right, and discarded its most critical essence; the appreciation of an individual’s right to fight back against oppression. It’s what my father believed when he signed up to serve in the Canadian Naval Service during the Second World War, and what my father-in-law felt as he was part of the allied parade in the liberation march through Holland, as part of the Canadian infantry. When some self absorbed government official rattles a saber in my direction by golly, threatening my grasp of democracy’s full meaning, a fight for rights is about to unfold.
When I had to fight with my conscience week by week for a pay cheque, I used to come home and night and brood about the personal concessions I was making, and if rent money was worth this prostitution of principle. So I learned how to fight from within for what I believed was important for a journalist despite opinions otherwise. Eventually all that resistance to the orders of the day affected my ability to negotiate for any concession more than “I’ll give you one more chance Currie” to do what expected. It was easier on the conscience to find another way of making rent than feeling like crap because of a few jingly coins in the pocket. That was my democracy. Yup, I could walk away from my fetters. I just couldn’t walk away from my creditors. Funny how well you can do at earning a living, working at a task you adore. If anyone asks what saved me from spontaneous combustion as a writer-in-restraint, it was the antique business I had always enjoyed as a part-time occupation from my first shop in the late 1970’s.
A colleague at a local newspaper asked me one day, shortly after I had come from an editorial meeting, what I was most dedicated to…..editing the paper or tending my antique business. The feeling from staff at the time, was I didn’t have my heart in the job of putting out the paper. In fact, to get my work done for the paper, I was in the habit of rising about 5 a.m. each day, just to get some wiggle room on the article list presented by the publisher. Suzanne can attest to my commitment to the newspaper. I know what my dedication level was, and I didn’t need this staffer’s challenge. I also didn’t feel like giving her a tutorial on the spot, about my dedication to writing. Feeling the glory of free-thought and actions, I said without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m an antique dealer who likes to write!” This was of course, the commencement of my own spiral downward in the staffs’ opinion, and the final exit out the newsroom door. While they undoubtedly thought I’d be crying in my beer, it was quite the opposite, although I did have a beer. My first steps at home were not toward the easy chair but into my favorite woodland for a sojourn amongst everything that was not, by its nature, judgmental. Here I was unshackled and it felt wonderful. I’ve been visiting Muskoka’s sheltering, inspirational woodlands, pastures, meadows and lakesides ever since. It’s indeed a beautiful life.
It is impossible however, to ignore what I believe are travesties occurring in our region. What I don’t involve myself in provincially or nationally, I make up for locally. If I believe that a municipality or the employees on its payroll have taken liberties beyond their mandate, it doesn’t take me too long to rag on them about the protocol they should have followed. Not to be a pain in the ass, although that’s kind of fun, but because rules are in place for the good of life and responsible, honest governance. When the protocol, the rules of operation, are bastardized to suit a personal or group agenda, then it’s time to mount pen to hand, reason to paper (email to). I’m not a caped crusader. Just a grumpy old former editor who believes rights and privileges continually, daily in some cases, need to be protected, and that no one will stifle my right to free speech….at least in this ballywick.
I admit that sometimes my fight, unlike the handiwork of Shane, fails to get the results I had hoped for as a closing argument. I accept this but always feel the effort to bring light to an issue or decision was worth the investment of time. There are political figures in this region who are so tired of seeing my name appearing on letters to the editor or on protest initiatives, they mount defences before I’ve spoken word one. It makes me feel kind of special that they expect an onslaught before I’ve figured out what onslaught to wear, for that particular show of defiance.
Last winter, from January to March, I had a number of missions in support of a local protest to spare Bracebridge’s Jubilee Park, that sent me into these woods twice as much as the aggravation of normal, day to day differences of opinion. I had many self doubts at this point, whether all the fuss was worth it, when illogical thought amongst otherwise accomplished, learned individuals, was being masked by blatant, self serving, narrow minded obsession to achieve an objective. I sat at meetings next to people who had taught me in high school, people who I had looked up to for decades as leaders of the community, who had become indifferent to truth and actuality, and the zombies of false reality. People I trusted for their good judgment had fallen prey to a perceived good idea, like the rabid frothing of a lynch mob, having virtually no capability to see anything from anyone else’s perspective than their own. I fell speechless at many of the meetings I attended simply because I had no verbal way of convincing them that stealing a park from its neighborhood, as speculation on future financial prosperity, wasn’t a logical, sensible, urban planning strategy in our town or any town or city on the good old earth.
This was one of the mission failures that will haunt me for years to come; decades if I live that long. I will always believe it was my failure to work the microphone, and speak aggressively in defence of the park, as did my friends, which cost us the fight. I should have made every attempt, to exhaustion if need be, to instill “questioning” logic upon the stubborn stance of the illogical. Yes, I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching recently, pondering over and over whether the effort to preserve democracy, to save the environment, to help build a more accessible, compassionate community is worth the effort expended…..and it was these healing woods that once again nurtured me back to that stiff upper lip, to as they say, “live to fight another day.”
I have always felt privileged to live in Muskoka. I spent my first few years in the city and when we arrived in Muskoka in 1966, I knew it is the place to spend a lifetime. And I have. My wife and I, with sons Andrew and Robert, routinely spent our vacations in Muskoka. “What did you do that for,” enquired our friends. Why did we need to leave Muskoka to find solace and recreation. In a matter of a short drive, we could be on a sandy lakeshore enjoying a summer swim, or find ourselves in a farmer’s garden, admiring the most beautiful sunflowers on earth. We could wind along beautiful country roads, and enjoy pop stops at local general stores; an opportunity to chat about the weather and stuff with the proprietor, who just happens to love Muskoka just as we do! When I get weary reacting to the latest local initiative to mow down the hinterland for another condo project or golf links, I first of all think about the democratic rights of those who adore condo life and who like to golf. It’s their democracy too. If however, I can find a trace of skullduggery to achieve an end, I make no apology for swinging into action. I’ll meet up with a lot of other Muskoka defenders out there; God bless them for caring, and there isn’t one self proclaimed environmental activist, country philosopher, or citizen advocate for good governance, who doesn’t get his or her strength from the solid principles of what democracy is supposed to be for one and all…..democracy is a weak bastion, and should never be considered a safe haven; especially the opinions of those ill-informed elected representatives who believe the entitlements of officialdom, mean they can get away with misconduct. They should feel quite the opposite that their protection from scrutiny, and continued longevity in office, rests in conduct and integrity alone. The emblem of the subject municipality isn’t the freedom of conduct they mistakenly believe

