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!