CHRISTMAS SEASON IN GRAVENHURST - A WRITER IN RESIDENCE

Listen! Do you hear it? What about now? There it is again! My guest. My unexpected, uninvited guest. Keeping me company. Chirping. Chirping.

Somewhere at Birch Hollow there is a cricket, chirping away, as if attempting to communicate something or other about the prevailing comforts of the household. Each time I begin typing, and have a good idea what I'm going to compose two paragraphs into the future, this darn cricket will start its abrupt, annoying chatter, announcing its state of the union. Maybe it's looking for a mate. Possibly it's a disgruntled former friend or relative, who has returned to this mortal-coil as a cricket. I've tried addressing it by name but the cadence doesn't change. If it was any spirit that might re-incarnate to my office, it would be Dave Brown, my historian friend, who used to bunk-out on the couch over there, in the corner. He was an outdoor education co-ordinator and he wouldn't hurt a cricket, let along any living creature. It couldn't be my mother, because it doesn't chirp loud enough. I couldn't kill it, even if I captured the wee beastie, because of this suspicion the intrusion had a purpose. Gads.

I'm very much a creature of habit. I like things to stay the same. Somethings I can't control. In my office, things are easy to organize and situate, such that each day, except for the sun and breeze coming in this window, I have the comfort of controlling what is normal. This cricket, in the natural scheme of things, is very much doing what is normal. It's just not normal that it has come to dwell in my comfort zone. While I'm very much against the idea of hunting this creature-of-the-shadows, and killing it, because the winter is upon us, I wouldn't be able to catch and release either. I'd feel real bad all winter, that I'd caused the poor little thing great discomfort. It's just hard to keep a story-line, because every time I stop, and look about to see where the chirping is coming from, I forget half what I was writing about. It took me a long time to get used to our cats jumping up on my lap, while I'm typing, but forgive me for saying that the purring of the felines, is much preferable to the start of the unsettling round of chirping; that by the way, always seems so urgent and of grave consequence. There's an interpretation issue, I'm sure, so I should seek out a cricket whisperer for clarification.

Strange as this may seem, I found a book at a local charity "Sale for Jesus" (I'm serious), on Saturday, containing a most appropriate passage. I thought that if Jesus had something to do with this sale, possibly he was trying to send me a message about toleration and harmonious living. The book is entitled "The Yellow Briar," by Patrick Slater, containing a most insightful overview of pioneering in Ontario. As if by some strange manifestation of providence, it contains a reference quite suitable to my present situation……as a writer and as a landlord here at Birch Hollow. It seems the best place to start this series of Christmas season blogs, for my hometown, and as an explanation, why I adore working and living in Gravenhurst. It reads as follows:

"And here I sit, a garrulous old fellow whose trials and troubles are all over, chirping away and as happy making noises for my own amusement, as any cricket in a crack by a glowing chimney corner. Sure an Irishman gets a lot of fun watching the world go by. But my warmth comes from memories of the long ago. So I ask you, folk, to fill your glasses with the moonshine of the hills where speckled trout still lurk in limpid streams." Here's to the worn-out hearts of those who saw a nation built, and to the proud, fun-loving young hearts that have it in their keeping." Ave Atque Vale - 1924.

If you have now wondered whether an old writer has taken leave of his senses, well, maybe I have. I'd like to believe in my celebratory frame of mind, like Scrooge, in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," that I've come to my senses. That I've awoken to the clear awareness, it is another day before Christmas, and there is still time to correct some wrongs, and resolve misadventures. There's time to compliment the town that has cradled our family, and created such enthusiasm in this writer's heart. And it all begins, in this humble little abode, this tiny office overlooking The Bog, with three cats nearby, and a cricket that's now home for the season. I hope you will find reason to join me, despite the wee chirping, now and again, mixed with the crackling of cedar in the hearth, and a background of Mozart, creaks and snaps of a house in the cold, and the permeating aroma of Suzanne's Christmas baking…….as much a distraction as the cricket these days. Pull up a chair, and I'll adjust the oil lamp so we can see each other. If you feel a hand on your shoulder, it's just a ghost. Friends of ours, who have attached themselves to a house they apparently enjoyed visiting. Nothing to worry about. They mean you no harm.

The fact that I have initiated this Christmas season tradition, as a blog this year, is greatly out of character for me. I have been writing Christmas journals since I was a kid, and I've written in many locations, in old houses, cottages by the lake, apartments and duplexes, and sometimes in hotels during my more adventurous youth. I have never sought to publish them because they have always been particularly personal. I've borrowed some themes, worthy of stand-alone features articles, in many different publications. I've long been fascinated by the Christmas ambience, and how it changes from place to place, town to town, and how my impressions change from year to year. Several years ago, my father Ed, who adored Christmas, and made a big fuss about shopping with the boys every year, had a stroke in mid-December, and our Christmas season was spent largely at the hospital. It was the first year we settled for a tiny table-top Christmas tree, with flickering lights (which I can't abide), because no one felt all that merry. We did okay, and had a good Christmas with Ed (in hospital quarters) but because we knew he wasn't going to survive, there wasn't much chance of lifting the melancholy for long. Still, that's the rigors of reality and the loop of the mortal coil. I still made copious notes, and that has always made things feel better, even if they weren't in fact, and it was one of the most prolific writing periods in recent memory. It lasted through that spring season. Ed didn't.

