WORKING ON A BIOGRAPHY ABOUT MY FAMILY - TWO BOYS THAT DESERVE MOM AND POP'S RESPECT

It was about two years ago that I suggested our boys, Andrew and Robert, should give some serious thought, to setting up a little archives, or scrapbook collection, to keep news clippings safe. It's not really an ego thing, but maybe it is, for me more than the lads. They've got a large collection of photographs, from the local newspapers, mounted on cork boards mounted throughout the store. It's surprising what coverage they've had over the past five years. The fact they organize and perform in a number of fundraisers each year, they inevitably are asked to pose for promotional photographs, and they usually line-up their students to stand-in, as it is their work that is usually being showcased at these same fundraising concert venues. I didn't want these photographs lost or ripped off the board unceremoniously, because it provides a wonderful record of their music shop, and guitar class highlights over the past half decade. So it took two years to warm up to it, but finally we have taken steps to record all the neat stuff that has happened, as a result of having a main street Gravenhurst shop, to make life and business so darn enthralling. It's a work in progress, and an archives you can read, with regular updates and photographs.

I started writing work on a preamble biography two weeks ago. When I sat down to write the company history, I thought it would take a couple of days at the most. But I found that there was so much more to include than just the in-store realities. There was a lot of stuff leading up to the store's opening that couldn't be left out. Both Andrew and Robert arrived at the store-opening-stage, after spending most of their young lives, part of the family antique business. They've been hauled from historic site to antique auction, art galleries, to research assignments on Canoe Lake. They've been vendor assistants at many, many outdoor antique and collectible sales, throughout the region. They spent their young lives, by my side, at Woodchester Villa, and Museum, (Bracebridge), and were my capable assistants in our family's 12 years associated with the Crozier Foundation and its sponsorship of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame. They were volunteering for the foundation for children when they were pretty much children themselves. They began collecting vintage vinyl, in large part, from the collection given to them by Suzanne, who bestowed her cherished 45's on them some years back, all obtained during her family's years owning and operating the Windermere Marina and snackbar, "The Skipper." She was given the cast-off records by the owner of the jukebox, and she kept them for future posterity. Her boys!

I found things about their young lives, I couldn't ignore, because they played an integral role in developing their interests. As the 45 rpm records gave them a start in vintage vinyl collecting, Andrew's keen interest in his grandfather's carpentry work was always an ongoing fascination, whenever we visited Norm Stripp's house or cottage in Windermere. Norm was a master craftsman when it came to restoring Muskoka's vintage wooden boats, and he always had at least one in the workshop for Andrew to study. In the cottage boathouse there was a vintage Hunter, from the Orillia boat works, and a racing boat called the "SS" built by Norman and his father Sam Stripp. Andrew has also kept track, for many years, of the well known Ditchburn, the "Shirl E Von," that Norman had as a marina boat back in the 1960's and early 70's, used for ferrying people from the mainland to island cottages. Whenever that magnificent boat is being shown at the Antique Boat Show, here in Gravenhurst, Andrew is one of the first patrons through the gate. He's enormously proud of his grandfather Norm's accomplishment in the old boat industry, here in Muskoka, and although he hasn't tackled many boat restoration projects, what he learned from his grandfather, and watched in process, has merged into his work today repairing vintage instruments. It just had to be part of the biography.

Robert has long held a fascination with art, particularly vintage Canadiana and has a fondness for abstract works. When I began working on Tom Thomson research, back in the mid-1990's, he not only became interested in this artist's work but the Group of Seven artists, Thomson had inspired before his death. One of the books I was using, entitled "Silence and the Storm," written by art historian David Silcox, and artist Harold Town, inspired an offshoot interest in the abstract work of Mr. Town……who was a frequent visitor of Gravenhurst, at the home of fellow artist Frank Johnson. Town's sailboat, the "Cara Mia" sat on Johnson's property for years, and Andrew, in his many walks by, pondered if it would ever be put up for sale. This is explained in the book, "Hot Breakfast for Sparrows," written by his former girlfriend Iris Nowell. As I became more interested in Harold Town, after working on the Thomson research, Robert kind of got sucked into the vortex here at Birch Hollow. He began to appreciate the work of Harold Town, and low and behold, at the local Thrift Shop, we found a puzzle Town had created and published for a price we could afford. An original Town painting would set us back a lot of money these days but his puzzle, done as a wee bit of a lark, was a teaser for a young man with an eye for good and interesting art. He would adore a Jackson Pollock original if only he had the several million dollars it would take to purchase one. Robert has amassed a small but neat collection of original art pieces, and it's all played a role in his musical interest as well. His absolute pride and joy would be to own, one day, an original art work painted by legendary musician, Frank Zappa. He has a Zappa record collection, so what a neat topping it would be, to have one of his paintings. Once again, it's a long shot, unless at some out of the way yard sale, one happens to pop up for sale. Robert has a more artistic eye when it comes to his music nostalgia interests, and he pays enormous respect to the graphic artists, and designers generally of record covers on that vintage vinyl. I think he'd like to frame them. In his opinion, they are works of art…..and you can listen to what's inside.

I couldn't write a contemporary biography of the boys' work in the music industry, thus far, without delving into their early days, and the influences they have had, being exposed to many unique and diverse adventures in learning. I wanted them to have this historical overview, now published on their blog site (identified below), as a future reference. There are no embellishments. No reason to do that. They've lived it all, and are here to talk about it…..if you ask them. In ten years time, when their lives and love interests have taken those anticipated turns, I want them to be able to reflect back on the way their business together began, and the promises that were made to old mom and pop, who helped them get their big start. Our request was, that should they ever part, in business, or move away from their present hometown, they must never turn their back on a brother in need. They were raised in an old fashioned close family, and our values have always been the same……and we hope it shows now, later, and in the distant future. This brotherly respect, which wasn't in great evidence as they were growing up, is what we are so proud of today. When we see them on stage performing together, Suzanne and I are regularly brought to tears……because it was what we hoped for when we began our family, as two scared newlyweds unsure of our capabilities as future parents. I want to believe, as I'm sure Suzanne would agree, that both boys, when frustrated, challenged, depressed, or just nostalgic, will read back through the biography I've composed, and find out more about themselves, and their sources of inspiration, to pass on to their own kids seeking the meaning of life. If those kids, reading this lengthy 2011 tome, of "War and Peace" verbiage, find it all interesting, and inspiring, and think of their respective dads as having accomplished something, then this old ghost will feel the vibe of true success…..that doesn't have a thing to do with money, acquired property, celebrity or social standing. It will have to do with two good lads, who worked hard, and sacrificed constantly, and believed in the strength and resilience of their hometown. They never stood at the side of an issue, especially when it came to helping their town during difficult times, or friends and neighbors who had fallen on hard times. Even after only five years of business, they have never lost their sense of commitment, and have sponsored many fundraisers, especially for the Salvation Army Food Bank.

Some might look at this biography as an exercise in grandstanding and shameful self promotion. They might think old man Currie's only purpose for writing this, was to boost his own fortunes, by being able to report his boys are the best boys in the whole darn world……..and that you should hire him to write your own "full-of-grandeur" family history. But if you know us, as a family, as business people, in the writing or teaching professions, you will appreciate, the last of our interests is in ego-stroking. We don't have the time. There's too much work to be done. Yet, as an historian, and as dad (the stay-at-home Mr. Mom), my mission is to make sure the roots of their business are protected and conserved. That they both have a reference to consult when they, for whatever reason, have lost their way, or have experienced a failure or business collapse. Having reims of editorial copy at their backs, may not save their business. I want it to save them, because what they have accomplished so far in life and business, is a very real credit to their respective characters, and their work ethic. I want it to remind them of the good old days, when they felt a little like underdogs, because of a struggling family economy, and the reality their shoes, their pants, their shirts, while clean, were a little threadbare. These boys weathered many economic storms to get to this place in their careers. While they may not remember the soles of their shoes flapping in a strange cadence, or having to buy their shirts second hand, because it was all we could afford, they never once complained about their perceived misfortunes. It all balanced out in later years, when the family budget improved. They have long proven to us, their willingness to take the good with the bad, and if they complain, and it's usually about politics, they should be taken seriously, because they know what they're talking about. The care a lot about their hometown and are deeply concerned about its future, because it's where they want to raise a family, and continue to run a business.