Across the Moor, the Shadow of a Wanderer

As a curious wee lad prone to getting into any number of sticky wickets on any given day, growing up in an urban neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario, I used to spend most of my free time in the valley sliced in two by the black ribbon of Ramble Creek. It was a shallow, frothing gem of glittering stretches and small crystalline waterfalls, a few deep, dark pools where suckers used to thrive, and many flat rock stepping-stones to cross all the way down toward the open expanse of Lake Ontario. We were in our own world down there, and it was marvelous. The adventures we had! And when told repeatedly not to cross through the tunnel beneath Lakeshore Boulevard, and onto the shore of Lake Ontario, well, I stood on that rocky shore hundreds of time despite so many parental warnings.
When I moved to Bracebridge, Ontario in the mid-1960’s, I played in two particular woodlands in our Hunts Hill neighborhood; one being The Grove, and the other being Bamford’s Woods, named after the owner of the rental cottages on the eastern corner of the small block. It wasn’t a big slice of land but there were enough trees and places to hide from our enemies (mostly parents), that it became a favorite respite from whatever was hounding us at the time. I dodged a lot of chores and homework hiding up a tree in Bamford’s Woods. The Grove was a shared safe haven with another local kids’ gang, older than us, who knew a lot about “girl-guy” relations, and cigarettes. We were the “no smoking – no girls” gang.
In Gravenhurst, I came a little late in life to be hiding in the woodlands from my daily chores and business responsibilities. Still, I found the small acreage of open space across from our Gravenhurst home, ideal for stealing away for an hour or so, and wandering down and around the large basin of bog thriving with all sorts of hinterland creatures. My young boys loved to escape into these woods and we have always considered it a great asset of our urban subdivision, to have this green belt directly across from our modest abode. Since we arrived here in the late 1980’s, this birch and evergreen forest and lowland has been my greatest single source of writing inspiration. Every season of the year blossoms in its own magnificent way, throughout this small, haunted woodland setting. There are amazing portals along the paths, where I settle down to watch over the lowland in transition. How pleasing it is to watch the deer graze, the squirrels tossing back and forth through the tree-tops and the birds, the crows and blue jays particularly, calling all day long from the uppermost branches.
Just as folks watched my youthful silhouette float along the pathways of our neighborhood woodlands of once, I’m sure I draw as much attention today, skulking down into the moor and meandering wherever the tree cover and terrain affords safe passage. I quest into the woods these days with my canine companion, Bosko, a part border collie etc., that keeps me guarded should a bear pop out of the thickets. It’s likely Bosko will attempt a retreat in event a bear does cross our path but I would at least like to think I’m semi-protected from an unknown assailant, man or beast.
The Bog across from our home, is a natural softener between the hard urban realities of the modern community, and the gentle graces of Muskoka hinterland I adore. In a subdivision agreement made between developers and the town, the green belt was to be protected as parkland in perpetuity for the common good of the neighborhood. The concept of park to most residents has been to keep the site in its natural flora and fauna.
I will often wander over into the woods at sunset to watch the amazing spray of late afternoon light, especially in the autumn, paint the scene with a sepia tone of historic, nostalgic grace, such that you might think, for a moment you’ve slipped back in time, to be found in the middle of a forest in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, or a haunted woodland in Maine, Connecticut, or Quebec. Here it is, this amazing vista, in the South Muskoka region of my hometown, Gravenhurst. I might expect to find an artist sitting on the embankment overlooking The Bog, or witness a mandolin player composing in an alcove of old leaning birches made famous in that Robert Frost poem of the same name. A poet-writer might be comfortably settled on a grassy knoll to confront the west wind, and confront the spirits on their invasion of darkening hollows through the forest. This has always been a haunted place. If Tom Thomson had painted this same scene of hardwood and evergreen in winter, it would be a portrait of enchantment. If Robert Frost had strolled through these grounds on a snowy evening, he would have stopped and been inspired by the tranquility and silence offered by laden boughs. If a wandering musician had taken this path from here to there, the melody would have been romantic, sweet and reminiscent. A song inspired by illusion and analogy. If the philosopher pondered the woods at sunrise, from the hazy alcove above the tumbled over birches, it would be revealed insightfully, there is much to be learned about life generating from death; much to be gained as a watcher in the woods.
I can visit The Bog five or six times each day and enjoy the differences of light and shadow, sound and silence. It may be silvery and misted-over at daybreak because of the frigid moist air, yet be dripping with nourishing golden droplets just shy of noon. I have stood on the slight elevation of land, overlooking the entire Bog, and watched the wind off the lake rip away the rotting birches and tired old pines, and beat the cat-tails into a white oblivion, as golden grasses are thrashed in waves over the frozen earth. I’ve sat in the shade afforded by these evergreens on miserably hot July afternoons, and recall the sad feelings that encroach, watching the painted autumn leaves come mournfully down, in long, slowly descending spirals, from the azure blue canopy of sky in late September. How inspiring it is to watch the strong sunglow fracture down through the ice-cover on the little creek that winds through this valley, in April, and what great rise of life it exudes, when the peepers have made their presence known, and crickets sing through the night. I’ve stood out in the centre of this Bog in the light of the silvery moon, the full moon, the harvest moon, the winter moon, and felt privileged to have this wee bit of nature to buffer the urban life thrust upon me.
I have fought many environmental battles in my life, particularly in the region of Muskoka, but I have saved up the fight of a lifetime to save The Bog, should some future council decide to rip this nature away in the name of progress. There is nothing man-made that can be better than what exists here today. It is a sanctuary for both man and beast. A sanctuary of a trillion little life forms from plant to aquatic, thriving in a remarkable eco-system only metres from the trail of tarmac that divides rural and urban existence.

