Gravenhurst – Those Crazy Days and Writing Ways – I’m Home at Last

I have always been unsettled and unpredictable as a writer. There is a recollection of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson which has always seemed particularly familiar to my own reactions to the prevailing weather situation. Those close to Thomson, during his Algonquin Park painting years, saw his mood change when, for example, a storm was rolling up from a distant horizon. He would become disjointed from the group he was with, and it was obvious his attention was directed at how the storm would change the scene over the lakeland. Some went as far as to suggest he became moody and withdrawn as if a manifestation of the storm itself. The same was observed with his study of the Northern Lights on cold autumn evenings, painting the spirit-sky over the black expanse of Canoe Lake.
Maybe Thomson was watching the prevailing weather and natural occurrence from a painter’s vantage point, learning more about the colorations of the cauldron lake, the tumbling stormfront, and the veil of rain misting over the Algonquin landscape. Possibly he had found an ecstasy of supernatural experience, discussed by others from his company of artist associates as integral to the creative process. An illumination, an inner spiritual awareness you might say, about a more soulful connectedness beyond the actuality of thunder, lightening and tempest at its core.
I have always been moved to write by the prevailing weather circumstance. In the beginning however, I wouldn’t have admitted this because I was too busy being tuned in, turned on, and tuned out, to admit my inspiration came from the forest not the Yogi’s spiritual enlightenment. My first foray as a “nature” writer was a 1974 unanticipated adventure in poetry, when I found some modest good fortune, having a half dozen poems published, more requested, and a manuscript successfully completed. My girlfriend Gail, at the time, and her family weren’t too sure how to react, having “a poet” in their company. I admit to being a strange, even contradictory mix of beatnik, hippy and self proclaimed prophet, who also really liked history, classic music, and romantic walks in the woods. Most of what I wrote “then” I don’t revisit today, on the advice of a number of Canadian writer friends, who have warned about the horrors of any retrospective examination of what came first…..the sloppy, sappy bid for attention, or the grossly lacking, unprofessional mission to be the world savior.
I would sit for hours on end, at our Muskoka Lake cottage, watching out over the dramatic autumn transition, then the calming, gentle snow of early December, and my creative enterprise seemed to quadruple in output. Unfortunately I drank two glasses of wine at fireside for each poem composed. By the time I’d written five or six poems that stormy winter night, the result was a simpering, awful, melodramatic impersonation of every other writer. I didn’t recognize my own work the next day.
Over the years I have routinely enjoyed my most prolific writing jags at times when the seasons were on the verge of their profound regional change. I looked forward to the autumn season most of all, particularly the month of November. I always felt sorry for this rather lonely time of the year, being so barren of autumn color yet not quite the maker of winter either. I spent a lot of time wandering the lakeshore back in my brooding poet days, and I always found its eerie, lonely shade of abandonment, enough to stir the perfect blend of melancholy yet hopefulness; one that seemed to amalgamate my interests in history, nostalgia, and redemption for time arrogantly wished away. It seems at times as if I have made a lifetime mission, making amends for something I did or didn’t perform as I should have, according to my capability. My hockey coach used to tell me this a lot when reviewing the games lost.
I felt as if I had to fully explore the spiritual essence of November before December’s good cheer could be fully appreciated. Of all the places I have holed-up over a lifetime to write, especially to benefit from such creatively powerful months as November, my present abode in Gravenhurst has provided me with every vantage point to watch the intricacies of the changing seasons.
When my contemporaries ponder intrusively why I have spent so much time attempting to represent Muskoka’s changing seasons, there’s nothing I can remark in return that will satisfy their apparent need to know more about “purpose.” They have already judged my work long before they ask the question, and as I prefer to chat with those open minded souls who cherish unfettered honesty, meetings to discuss my writing are few and far between. They don’t like my bluntness. Which is fine by the way. I feel that explaining myself is a little like an Alice in Wonderland overview, that in order to make sense, has to be dissected minutely….. to understand the cogs and levers and eccentricities of what can be considered “the whole.” The reason for creating this blog site in the first place, was to provide for my enquiring reader-friends, a no-holds barred journal with all its inherent anger, frustration, impatience, and contempt, with its untailored, non-sculpted periods of joy and satisfaction, enlightenment and unfettered privilege to explore and create.
After so many years being unsettled and impatient with my surroundings, having been employed by the “uninspired,” the past two decades working from Birch Hollow can only be considered heaven-sent. And while there have most definitely been periods when pen was cast down in frustration, and notebooks left unmarked for months at a time, the fact seasons change so dramatically in Muskoka, has kept the poet at his mission despite those desperate periods of self loathing and artistic strangulation every artist must endure.