Yup, we're proud of Andrew and Robert, just as we should be. Drop into the Muskoka Road shop for a little chat. They'd love to see you. http://curriesmusic.blogspot.com/

ON ASSIGNMENT FOR THE HISTORY OF MY KIDS' BUSINESS

For the past two weeks I've been immersed in family history. Business history in part. Well, I guess mostly business. You see, I've been promising Andrew and Robert that I'd write-up their biographies for a new blog-site, promoting their respective Gravenhurst businesses…..Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables, and Robert Currie's Music, both situated in the former Muskoka Theatre building, on Muskoka Road, opposite the Opera House.

Now over the five year hump, for small business, they wanted to have a proper biography done, in the event, in ten year's time, they write a book about their experiences. That's presumptuous isn't it? Well, they've found a book they really like, that was put together by a music shop in the United States, documenting the really neat musical heritage that has happened on the premises. The important musicians who have played guitars and drums for sale, the music-makers of the nation who have visited, hung-out, and chatted with the proprietor, over the decades, are included in the store journal along with photographs. The boys thought it would be nice, considering that dad is both an historian and writer, currently between gigs, to start piecing together the way they both started in the music industry…..as kids. I thought it was important as well, even without a book deal in the future, to document how they came to open this present Gravenhurst shop; on the tightest shoe-string budget you could imagine……two green guitar players having the nerve to enter the highly competitive domain of music-shop-management.

I've done their early years and it will be used on their new blog site, that has now officially made its way to the public domain. So check it out. It's personal, biased, full of nepotism and family allegiances, but it's honest and the real-article.

http://curriesmusic.blogspot.com/

ADA FLORENCE KINTON CAPTURED THE ESSENCE OF PIONEER LIVING IN CANADA

By Ted Currie

As hard as I might try, looking out at the beautiful ferns and wildflowers of The Bog, this bright June morning, I simply can't arrive at any creative parallel, as a wordsmith, to the descriptions once penned by Ada Florence Kinton, detailing so poignantly, the Muskoka she witnessed, in the 1880's. Ada wrote as if she was painting a unique, fantastic scene that she wanted us to experience for ourselves. Her descriptions were clever manipulations of the senses, and when she wrote her impressions of the wind and spiraling snowfall, it is very much the case you begin feeling the chill air, and detect a faint, nostalgic scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen stove. Where we might be huddled to watch the final toll of spring storm upon the landscape.

Her journal affords the reader the liberties of smelling freshly baked bread, and the imagined taste of maple syrup and fresh butter, upon a fluffy stack of hot pancakes. It's what writer's aspire to do, for their readers. While I fail to do justice to the same, this untrained writer-kind, created a landmark journal I have come to cherish, for its brilliant illumination of even the dullest, most threatening winter day. Inspiring the watcher to celebrate each moment of each day, and enjoy the dynamics of the world in which we dwell.

As you are sitting on the patio, or in a quaint little restaurant courtyard, lounging on the back deck, or sitting out on the dock listening to the loons, if you're feeling a tad warm and would like a wee chill to the air, I've got a story that will take you back to March. March 1883 actually. Huntsville, Ontario. And we will meet up with artist Ada Florence Kinton, in this latest installment of the multi-column series. It's nice to read about March from the comforts of July.

The pioneer artist, who had only recently arrived in Canada, after the death, in England, of her father (her mother had died some years earlier) Ada took up temporary residence with her brother's family in the pioneer hamlet of Huntsville, situated in the northern climes of the District of Muskoka. The painter, who would later become a well known and respected missionary with the Salvation Army, and both writer and illustrator for the "War Cry," publication, took many forays into the thick woodlands surrounding the settlement, to sketch the flora and fauna, and the wildlife she encountered. We resume her journal on March 12th, 1883.

"Second day of Wiggin's Storm. Seven a.m. Bright, soft, light morning. Pale, thin blue mists creeping up the hillside, veiling the trees halfway up in horizontal lines, and the smoke from the village chimneys crossing at right angles in steady, perpendicular streaks. Multitudes of downey oblique clouds covering the sweet azure sky, only leaving little peeps here and there, and icy river mottled with snow and shot with yellow and purple and blue, but very delicately, and all over a general pearly atmospheric effect, tender and soft."

"March 17th. More snow in the night over forest and river. Sun rising cloudily with subdued light above Conn's bluff. Concert at the grist mill last night," writes Miss Kinton. "Nine-thirty p.m. Silent night, but in the night no black darkness like in England; only deep twilight, the snowflakes descending softly, gently, lovingly on the pale untrodden snow, shadowless and windswept, and around and above only the white mist of the coming flakes as they fall between here and the quiet mountain and the bush, and the distant shore of the lake. All encircling the house in a faint, mild, neutral, grey dome, and a sort of patterning swish on the window, and a murmuring wind blustering against the house, and a rush in the stove pipe - the meeting of the draught from the stove, and the wind. And a glimpse down the hill of the ice-prisoned river."

She writes, "Eleven-thirty p.m. It is getting stormier. Now the lights are all going out in the village, and all the fences around the place and the bits of shrub and rosebush are the only signs of past summer to be seen, standing out sharp and dark against the whitening ground; and the winds begin to howl and wail. Everyone's to bed but me, and there's nothing to be heard but the winds and the tick of the clock and the sound of burning wood. Boxer (the dog) is enfolded in a deep snoreless sleep, the sleep of a dog who has patiently borne to be pummeled and squeezed all day, to have his tail hung on to by two babies and his wavy hair hugged by a third. A rest deserving dog - and so he sleeps in peace. Sunday morning. Not Sunday morning at home (England). with prayer-meeting at seven o'clock, over the water and through the fog; but Sunday morning in Muskoka, Canada, with breakfast at ten and bright fragrant daylight. One relishes daylight here after the valley of the Thames. The morning is sweet. Sometimes she gets up blue, and sometimes she gets up saffron. But I think I like her best when she gets up grey, like this one today, sunny grey, cloudy grey, golden grey."

"Eight-thirty. Mail from Paris and letter from Mrs. "W." Attempt to blowup houses of Parliament by dynamite (England). The children have had a little sleigh given to them by Johnnie Ecclestone, a little hand-sleigh that they drag over the carpet with great delight, and quarrel about, and tumble off in sweet content. It has been a dazzlingly brilliant day. The sun is sinking low now, and the shadows of the village are stretching out and undulating over the easily curving sides of land across the river. There are some cows down at Mr. Hooie's and sheep, and the sunbeams are so golden that the brown cows look like wall flowers and the shed like clover blossoms. The shadows are so blue and pure and delicate, and the earth has no tone taint of dust in sight; all spotless and clean. Boyo has just washed the window with a big crust of new baked bread dipped in my tea. My sunset view, of course, is rather blurred. Went for a Wordsworth, (quiet contemplation) and had a few minutes sweet peace in the rocking chair after the babies went to rest before supper. Ed suffering from an epidemic influenza, quite a sickness. Had a lovely walk in the village. The moonlight and the frosty snow make it a sort of fairy daylight, rather than night, and at every fresh footstep 10,000 little lights twinkle and tremble before you, and the trodden snow shrieks like a tin whistle."

Ada Kinton wrote in her journal, as she sketched what surrounded her. She was astute to the details of the pioneer settlement, the weather, and the appearance of the woodlands in this final intrusion of the winter seasons. Of many pioneer journals, describing this region of Ontario, Miss Kinton's is the most detailed and sensitive, and it isn't a stretch whatsoever, even as you sit on the dock listening to waves lapping against the shore, to imagine the setting surrounding that 1880's Huntsville homestead. She was keenly aware of her environs, and she sketched the scene with carefully, thoughtfully chosen words, so that we might be able to visualize what it was like then, isolated in the Ontario wilds.

Ada Kinton matured into an accomplished artist and art instructor, and after a lengthy missionary service abroad, she thoroughly immersed herself in art and writing with the Salvation Army's publication, "The War Cry." Shortly before her death, just after the turn of the century, she had returned to the Huntsville home of her brother, where she again liked to watch the comings and goings of her cherished 'little town."

The journal of Ada Florence Kinton will continue in the next issue. The multi-column series is dedicated to the Gravenhurst Food Bank, as operated by the Salvation Army, a program the artist-missionary would have approved.