Gravenhurst – the writer’s quest for something different

For those who complain about the Gravenhurst of 2007, and its shortfalls as compared to other communities of a similar size, I’d like to yank them back in a tumbling time-travel a century or so, to see if they would like life here any better. Maybe back forty years. Seventy years possibly. Or by springing forward forty years or so. Would they have any less to complain about than at present? It has always surprised me a tad, as a resident here for almost twenty years, how the naysayers never really find satisfaction with life here, yet they refuse to move somewhere more appealing. I have a few issues of complaint, from time to time, but I’ve had those in every other locale in which our family has resided. If for example, the business community decided it was time to put the naysayers to work finding workable solutions to all the alleged shortfalls of main street commerce, it would I believe, be a watershed moment in Gravenhurst history. The business community has been at odds with itself and the governance of the day for decades, and I don’t really expect a resolution any time soon. This isn’t nearly as important as recognizing that we need diverse opinion, opposing concepts, disruption in commonplace from time to time, to instill new plans, better ideas, and future mindedness.
I like Gravenhurst regardless of the critics and doomsayers, who believe it is either expanding too quickly or too slowly. My only concern about progress is that the character of our town not be lost in the process, and yes this is worth fighting for long into the future. When we moved to Gravenhurst from Bracebridge, in the late 1980’s, our friends thought we had lost our mental capacity to reason. “Why would you ever move to Gravenhurst?” What they were saying quite clearly was that Gravenhurst was a town going nowhere quickly, had no ambitions to better its commercial base, and was mired in self-loathing. At first I wasn’t sure if we had made a mistake. As a news editor for The Gravenhurst Banner that first year of residence, I was aware that even long-time citizens were doubting the town’s future, and they were making concerns public such that it was pretty hard to avoid friendly fire; Gravenhurst citizens attacking their own town. I wasn’t used to this coming from Bracebridge, a town reasonably competent at bestowing the positives even if a few of us reporters sleuthed out more than a few negative actualities. While the Bracebridge business community had tough issues with the expansion of the Highway 118 commercial corridor, they kept disagreements within the governing group and committees. In Gravenhurst there was anger where there should have been the pro-active address of lingering, stubborn problems. Issues seemed to be layered over by first anger and then neglect, only to resurface time and again in the same folly. My only question was the “would there ever be harmony in Gravenhurst?”
When I gave up the news business and began freelancing feature material, I started to ignore the headlines and scathing editorials, and began instead to investigate Gravenhurst media-free. Gradually, I learned what many long time citizens had figured out years earlier, and that was to live life to the fullest, and make the best out of the combined qualities, of what has been a wonderful hometown for its citizenry since the late 1850’s….regardless of the hardships and tragedy, successes and failures each decade brings forth. I just refused to allow editorialists to influence my opinion about the true identity of the community. I had to experience it for myself. What I found was a jewel buried beneath the rage of conflicting opinion. The fact that we as a family, found the heart of the community when we did, is the reason we still dwell and I dare say prosper here now. Today we operate two successful businesses from Gravenhurst and have never once felt, or experienced any disadvantage being in Gravenhurst as compared to any other comparable rural community. We have never once believed our hometown to be the proverbial “sinking ship”. It’s the reason that when our sons Andrew and Robert graduated high school here, they decided to invest back in the town that provided them a safe, nurturing home, despite the deficiencies highlighted by the local press, and vocalized by the disgruntled among us. While all of us can be seen at some time during the week glancing over the pages of the local newspapers, we do so for the news and community profiles only; not the plethora of critiques about the failures of this, that and everything else.
Maybe we are idealistic to a fault but we’re chugging along none the less in respective enterprises, finding little if anything to complain about other than there not being enough hours in the day to get everything done. A few times I’ve thought to myself that Gravenhurst was my Bedford Falls, from the Christmas movie, “A Wonderful Life,” and in jest I have probably called my neighborhood both “Mayberry,” after the Andy Griffith Show, “Hooterville”, after the television show “Green Acres,” and even “Petticoat Junction,” a television community where “Uncle Joe was moving kind of slow….at the junction.” In a literary sense, it is remarkably similar to Stephen Leacock’s fictional Mariposa made famous in his book, “Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town.” While it might seem to some a slight of protocol, rude, or uncomplimentary to refer to one’s community as a work of humorous fiction, I never once, in reference, intended it to be derogatory. They were all places for one reason or another, I adored, from T.V. Land, and facing the parallels between fact and fiction, by golly, isn’t it true to life that every community has its share of characters and unique situations….. that might at times appear the work of a scriptwriter on a roll? I have always gravitated toward the truly eccentric characters cohabitating in the ballywicks I have spent time. We’d be a pretty dull hometown without our present share of colorful, opinionated, action-full characters, to make the rest of us dullards look more interesting. Like the movie (and play) “Our Town,” we need to appreciate the composite, the mural of respected individuality, partnership yet community that unfolds in pockets, in boisterous gatherings and generally around us every moment of every day; since the 1860’s, and of course these have been the amazing “days of our lives!”
Most of us preoccupy with our own immediate family matters, and those of the neighborhood but forget about the “actuality” of a constantly changing and diverse dynamic of town existence. Yet when there is an emergency, a family crisis, an economic disaster for someone or other, it’s truly pleasing to the heart, to witness how this dynamic contends and adjusts to the problem; comforting those in turmoil and fundraising to avert an otherwise imminent collapse. I’ve watched this community close ranks many times in recent memory, around someone or a family in need, a child in a health crisis, a neighbor in distress, or a displaced family left homeless the result of fire;…. and felt a sense of awe that we are very much a caring, compassionate, pro-active community regardless of the faults some folks love to play upon. Despite what you might read about the ineffective work of local politicians and the infighting in the business community, the weighty number of town critics and protestors as far as the eye can see, well, there’s a beating heart under all that verbiage and all it takes is getting out there to find it up close and personal. Even the harshest of critics, the most distant politician, and the seemingly indifferent civil servant, can be seen working at a fundraiser, side by side a sworn half-adversary, tending a Communities in Bloom garden project, carting donations into the Salvation Army, and generally being good citizens. So who really cares about occasional adversity, even fundamental disagreement, as long as everyone pulls together during those moments of greatest need?
Our family has explored every nook and cranny in our town. Admittedly we may be a little oddball about our most adored places to visit, such as local cemeteries and fly infested swamplands; open pastures, forest trails, and rolling, winding country lanes. We are including photographs, taken by son Robert (given lessons with a digital camera by our family friend, Fred Schulz) taken of places we love to visit in Gravenhurst. Some obvious locations we share with everyone, and there are other images of mysterious portals where we stare out, undisturbed, at the workings of our home town.
I have always looked at Gravenhurst through the eyes of a writer. Since the late 1980’s, I have not written a single line of editorial copy that hasn’t been influenced by my residency here. I would say without the slightest doubt, it has been a haven for my profession and there are few if any days that I’m void of inspiration to sit at this keyboard and compose until exhaustion. As Thoreau basked on the shore of Walden Pond, I watch over The Bog with equal admiration. I can never be removed from inspiration, as long as I have this forest nearby to wander in from sunrise until past midnight; bathed in sunglow during the day, and attired in an eerie, poetic wash of moonlight in the cradle of time between late night and early morning. I see a marvelous town full of interesting people and curious architecture. Great artists have painted here, great poets have recited here, great authors have composed here, and great musicians have performed here. Great lives have been created here, great careers have been initiated here. Just as many fulfilled lives have been invested here. This is why we live here!
Ongoing entries published in this blog journal, about life and times in Gravenhurst, Ontario, Canada, from a writer’s perspective, will take you on some Thoreauesque walks about my Walden Pond, and on visits to some other familiar places we find quite inspiring about living in the urban community of South Muskoka.
Until we meet again.

