Antiques, collectables, art and the great open road here in Muskoka
For my first love, I wrote poems. Lots and lots of sickly sweet poems. When I’d find myself with a bottle of wine and an open midnight hour, and a vantage point looking out over Lake Muskoka, I mind pen away continuously until daybreak. I could ease my anger by writing, satisfy curiosity playing around with novel ideas, and by golly, when quite happy, I could fill a binder with observations, ranging from a description of the dock stretching out into the bay, to the curious silhouette cast by the lawnchair against the shimmering water at sunrise.
So what the hell happens when you get frustrated with all this “author-author”stuff? When someone asks why I became an antique dealer I tell them it was the result of hating my profession….writing. When they ask me why I took up the pen as a writer, I tell them bluntly, “because being an antique dealer was driving me nuts!” Of course I’m only kidding about this, as I haven’t got a worthy replacement for either.
Truth is I’ve been lucky to have two professions for most of my working life. Whenever I’m unable to turn a profit in one discipline, the other kicks over a few bucks to keep me going. Just now I’m going against the grain of creativity. I’ve had a number of political differences of opinion recently, and this should be quite clear if you scroll up a few blogs. I write for several weeks until I’m satisfied all contempt has drained from my body and then suffer through a couple of recovery weeks with back and neck disorders. This is usually the time when I revive my antique hunting (twin career) which could last in a binge-format for six or seven weeks until the next time I get riled at local issues and turn back to “the editorialist.”
It’s a strange, even awkward union that has worked well for decades, and I don’t see any reason for abandoning what obviously rolls without a flat side. When I’m out on the antique hustings, it’s a Zen-like experience. I could sort through shops and sales for hours on end, seeking interesting pieces from furniture to crocks, historic documents to elusive books, and never once think about the follies of a half-arse government official. In both pursuits, writing and antiquing, the common trait is uncompromised concentration. A lot of my antiquing associates find that I’m a tad rude when we meet up at a sale venue, and they don’t have any compunction letting me know I’ve been ignoring them….and stepping in their way a lot. It’s just part of the plan. I’m glad to speak with them outside the sale or shop, and I’ve always been willing to show finds when all transactions are completed. My wife calls me “intense” at the mission of discovery and I can’t really argue with that assessment. When I sit at this keyboard the rule is, “don’t come near,” unless there’s a sandwich in tow. It’s not that I’m a mean bastard but I don’t have the concentration capability of once. I used to work in a wild and wooly newsroom and found it invigorating. Now I can’t even have music playing. I’m easily distracted and find it almost impossible to return to task after any hiatus whatsoever. I just start working on a different column idea as a coping mechanism.
Questing for antiques is as much recreation for me, and I seldom return from a day trip feeling tired. I don’t find it taxing at all to drive several hundred miles and to wander through fifteen or more shops. Suzanne however, isn’t quite so keen so lately we’ve cut our outings down quite a bit to reflect our “old poop” collector status. We always pack a lunch and plan for picnic breaks between antique venues.
As for being absorbed with antiques, it dates back to childhood, as I contented myself for hours on end flipping over rocks and digging into the embankment looking for native artifacts along the snaking course of Burlington’s Ramble Creek; the enchanted valley where I spent every free moment of my young life. I was too invigorated at play to get tired. I can remember my mother Merle having to hike down into the ravine on Harris Crescent, to haul me home for lunch and dinner,…..because I hadn’t responded to her boisterous calls to come home. I never said I hadn’t heard them….I just didn’t feel like leaving the creek-side.
Today all I can think about is collecting stuff. Today I’ve already done the rounds of the local thrift shops and found only one book between them. I will hit the Gravenhurst shop a second time later today, and that should satisfy my daily sleuthing requirement for the mid week period. By time I hit the weekend on one of these collecting jags, I could be gone from early Saturday morning to late Sunday afternoon. And while it undoubtedly reads like, “A Man Obsessed – A Man Driven to Destruction,” I will come back from these junkets with a van full of treasures, and a good sense of humor. I will have enjoyed the Muskoka scenery along the way, met interesting shopkeeps, experienced history, culture, art and nostalgia in every store, antique auction, flea market and white elephant sale we attend. I will adore the art finds….competent paintings by established artists; folk art, colorful, naïve and inspirational. I will study books for sale by some of the world’s greatest writers, scientists, historians, and be only too pleased to spend the time necessary to review each vintage photograph stacked in boxes, or framed and hung on a wall.