Isn't July a beautiful month in our province. Get out and enjoy the bounty, the many events, celebrations and exciting opportunities for discovery.

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I'M DOING MY OWN PAUL RIMSTEAD - FORMING MY OWN LIAR'S CLUB AND HUNKERING DOWN TO WRITE IN THE PLACE I LOVE THE MOST

Former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, adored the hiatus he took from the regular column gig, to hang-out in Mexico, where he found a little bar to his liking, and some mates he enjoyed drinking with. Paul liked to drink and drink hardily. By his own admission, it was his downfall. Few of his loyalists would deny this but on the other hand, and in his opinion, drinking made him a more sociable, fun-seeking guy. It cost him a lot, really, including his life. I suppose it's wrong then, to say that his life inspired us. He was going to write a novel. Like many revered writers before him, this was to be an inspiring, fulfilling adventure, in what makes writing qualify as literature. Well, the best part of the trip and stay in Mexico, was that he sent columns back to the Toronto Sun, so we could keep track of his progress. Some of these stories wound up in his book, "Cocktails and Jockstraps," and then in a memorial edition following his death, entitled simply, Dammit Rimstead.

In Mexico he drank himself sick, on numerous occasions, and things didn't work out too good for his wife and daughter, who eventually packed up and moved back to Canada. It was the end of his marriage, and yes, when he felt up to it, he wrote about his excesses that led to the separation. He had loads of regrets. It isn't how he thought it would all work out. No novel, no foothold on a literary future, just a columnist having a cultural experience in a bar, with some friends, "The Liar's Club," and being resolved to carry-on writing his column for The Sun, when he too, arrived back in Canada.

Rimstead loved his recreation retreats, at a cottage on Orillia's Bass Lake, and thought it would have been a nice place to stay and write. But it proved less exciting than what Paul was used to, in Mexico, Edmonton and Toronto. His final destination to write, was in Florida, I believe, and when he passed away, his readers were left to ponder, if he had really enjoyed his short life, as we believed he had……but all we really knew about his life and times, was what he wrote for public consumption. He was an honest guy and it was to be expected his columns were just as trustworthy and heartfelt, as many, who knew him personally, have vouched. When you write about the breakdown of a marriage, the excesses of the booze-hound, the extravagant lifestyle and its downside, and hemorrhoids, well, that takes a lot more than just writing proficiency to pull off, and have an audience at the end.

I have confessed, many times in the past, that death doesn't frighten me. The cause of death is of some concern of course, because I don't like pain. But you know, I have a lot less concern about the whole crossing-over thing, knowing that Rimmer is there making buds of the newbies, contenting himself with a heavenly version of the Liar's Club, and continuing to inspire the dearly departed about what great stuff is yet to come.

This year Suzanne and I made a big decision. Even our boys didn't think we were contemplating a move. With Suzanne nearing retirement, and planning ahead to open a small antique shop, once more (we've done the mainstream business thing before), we've thought about re-locating to a smaller, more business central home. A residence we can use for business purposes as well. Not that we would have sold our present home, as it will always be the family domain one way or another. And we love the neighborhood. The one area of concern for me, is that I can't write in just any-old-place. I've written in some pretty inspiring places, in my life, from the fringe of Sherwood Forest (Robin Hood's hangout), in Nottingham, in Piccadilly Circus, London, Ponce Inlet, Florida, Virginia Beach, Seven Person's Cottage (miniature house with gargoyles), on the shore of Lake Joseph, in Windermere, Lake Rosseau, Alport Bay, Lake Muskoka, the apartment we had up on Alice Street, (Bracebridge), where I first took up the pen, the McGibbon House (haunted, and I've got the stories on-line to prove it), in Bracebridge, our old tannery house, on Ontario Street, also in Bracebridge, Golden Beach Road, also a nice haunt, and here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, opposite The Bog. Point is, I have never found a better place to relax and write……and it's true I've never been to Mexico. So my big concern was that moving, at this time in my life, could screw up a lifetime's obsession. I rather like this writing obsession. So Suzanne and I both decided there was no way we could abandon what has been so good to us. Gravenhurst is my safe haven. The place I'd like to write in, and about, for the balance of this fraying mortal coil. As Rimmer found comfort in Mexico, and Bass Lake, in particular, I have found it here. Despite being at odds with local politicians from time to time, this often being somewhat frequently, the attributes of this South Muskoka community far outweigh any of the annoyances one can find anywhere on earth.

When Suzanne retires, some time in the near future, we will accelerate our work in the antique profession. She has begun knitting winter-wear, which she sells in the music shop operated by Andrew and Robert, and sales have been as brisk as the wind in January. I've been working on a number of new column concepts for the publications I write for; Curious: The Tourist Guide, and The Great North Arrow (Almaguin region). The most interesting new project will be an online semi-book, written about the boys' vintage guitar shop, here in Gravenhurst, and their budding lives in the music industry……and the anecdotes of a small business in the entertainment, antique and nostalgia business. It's a fascinating business and they've followed in mom and pop's footsteps, buying and selling vintage everything. They both began their apprenticeship in the antique and collectible trade before they could walk. Suzanne used to be at sales with, one or the other baby, in either a snuggly or carrier of some nature. As a former museum manager, in Bracebridge, I had both wee lads in the museum with me, on a daily basis. Our house is kind of a museum as well, so believe me, they've grown up to appreciate the value, and sentimentality, associated with history and its bits and pieces. This is what they represent daily in their combined shop, on Muskoka Road in Bracebridge. Watch for more stories on their shop in the near future. It's what a dad does for his kids. Right? By the way, I've been their roadie since they began their musical odyssey, playing in garage bands in the halcyon days of teenagehood.

I have been inspired by so many writers in my lifetime. From Dickens and Irving, to Fitzgerald and Steinbeck. I've been encouraged to by well known Canadian writing legends, John Robert Colombo, and my friend Wayland Drew. Every good book, every accomplished author I have in my personal library, here at Birch Hollow, continues to inspire me, every time I sit down at this keyboard, and attempt to write something or other, …….that someone else might find interesting. But there is only one author I will reach for when I'm feeling out of sorts, and contemplating quitting this writing-thing once and for all! (I quit twelve times each year, or so Suzanne tells me). It's Rimmer that picks me up, and reminds me that folly is good, foibles are just part and parcel of a good life, and inspiration comes from within……not from a bottle, not from the company kept, but from the desire to connect and to entertain others. Like thousands of others, I couldn't wait to pick up a copy of the Toronto Sun, to read the latest Rimstead column; then how grand it would be, to be anticipated in the same way by my own readers. While other writers worried about revealing too much of themselves, Rimmer was the genuine article, and it showed through every column he ever wrote. And it was great and sincere sadness, that we read about the departure of his wife and daughter from Mexico. He was heartbroken, and you didn't need to read between the lines to find this out.

I dedicate this last chapter of my own writing career, to the memory of a truly unique Canadian writer, who I greatly admired in life, and cherish still, as an author in text, still very much alive in the pages of the dog-eared copy of the book, I keep close by for company.

I might sit out on the patio and sip a cool beer, or toss down a liquor, and think about Rimstead, comfortably appointed, drink in hand, looking out over Bass Lake, and thinking about what makes a good life a complete life. For me, for Suzanne, and our boys, this is our paradise on earth. For me, they shall have to forcibly remove me from my sanctuary, when it comes that time. And my only hope is that the last paragraph I've written, will represent the joy I've had as a writer, these many years, doing my own thing when others said "Don't!" I will remain irreverent and a pain in the arse to the end. That's my toast to Rimmer. And should this be the last paragraph I ever write, I can live with it!

WHAT KIND OF ECONOMIC FUTURE CAN WE EXPECT - WAGES STAYING THE SAME - COSTS SKY-ROCKETING

In the days after the tsunami in Japan, the result of a devastating earthquake, I knew as a news' junkie, that the nuclear power plants were going to melt-down. I think it was because of the baloney being fed the public, to buy some public relation time to sort out the chaos. Many of the Japanese people were skeptical, based on past experiences, that government sources would not tell the complete story……because that might frighten folks. I think there's a more sinister financial interest that factors in to truth-distorting of this magnitude. Now this week, when they announced that…..well, we sort of had a melt-down after all, it really isn't much of a surprise to critical thinkers, who have seen and heard distortions and mistruths about other major world-wide events….and just filled in the blanks with common knowledge.