I have thought about this a great deal lately and as I have noted earlier in this collection of journal entries, Gravenhurst has provided me with the opportunity to live in a smaller, less intrusive urban community; a place where I can escape into our neighborhood forest in about one hundred footsteps, and remain there until I’m spiritually replenished. It is a great privilege here and I do not take one moment in this company of nature and good citizens for granted. If I should ever produce some masterpiece of written composition, I shall of course give credit to Gravenhurst first, because it is my home; the place that has assisted my writing for all these splendidly enhanced years.
I enjoy a rather anonymous relationship with my hometown. There are only a few of the people I meet day to day, that have any knowledge I have been a career writer. They know me as an antique dealer, book collector, husband of a teacher and father of two fine musicians. They don’t know or care about my writing highlights or even disasters, and seeing as I’ve never composed a best seller or important “how-to” book, I’m not likely to win their affection by written accomplishment alone….especially with my burdensome tomes about nature conservation, the haunted west wind, the enchanted seasons of Muskoka or whatever else comes from my busy fingers upon this keyboard.
A writing colleague of mine, back in my newspaper days of the early 1980’s, said to me one night during a drunken diatribe, …. “Currie you’ll never make it as a writer living here in Muskoka.” More than 25 years later and I can still hear that cutting remark as if he was standing beside me now. In many ways, according to his standard and the ways and means of determining all successful writers in this dominion, on this continent, he was right then and now. As I had no argument to refute his claim, it wouldn’t do the least bit of good to fashion, for my critic now, the successes and profitability I have enjoyed ever since. I have lived the life of a writer despite the absence of a Pulitzer Award adorning my mantle, or a Booker Prize noted on my resume. As Dickens’ character, Old Fezziwig, from the book, “A Christmas Carol,” suggested to a colleague when asked to sell his business to the “new vested interest,”…. “there is more to life than money sir,” and that one’s enterprise is “a way of life one knew and loved.” I offer an apology to the memory of Mr. Dickens for any liberties I’ve taken with wording, seeing as I don’t have a copy of the book close at hand.
I have always felt a kindred spirit with the character of old Fezziwig because his opinion of business and occupation have paralleled my own possibly ill-fated desire, to live and die the same profession as I began. Fezziwig did lose his business to the vested interest, and I suppose my fate may be the same. What should become of an unpublished author? No matter how many times I’ve told my wife that I was, in that occasion, abandoning authordom, there have been just as many returns to the old ways and writing days; despite ongoing periods of unbridled chagrin at life and creativity’s shortfalls. Yet in retrospect, writing has always made my life more interesting, and my days so much more fulfilled with expectation and potential, than I would enter each morning otherwise; not having an urge to find time in the day to pen some thoughts or observations about local encounters. To some people I’m the eccentric, sloppily dressed, tangle-bearded collector, the passing silhouette of unknown character, slipping quietly from antique and thrift shop, day after day after day! What a surprise it would be for them to find out I have been observing from close quarters all the components of our mutual home town, as if it was the perpetuity clockwork, the ticking heart, the soul I’ve been so pleased to companion with, even subtly, these many years of residence.
I suspect my collected works may go unnoticed after my death, until such a time as my sons, their offspring, or some distant relative finds them tucked away in a box and decides they deserve some modest release to an historian making the rounds. It will thusly be an honor to be of some help then, when a retrospective is mounted that I might play a small part, in the recognition and celebration of a good and worthy home town.
Thank you for reading along this journal entry of January 2006.


I’m sure it’s tough to stare down a developer and say “No, we don’t need anything more!”

It seems that nary a month goes by these days, without a notice about a new development project, a condo unit, a new retail centre or massive, sprawling (largely unnecessary) subdivision. For those people who might think of me as an anti-development, fear mongering, protest-everything,” kind of guy, well you’re only partially correct. As I’ve made clear through this blog collection, I actually only physically protest about one in several hundred projects slated for Muskoka, and the only one I resorted to carrying a protest sign, was in defence of a century old park in Bracebridge, sacrificed most recently to build a new university campus.
What upsets me is the reality the character of Muskoka is being seriously compromised and very few people care. It is more alarming because of apathy. Few people really want to fight town hall on anything these days because of the potential cost of hiring lawyers and planners, and the emotional cost when the rest of the community turns on an opponent for daring to exercise free speech and democratic right.
The development matters through Muskoka are serious ones and despite what any pro-expansion group might think, the compromises in our region are absolutely huge and clear evidence Southern Ontario money is exploiting our region from every vantage point. They are re-shaping our communities because our councils can’t say “No”. With huge project budgets and the most competent legal and planning eagles, town councils and municipal staff are pretty much dust in the wind when the gale blows through.