My first serious ventures as an antique dealer in training, were exercised rigorously (during my late teenage days of the mid 1970’s), digging bottles at old homestead sites throughout Muskoka. While my mates joined garage bands, smoked dope and tinkered with hot rods, here I was, this crazy Currie kid digging holes all over god’s half acre looking for old bottles and interesting other cast offs. You wouldn’t believe all the intact, unbroken lightbulbs I found buried under tons of rock and metal. Dentures. A couple of pair. It was a solitary endeavor and I seldom if ever took a partner along. I spent hours immersed in the task, and most importantly, in the embrace of nature which has long maintained its hold on me.
I think in some ways my antique quests today are a modest parallel to those initial forays to dig sites. While I don’t dig for bottles any more, my missions are still pretty much the same as they were, except for the fact I don’t dig up the antique dealer’s floor to find artifacts. I satisfy myself instead, digging through boxes packed with old paper and maps, documents and booklets, and anything else where a treasure might be hidden for a collector of my diverse interests. And I enjoy the route to and from these antique shops and auctions, frequently stopping to admire a beautiful sun-scape across a meadow, or the glittering light dazzling down through a misty woodland; the wildflowers blooming in a lowland or upon a sun engulfed hillside.
I can sit at an auction all day long, and enjoy the event unfolding. I particularly appreciate the natural enhancements of outside estate and farm auctions, and even if I don’t bid on anything the whole day, the outing is always a restorative, invigorating venture. In fact, that’s what I would enjoy today; having the privilege of attending an auction; watching the bidders and sightseers (who may become bidders) going through the motions, trying to one-up the other to take home the prize piece(s). My son Robert informed me that, “just before bidding dad, you always stroke your chin with your right hand….and when you start fondling your beard, we know you’re going to spend a lot to win the bid.” He was right by the way. I wouldn’t have known this otherwise unless I saw a video clip. It is true I zone out from the general public and concentrate on the auctioneer. Geez I’ve lost concentration on a number of key pieces I really needed for my collection, and missed getting in a final bid. That’s why I distance myself from family and friends entirely when the bidding on a chosen item commences. I used to be able to down a hot dog, a cola and carry on a full conversation and still follow the auctioneer’s cadence, back in the old days…. but now I have to lock-in and ignore everything else to get what I want on the block.
While having to be mindfully intent for the project at hand may seem obsessive and tiring, and a long way from meaningful zen-anything, I have been following these patterns of interest for so long now, that being absorbed as a writer or antique collector is a lot like swinging the afternoon away in the comforting embrace of a porch hammock. As I finish a feature article or column and feel that natural high of accomplishment, pulling out an old pine rocker, a couple of paintings, and an assortment of crocks, runs a parallel thrill and sense of contentment. While it’s possible I’m mistaken, and the stress of having fun might one day kill me, truth is I’d rather die working at something of passion, than snuffing-out in the middle of life’s stuffy little routines…., like day to day work; or growing fungus out your ears doing nothing meaningful at all.
Whether it shows up in my bio-blog or not, I’ve had a hell of a good time in this strange jumble of obsessions, chasing elusive pots of gold at the end of all my perceived rainbows. I’ve had my share of disappointments but never such that I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to try the same adventure one more time. I’ve enjoyed success as a writer over the past thirty years and my antique hunting days have all been thoroughly celebrated whether I’ve come home with a truck full, or one really nice piece. I’m as contented with this blog contribution, as if I’d just penned a Broadway play.
I’ve had a lifetime of people saying “you can’t make a living like that,” and, “grow up and get a real job!” If there’s any point to this column other than words stacked upon words, it’s to prove to you, and them, “they’re nuts, and deserve their dead-end jobs and unattained objectives.” I’ve had a ball all these years and I couldn’t muster a regret if I tried. It’s been a wonderful life of exposure to actuality and discovery; inspiration and creativity. I’ve had the most enjoyable time questioning everything imaginable and digesting oh so many answers. Each adventure into the Muskoka I adore, is like a jolt of electricity from the pages of the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” and yet another chapter in my own personal mission of self discovery.