The problem today, is that with our high tech, intrusive and real-time reporting, and the failing attempts to muzzle opinion over the long haul, we're all going to be faced with the bare face of reality, and have to deal with a more vivid shade of truth than we have been accustomed. Whether it is at home or abroad, the days of muzzling the press, distorting truths for unsavory gains, is in serious decline. And we should all be pleased about this…..in time, because we're so used to being lied to, and misled, it's not easy to handle the jagged shards of unfolding, rough hewn actuality……as we watched a tsunami claim thousands of lives in Japan. The technological breakthroughs have made reporters out of us, and there was no chance for the government of Japan to mislead anyone…..unless one surrendered voluntarily to propaganda and distortion despite what we could all see. Instead of the government over-ruling the power company, responsible for the reactors, and telling the nation that melt-down was an inevitability, they continued to let the ridiculous charade continue despite, what the experts could see for themselves, was an out of control situation. They have done a disservice to their country. The contamination they tried to minimize, will defy what the government and the power company insisted was being controlled…..but damn thing is, you just can't mop up radiation with a hardy dose of P.R.!

But what really bothers me today, is the B.S. we're getting in our own country, especially on the economy and its well being. While the statistics gathered, paint us as an extremely fortunate country, as compared to the rest of the world, the figures are only that……and if you adopt the generally rosy overview we've been fed, and you take out that whopping big mortgage because real estate is always a solid investment, then you pretty much deserve your fate. Taking the critical approach, like knowing Japan's damaged reactors were going to melt-down, (without having to be told as much), the astute investor would look at a wide array of point and counterpoint, not just about the shape of the general economy, but where the housing market is headed. I don't pay much attention to the diatribes by bankers and realtors, or the vested interest generally. I chose those who have an opinion, who are not getting rich from the industry.

When I hear about the size of mortgages being taken-out today, by young folks, some newlyweds setting down roots to raise a family, I can't help but be distressed about the carnage yet to come. As it was in the United States before the real estate bubble burst several years ago, the propaganda, the good news reporting, the "we believe in you," banker-bunk, to sell high risk mortgages, we aren't so far off in this country, as we have been guilty of affording many folks with money they can't possibly afford to pay back……when, as it must be, interest rates have no where to go but up! Banks etc. have given money to customers who should have been given advice instead. Go and save some more money. A lot more! Then come and see us. Instead, what happens, is the "bend over backwards," "we're on your side," approach, that initially makes the customer believe the bank is a good friend……would a good friend yank your family home away when mortgage payments fall behind? Of course they would, and there would be nothing friendly about it! As they would say, "It's business, that's all! It's nothing personal!" Very few wide-eyed new home owners give thought to the very real potential, that at some time in the decades it will take to pay off the mortgage….if ever, something will happen to stress your personal, family economy. A lot of trusting folks, painfully naive to start with, aren't aware of the wolf in sheep's clothing. The "we can make this work," attitude looks and feels wonderful, but then that's just good business. Telling you to go away, because you don't have enough money, with the real potential you will go to another bank, is most certainly done, and it may be done frequently with new government mortgage regulations, such as down payments, but it is not done enough to prevent a pending disaster……a melt-down of foreclosures yet to come.

A real estate bubble? Realtors cringe. How is this possible? It's just market demand, you say! Investment money from overseas, taking up major real estate holdings in Canada's major cities…..driving the prices for residential real estate through the roof. This is true. It is happening. But regionally, in Muskoka, for example, no, it's just greedy intention. Everyday homeowners trying to cash in on the folly of real estate fluctuations before it goes bust. What I see, like it appeared in melt-down form, in the late 1980's and early 90's, is that inflated values have reached the point of the ridiculous, and like paying twelve dollars for a three dollar loaf of bread at the supermarket, the end of this present speculation is at hand. Whether they will admit it's a buyer's market or not, well, it is, and for those who made a killing…..selling before the glut of unsold properties on the market, bully, bully! Some win but most lose.

It used to be that a home was a place to live and raise a family. Now if you live in the same house for more than five years, oops, you missed the peak but just a tad, and have had to sit on it for a few years longer. Speculation is rampant. It has its significance. I speculate on art and antiques. My boys speculate on vintage instruments. Buying with the intent of making a profit. But we're business owners. What you find out there on the real estate hustings, are inexperienced folks buying and selling real estate as if they are chairs or guitars, stocks and bonds, gold and silver. The reality…..that few like to discuss because it seems so nasty to dampen enthusiasm at its peak, is the time tested rule……"what goes up, eventually comes down." Unless wages and job opportunities increase by leaps and bounds in this country, we are not going to be able to support ridiculous increase in property evaluations…..either for sale purposes or for the taxes based on these grossly inflated properties. There has been a lot of glad-handing around, to get to this place, where young people will simply not be able to afford to buy a garden shed let alone a family home.

Like the melt-down of nuclear reactors, denied by the big mucky-mucks, it shouldn't take anything more than astute awareness to reveal fiction for what it is. The government of this country would love you to believe that everything is fine out there, and you should carry on as if nothing could ever knock over the economy, under their administration's care and control of our welfare. If I didn't believe the b.s. in Japan, I certainly won't believe it in our own country, when government, obviously missing the meat and potatoes of the economic issue (like the slow recover in the U.S.), encourage us to look forward, and build that picket fence around that cherished, over-priced bungalow you just bought. If we thought we'd sneak by, and not be grazed by the economic chagrin south of the border, it would be the same propaganda being heralded, as God's honest truth, that Vancouver would polish off the Bruins in four straight games. You want to believe it! It's great news! Seems more like fact than speculation. Just like nuclear reactors that won't melt-down because willpower insists that it can't happen.

I don't have a business degree and I haven't been anything more, in my life, than a run-of-the-mill editorialist, who has been in the middle of economic turmoil, a real estate disaster, and earned the status of "survivor." I look at my writing accomplishments, over a lifetime, and it pleases me. I look back at the perils we survived, as a family, and I'm ecstatic. We were living the Canadian dream, just like many now are embarking, and when we bought into the "sound investment" propaganda, we had no compunction whatsoever, of buying a property we couldn't really afford. And before I could nail together the first board of that picket fence, our home was worth a lot less than we had paid only months earlier. If we could have sold it for any price! As time went by, in those less than halcyon days of the early nineties, I had no idea how we were going to make ends meet. I thought a lot, those days, about a kindly senior bank manager, who told us to go home, save more money, and come back later. We nodded, had some obvious blushing to show for our conversation, and did a right turn out of the bank door,……took a two minute hike down the street, and found a bank official who thought we were the perfect couple to get a big, big mortgage. Rather than face the truth that we couldn't afford more than a garden shed on a small lot, we got what we wanted……a debt load that would beat us down for the next decade.

Now consider this. We borrowed $105,000 in 1998. We're done now, in terms of cash reserve to meet what we owe, but we'll finish the term with accelerated payments in just over two years. Now consider the property owner who borrowed $200,000 or $300,000 recently, to purchase the same type of home that we did, back in 1989. What you should also know is that with the decline in values, our house went down as low as $120,000 from the $142,000 we paid…..in only two years. The problem we faced, and dreaded any correspondence from the bank, was the very real possibility the lenders would seek a new evaluation, and demand we put more money onto the downpayment…..as it had declined in the same way as the valuation of the property generally. That would have meant giving the house back and losing a substantial deposit.

We were young and inexperienced speculators who nearly lost it all. We had sold two previous small homes, and had made a nice profit, to put as a downpayment on a better home in a nicer neighborhood. But for our mental health, and financial well being, we should have waited to tap into a buyer's market, where we could have saved much more cash, on a better home.

I lost years of my life during this period. There was no way of avoiding depression. You went to bed worried and you woke up worried. And your dreams were nightmares, and some of them were pretty ugly! When I hear about real estate speculation today, it drives me nuts. It's like playing Russian roulette. Yes, there may only be one bullet in the chamber, but one is too much. Those who speculate by profession, know how to ride the market fluctuations. Most don't. They will go down with the market like a stone.