What's In a Name

What’s in a name? Quite a lot actually!

Gravenhurst and Bracebridge share at least one thing in common beyond the geographical reference of belonging to the neighborhood known as South Muskoka. Both towns were named by a curious, scholarly character, working in the 1860’s with the federal postal authority. His name was William Dawson LeSueur, a greatly misunderstood individual frequently neglected in the re-telling of local history.
After considerable research which lasted over two years, I was able to clarify one particularly significant detail about the naming of Gravenhurst. I did this with the help of the Gravenhurst Archives Committee (one of our town’s most precious resource groups), and authorities connected with the Washington Irving museum in New York, and the Irving Historical Society in Irving, Texas. It had been written into Bracebridge history texts, for whatever reason of misinterpretation, that both South Muskoka towns had been named by Dr. LeSueur “after the name of a book he was reading at the time.” For example, LeSueur admitted, in an impromptu interview in the early 1920’s with a Muskoka politician, that Bracebridge had been named after the 1822 book written by Washington Irving, entitled “Bracebridge Hall.” The error which has passed down through the ages is that “he had named the town after the title of a book he was reading at the time.” There is no basis for this claim. LeSueur however, was a noted and revered literary critic and historian, and a widely published review columnist for many international literary magazines. What most likely happened is LeSueur decided, as an honor to the fledgling town straddling the Muskoka River, that the name “Bracebridge,” as made famous by Irving, would be a name with considerable provenance to carry-forth this new Ontario community. While those who had petitioned the federal office to grant the name “North Falls,” LeSueur opted instead to borrow “Bracebridge,” as a tribute to the recently deceased American author. I am told this greatly infuriated the local citizenry but I can find no evidence an appeal was ever launched to regain the original title.
This was made official in the summer of 1864. Now here’s the problem. It has long been written by Bracebridge historians, in error, that Gravenhurst was also a name taken by LeSueur from the text of “Bracebridge Hall.” When I asked to verify the name Gravenhurst, as used by Irving, I was surprised to find the author had never once used this name in any of his many books. This should have been obvious to me, as Gravenhurst was named by LeSueur, in 1862, two years earlier than Bracebridge. It would stand to reason that LeSueur would have thusly named McCabe’s Landing (which is what the citizen committee submitted for the naming of their new post office) “Bracebridge” instead, versus taking a secondary name retrieved from the text (which of course we now know didn’t exist in any of Irving’s books). When Dr. LeSueur decided against McCabe’s Landing as a suitable name for the pioneer community on the shore of Lake Muskoka, he may well have chosen a name from a book he was reading at the time. In the case of Gravenhurst, LeSueur was most likely reviewing a recently published philosophical study by British author-poet, William Henry Smith, entitled “Gravenhurst – Or Thoughts on Good and Evil.” The book is an examination of common-place and community, and Gravenhurst is a hypothetical village, ordinary and full of life’s most common elements. Its premise is that in order to appreciate fully the goodness of life, one must have a comparable misfortune; how does one recognize the emotion associated with tragedy, if there is never any human loss. To understand and appreciate triumph, one must appreciate the range of emotion associated with defeat. This is an unworthy simplification of a great man’s work, and I offer my apology for providing such a brief overview. It is in my humble opinion, and with considerable appreciation of the work of two fine authors, LeSueur and Smith, a great and lasting honor to be associated in name with such worldly accomplishment.
Dr. LeSueur has long been treated, in historical context, as the man who changed our name, against our wishes. Rather, it is my contention, we should recognize the tribute as it was intended by this loyal and respected Canadian historian. If he was negligent in an area of the process, it was that he didn’t send along accompanying information about the honor being bestowed.
I was able to secure a mid 1880’s memorial edition of the “Gravenhurst,” book, with a biography of the late writer included in the text’s preamble, from an American antiquarian book dealer, and my wife and I, on behalf of Birch Hollow Antiques, donated the copy in care of the Gravenhurst Archives Committee for their reference.
What’s in a name? In the case of both Gravenhurst and Bracebridge, quite a lot in fact. One might even expect a road or boulevard in each town could be named to honor both Irving, in Bracebridge’s case, and Smith in Gravenhurst; two important authors in the literary history of the world. Maybe some day!