A friend asked me yesterday if I was ever going to “settle down and retire.” “I’m already retired to the life I want to live….forever,” I replied with a wink of the old writer’s eye. “It doesn’t get better than this……today I will write until the urge to travel bites down, and when I tire of the quest for history, I will write once again…..and never enter a lull without feeling satisfied in conscience, I haven’t wasted life’s precious resource.”
Thanks for joining this blog-entry. Enjoy your life pursuits. Sculpt them to suit your needs. To hell with the critics. Let them eat cake!
By the morning light, I see the way – Birch Hollow
At 6:30 this morning, I took our dog Bosko for a walk into The Bogland. The moon glow, its halo, just above the tree-line was an enchanting, fantastic vista for this first day of February 2007. We walked down into the hollow of the landscape and stood beside some of the frozen cattails that line this winter pathway across The Bog. It was the last few moments of darkness, except for this striking illumination of moon reflecting off the snow. It was a peaceful solitude. It was the kind of scene, while not rare during a Muskoka winter, that couldn’t help but inspire a spark of wonder and expectation; thoughtful speculation about what was lurking out there beneath this soft illumination, the bewitching, the wolves waiting to pounce upon the interloper.
I wish more people could witness these life-precious moments. These walks in the woods have offered me so much insight about environmental issues, its welfare and its uncertain future. It’s on a morning like this that I wish to have a parade of students to see for themselves, a true enchantment up close without nary an electrical outlet or television screen. I would as much, adore the opportunity to guide local politicians and developers along this same pathway to nowhere in particular, to see by chance, if they could enjoy, as I do, the rugged, hauntingly beautiful surroundings….., and appreciate more fully the quality of all life within the hinterland. What a true joy it would be to find a flicker of sensitivity, a pause of judgment, an enlightenment about this scene being important. Important enough to reconsider as necessary open space. Important to the survival of natural species, of critical relevance to each creature that calls this land “home”. Important to us, as humans, having a nature that thrives in its intricate cycle…., versus killing habitat for the cycle of money bundling around more money until every last acre is compromised by human greed.
It’s difficult these days to look out upon this magnificent vista and imagine the vast destruction of habitat going on throughout our region in the guise of progress for the masses….when in fact it is profit for the asses. I have never known a more desperate time in my fifty-two years, to impress upon citizens the necessity of conservation. First of all, the behemoth difficulty is trying to instill appreciation of what is actually at stake when we, as a general public, continue to turn our back on environmental threats in our community. It alarms me to find, amongst the rank and file of the business and community leaders, for example, an unwillingness to re-educate about the world beyond capitalist enterprise. The world that gave us life, that maintains our lives, and that gave freely to enhance our lives without even one dollar changing hands. I’m not on a breathe-and-pay program at present, although I suspect that will arrive one day soon, as we come to require breathing equipment to deal with the solids in our polluted air.
I have never intended to frighten any one with my editorial opinion. I have however, tried most often in vain, to lead readers onward to personal discovery by immersion. Walk into a woodland near you. Stroll along a farm lane or meander through a meadow. Stand for awhile on a lakeshore and pay attention to the loon call. I suggest readers immerse in the nature they’ve grown distant from, in order to more intelligently understand up close and personal, just what mankind is on the verge of committing, that will destine our offspring to a horrible future existence. To witness this amazing moonlit woodland, only a few metres from a rather busy urban avenue, is the type of daily invigoration of the senses we all require….every mortal needs to experience this thriving, surviving hinterland while it exists….before someone concocts the plan to erase nature and put up a parking lot; undoubtedly to service the condos we certainly don’t need to be prosperous.
Ten years ago when I wrote about these same issues, I was branded an “alarmist,” an “activist,” a “trouble maker.” Now it’s not being an alarmist, an activist or a trouble maker but rather a purveyor of serious reality. We’re in the “green” time of history, which is both long over due and frankly too late to save much of the planet’s future, which according to some experts in the field, will take thousands of years to restore from past abuse.
