From Burlington to Gravenhurst and Back

I AM SO HAPPILY HAUNTED BY THE PAST - I GET A CHANCE TO SAY THANK YOU, GRAVENHURST TO BURLINGTON

MAKING A BURLINGTON CONNECTION AFTER ALL THESE YEARS - I AM INDEBTED TO THE ALCHEMY OF THE INTERNET

     For those who know me well…..maybe too well for their own good, they realize that when I tell them something we do together, will generate some unspecified psychic action and reaction, they will thusly appreciate the importance of making this latest connection, from my first true hometown, to most likely, my last. Suzanne came running to me last night, to pull me away from the CBC News, to tell me about an incredible email we'd just received……that was allegedly, going to make my year. Emails I get are usually short and sweet, and begin and end with the word "jerk." Other emailers typically want me to buy a skid of Viagra or baldness eliminator, which I respectfully decline. I just couldn't imagine what kind of electronic correspondence would quality as "incredible." Keeping in mind, my wife is a school librarian and measures her words and excitement about such things very carefully. This was a code blue for her. Well by golly, the content of the email, not only was a highlight of the year, but of more than three decades. You see, it was back in 1977, that I last visited with our family friend, Anne Nagy, of 2138 Harris Crescent, in Burlington, Ontario. Where I "cut" my teeth on outdoor adventures, and earned my stripes as a resident, and neighborhood trouble-maker. It was where I became both a collector and a future writer, and in many ways, Anne Nagy was an effervescent, unfailing source of direction and inspiration. She was my day-mother for quite some time, while my parents, Merle and Ed, worked through the week in either Hamilton or Toronto.

     The email was sent by a very kind lady, who happens to know the Nagy family well. In fact, Tracy McKelvey, lives in the same building, where our own small family used to reside, and often sits at the front of the building with Anne herself. They like to chat about the neighborhood and its history, and apparently Anne has quite a few stories about the good old days. I don't think my name came up, during their conversations, but Tracy decided to do a bit of online research, to see if there was any morsel of unknown history about this quaint bailiwick of residential Burlington……nestled so comfortably on the hillside above the expanse of Lake Ontario. This is where she found reference to Harris Crescent, and Anne Nagy. I had written a blog some time ago, about my rapscallion days growing up on this wonderful cul-de-sac. In fact, over the past six or seven months, I've written a dozen or so blogs about my early days growing up in this chestnut-tree lined neighborhood, rising up Torrance Avenue (I think it was), from the Lakeshore Road. I'm not sure if it was Lakeshore Avenue or Road. I just know I loved it there, with the sound of Ramble Creek gurgling in the abutting hollow, my mother called "the ravine." I went to school in Burlington listening to the fog horns of the freighters on the lake. I went to school in Muskoka, in later years, listening to loons. I liked both sounds.

     Tracy you see, offered, so kindly, to print-off a copy of today's blog, for Anne's benefit. While Anne was always a very astute and progressive contemporary lady, I couldn't imagine her hunkered down over a computer, like I am today. I was sorry to learn that her husband is in a retirement home, because Alec was my first close friend. You see, Alec and Anne, and their daughter Mary Anne, were the owners of the apartment building I have always remembered as "2138 Harris Crescent." It's what Merle had written onto the inside label of my windbreakers and snowsuits, so I'd get them back, when I dumped them because I got too hot playing. But it was always "Nagy's Apartment," and, if I was vain enough to write a proper biography, it would take up the first six chapters. I learned a lot in those few years, from the mid 1950's to just after the Assassination of John F. Kennedy. That's when my mother had to write a new label in my clothes. For several years our new address was "1321 Brant Street," in the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington. I didn't like that apartment, because it wasn't Nagy's. I never really understood why we moved in the first place. I was a happy camper sitting under the shade of Anne's beautiful cherry tree in the back yard. I was more than just a little contented to hover over the wire fence, that separated our apartment building from the enchanted Victorian home belonging to Mrs. White. She had some interesting fruit trees and mysterious out-buildings, that Alec warned me to stay away from……and Merle told me Mrs. White, God rest her soul, would turn me into a horny toad, if I crossed that threshold property-line. I did cross that line, ripped the arse out of my pants, getting back over, and had a hard time explaining to my mother, how I got a two foot long scratch down the inside of my leg, during one of the great escapes.