What has Gravenhurst done for us?

After a decade of being featured in the local press, with more than a few news coverage controversies to my credit;…. more than a few political adversaries hunting me down, my portrait in black and white and also cartoon, topping numerous aggressive columns, and then a lengthy run as a freelance, pain in the arse contributor, our home in Gravenhurst offered a pleasant respite from the otherwise public domain….. which could get pretty interesting at times, particularly when the subject character of a news story or column didn’t agree with the editorial point of view. I’ve stared down a fair number of threats. Several goomers have threatened physical harm and there have been a few sundry death threats over the years, and well, the writing goes on regardless. Gradually I removed my face from the stories I wrote, and because most of the material was district wide in the Muskoka Adavance, and Muskoka Sun, I started to enjoy being much less recognized and robustly encountered. Those who wished to secure my writing assistance or to give me the next “really big” story tip, found me alive and well, thriving here in uptown Gravenhurst. It was nice to be able to shop locally without a boisterous head-to-head with somebody wishing to give me crap because they didn’t like, for example, being mentioned in the drinking and driving story on the front page, or who otherwise felt compelled to down-dress this reporter about the less than stellar theatre review given his or her most recent performance. Gads, I heard it all from 1979 to the mid 1990’s, the sensible part of the last century when I assumed a lesser profile writing position here in my comfortable Gravenhurst headquarters. Instead I spent more of my work week on larger research, and historically themed projects. It wasn’t long before I was on the World Wide Web, which we installed for our boys’ educational pursuits. I stayed away from the technology until the day my son Robert asked whether I would be interested to see the results of an on-line search of my name. Being as vain as any artist-writer kind, I feigned modest interest, and found myself mesmerized within moments of viewing that glaring monitor screen. I couldn’t believe how many sites had my name attached for writing work that somehow and for some reason was published on-line without my knowledge. The rest is, as they say, history. Now I’m taking a greater hand in adding to my stock of editorial material available on-line, including this newest project.
I have always measured my place of residence as regards to quanity and quality of editorial output. Up until about the fifth or sixth year living in this Gravenhurst house, the only other place that inspired more editorial composition was in the attic office I once had, in the Manitoba Street residence, the former, quite haunted home and office of Dr. Peter McGibbon and his wife Mabel, situated in uptown Bracebridge. What appealed to the fledgling writer in this instance, was the view the attic provided, onto Bracebridge’s Memorial Park. It is still a wonderfully scenic little park site, with bandshell and fenced war memorial. It now has a beautiful Victorian era fountain at the northern corner of the park. The fountain was once on the site of Woodchester Villa and Museum, and my yearly task as director was to attempt to correct its askew, to the west, worsening, annoying lean. The point is, the view from three stories up, all seasons of the year, was a voyeur’s dream situation. I could watch the town without it watching me. I could study the citizenry all times of the day, criss-crossing the park, heading downtown then uptown, the school kids trundling off to school on weekday mornings, and running home in high spirits after that final bell.
I had positioned my chair to be parallel to the window, and my typewriter on a small table in front, so that I could take a side glance downward if I got stuck on any detail, or there was for whatever reason a shortfall of immediate inspiration. I was never stuck for more than a few moments before something else would enter the scene and invoke some memory of reconsideration worthy of print. It was hard to leave that house, typewriter in hand, at the end of my residency. The house was torn down shortly after my move, and long since its unceremonious demise, I still visit the site, a sort of impromptu pilgrimage on the spur of the moment, and think back about the days when I would write from sunrise to set, and beyond just because the mood struck.
Now if you know much about the writer-kind, artists and creators generally, you may appreciate that residence is a weighty subject, and that it’s just as easy to be suffocated by an environs as encouraged. When we moved to Gravenhurst’s Segwun Boulevard, my biggest concern was whether or not I would be afforded similar sources of inspiration, as I had enjoyed at the McGibbon house. We had purchased the property because the neighborhood appeared to be quiet, with well maintained properties, kindly neighbors, an abutting green belt I have long-called “The Bog,” running almost the entire length of two urban streets, Segwun and Oriole, and the fact it seemed to be the perfect home to raise our two young sons. Segwun Boulevard is a dead end, and the traffic is still, after all these years, sparse compared to other linking roadways in town.
Admittedly, it took a long time to adjust from the more inspirational qualities of our other homes, and a family cottage we lived in for awhile in the Village of Windermere. In each dwelling we had lived, I was always able to fumble around for a good vantage point and produce editorial copy either forced or gently persuaded from my usually active imagination. When we first arrived at Birch Hollow, our present dwelling, I was writing for a number of significant local publications, and I had pressing deadlines every week and a publisher who didn’t except excuses period. I hated this side of writing. I have always been prolific but my best work comes from enthusiasm for a subject, or because of an inspirational setting, not from the incentive of a pay cheque. So initially I hated writing from this house and tried on several occasions to sell it and move elsewhere. I could write in my home office if I truly had to, in order to make ends meet. If on the other hand, I was to write happily, and willingly for many more hours of the day, I simply required a new environment. I gave up on Birch Hollow because of a bad start. To begin with, we tried to sell (it was our first taste of recession) within a hair’s breadth of the 1989-90 housing crash in Ontario, and that seemed pretty much an omen to me. When we tried to sell it a half dozen years after that, the realtor cut up our abode so much, and asked for so many concessions in pricing and or physical changes to the property, such as converting to natural gas, that we decided as a family to drop the idea entirely and remain a while longer at good old Birch Hollow. This was pretty much the turning point. Sometimes resignation can do that to a person. I positioned myself in about thirty different locations in the house for brief periods, until I found a comfortable portal to watch clearly over The Bog, my raspberry patch in the front garden, and the lilacs we transplanted in our garden from our summer cottage on Lake Rosseau, planted originally by Mrs. Sam Stripp in the early 1900’s. Over time and with a few adjustments, and the coming of the computer era to our abode, my final adoption of Birch Hollow as the place to remain would never again be in doubt. I have produced an absolute mountain of editorial copy since I’ve been living in Gravenhurst, and that has translated into about five regionally themed books, and hundreds of feature columns for local and provincial publications. From a place I initially believed void of inspiration, and just a place to hang a hat and hammer out copy for cash, this blog site is my own humble validation about the good life my family, this writer, have been afforded living in South Muskoka, in the charming town of Gravenhurst.