This year, as a way of carrying on a tradition, of journalling through the Christmas season, I decided to go public. I wanted to share some personal observations, about the town that has been our home since 1989. At a time when Gravenhurst has had to shoulder a great deal of economic chagrin, and random, unfounded comments that suggest, "the town is cursed," I felt it was time, to share a contrary opinion, based on personal history. As I have mentioned many times in the past, I am particularly fussy about the places I call home, even temporarily, and I'm more than just a little demanding about the place I write. I have written on the beaches of Florida, and on the fringe of Sherwood Forest, in Nottingham, England. I've penned lengthy tomes looking out over Lake Joseph, when I lived in an enchanted little home, known as "Seven Persons Cottage," on Lake Muskoka, and at the family cottage on Lake Rosseau. I've written from a canoe in Algonquin Park, while looking for Tom Thomson's ghost, and I've written in the attic of Bracebridge's former McGibbon house, an estate that was home to many, many wayward spirits. And since 1989, I have begun my Christmas journal in early November, concluding by tradition, on the strike of midnight, on New Year's Eve. It has been a most prolific period of my professional life, and I owe it to this neighborhood, this old town, and all of its interesting characteristics, with a provenance of tantalizing history, colorful community builders, surviving traditions, and a kindness of heart one can't mistake for anything else. I have written in many places, where I could not muster the enthusiasm to create for long, and even an interruption by this cricket of mine, would have been a welcome relief from the misery of creative hiatus. I have written, as with the old Herald-Gazette building, on Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, because I was employed to do so; and always with great volume to fill the white spaces of the weekly news. In my younger days as an editor and feature writer, I could force myself to write whenever or in whatever locale it was necessary to meet a publishing deadline. Today it's just not that free-flowing any more. That's why it is so important to the old author-me, to have such an inspirational place, such that finding a good time, to sit down in my office, and write, is never a burden….never something I won't heartily enjoy. I feel comfortable in this town, and while that may not seem enough credit, or endorsement to rid the town of this "curse" innuendo, well, maybe I can change that, by time we get to that New Year's toast….ending with that festive kiss on the cheek, between good friends, and family, who quite like it here…..at home in Gravenhurst.

GRAVENHURST AND MUSKOKA IN ART

I began as a collector of stuff, at about the same time that I began writing about similar stuff. When people ask what I do for jollies, I answer, "well, I'm an antique collector / dealer." When they ask what I do for profit, I answer politely, with a grin I can't erase, "well, I'm an antique dealer /collector." When they persist and ponder about my actual profession, I answer, "I'm a writer." And they get that tell-tale twinkle in their eyes, and usually respond something like, "That explains the antique thing." As I have been a starving artist most of my life, I'm pretty good at the antique thing. But there is still this confluence between professions, and the best way to deal with it, as it has been the case over many decades, I simply opt to write columns about our collecting adventures in Ontario. My antique-related columns date back to my first serious writing gig, in the late 1970's, for the fledgling Bracebridge Examiner. This afternoon, I will be preparing for a multi-year column series on collecting, for a wonderful publication known as "Curious; The Tourist Guide," which is available in Gravenhurst and Muskoka generally.

I have published a small painting that, for some time, has hung by my desk, which is a naive, folksy, intriguing little art-panel, purchased some time ago in Gravenhurst, that gives such a interesting sense of occasion and motion, as if the horse and cutter are whipping down into the treed valley. It is the apparent motion, and the way the artist has textured the landscape, that gives it the kind of impression of winter, history, and the allure of the Muskoka countryside. The writer needs the co-operation of the antique collector, who so kindly acquired the wee painting, and loaned it for inspiration. So I wanted to share one small example of my two curious professions, one feeding the other's interests. I dare say I'd be half as prolific without the many paintings hung here at Birch Hollow. The writer me, thinks the collector him, is pretty good at turning a profit as well. Much of my career in antiques, as it has been for writing, has been working in Muskoka. Since 1989, these combined industries have been working here in Gravenhurst, and I'm deeply indebted to the local environs on behalf of both writer and collector. Our boys, Andrew and Robert, of course, have carried this interest on, and have their own vintage music shop in the old Muskoka Theatre building, opposite the landmark Gravenhurst Opera house. Gravenhurst and Muskoka are not just places to live. They inspire our family daily, and we are so grateful.

Whether or not this little painting is a depiction of some Gravenhurst scene, or a wider Muskoka landscape, it is none-the-less an art piece that reflects Canadiana, my passion as a collector. I have many other regional, provincial and national paintings that remind us of our past. Suzanne's family were some of the earliest settlers to the Ufford, Three Mile Lake settlement (near Windermere), and I'm proud to say my family were of United Empire Loyalist stock, and fought in both the Revolutionary War, for the Crown, and then again, as volunteers, in the War of 1812. My attraction to Canadiana is, you might say, kind of a family-tree thing, and Suzanne is quite proud of her ancestry research most recently. Her great-grandfather's dug-out canoe is prominently displayed at the Muskoka Lakes Pioneer Museum. We're pretty passionate about home and country, and we have lots of items at Birch Hollow, that are heirlooms from a long line of family members who felt exactly the same.