Don't believe everything you read. Read abundant material on the same subject, not just material you find that supports your theories. Purposely find editorial content etc., that goes against the grain, and provokes you to think more critically, before committing to something that is very, very horrible. I played a part in what could have been a life-changing financial decision…..when in fact, we were living in a nice, however small bungalow, with a lake view, in a nice neighborhood. But it wasn't fancy enough. We were like many folks today, who don't have a clue what lurks behind the credit your are afforded. You need to know this. It's a decision you should never take lightly, or simply on the advice of those with a vested interest. I have none. Just a worry about the melt-down coming our way. Prices are too high, wages not high enough!

A SNAKE, SOME FERNS AND A SAD ENDING - WHAT'S WRONG WITH US? WHY SHOULD WE FEEL BAD?

I delivered a few dinner items to the boy's store yesterday afternoon. Andrew and I sat in the van, for a few minutes, talking about some of the events of the day. Andrew stopped in mid sentence, pointed to the centre of Muskoka Road, and asked, "Dad, is that a snake crossing the road?" Before I could answer, he said, "It is a snake." I concurred. It was a garter snake trying to make it in a modern world. It was a hot tarmac and it seemed an inhospitable locale for this serpent, which seemed to be trying to get on the painted yellow line. Probably because it was cooler than the black surface, which in the sun, was steaming hot.

"Should we go and get it," asked Andrew. We had only a few seconds to react and just trying to think what we could use to scoop up the snake took-up precious time. By time we had sort of figured out what to do, and get out of the vehicle, the wee beastie had suffered two hits from passing vehicles. Andrew was upset. Just as he had been as a kid, when neighbor kids delighted in showing him how to pull the wings off butterflies. The snake was still moving a bit and he decided to spare it further tarmac insult, by whipping into the shop for a snow shovel. He raced out onto the road, and held up his hand to stop traffic, while he scooped up the near-death creature. He carried it over to the long grass beside the building, and watched it curl into a protective ring. When he got back to the car, he said, "I know dad, I know. It'll be food for something else." It reminded me of the nature walks we took along Algonquin's Booth Trail, and how nature provides its own order of things. Like the time we were feeding a chipmunk, at our campsite on Rock Lake, and had to watch a hawk swoop down and take away our picnic buddy. It was the crunching of the chipmunk's bones, within our earshot, that was a substantially unsettling reality. While the snake didn't perish because of nature exactly, the question is, why was it on the hot tarmac in the first place. Well, it couldn't go under the road. Then I remember the culvert system on the Highway 400 extension to Parry Sound and area, to allow the rattlesnakes safe places to cross the artery. I guess this snake had a really good reason to get to the other side.

Our boys were brought up to appreciate the intricacies of nature. They respected the awesome power of nature to rejuvenate itself, and they understood the importance of a healthy environment to all our lives. And, in this town, they've also witnessed the destruction of a great bounty of pristine habitat, that supports wildlife and protects our well being……..whether we choose to appreciate it or not. As he was upset by the demise of a main street serpent, I must admit to feeling this way about some of the beautiful ferns over in the bog, the victims you might say, of an all-terrain vehicle being navigated through the upper portion of the woodland. When I hear it start-up it makes me wince. Here is such a beautiful, rare, in-town natural oasis, and it just doesn't jive with four wheels and an engine. While it's not that I dislike the forest being travelled and enjoyed for what it has to offer, as inspiration and opportunity for exploration, I wonder if the chap mowing down the ferns understands the intricacies of this natural place. What is habitat to him? A house with a recreation room undoubtedly. I would like to explain to him that the habitat for the creatures of this forest, depend on those ferns and the shade they provide to the forest floor. My boys could play all day in those same woods, and tread carefully so as not to destroy this habitat. Never once did their fulfillment require a motorized vehicle to mow down what appeared so important and natural. They were taught about conservation by one of the legendary Outdoor Educators in Ontario, David Brown, of Hamilton. When Dave stayed here at Birch Hollow, as a stopover from some canoe expedition or other, he enjoyed taking us on nature walks through The Bog. He'd show Andrew and Robert, the underside of a fallen tree, and they would be mesmerized by the lifeforms thriving beneath. He didn't preach about sparing all nature. He was a realist. It was inevitable that wild places like this might soon disappear, as urban demands increase.

I thought about Dave's words, when we were forced to defend The Bog, some years after his death, as the town decided it would be a good idea to sell off this urban wetland for residential lots. We prevailed. Common sense prevailed. We still have The Bog. And we still have folks in the neighborhood, who frankly couldn't have cared less about saving the property anyway, still dumping their yard waste, and other goodies, onto this wonderful acreage. One day, earlier this spring, a truck was backed onto the shoulder of the road, and the driver jumped up on the back to push-off yard waste into the "ferns yet to be." It was someone who should have known better. But we had a little chat, and their assurances they would no longer dump refuse into The Bog. I can't tell you how many Christmas trees have wound up dotting the woods here, presenting a pretty good dry fuel source, should a fire ever break-out. All the individual cares about, is an immediate solution to a personal dilemma. Where to get rid of a balding evergreen. The Bog! Why not?

Eventually the cast of yard debris becomes part and parcel of The Bog, and of course, it's true, naturally, even the ugly old Christmas tree pile will attract residents who benefit from the cover. Each time I find another pile of yard crap tossed unceremoniously into the forest, I can't help but feel sorry for the perpetrator…..that they can not see the folly of their action…..or appreciate the world their children will inherit because they didn't appreciate the negative long-term impact of treating nature as if it is inconsequential. We have seen this lack of knowledge play-out with deadly consequence around the globe……why not build a nuclear reactor (or four), in an earthquake prone, tsunami frequent zone? Why not build on an historic, well known flood-plain? Why not have a bowl of shark-fin soup? Hey, why worry about heaping up yard debris, or flattening ferns, as long as everyone's getting what they want out of life?

I was sitting in our own woodlands, one afternoon, when a contractor's truck backed up to the shoulder of the road, where the culvert run-off cascades into a hollow and small pond. I really didn't think too much about it at the time, as there was a lot of construction going on further down the street. There was a lot of smashing and crashing going on, but I couldn't see what the two men were doing. When one of the gents yelled to the other "Toss the asphalt," I got particularly interested. By time I got down to the road, the truck was gone but the debris was in the pond. They were roofing contractors who had dumped mostly empty cans of asphalt / adhesive material into the water…..which passes down eventually into the water of Muskoka Bay and Lake Muskoka. Instead of following the truck, I spent the next hour fishing out the chemical contamination, shingles, old iron cast-offs, two garbage bags of dirty rags, and sundry pieces of concrete. I paid to have them disposed of at the town landfill site. I watched for that truck to come back down that street but alas, the dumping, apparently, was the last task in our neighborhood. I should have pursued it by going door to door, to find out where the contractor was working on the street. We were new to town and I thought it might be better to handle the situation without ruffling the feathers of our seemingly kindly neighbors. On another occasion, a contractor working for the post office, removed the wooden framing from the base of the post box, drove twenty-five to thirty feet up the road, and threw them over the embankment. Pressure treated, chemical coated wood into the ferns. How nice?

I was standing in our driveway, late one night, and saw a cab coming from further down the street, slowing and crossing over lanes toward the community post box. It slowed down enough for the driver to roll down the window and toss out a large collection of fast-foot bags and containers, partially eaten chicken legs and coleslaw, dumped all over the asphalt ramp. He took off when he saw me coming down the driveway but not fast enough that I didn't make note of the company he worked for. I did make a call. They denied that any of their drivers would do something like this. So I educated them. And while they wouldn't reveal the name of the driver who had made a drop-off on our street, I suggested that they might find it necessary to provide the name to the police, that I also intended on calling. Once again, I picked up the bear-food, and disposed of the garbage in the usual fashion. Every week, some other dork will toss off landfill materials in our neighborhood. There's another clown or clowns, who are dropping cigarette butts dangerously close to the forest, and in close proximity to slash, and other property refuse that would greatly accelerate a forest fire. I've watched poop-heads toss still-lit cigarettes out of moving cars along our street. I've extinguished those but one day, we're not going to be so fortunate. As the forest fires have had grave consequences around the world, there's a great danger of a woodland fire here as well.

We are a caring neighborhood, and there are many folks here who will fight to the death to protect these important natural qualities and quantities. I won't be losing any sleep about lo a small number of ferns being flattened, and I suppose I've come to expect assorted piles of garden waste and cast-off shrubs to dot the forest floor, and I can even tolerate the sound of a small engine and four wheels snapping the natural ground cover, but I won't ever like it, suggest it as a good idea, or buy a fern-beater myself because it's such good fun. But suffice to say, we are policing the welfare of our Bog none the less. And we have a small but eager cavalry to come to its defense.