As I noted earlier in my blog submission, this collection of “I Love Gravenhurst” personal testimonials has not been solicited, paid for, begged of me, or been designed in any way to promote anything more than the truly good graces of the town that first embraced our family in late 1989, and still holds us close in this new year of 2007. One of my own cornerstones of respect in this life, is to recognize the contributions others have made to my own sense of success and prosperity. In this case, these humble testimonials highly regard and bestow thanks generally, for what we have enjoyed and celebrated about our existence in this ballywick. It isn’t specifically about friendships, work partnerships, neighbors or bad neighbors. It will hopefully be insightful about the reasons we should all be more respectful and proud of our hometown, and show it by working hard to improve its well being from the centre outward. Sometimes it seems we expect too much from outside investment, to make the positive changes to our community, and defer making the kind of investments and changes that enforce the reality of kith and kin, and the initimate history of families that built this town from the Canadian wilds. We get upset when external influences and intrusions change our daily lives and revise our perception of the future. Yet time and again I have watched political will make historic changes while many of the most prominent, significant, historic families of Gravenhurst have remain subdued, only to complain later they weren’t consulted or aware of imposed changes. As a newcomer to Gravenhurst, I look to these founding families, the ones who have ancestral roots in every urban and residential neighborhood, (family names etched onto the stone slabs of our community cemeteries), for direction. What is “needed change,” “required progress”, and “sensible advancement?” What of this “change” and “progress” is in keeping with the traditions that have been honored here from the first humble homesteads? It’s not about resistance to change, that a long time resident may object to a project but rather the concern that a way of life, a small town culture, a neigborliness may be scuttled by the blind acceptance that strip malls and golf courses are symbols of the new and better way of life. If anything I despise today of our movers and shakers, politicians included, is the failing reverence and respect for the heritage they walk on and over, in their reckless, rapid pursuit for more expansion and investment than the town beside or down the road. This quest for more and better has not served the cultural, historic composition of respective towns, Gravenhurst included.
In both Bracebridge and Gravenhurst I have never once been requested by town hall, or even one politician, to make comment on a matter, just one, about local heritage and the importance of its recognition and preservation. While I’ve had reasonable relations with associate historians, Gravenhurst having some of the finest, most dedicated historians in rural Ontario, there really isn’t much interest in listening to old farts yarn on about the ways and precedents of the past. One of the reasons I enjoy living in Gravenhurst is this strong relationship with the past, and that descendents of community builders from the 1800’s still want to be stakeholders in the next century. I feel comfortable being in their company. My only criticism is that their passion for maintaining these respective legacies, and the heritage of their town generally, is a much too polite and gently wielded reaction, to be taken as serious opposition. Particularly to let those who show indifference to matters of local cultural heritage, know the full weight of historical precedent, family connectedness, and the true significance of being kin to the folks buried beneath those graveyard markers. The kin that built the foundation of the community in the first place. What a tremendous disservice to dismiss their contributions, their dedication, their base construction of what we enjoy as a community today. And while more than a few glad handers and glory hounds will claim it was their contributions that gave us these good graces, the historically inclined know differently. If I want to know who built this community, I need only take a casual stroll through our local and regional cemeteries to find the builders; the carpenters, bakers, doctors, nurses, businessmen, clerks, steamship staff, gravediggers, clergy, teachers and homemakers, and yes those true leaders in local politics who worked hard to get the town and district recognized abroad, for improvements in all our respective neighborhoods. I can browse through books like “Light of Other Days,” and read the names of Gravenhurst’s many builders from the first log cabin to the steamship empire that carries on to this day. It’s not that I spend all of my time dwelling in the past.
As an historian, I equally respect the role of present workers, leaders and policiticans, and all other visionaries who will take us into the future. Yet I still have a modicum of worry the modern day policy makers and investors, anxious to go forward with the redevelopment of our community, including the visionaries who might see advantages in even more golf course development, have no respectful appreciation of the premise history is a critical foundation to any successful future. My rather naïve hope is that our mutual pride and respect for this home town, and genuine concern for its long-term well being, will continue to motivate the citizenry to speak up and get involved in matters that appear disrespectful and intrusive, to the way of life we have enjoyed living in Gravenhurst. While the critics may argue we have already dawdled too much and scared away important investment because of our restrictive reputation, (some argue a town suspended in time between the 1940’s and 60’s), being reluctant to except progress at all cost may turn out to be our town’s greatest moral asset. Faced with stepping forward, or stepping back in the face of new age change, has been the damnation of many small communities, most abandoning good planning out of greed, in the bid to be more competitive and prosperous than neighboring communities. I concur that it is the problem of many good old hometowns in North America that opted for Jack’s magic beans in the ill-fated quest for economic fulfillment. Gravenhurst still enjoys an opportunity to defend its historic, cultural integrity, while at the same time being open to new investment and more expansive progress. It means however, that those who know Gravenhurst best, and who are ingrained in every decade of this town’s history, speak up and let it be known a legacy is worth its weight in moral character. This will be demanded many times in the coming decade as development interests in all areas of this town continue to experience growth pressures from external investment. Ten years ago I predicted that by early in the new century, Gravenhurst would experience tremendous new growth and its governance would be under increasing pressure to handle redevelopment of the existing urban neighborhood, and contend with the demands for outward expansion. I wasn’t wrong, and if anything I underestimated the present urbanizing pressures.
This is the time now that I would like to see the citizens of Gravenhurst, those who appreciate the sacrifices of the founding families, the first settlers to the courageous, visionary investors of our business community, who built and re-built our mainstreet, and all the painstaking work undertaken ever since, to take a greater, more personal interest in this community’s future well being and preservation. Folks with Muskoka in their blood, stepping up to take a leading role, is the only way of truly defending tradition. Gravenhurst has been a “survivor” community for decades, and has proven time and again, to be able to fight back to an even keel, despite the barrage from naysayers in perpetuity who believe it’s an inevitable, quite beyond salvage “sinking ship!”
I would like to make a start by detailing a rather important aspect of local history that gets very little attention, and frankly is deserving of a great deal more. I would like to introduce you to a chap by the name of William Dawson LeSueur, the bloke who named the newly established post office, “Gravenhurst,” in 1862.