     Anne looked after me, and another child, by the name of Jeanie Sproule, and I think on several occasions we may have done somethings deemed "very bad"…….not sure what it was……possibly eating our silly putty, or something, but we had a fair number of time-outs. I used to take my soul-searching respites, huddled under the Nagy's beautiful piano, where I could not, for the the life of me, stop screwing with the pedals. Anne had a way of emphasizing my name, that was deep and stretched in speech, such that it sounded like, "Tedeeeeeeee!" When I was removed from that portal, I was told to sit on her leather couch, which contained an unspecified smell of preserved hide, that I can recall any time I want to reminisce. If I'd been particularly bad that day, I hid my face deep in the corner of that couch, to bury my shame for disrupting Anne's always busy schedule. I don't know if inhaling leather was a good thing or not, but I spent a lot of time riding that former cow. The scent always reminded me of walnuts. As I usually only sat on the couch when I was in trouble, I associated leather and walnuts as contrary articles to the person I was becoming.

     As I'm a devilish bugger even today, I was to the exponent of ten, back then. If my mother told me not to come home with a "soaker,' I would come home with two, the behind torn out of my pants, a cut on my forehead from some innocent rock throwing, and I might even have a couple of slippery smelts tucked into my pants. No really. Don't laugh. I'd even come home with frogs in there, and maybe once or twice, one of the big "Suckers" that used to thrive in the still, dark pools of Ramble Creek. So For Anne Nagy, I was a challenge. I was much more respectful of her, than my mother, because Anne could run like an Olympian hurdler, and catch me by the arm like she was in the throes of a relay race……Jeannie with the other. Alec was also surprisingly nimble when he heard a crash, and it's a wonder I didn't give him a heart attack…..because there was a lot of crashing attributed to "that Currie kid." I heard one lady remark, after I'd overturned a grocery cart in a store, by accident, that she could smell "sulphur." So I wanted to know what that meant, and what sulphur smelled like. "Like the devil," she said with a chuckle, picking up the broken eggs, and pieces of glass from the former pickle jar, shattered in the tipped-over cart.

     My greatest pleasure, as I have written about frequently, over the years, was when Anne was in her kitchen cooking, and I had to be kept under control. I wanted to be restrained, if it meant my time-out zone was her kitchen. I'd sit in the small room, watching her cook…..bake pies, cut up and peel apples. I got to eat the peels first and the fresh baked pie at lunch. Her culinary creations were to die-for, and Alec knew how good he had it…….and on a few occasions, he may have winked, when we'd come in the hallway door, and he start licking his lips in advance…….because he knew what each aroma represented that lunch or dinner. It was Alec Nagy, who taught me the old-school way, of dining in Anne's kitchen. You didn't worry about utensils. That's what the honking big slice of bread, dripping with butter was all about. He showed me how to "embrace the bread," as if it was man's best friend. It was what would sop-up the gravy in the stew, and curved into the shape of a scoop, to then bring forth the meat, potatoes and carrots, without the metal taste of a spoon. He showed me how to enjoy good food. I can always remember Alec in his trademark undershirt, with arms like Popeye, settled down over his meal like…..as if it might be his last; he was going to celebrate every bite. I watched him like a Hawk, because I was often experiencing menu-items I wasn't used to getting at home. I had the best of the best. Hot apple pies for desert. Home made by a heaven-sent cook, who liked nothing more than a guest who begged for seconds. Actually, Alec and I got to the point we just looked at her longingly, and we'd get a re-fill of whatever was being served. Her cabbage rolls were like a drug for me. Even as a teenager when one of my cronies would ask if I wanted some marijuana, and while it was kind of embarrassing, I'd mumble softly, that honestly, I'd sooner have a cabbage roll instead. It was Anne Nagy who honed my passion for culinary adventure, and Alec who showed me what a "boarding house reach," was. If I wasn't fast enough on the draw, with a long enough reach, he'd beat me for the last slice of bread, or the one hot muffin still on the table.

     The Nagy's ran the nicest, cleanest, and friendliest apartment building anywhere on earth. I used to help her clean. My thrill was to get to use the giant mop-type contraption, she used on the apartment hallways, and the aromatic product, red and green, she used as a dust suppressor. Dustbain or something like that, but the smell is also one of those childhood senses that has survived, for me, into this new century. When Alec had a day off, from his manufacturing plant, which I always thought was International Harvester, I used to help him mow the lawn. He had this giant open bladed mower, like a hand-pushed model but with what sounded like a Harley-Davidson engine; that when he started it started up, got the attention of all the neighbors, including the evasive Mrs. White, who would show up on her covered verandah, wondering if an aircraft was going to crash. He kept it in a small white shed, with many intriguing doors, at the side of the building, and it always smelled of lawn care and gasoline. I didn't gain any mechanical skills from Alec, just some good cuss words when he pinched his finger in the lawnmower, or hit his thumb with a hammer. Once again Mrs. White might look over the fence to see what all the fuss was about. Alec would just smile and wish her a good day, and then return to cussing…..but not for my ears.