Even hours after the snake got smushed on Muskoka Road, Andrew was still feeling bad about it! As if it was the case he let the snake down, by not jumping out the vehicle, and stopping traffic both ways, while scooping up the wayward serpent, before the first tire-blow. His feeling is genuine. His regrets are sincere. But sometimes, stuff just doesn't work out they way we would like. In this case, we lost a nice snake in downtown traffic. It should have known better, than to live where engines and wheels, asphalt and concrete are the urban jungle. Is it a failing of nature; it created us after all.

Originally Published in The Great North Arrow

WHERE IS TOM THOMSON’S FINAL RESTING PLACE? CANOE LAKE, LEITH?

By Ted Currie

The mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, for most researchers, began with the "who done it!" Most Thomson researchers agree his tragic, unceremonious tumble into the depths of Canoe Lake, in July 1917, was an assisted event. He didn’t topple over the gunnel while having a mid-lake pee, as some contend, and there’s little to suggest he had suicidal intent. When I began my own research on the Thomson caper, back in the mid-1990's, Mowat Hotelier Shannon Fraser, had replaced cottager Martin Blecher Jr., as the prime suspect, in Thomson’s allegedly violent demise.

After reading most of the books and articles, about the circumstances surrounding his death, including the 1970 CBC documentary on the Algonquin cold case, I have focused my attention on the actions of those in attendance at Thomson’s Coroner’s Inquest, held at the Blecher family cottage. Without going into detail, because frankly it simply isn’t warranted, there were two aspects of the gathering that are troubling.

First of all, there had been no opportunity for the coroner to view Thomson’s body. It had already been buried. Despite what may have been considered a compassionate act, to bury the badly decomposing body, it was a substantial breach of protocol. The coroner had every right to demand the body be exhumed. As it turned out, the body was going to be raised soon after the inquest anyway, by family request, for reburial in the family plot, in Leith, Ontario. The serious questions that linger today, can be traced back to the fact the coroner had not examined the body for signs of foul play.

Second, those in attendance, from the Canoe Lake community, all who knew the painter, and his foibles, his excesses and willingness to scrap, outrightly refused to make their concerns known to the coroner, preferring instead to go along with the easy-fix theory, Thomson had simply drowned. I am convinced, from all the books I have read, on the subject, that he didn’t have many friends around that lake in 1917, contrary to popular opinion over the decades. Imagine yourself in that same situation, attending a coroner’s inquest, and knowing full well that Thomson had been in a scrap with at least one person, close to the time his body slipped into the depths of Canoe Lake. Even if you had only heard about the incident, wouldn’t it be logical, obligatory, to bring it to the coroner’s attention? There was a deafening silence you might say that has resonated to this day, as part of the stranger than strange circumstances, surrounding the artist’s death. There was most definitely a cover-up then and in evidence thereafter, which may explain why there are hundreds upon hundreds of conflicting details, and stories still in full vigor.

Blecher and Thomson had gotten into a fight, during a drunken get-together the night before, a number of people having heard the German-American cottager threaten the artist, to stay out of his way in the future. How could you not make some minor mention, for posterity’s sake, at the very least, about the fact there had been an incident worth knowing about? The coroner, did afterall, ask for these concerns, from those in attendance. Of course the coroner’s report, I understand, went missing. Yet it is accepted fact, that the coroner’s suspicions had not been raised beyond what initial medical (on-site) examination of the body had revealed. Accidental drowning seemed to fit the cursory examination, and the responses from the less-than-keen coroner’s inquest. Why were concerns not raised? They were raised once the inquest was complete, and the coroner was aboard a train headed home to North Bay. There were suspicions of murder, and that’s exactly what Thomson biographer, Blodwen Davies discovered from her 1930's interviews around the Canoe Lake community. Was the coroner being adversely influenced by political meddling, to close the book on the case before it got ugly? We’ll never know for sure!

Most at the coroner’s inquiry, that July night, knew Thomson had a love-interest on the lake, in Winnie Trainor, who may or may not have been pregnant at the time. There may have been pressure on Thomson to marry Winnie, and it is suspected Shannon Fraser knew about the situation, and may have even tried to strong-arm the painter to do the right thing. He was a long time acquaintance, of Winnie’s father, and may have believed he was helping a friend out of an embarrassing situation. Then there was money owing to Thomson from the hotelier, which also may have sparked the argument, leading to the dust-up, allegedly causing the artist to fall and hit his head on a fire grate. There are accounts, suggesting it was Fraser and his wife, who rowed the unconscious but not deceased Thomson, out onto the lake in darkness, with his dove-gray canoe in tow, to make his disappearance look as if it had been a simple case of misadventure.

Why all the suspicion after the coroner’s inquest? Books have been filled with innuendo and speculation ever-since. It is rumored that doubts about his accidental drowning were full blown gossip, only days after the coroner’s conclusion had been signed-off. Why was it that Thomson’s friends, "alleged" I think is better stated, decide to withhold evidence, like the fight witnessed between Blecher and Thomson, yet would go on to talk about it for years to come. Under the same circumstances, and being true friends of a caring nature, any one of us might have interrupted the proceedings, that night, to advise the coroner of some incidents, and suspicions, which could have led to the manifestation of foul play. But those intimates of Thomson, decided silence was infinitely better than drawing attention to other friends, work-mates, gathered in that cottage room.

The other most blatantly ridiculous situation, a carry-over of suspicions raised shortly after exhumation, from the Mowat Cemetery, his first graveyard accommodation (of two that are known), is the nagging problem of having one deceased artist, and two resting places for his bones. There is huge speculation whether or not, the undertaker in charge of the exhumation, actually removed Thomson for reburial. Or simply sent a dirt filled, soldered-shut, metal box instead. There are published accounts that Tom Thomson’s father asked that the exhumed metal casket be opened, so he could attest to the remains being those of his son. Then there are denials this ever happened. And then there was the sensational, headline-grabbing, 1950's unauthorized grave opening, at the Mowat Cemetery, when a group of eager-beaver Thomson bone-hunters found remains in a supposedly vacated plot.

While the Thomson mystery gains momentum, contrary to what some folks wish, most agree that there’s one all consuming issue. Moreso than the cause of Thomson’s demise, is the rather unfortunate "two-plot, one corpse" scenario. For those who believe it’s best left alone, they tend to be the same ones perpetuating the mystery in the first place. While it is understandable that an exhumation is a deeply upsetting event, it seems to me a lesser consideration than the reality the mystery will always have its theorists, researchers and sundry historians; who will doggedly perservere on the matter, in all degrees, until someone, at some time finally relents to the common sense of the matter. An exhumation will allow for a DNA examination, and will support, or put to rest, at least part of the Tom Thomson mystery.

Although we all respect the rights and privileges of the Thomson family, and their longstanding desire to avoid an exhumation at Leith, Ontario, where the artist is supposed to be, the bone of contention is an occupied grave in the tiny Mowat cemetery, where an exhumation, in part, was already conducted. Of what consequence would it be, if the family believes the artist’s body is properly in Leith, to having the Mowat skeletal remains, exhumed and given the full CSI treatment, which I have suggested before. Without disturbing even a spoonful of earth in Leith, an exhumation at the Mowat plot would allow this part of the mystery to be resolved. Is it Thomson or not? If it is ruled by science, not to be of the Thomson DNA, then we know our best known landscape artist is resting in peace..... in one place only!

Solving this mystery will not alter or diminish in any way, the respect Canada and Canadians have for the work of Tom Thomson. I have heard this weak argument, and I refuse to give it any legitimacy whatsoever. Thomson’s work is compelling with or without a mystery attached. There are some who feel we shouldn’t perpetuate the mystery, yet they are dead set against its resolution if there was such opportunity. If you were to ask a hundred Thomson art enthusiasts, scholars and historians, if they would support a DNA examination of bones found in Algonquin Park......in Thomson’s vacated grave, how many today would say "Why not?" Fifty out of a hundred? More or less? But the question moreso, is why would they care at all, because the artist was moved to Leith. Right? So attempting to find out who is buried there, shouldn’t really be a moral dilemma whatsoever. Of course, this is when we find out how deep the mystery is, when even Thomson intimates admit to being less than certain, just where their artist kin is buried.