I have been buying and selling regional art and antiques since my late teens, when I first started to attend local auctions. Over the memorable decades, we have helped build Muskoka archives for many private collectors, and placed important local heirlooms in the hands of museums, public archives, and galleries, locally and nationally. After many years of experience, we enjoy being referenced as Muskoka collectors, historians, antique dealers, and most important, "friends of." While this might not seem to be much of a Christmas-theme story, for this seasonal blog, it really is, from my perspective, surrounded here by art reminders of winter, spring, summer, and autumn landscapes, at home in Gravenhurst, in the beautiful District of Muskoka. If the news of the day gets a little ponderous, and it seems there is nothing uplifting to write about, either a walk in The Bog, or a casual glance at any one of these paintings, will evoke a sense of well being, and abundant potential. The painting I have included with this Blog, is just one example of the resources I possess, that remind me of the home district……the home town, all done by competent artists, craftspeople, who look out upon such landscapes, and seasonal activities, and find inspiration and contentment in the scenes many of us would take for granted. I have many more paintings that offer similar invigoration of feelings, and remind so poignantly, that we often don't see the whole picture. At times when it appears that our hometown is in great peril of collapse, or that bad things only happen in Gravenhurst, I'm constantly reminded how shallow we can be, when we fall into the depths of self-absorption, and refuse to allow brightness, and optimism, its capability to spring eternal…..even in the coldest, most severe part of an old fashion Canadian winter.

When the settlers arrived in Muskoka, on the encouragement of the Free Land and Homestead Grants, and all the hoopla of immigration agents, and steamship line story-weavers, they found little of what they had been promised, and lots of what they didn't expect. Such as huge, thick forests, great boglands that needed to be bridged, and a lot of rock. It was a generally poor agricultural area, with thin soil on rock, and a million trees to remove before there was enough open land to farm for sustenance, more than the thought of eventual profit. In the 1880's there was an Agricultural report that indicated, Muskoka was a good location, to experiment with settlers, from an assortment of overseas countries. The idea was that if the settlers in our region, could make farms and an economy out of the wilderness, then the same plan could also work in the more northerly regions of the province and country, with even harsher conditions and shorter growing seasons. The reality that many homesteaders perished on this land, we now reside, because they came overseas ill-prepared for the actual conditions of the 1860's onward, seems quite tragic and a poor way to start a region's settlement history. Many moved on before starvation, and others cleared homesteads, and after several failed crops, turned over the acreage to the government to find another brave soul to carry on. While local historians are pretty cautious about making such statements, it has always bothered me that so much emphasis has been placed on industry and business advancements, at this same time, without giving equal coverage to the destitution and starvation occurring in the midst of settlement progress. There are many unmarked graves in the hinterland, of families that perished in many unfortunate ways…..from sudden sicknesses and little medical help, to the rigors of farm life, and logging (where many settlers had to work), which was responsible for thousands of deaths. When we dwell on hardship today, in our hometown, or the wider region, excuse the historian, for thinking back, to an earlier time, when the old log shanties offered a thin layer of protection for a homestead family, and the wind-whipped snow of November, illustrated quite clearly, the vulnerabilities of the less capable…..the less fortunate, by the size of drifts inside the cabin. Whatever I witness, or read about today, I am always concerned yet, by important, mostly forgotten historical precedent as it is always incumbent then to look at the foundation of this community…..in order to realize that nothing has ever been achieved without serious consequence. When we are led to believe, by the media, that we are in dire straits, and our main street needs emergency action to reverse trends, again, it is impossible for this historian, to lose perspective on what life offers as a matter of progression,…..the reality that there is evolution of everything, and that some change is impossible to thwart.

My love and respect for Gravenhurst, is from an historian's privilege of experience. When the first snow begins to fall, this November, I will venture out, and celebrate this wondrous change of season. I will wander the path through the Bog, and watch in wonder, as the remaining cat-tails are dusted in snow. I will be haunted by the low moan of the wind over Muskoka Bay, as it rumples up over the evergreen fringe, along the ride of the hollow, and undoubtedly then, cherish a hearthside seat after a brief vigil in the winter woods. Later, a page will be inserted in this old Underwood typewriter, and I will be thrilled to represent what I witness beyond. I will think about the present reality, and fully appreciate what is happening this day, to my lads deep in main street commerce, ponder how my wife, the teacher, is getting along with her latest project, and feel quite comfortable with my own global positioning, in a town I've grown to know intimately in this creative enterprise. When the wind drives the snow against this warm pane of glass, and the light of the oil lamp flickers in the draught, through the imperfection of an older house, I will recall that pioneer cabin, where the family, on the cusp of severe winter, held nervously to the strong faith and mortal resolve to survive to see the dawn of a bright new spring.

I am excited about the coming Christmas season. This cricket and me have a lot of writing to do!