I watch in our neighborhood as parents walk protectively with their children to the bus stop at the corner, and others who triple check the braces and buckles of their car-seats to make sure all is secure. They worry about their kids’ safety at school, careful play at recess, and whether or not they’re being treated fairly by respective teachers. They guard their child’s rights with passionate resolve. Imagine the raw edge of contradiction when they allow their children the opportunity, in this same neighborhood, to participate in the apparent God given right to discard home refuse into these same beautiful woodlands. I have watched wee ones pulling wagons of sundry cast-offs from their residences, and joyfully dumping them amongst the ferns and wildflowers that thrive within this small vestige of natural habitat. Here they are then, side by side, parent and child, casting garbage, (things they don’t want) into the accommodating interior of the green space, much as if they are doing the environment a favor.
The parents conveniently or ignorantly forget that the safety of their children, over a lifetime, depends very much on the well being of this natural world. Yet this doesn’t apparently trump the need for a good place to dump refuse. Obviously the urgency of environmental protection and “safe family,” isn’t drawing the parallel consideration it should.
I spend a lot of time in these woods picking up this same refuse, and on many occasions I’ve overheard neighborhood youngsters ask their parents “what’s that man doing over in the woods.” You’d almost think this action alone could inspire a new attitude about cross road dumping. It hasn’t yet. Each year I fill a half dozen large garbage bags to clean up their debris field, in this small otherwise congenial neighborhood. I will be able to clearly measure by volume of collected items, the impact of today’s environmental conscience, how our “green” outlook nationally, affects attitudes locally. This isn’t a problem in Gravenhurst alone obviously, and if you look along the roadsides throughout our region, you will find a similar desecration.
I have long fantasized that Muskoka could be a leader in environmental issues, and a trend setter in matters of local conservation and parkland creation. I’ve been disillusioned by numerous local events and decisions most recently throughout our district but I never give up hope that the shift to the green viewpoint nationally, will bolster efforts regionally to preserve what is presently considered expendable…., in that never ending quest for enduring and ultimate prosperity. The true prosperity here is enlightened perspective and that will serve as the discipline of sensible proportion….knowing when to call progress “urban sprawl,” instead of “economic development” in the bid to create jobs. On a dieing planet priorities simply have to change.
Thanks for reading through this blog submission. Happy Ground Hog day. I prefer the groundhogs allowed to reside in their natural environs….here for example, in the Bogland of my neighborhood.
For my first love, I wrote poems. Lots and lots of sickly sweet poems. When I’d find myself with a bottle of wine and an open midnight hour, and a vantage point looking out over Lake Muskoka, I mind pen away continuously until daybreak. I could ease my anger by writing, satisfy curiosity playing around with novel ideas, and by golly, when quite happy, I could fill a binder with observations, ranging from a description of the dock stretching out into the bay, to the curious silhouette cast by the lawnchair against the shimmering water at sunrise.
So what the hell happens when you get frustrated with all this “author-author”stuff? When someone asks why I became an antique dealer I tell them it was the result of hating my profession….writing. When they ask me why I took up the pen as a writer, I tell them bluntly, “because being an antique dealer was driving me nuts!” Of course I’m only kidding about this, as I haven’t got a worthy replacement for either.
Truth is I’ve been lucky to have two professions for most of my working life. Whenever I’m unable to turn a profit in one discipline, the other kicks over a few bucks to keep me going. Just now I’m going against the grain of creativity. I’ve had a number of political differences of opinion recently, and this should be quite clear if you scroll up a few blogs. I write for several weeks until I’m satisfied all contempt has drained from my body and then suffer through a couple of recovery weeks with back and neck disorders. This is usually the time when I revive my antique hunting (twin career) which could last in a binge-format for six or seven weeks until the next time I get riled at local issues and turn back to “the editorialist.”
It’s a strange, even awkward union that has worked well for decades, and I don’t see any reason for abandoning what obviously rolls without a flat side. When I’m out on the antique hustings, it’s a Zen-like experience. I could sort through shops and sales for hours on end, seeking interesting pieces from furniture to crocks, historic documents to elusive books, and never once think about the follies of a half-arse government official. In both pursuits, writing and antiquing, the common trait is uncompromised concentration. A lot of my antiquing associates find that I’m a tad rude when we meet up at a sale venue, and they don’t have any compunction letting me know I’ve been ignoring them….and stepping in their way a lot. It’s just part of the plan. I’m glad to speak with them outside the sale or shop, and I’ve always been willing to show finds when all transactions are completed. My wife calls me “intense” at the mission of discovery and I can’t really argue with that assessment. When I sit at this keyboard the rule is, “don’t come near,” unless there’s a sandwich in tow. It’s not that I’m a mean bastard but I don’t have the concentration capability of once. I used to work in a wild and wooly newsroom and found it invigorating. Now I can’t even have music playing. I’m easily distracted and find it almost impossible to return to task after any hiatus whatsoever. I just start working on a different column idea as a coping mechanism.