If the matter of Thomson’s resting spot is ever resolved, and I believe it will be in the future, it could never detract from the influences we have celebrated, the result of Thomson’s creations.

"Thomson never fumbles. He orchestrates, with an imposing and decorative largeness, the rugged and sumptuous natural aspects that present themselves to his vision. His painting is strong, and without subterfuge, the painting of a man immensely concerned with the nature he depicts." The following observation was made by a French art critic, at an exposition in Paris in 1927. It was the regard Thomson was earning, independent of any mystery being attached, or any controversy about where he had been laid to rest following his 1917 death. By the time a full blown crisis was raised, to a wide audience in Canada, in the 1970's, Thomson was already a legend. His reputation didn’t need a mystery to propel him to acceptance, or full appreciation, as one of the country’s great national painters. Thomson had arrived quite on his own. This can never diminish, and it is short-sighted to believe that any truth revealed about the artist, could destroy what we have enshrined in our national character.

Today we are working wonders with forensic technology, from identifying those who perished on the Titanic, to understanding what killed the crewman of the failed Franklin expedition. Forensic advancements have helped us clarify and correct misinformation, held as truth for generations, and it is to our general improvement as a civilization, to embrace its full potential. It is not a tool for sensationalist profit but a way and means to set things right that have been wrongly attributed. It can only be a positive change in the Thomson mystery, to serve respectfully the artist’s own right to rest in peace, by finding out precisely where the artist is really buried. If it is in the Mowat Cemetery, then we need to erect a substantial national memorial marker, and make this important site a public place of visitation. Just as recognized today, as his plot in Leith, Ontario.

It seems to me a matter of national significance to solve this two grave, one artist dilemma.

Originally Published in The Great North Arrow

ROY MACGREGOR’S CRITICAL APPROACH -

TOM THOMSON AND WINNIE TRAINOR GIVEN FULL SCRUTINY

By Ted Currie

A number of years ago now, Canadian art historian, David Silcox, gave me good advice about the study of Tom Thomson.

The author of numerous, well respected books on Canadian artists, and the famous Group of Seven, reminded me to never become so preoccupied with the artist’s mysterious death, that his contribution to the heritage of this country, via art, should becomes a lesser consideration.

It has been happening since Judge William Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," hit bookshelves, back in the early 1970's. Assisted by Little’s credible research, assisting with a widely viewed CBC documentary, from the same vintage, a sinister, cold-case scenario was adding murder to the legend, of the life and times of Tom Thomson.

Arguably, over the decades, his alleged murder has gained a momentum of its own. How many admirers now, when looking at his art work, have a loose smidgeon or two of mystery, swirling about in their minds? How did he die? Who would want to kill him? How can one man be buried in two cemetery plots?

. While suspicion had been raised in the early 1930's, by Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies, the CBC and Little had now made a large scale foray into the safe domain of accepted thought. The Coroner’s ruling that Thomson had been the victim of accidental drowning, in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake, in July 1917, apparently was full of holes. From the 1970's to the present, the subject of Thomson’s "drowning or murder" has spawned everything from a cottage game, to a plethora of tomes written and re-written, each one to read more exciting and revealing than the other. Thomson’s demise has inadvertently become an income generator for a lot of creative types. Just for the record, I have never earned one cent from writing about the Thomson mystery.

"Tom Thomson; Silence of the Storm," authored by Silcox, and colleague, artist, Harold Town, was one of my most coveted art resources, when I first began writing Thomson-themed columns for the local press, back in the mid 1990's. I own a signed first edition of this large format gem of Canadiana, and I’ve kept the author’s words in mind, whenever tackling a feature series, such as this one for The Arrow, where Thomson factors prominently into the story-line. Fascinated by Thomson’s art panels, David Silcox, without purposely intending to block "mystery" from consideration, certainly influenced this writer to adopt a more insightful, respectful appreciation for his creative endeavors in life. Regardless of how entertaining the story has become, intruding upon the circumstances of his death, for all these years, it is for me today, a secondary consideration to the study of his paintings. When I look at his art now, I do so differently than I did in the early years of research, when I put murder most foul ahead of all sensible proportion. I was determined to solve the case, name the murderer, and find the precise location of his mortal remains.

I have long been a fan of Judge Little’s book, and I have a signed first edition of "The Tom Thomson Mystery," of which I am delighted to own. But my prized acquisition, also a signed first edition, is Roy MacGregor’s newest book, "Northern Light - The Enduring Mystery of Tom Thomson and the woman who loved him." I actually was the first to inform David Silcox, then in England, about the release of this latest Thomson study. Always interested in updates about Thomson, he was curious about MacGregor’s approach, especially when I let him know he had employed the services of a forensic artist to do a facial reconstruction, from the skull uncovered by Judge Little, in the 1950's, during an impromtu exhumation of the supposedly empty Canoe Lake gravesite.

Thomson was supposedly exhumed and moved from the Canoe Lake Cemetery, only days after his original burial, and re-buried in a family plot in Leith, Ontario. Rumors around the lake led Little, and mates, to believe Thomson had never been moved from Canoe Lake. There was a lot of evidence supporting this assumption. With a quandry like that, why not dig up a grave? Indeed bones were found, when the band of contemporaries, on this macabre outing, put the spades through the rotten wood of the found coffin, said to have been the same one that had contained Thomson’s remains. Without question, this was destined to be an enduring mystery, as it has had, from the beginning, so very many curious events, strange characters, odd comings and goings, and coincidences on top of one another.

What is so interesting about MacGregor’s book, without question, is the fact he has now become the "keeper" of the truths, hearsay, rumors, expectations, embellishments and falsehoods about the Thomson mystery. He has become, in one alluring, sensibly prepared compendium, a worthy archivist of many theories and related details of Thomson’s final days; his death, burial, re-burial, and all the strange cast of characters who played a role, large or small, in what today is a full fledged, no holds barred mystery. And it’s his excellent portrayal of Thomson’s love-interest, Winnie Trainor, of Huntsville and Canoe Lake, that colors in the black and white of a former bare bones, incomplete history. As much as a forensic artist can put a face to a skull, Thomson researchers, long into the future, will be able to use his book as an information fountain, where nothing is summarily left out, but rather stacked to overflowing, for the benefit of discerning readers, researchers, to formulate new theories and enhance sidebar stories. As I mentioned in my last column, Roy MacGregor has become the go-to author, for anyone truly interested in a thorough examination of the past 94 odd years, of what most Thomson enthusiasts would call, wild speculation.

In Roy MacGregor’s earlier historic novel "Shorelines," the author offered everso subtly, a tease of actuality, a taste of the way it was, when portraying, with considerable inside knowledge, the relationship between artist and love-interest. He clearly established a precedent for a second book on the subject. It wouldn’t be a work of fiction either.

By his own admission "Shorelines" got him into trouble with some of his own kin, because of his family relationship to Winnie Trainor. Some of the information was too revealing. On the other hand, "Northern Light," is trouble worth taking, for what it reveals about Winnie’s conflicted life following her beau’s tragic death. I was amazed by MacGregor’s insights about this most important woman, and her role throughout the entire Thomson biography. Without this knowledge previously, the story was at best, a deep echo of unfinished research. Don’t think for a moment, Winnie Trainor wasn’t a key player in the Thomson mystery. She was. The book will explain why.

I won’t give away the story-line of a book I thoroughly respect. It is gracious to Thomson’s art work, and it reminds me of the advice by David Silcox, to separate the realities of his art from the strange nuances of conspiracy and alleged murder. He has done this, while at the same time, not holding back information about the artist’s less than stellar moments, as painter Jackson Pollock’s biographers, had no choice but to reveal his eccentricities, over indulgences and emotional outbursts.

After reading many speculative tomes on Thomson, it was MacGregor’s book that illuminated the artist in a human-on-human context, that we can relate to with some added poignancy. What has been written about Thomson’s character, has offered little more than a faint sketch, with nary a trace of mortal fibre. MacGregor’s work, as a sort of re-animation of the artist, allows for us to see for ourselves, the potential of an artist as a young man; a man with a mate, in the throes of either romance or the crisis of a relationship, and an unwanted pregnancy. There is the sensation of an actual heartbeat, and it makes this book special to my interests, in understanding the whole story of the Thomson mystery.