I would love to see just one line in one paper some time, where a councilor in this region asks the question, “Who the hell will be buying all these condos….these homes?”
Here’s what you won’t hear or read about otherwise. Unless Muskoka is tripling in population, which it isn’t, we will assume that many new homes and condos are being purchased by investors, speculators, multi-property owners. The danger? If we ever now come face to face with a real estate decline, as we were forced to endure in the late 1980’s, when property values plummeted and took years to return to where they had been, this same investment excess could be dumped onto the market in a frightening volume. The developers couldn’t care less about this, as long as the houses have been sold prior to a downturn. If such a real estate settling occurs, and investors sense it could be many years down the road to realize the profits they had anticipated, could there be a major flood of properties put up for sale? You bet! And the whining, like a choir of scorched cats, to borrow a plume from Charles Dickens. I’m pretty sure I understand the intricacies of supply and demand, and what I do appreciate is that there are many more houses being built than new permanent residents in our respective communities. Thus, they are building these more for investment, retirement living, than for young, growing families moving to our region. In fact, if you take an evening drive around Bracebridge condo projects and residential neighborhoods in mid winter, you will notice a considerable number unoccupied at the time. No lights, no signs of life. Seasonal, investment homes, for the retirement age community, have become a major influence on residential development but they don’t reflect accurately on the expansion forces on and within the community. If these houses weren’t being built, investors would put their money somewhere else. People are not moving to Bracebridge, Gravenhurst or Muskoka in droves, but investment money in property is abundant. Confused? You should be concerned. If there is a property value decline, and too many investment properties are unceremoniously dumped, should you genuinely need to sell your house for financial or personal reasons such as re-location, good luck….there are a lot of wealthy investors that would be jumping ship at the same time.
I am glad to see certain commercial developments in Muskoka, in Gravenhurst particularly, and in an area long planned for urban expansion. While I don’t get turned on by large retail complexes, and generally stay away from box stores on principle, democracy and democratic privilege have allowed for this urban growth. I recognize the need for more and better job opportunities and hopefully the latest news of large-scale development on Gravenhurst’s south end will bring some new interest to revamp what already exists of my hometown.
The main street business corridors, in both Gravenhurst and Bracebridge are in serious economic peril unless property owners, retailers and professional offices decide to mount an effective campaign to revitalize their business appeal. The blow from competition will be staggering in the next twelve months as the new retail nodes expand. I’m not confident there will be any serious support from respective councils because they have long subscribed to the war-time reference of “acceptable loss.” In any engagement there is calculated loss of personnel. In the business setting, no councilor can be as daft, as to be unaware that by approving huge new retail expansion, for example, a portion of the present retail community could falter and fail. “So what?” “Stuff happens, right?” Well, it certainly does when you line up the dominoes and provide the first topple onto the community that exists.
Many Ontario communities within a reasonable commute to the Big Smoke are being inundated with new investment and expansion stresses. Bracebridge might believe it stands above the crowd with all this new money coming in but the reality is, it is a speculation bonanza during what appears to be a time and zone of considerable prosperity. If there is an economic downturn, the same councilors that approved this orgy of development will say, “It’s not my fault….how can I control the economy?” For starters, say “No” some of the time, when a developer tells you how much your community can benefit from another condo project or three or four hundred homes. There’s always a responding reaction to an action taken. Selling your soul to the devil? Depends if you believe in the devil, I guess.
I’ve only lived 52 years but I’ve known quite a number of small and medium size recessions. I missed the Great Depression. As an historian however, I’ve read a lot about the Hungry Thirties, enough to appreciate that if history does repeat, as some economists have warned….crap, we’re in a lot of trouble…. but hey, the real estate will be cheap.
We are a greedy society and at the rate we are presently gobbling up land in this country, and polluting with reckless abandon, is there any possibility the issue of global warming will ever be seriously considered……unless someone can make money at it, probably not!
I am going to get lost in the snowy woodlands today because that is what pleases me. Maybe I’m an idealistic fool, thinking I can change attitudes with a simple, run-of-the-mill excess of words. It does feel important to at least try, just as I joined with a group of good neighbors last winter, to protect an historic park; another battle lost to the almighty buck.
If there is one major concern I have these days, it’s that councils in the District of Muskoka, are too complacent about the development impact on respective communities. As with the University campus debate for Jubilee Park, I was more disturbed by the fact councilors were unanimous in their decision to destroy an historic park. If you follow council proceedings, it’s important for every citizen to pay attention to those who go with the flow, and approve profound changes to the community, with nary a second thought about what they have approved in fact. The impact? The positives weighed against the negatives? These days there’s far too much unanimous acceptance of progress without serious recognition of long term impact. They should care! But who is going to make them?