Questing for antiques is as much recreation for me, and I seldom return from a day trip feeling tired. I don’t find it taxing at all to drive several hundred miles and to wander through fifteen or more shops. Suzanne however, isn’t quite so keen so lately we’ve cut our outings down quite a bit to reflect our “old poop” collector status. We always pack a lunch and plan for picnic breaks between antique venues.
As for being absorbed with antiques, it dates back to childhood, as I contented myself for hours on end flipping over rocks and digging into the embankment looking for native artifacts along the snaking course of Burlington’s Ramble Creek; the enchanted valley where I spent every free moment of my young life. I was too invigorated at play to get tired. I can remember my mother Merle having to hike down into the ravine on Harris Crescent, to haul me home for lunch and dinner,…..because I hadn’t responded to her boisterous calls to come home. I never said I hadn’t heard them….I just didn’t feel like leaving the creek-side.
Today all I can think about is collecting stuff. Today I’ve already done the rounds of the local thrift shops and found only one book between them. I will hit the Gravenhurst shop a second time later today, and that should satisfy my daily sleuthing requirement for the mid week period. By time I hit the weekend on one of these collecting jags, I could be gone from early Saturday morning to late Sunday afternoon. And while it undoubtedly reads like, “A Man Obsessed – A Man Driven to Destruction,” I will come back from these junkets with a van full of treasures, and a good sense of humor. I will have enjoyed the Muskoka scenery along the way, met interesting shopkeeps, experienced history, culture, art and nostalgia in every store, antique auction, flea market and white elephant sale we attend. I will adore the art finds….competent paintings by established artists; folk art, colorful, naïve and inspirational. I will study books for sale by some of the world’s greatest writers, scientists, historians, and be only too pleased to spend the time necessary to review each vintage photograph stacked in boxes, or framed and hung on a wall.
My first serious ventures as an antique dealer in training, were exercised rigorously (during my late teenage days of the mid 1970’s), digging bottles at old homestead sites throughout Muskoka. While my mates joined garage bands, smoked dope and tinkered with hot rods, here I was, this crazy Currie kid digging holes all over god’s half acre looking for old bottles and interesting other cast offs. You wouldn’t believe all the intact, unbroken lightbulbs I found buried under tons of rock and metal. Dentures. A couple of pair. It was a solitary endeavor and I seldom if ever took a partner along. I spent hours immersed in the task, and most importantly, in the embrace of nature which has long maintained its hold on me.
I think in some ways my antique quests today are a modest parallel to those initial forays to dig sites. While I don’t dig for bottles any more, my missions are still pretty much the same as they were, except for the fact I don’t dig up the antique dealer’s floor to find artifacts. I satisfy myself instead, digging through boxes packed with old paper and maps, documents and booklets, and anything else where a treasure might be hidden for a collector of my diverse interests. And I enjoy the route to and from these antique shops and auctions, frequently stopping to admire a beautiful sun-scape across a meadow, or the glittering light dazzling down through a misty woodland; the wildflowers blooming in a lowland or upon a sun engulfed hillside.
I can sit at an auction all day long, and enjoy the event unfolding. I particularly appreciate the natural enhancements of outside estate and farm auctions, and even if I don’t bid on anything the whole day, the outing is always a restorative, invigorating venture. In fact, that’s what I would enjoy today; having the privilege of attending an auction; watching the bidders and sightseers (who may become bidders) going through the motions, trying to one-up the other to take home the prize piece(s). My son Robert informed me that, “just before bidding dad, you always stroke your chin with your right hand….and when you start fondling your beard, we know you’re going to spend a lot to win the bid.” He was right by the way. I wouldn’t have known this otherwise unless I saw a video clip. It is true I zone out from the general public and concentrate on the auctioneer. Geez I’ve lost concentration on a number of key pieces I really needed for my collection, and missed getting in a final bid. That’s why I distance myself from family and friends entirely when the bidding on a chosen item commences. I used to be able to down a hot dog, a cola and carry on a full conversation and still follow the auctioneer’s cadence, back in the old days…. but now I have to lock-in and ignore everything else to get what I want on the block.