A GRAVENHURST WRITER'S JOURNAL

A Writer’s Journal – The good graces of the place I call home

This site is not for economic, political, social or personal gain. I don’t expect to be invited to social gatherings because I’ve written this journal, and I certainly didn’t prepare it for the benefit of advertisers and promoters, of which there are none, except family interests of course, as noted in the above introduction. I didn’t spend hours composing these pieces to satisfy any political agenda, and there’s not much likelihood you’ll ever see me out for a cup of coffee with the mayor or members of local council. I’m not that likeable, and in many ways a liability to a political career. Even a casual sidewalk chat with this grumpy old reporter could start the rumor mills spinning. “He was talking with Ted Currie. Gads, something’s up!” That’s because when I do get the ear of a politician by chance, I don’t miss the opportunity to offer a little constructive criticism. Seeing as I’ve got a few chapters dedicated to improving the way things are done on the municipal level, it’s no wonder I’m avoided like the plague.
I don’t want to mislead anyone reading this collection of blog-editorials, that I’m shilling for the local business community because I’m not accepting one penny for my efforts. I’m not interested in any other media than this, because frankly I’ve lost respect for the local press generally, and confess to cutting down my consumption to only free publications, delivered mysteriously to my driveway by newsfolk unknown.. It would be my advice to the media, if ever consulted, that upper management may wish to find out why so many people are giving up on the print media as the primary source of community news, as it was tradition for centuries, and turning instead to cyber-space for opinion on the daily news. As a past editor of many of Muskoka’s well known newspapers, (a stickler for detail then and now) and a news hound by curiosity, I’ve lost patience with the print media’s inadequate, surface only reporting.
I unfettered myself from the managerial caw-caw, I used to put up with, just for the privilege of a paycheck. So the material you are about to read isn’t the result of an over-zealous publisher leaning on the back of a reporter, or the output of an editorially boxed writer, packed on all sides by the rules and regulations of the community press.
What I hope you will find in this collection of Gravenhurst columns, is the reason to visit here, to continue living here, and to invest here long into the future. It would please me to no end, for a parent to read these pieces, and inspire their offspring to invest their own futures here, because of these amazing, often overlooked benefits for future prosperity. Not because of a slick economic recruiting mission or political lobbying but because you like what’s exposed of the real town of Gravenhurst; not the one sculpted by promoters and glad handers….the one presented with only one objective, and that’s to share the good qualities I’ve discovered about the place I’m so proud to call my “home town.”