"Northern Light," released in the autumn of 2010, was published by Random House, Canada, and is available in most new book stores. If it’s not on the shelf, you can order one. I had talked to Roy late last year, about a book signing date in Huntsville. He said he’d let me know. And I’ll let you know if a date is scheduled this summer season.

Thanks for joining me for this column. More Tom Thomson stories to come

LEARNING BY IMMERSION - THE ANTIQUE TRADE IS AN ON-THE-JOB TRIAL OF ONGOING LEARNING

It's true. I've never held a multi-million dollar Picasso in my hands. Never once fondled a Monet or Rembrandt. Have never been asked to babysit a Turner or a Jackson Pollock. You don't know how dearly I would like to touch the oil paint, the brush stroke on a Tom Thomson original, or feel the vibes handling an A.Y. Jackson. I adore art and artists. My house is filled with their work. I rotate art like a grocery clerk shifts milk and bread, and there is never a month-span at Birch Hollow, that doesn't herald a full-scale reintroduction……when I return favorite pieces, that had been in storage, and remove temporarily, what I'd been admiring for months. I adore being surrounded by art and interesting old stuff, and it has always influenced my writing projects. I couldn't function as a writer without the close proximity of nature and both sculpture and paintings.

While I'm unhappy generally, to say, that after all my years admiring art, that I've never held a million dollar painting in my mitts, I have had many close encounters from the gallery perspective. Sure, I'd love them hanging in my parlor, or above the mantle, the fact that I've viewed thousands of major art pieces, mounted in galleries, has fulfilled many of my aspirations none the less. I credit my mother for introducing me to art, by always having some wonderful pieces in our home, and the fact she liked to talk about the artists who had created them. Ours was a modest collection but it was enough of an inspiration, to ignite my own life-long passion. I still have her heirloom paintings today, hung in my office with pride. As they motivated me as a wide-eyed kid, they do the same today. If I run into a writer's log-jam, not being able to re-start a project, I will look up at these wonderful old paintings, and feel strangely liberated, as if I'm back in our cosy little Bracebridge apartment……and I need an inspiration fix. They've never failed me yet.

My eduction was in english and Canadian history. That's the degree I received, now tightly pressed into some scrapbook but I'm not sure where exactly. it doesn't matter. I learned far more about writing and antique / art hunting than I ever did hunkered down in a classroom. Actually, I can say that about school generally. Real-life experiences, and immersion into my areas of interest, was the true learning experience, with all the dynamics uncensored, and all the climbs exhilarating, and all the falls without a safety net. One needs to feel the good and the bad, the ecstasy and the horror of the hard-core profession, that classroom instruction can't address. There is a way to deal with the actuality of profession. Like the child thrown into the water with a safety harness three times, expected to learn how to stay afloat. The fourth time, the harness isn't attached. How many of us, when we think about it, and as harsh as this sink or swim scenario might read, learned life's lessons by trial and error……a lot of error. It's how I learned to write and be published, and it's how I've spent most of my life in the antique trade. Never making a million dollars, but then never aspiring that way. My contentment, as a writer and antique dealer, is to have a heck of a good time, immersed in what I enjoy. I have always vowed, and my family respects this of dear old pop, that I wouldn't have any compunction quitting either or both, if my passion for adventure and discovery became a money-only pursuit.

Ten years from now, I expect that I will be able to open a column / blog with the same sentence as this one. I will still long to hold onto the fine work of the world's great artists. Yet I will still tell you, that there is no shortfall beyond appraisal and insurance values, of a Picasso (for example), holding some of the exceptional works of art, sculpture, folk art, fabric art, quilts etc., done over the centuries, by equally talented individuals who, for whatever reason, stayed out of the art-speculator's spotlight. There are some fabulous art works out there for the shoe-string budget I possess. I feel no less a collector because I don't have an original Tom Thomson or A.Y. Jackson within these humble walls of Birch Hollow. I am proud to own art that inspires me, and that's what makes me tick.

I have learned both trades by drastic immersion. Nothing I leaned in school prepared me for on-the-job realities. Being stuck between two pickles, and having to make the right decision, at the right time, to save a career. The pickles know me well. We've been mates for a long time. Yet being in, what they call, "a real pickle," taught me survival skills I could have never attained otherwise. University simply didn't prepare me for the actuality I was about to encounter, trying to survive as a writer, working for the community press, and as an antique picker, with a couple of bucks to invest, but big ambitions. Experience is gained, much like a rock outcropping is gouged, and etched by the slow movement of a glacier. I look back on those learning years, and confess honestly, they were damn hard. I look to the future, and expect, and welcome, the learning yet to come. That's the plain old reality, for someone who has no plans of retiring. That glacier is going to keep on forcing me to learn and love-it! Or abandon it!

The toughest job I ever had was being Mr. Mom. I'm immensely proud of having assumed responsibility for my wee lads, Andrew, starting at three months of age, when Suzanne went back to teaching. I'm still doing the Mr. Mom-at-home thing, even as both lads are now old lads, and established businessmen in our community. Dad's still on the job. Talk about immersion! Parenthood trumps everything else.

Today I'm still a million dollars shy of being a millionaire. I've enjoyed a wonderfully fulfilling life, thus far, and it has all involved unceremonious immersion in projects and professions I had little experience. I always caution my contemporaries today, to believe in the old saying, "if the experience doesn't kill you, it will make you stronger." The learning curve is continuous, despite what you thought was finished after school. There is no shortcut to understanding the trials of this mortal coil. If there's an afterlife, as I believe, possibly they'll be an answer. In the meantime, there are experiences to enjoy, personal relationships to celebrate, books to read, adventures to engage, and life to live. I could never lead a shallow life. Everything I do requires immersion, and truly, that reality leaves me at some peril. It is a chance I'm willing to take, because frankly, I just wouldn't enjoy skimming over the magic within. I need to know more about that magic. Just like those paintings that my mother dusted daily, in our old apartment, there was a spirit within, that liberated my imagination then, just as it does today……as I am perpetually a wide-eyed kid, seeing great potential where others find little to be hopeful about.

I'm a tireless dreamer. My body will decline faster, and sooner, I expect, than my undaunted expectations.

IT'S ANTIQUING SEASON - I'M IN MY ELEMENT

When working as an editor for the local press, from 1979 onward, I have always benefitted, in one way or the other, from the adventures of antique hunting. I'd get to the point, in a work week, feeling as if I was going to explode any moment. The only thing holding me together, I swear, was Saturday's auctions, yard sales, antique shop hunt, and all the flea markets between here and there.

I didn't hate my writing job. Just the numbnuts in management. So getting to an auction, or the open road on a Saturday and Sunday, was heaven on earth. It's always been this way. I've been hunting old and neat stuff since I was a kid wandering Harris Crescent in Burlington, or hanging around the arena in case a puck came over the boards, or a senior player broke a hockey stick, and tossed it my way during a game. Even at university, my girlfriend, Gail, would accompany me to weekend auctions and roadside sales, during our many traveling adventures. It's what I've always needed to break the monotony of "strictly work." I'm very efficient at my work, and I have a rigid schedule which is always self imposed. If you've worked with me in the past, you know this isn't guff. But when it comes to antique hunting, I'm as slow moving and laid back as if I was on vacation. But I come out of the weekends feeling rejuvenated. I'd get to a Friday afternoon, hating my job, to coming back on Monday morning, feeling as if nothing at all could make me the least bit mad.

I still have the love hate relationship with writing. Now I'm the "arse manager." I start each Monday morning with great anticipation for a good and productive week. By Friday at noon, I can't stand writing, and wish I'd never started in the first place. I start actively visiting my antique haunts by early afternoon on Friday, and with a full weekend planned, I know that by Monday morning, this white screen is going to be welcoming, not daunting or annoying. I don't know what I'd do without the pleasures of antique hunting. It completes me. It's okay, my wife doesn't read my work. Never has! If I ever won a Pulitzer, she'd be shocked to find out I was a writer. That's a wee fib. But we stay out of each other's professions. It works pretty well. As for antiquing, well that's a family affair.

I will be on hiatus for a short period, while I fulfill one of my fantasies. Finding the holy grail of antiques. I've been looking for 40 years. I'm due for a big find!