While having to be mindfully intent for the project at hand may seem obsessive and tiring, and a long way from meaningful zen-anything, I have been following these patterns of interest for so long now, that being absorbed as a writer or antique collector is a lot like swinging the afternoon away in the comforting embrace of a porch hammock. As I finish a feature article or column and feel that natural high of accomplishment, pulling out an old pine rocker, a couple of paintings, and an assortment of crocks, runs a parallel thrill and sense of contentment. While it’s possible I’m mistaken, and the stress of having fun might one day kill me, truth is I’d rather die working at something of passion, than snuffing-out in the middle of life’s stuffy little routines…., like day to day work; or growing fungus out your ears doing nothing meaningful at all.
Whether it shows up in my bio-blog or not, I’ve had a hell of a good time in this strange jumble of obsessions, chasing elusive pots of gold at the end of all my perceived rainbows. I’ve had my share of disappointments but never such that I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to try the same adventure one more time. I’ve enjoyed success as a writer over the past thirty years and my antique hunting days have all been thoroughly celebrated whether I’ve come home with a truck full, or one really nice piece. I’m as contented with this blog contribution, as if I’d just penned a Broadway play.
I’ve had a lifetime of people saying “you can’t make a living like that,” and, “grow up and get a real job!” If there’s any point to this column other than words stacked upon words, it’s to prove to you, and them, “they’re nuts, and deserve their dead-end jobs and unattained objectives.” I’ve had a ball all these years and I couldn’t muster a regret if I tried. It’s been a wonderful life of exposure to actuality and discovery; inspiration and creativity. I’ve had the most enjoyable time questioning everything imaginable and digesting oh so many answers. Each adventure into the Muskoka I adore, is like a jolt of electricity from the pages of the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” and yet another chapter in my own personal mission of self discovery.
A friend asked me yesterday if I was ever going to “settle down and retire.” “I’m already retired to the life I want to live….forever,” I replied with a wink of the old writer’s eye. “It doesn’t get better than this……today I will write until the urge to travel bites down, and when I tire of the quest for history, I will write once again…..and never enter a lull without feeling satisfied in conscience, I haven’t wasted life’s precious resource.”
Thanks for joining this blog-entry. Enjoy your life pursuits. Sculpt them to suit your needs. To hell with the critics. Let them eat cake!
By the morning light, I see the way – Birch Hollow
At 6:30 this morning, I took our dog Bosko for a walk into The Bogland. The moon glow, its halo, just above the tree-line was an enchanting, fantastic vista for this first day of February 2007. We walked down into the hollow of the landscape and stood beside some of the frozen cattails that line this winter pathway across The Bog. It was the last few moments of darkness, except for this striking illumination of moon reflecting off the snow. It was a peaceful solitude. It was the kind of scene, while not rare during a Muskoka winter, that couldn’t help but inspire a spark of wonder and expectation; thoughtful speculation about what was lurking out there beneath this soft illumination, the bewitching, the wolves waiting to pounce upon the interloper.
I wish more people could witness these life-precious moments. These walks in the woods have offered me so much insight about environmental issues, its welfare and its uncertain future. It’s on a morning like this that I wish to have a parade of students to see for themselves, a true enchantment up close without nary an electrical outlet or television screen. I would as much, adore the opportunity to guide local politicians and developers along this same pathway to nowhere in particular, to see by chance, if they could enjoy, as I do, the rugged, hauntingly beautiful surroundings….., and appreciate more fully the quality of all life within the hinterland. What a true joy it would be to find a flicker of sensitivity, a pause of judgment, an enlightenment about this scene being important. Important enough to reconsider as necessary open space. Important to the survival of natural species, of critical relevance to each creature that calls this land “home”. Important to us, as humans, having a nature that thrives in its intricate cycle…., versus killing habitat for the cycle of money bundling around more money until every last acre is compromised by human greed.