From Burlington to Bracebridge and on to Gravenhurst as home port

I spent my first few years in Burlington, Ontario, residing several blocks from the city’s business corridor, Brant Street, and one block from Lion’s Club Park where my dad, Ed, was one of the leading pitchers in the local fastball division. I loved going there to watch the evening games. It was a beautiful little park with its own small bandstand where the local marching band would play regular summer concerts.
I resided one block from Lakeshore Boulevard, and the most familiar sound to me, other than chestnuts hitting the ground on Torrance Avenue, were the haunting old fog horns echoing over Lake Ontario. I went to Lakeshore Public School initially and then our family moved to upper Brant Street and the satellite community of Mountain Gardens where I attended the neighborhood public school. During my tenure on Harris Crescent, just off Torrance, I lived in a neat three story apartment own by Anne and Alec Nagy, adjacent to two others own by the Creighton family. Mrs. Bell lived on one side, abutting the gully of Ramble Creek as it flowed to the lake, and on the corner of our merging streets was the scenic old Victorian home owned by Mrs. White. It was a wonderful tree-lined neighborhood with a large commercial farm across the road, a small reminder of how close agriculture was to the main streets of our first fledgling communities.
We moved to Bracebridge in the spring of 1966, and took up residence on upper Toronto Street, in a new home built by the former Shier’s Lumber Company, which was one of the historic, if not legendary logging companies, dating back to the 1800’s, in pioneer Muskoka. We moved several times as a young family, while in Bracebridge, including a stint at the Weber Apartments, on Alice Street (I wrote a published memoir about these years), a cottage on Alport Bay, of Lake Muskoka (end of Beaumont Drive), in the former homestead of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on upper Manitoba Street, an apartment on Quebec Street, our first purchased home as newlyweds (my wife and I with son Andrew on the way), on Ontario Street, just below Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School, (I wrote its history), a short residency at a cottage near Bowyer’s Beach, on the Golden Beach Road, and onto our present, humble abode, we call Birch Hollow, on Gravenhurst’s Segwun Blvd. Compared to many others, I’ve had a modest number of home residences over 52 years.
I married a gal from Windermere (Lake Rosseau), by the name of Suzanne Stripp, an acquaintance from high school days in Bracebridge, and as I was still by all pertinent measure a new resident to Muskoka, marrying into a founding family at last gave me the afforded rank of “local”. Of course it was “local by association only.” Suzanne’s family were members of the region’s earliest pioneers, including the Shea and Veitch families of the Three Mile Lake, Ufford area of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. Her uncle Bert Shea wrote two important texts detailing the history of the Sheas and area farmsteads, (a text actively used by Muskoka historians decades after publication) and her great-great uncle’s dug-out canoe is still on display at the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling. To connect with her ancestors we frequently stroll the grounds of the Ufford Cemetery, on the Dougherty Road near Windermere.
Our family history records are well represented by United Empire Loyalist stock; Suzanne’s family initially settled the “Front of Ontario,” the Cornwall area of Upper Canada, and my family settled in the Trenton, Brighton, Bay Of Quinte region, of Lake Ontario (Upper Canada); where my ancestors were the Jacksons and Sandercocks (still researching my English, Dutch connections). My grandfather, Stanley Jackson was a builder in Toronto, and had a street named after him, in the region of Jane Street and Bloor (Old Mill). He was a violinist connected to the Toronto Symphony, or so family legend has it, and I often benefited in my childhood, listening as his quartet practiced in the parlor of their Toronto home. Suzanne’s grandfather Sam Stripp, was a competent carpenter who built the family home on the shore of Lake Rosseau, at Windermere, and was known for not only his boat building skills but as the “painter of the ice” for many of the fabulously decorated Bracebridge Ice Skating Carnivals. Suzanne’s mother Harriet and father Norman were former owners of the Windermere Marina. Harriet was a hobby painter and writer, and long time organist at the Windermere United Church. My parents, Ed, a life-time lumberman (Shiers to Building Trades in Bracebridge) and mother Merle, bank staff for most of her career, took me as a wide eyed youngster, to many of Ontario’s historic sites and on hundreds of other exciting North American motor trips from an early age. It’s where I got my interest in history and my passion for traveling. Now you know about us.

Gravenhurst History and Future Combined

GRAVENHURST, MUSKOKA – TED CURRIE’S HOMETOWN JOURNAL

Mine has not been a particularly well traveled life. Compared to my associates in writing I have led a somewhat sheltered existence all these years. Although I can stake no claim to having composed poetry in Paris, begun the preamble for a novel in Madrid, or penned thoughts on a South Pacific beach, I have instead spent hundreds of hours by lamplight and camp fire, on Tea and Rock Lakes in Algonquin Park, researching, for example, the mysterious circumstances surrounding the 1917 accidental drowning of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson.
Sure I spent time in London, England, where I wrote my first modest journal, circa 1974, while staying at the Regent Palace Hotel. I penned many short stories while sitting on the sandy beach at Florida’s Ponce Inlet, motivated by the words of American poet, Wallace Stevens, who wrote the poem “The Idea of Order at Key West.” I’ve written short stories and journal entries all over Southern United States, on my travels in the 1970’s and 1980’s, most by the Greyhound milk run, village and town to town. I’ve written aboard aircraft over the Atlantic, and in those turbulent flights over snowy Buffalo and busy Atlanta. I wrote my earliest short stories from a small room with a tiny window, in a rooming house in Toronto, in the same area where my grandfather Stanley Jackson used to built many charming residences for customers back in the 30’s and 40’s. Like most urban writers, I became capable of writing just about anything while huddled in a back seat on a Toronto Transit run from Bloor and Jane, to Black-Creek Drive and on to York University. Sometimes I regret that I didn’t sojourn to Athens, or Glasgow to write. Most of the time however, I’m pleased with the adventures I’ve had as a regional Canadian author, and have enjoyed the company of all the folks met along the path.
Of all the places that I have holed-up for periods to write, I can tell you honestly and with definitely no regret about my place of lodging, that my years in Gravenhurst have been the most productive, inspiring, and enjoyable of my many years of authordom. I could find wonderfully exotic places to work, enchanted, historic portals to the world. Yet the comfort and neighborliness of a good home town is what impresses me the most, and in Gravenhurst I find so very much contentment, and fulfillment of what I have long searched for…..a cheerful, restorative, peaceful place to work. This is my author friendly Birch Hollow. Gravenhurst is my home town. Nothing could be finer!
Ted Currie is a long time Muskoka writer-historian living and working from his home in Gravenhurst, (District of Muskoka) Ontario, Canada. He is a past (news and feature) editor of the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon (MacTier), The Herald-Gazette (Bracebridge), The Muskoka Advance, Gravenhurst Banner, The Muskokan, and The Muskoka Sun. He was one of the founding directors of the Bracebridge Historical Society and Woodchester Villa and Museum, and has served on the board of the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling. He has authored numerous regional histories, and has been a research contributor to many other books and publications dealing with matters of Muskoka heritage. He currently writes for “Curious – The Tourist Guide,” “The Wayback Times,” and the web site, “Antiques Ontario.” With his business partner and wife Suzanne, Ted has operated an old and out of print book business, known as Birch Hollow Antiques, since 1986, initially from Bracebridge, and presently from Gravenhurst. The couple’s two sons, Andrew and Robert, operate “Andrew Currie’s Music and Collectables,” a vintage guitar and record shop on Muskoka Road in Gravenhurst.

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS FEATURED HERE WERE TAKEN BY ROBERT CURRIE

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