It’s difficult these days to look out upon this magnificent vista and imagine the vast destruction of habitat going on throughout our region in the guise of progress for the masses….when in fact it is profit for the asses. I have never known a more desperate time in my fifty-two years, to impress upon citizens the necessity of conservation. First of all, the behemoth difficulty is trying to instill appreciation of what is actually at stake when we, as a general public, continue to turn our back on environmental threats in our community. It alarms me to find, amongst the rank and file of the business and community leaders, for example, an unwillingness to re-educate about the world beyond capitalist enterprise. The world that gave us life, that maintains our lives, and that gave freely to enhance our lives without even one dollar changing hands. I’m not on a breathe-and-pay program at present, although I suspect that will arrive one day soon, as we come to require breathing equipment to deal with the solids in our polluted air.
I have never intended to frighten any one with my editorial opinion. I have however, tried most often in vain, to lead readers onward to personal discovery by immersion. Walk into a woodland near you. Stroll along a farm lane or meander through a meadow. Stand for awhile on a lakeshore and pay attention to the loon call. I suggest readers immerse in the nature they’ve grown distant from, in order to more intelligently understand up close and personal, just what mankind is on the verge of committing, that will destine our offspring to a horrible future existence. To witness this amazing moonlit woodland, only a few metres from a rather busy urban avenue, is the type of daily invigoration of the senses we all require….every mortal needs to experience this thriving, surviving hinterland while it exists….before someone concocts the plan to erase nature and put up a parking lot; undoubtedly to service the condos we certainly don’t need to be prosperous.
Ten years ago when I wrote about these same issues, I was branded an “alarmist,” an “activist,” a “trouble maker.” Now it’s not being an alarmist, an activist or a trouble maker but rather a purveyor of serious reality. We’re in the “green” time of history, which is both long over due and frankly too late to save much of the planet’s future, which according to some experts in the field, will take thousands of years to restore from past abuse.
I watch in our neighborhood as parents walk protectively with their children to the bus stop at the corner, and others who triple check the braces and buckles of their car-seats to make sure all is secure. They worry about their kids’ safety at school, careful play at recess, and whether or not they’re being treated fairly by respective teachers. They guard their child’s rights with passionate resolve. Imagine the raw edge of contradiction when they allow their children the opportunity, in this same neighborhood, to participate in the apparent God given right to discard home refuse into these same beautiful woodlands. I have watched wee ones pulling wagons of sundry cast-offs from their residences, and joyfully dumping them amongst the ferns and wildflowers that thrive within this small vestige of natural habitat. Here they are then, side by side, parent and child, casting garbage, (things they don’t want) into the accommodating interior of the green space, much as if they are doing the environment a favor.
The parents conveniently or ignorantly forget that the safety of their children, over a lifetime, depends very much on the well being of this natural world. Yet this doesn’t apparently trump the need for a good place to dump refuse. Obviously the urgency of environmental protection and “safe family,” isn’t drawing the parallel consideration it should.
I spend a lot of time in these woods picking up this same refuse, and on many occasions I’ve overheard neighborhood youngsters ask their parents “what’s that man doing over in the woods.” You’d almost think this action alone could inspire a new attitude about cross road dumping. It hasn’t yet. Each year I fill a half dozen large garbage bags to clean up their debris field, in this small otherwise congenial neighborhood. I will be able to clearly measure by volume of collected items, the impact of today’s environmental conscience, how our “green” outlook nationally, affects attitudes locally. This isn’t a problem in Gravenhurst alone obviously, and if you look along the roadsides throughout our region, you will find a similar desecration.
I have long fantasized that Muskoka could be a leader in environmental issues, and a trend setter in matters of local conservation and parkland creation. I’ve been disillusioned by numerous local events and decisions most recently throughout our district but I never give up hope that the shift to the green viewpoint nationally, will bolster efforts regionally to preserve what is presently considered expendable…., in that never ending quest for enduring and ultimate prosperity. The true prosperity here is enlightened perspective and that will serve as the discipline of sensible proportion….knowing when to call progress “urban sprawl,” instead of “economic development” in the bid to create jobs. On a dieing planet priorities simply have to change.
Thanks for reading through this blog submission. Happy Ground Hog day. I prefer the groundhogs allowed to reside in their natural environs….here for example, in the Bogland of my neighborhood.
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