      Then there was the day I was riding my first two-wheeler, when I did a cartwheel in front of the apartment. Alec, who was no stranger to tending his own wounds, as a handyman, ran out of the side-yard like a superhero, pulled the bike off my head, and when he asked if I was okay, it was just seconds before he saw the huge gouge in my leg, caused by an errant pedal. So while I was dusting off my road-rashed ass, he kept me distracted, because I got faint at the sight of blood. I can see someone else's blood, just not my own. So before I freaked out about the big hole in my leg, Alec was already ushering me away from the middle of the road, and to his little shed where he kept a medical kit. At least this is how I remember it. 'It's okay Teddy, just a little cut." "Cut?" I answered. That was the magic word. "Am I going to die?" I blurted as I started to feel light-headed. I was on the verge of fainting, when something began searing at my flesh. Cripes, he'd dumped about a half bottle of iodine on the wound, and I swear to Christ there was smoke coming off it. I have feared iodine ever since. I'd have gladly bled to death, than have that horrible stuff on my cut. He actually had to hold me from strangling him, and I was only a kid. Strange thing about iodine. It has about a two minute horror threshold, before the pain subsides. I know it was the right treatment at the perfect time, and every time I look at the impression, still visible after all these years, I can't help think about the morning of the iodine incident. It sure as hell made me want to stay on my bike, after that. I've always been wary of medical kits however, and what antiseptic that can hurt me, is tucked inside.

     Alec didn't like repetitive chatter on my part. I think that's why he used to do the lawn so recently……that seemed like the whole time when he was home, and not eating or sleeping. I had two items I wanted from his collection of old stuff. I wanted a metal popcorn basket with a wire handle, that I think was used over an open fire, and an old suitcase he kept in his shed. So knowing he didn't like my badgering, I gave him both barrels. It took weeks. He even went to my mother and asked permission. "Teddy's driving me nuts Merle…..can he have this stuff," he begged. The popcorn popper was for no other purpose, than to prove I had what it took, as a kid, to get what I wanted. The suitcase? I was a big circus fan, and I had an idea that I was meant to be a performer in one. I often heard people in our neighborhood say things like, "That Currie kid belongs in a three ring circus," and "Does the circus know that kid escaped." So I thought it would be neat to put all my performance tools in the old musty smelling suitcase, that I could haul around the yard……ready to perform on a moment's notice. I used the empty suitcase as a small but adequate stage for my acts. I wasn't very good, or so folks told me by walking away briskly, and not looking back. So the circus phase was over quickly. Merle wouldn't let me keep the musty suitcase in the apartment, so guess where it wound up…….for the very next kid to find, while watching Alec working in his shed.

     Anne and my mother used to sit on the parking lot side of the apartment, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's multi-family house, just above the ravine, where Ramble Creek frothed over the flat limestone bridges. I remember the spring we had a nest of newly born bunnies. Rabbits. The mother had made a nest in a clump of spring flowers, in the side garden. Anne, by her own admission, had made the mistake of showing me the wee ones, when the mother had hopped away down the hillside. I was a bunny junkie. I could not stop watching and peaking at the young ones. Anne warned me a hundred times or more, not to disturb the nest or the mother rabbit would abandon them. Like Ringo touching the button on the Yellow Submarine, warnings didn't matter. I was persistent beyond comprehension. So when Anne and my mother weren't around, I had my head in the clump of flowers. I made the tragic mistake of touching them. I returned one day, after school, to find two of the bunnies were deceased. The third one was gone. Anne's kitchen window was right there, on then bottom floor of the apartment, and she knew what had happened. So I got one of the best life and death lectures of my life. She told me the mother rabbit had abandoned the nest because of the human scent I left, and the babies had starved. "But there were three babies," I exclaimed, believing it was possible, the mother had rescued one of her litter. "A fox got one," she said with what looked like a wink, so I was never sure if she was just being emphatic, and demonstrating the importance of listening to sage advice. I was a mess after this. I'd caused the death of three beautiful little bunnies. I destroyed a whole bunny family. "See what I told you," she said, my mother nodding in the background. 'When we tell you not to touch something, what do you think we mean by that?" Now this was a poignant recollection, and a story I used on my own boys here at Birch Hollow, where there are critters everywhere……and we're known as conservation activists. But I have this blemish, you see, and although I've repented for my sins, I'm stuck with that image. It's so traumatic, that I had to beat a hasty retreat out of the local grocery store, at Easter this year, when I saw a skinned rabbit at the butcher's counter. A life long trauma because I wouldn't listen to Anne Nagy.

     My first introduction to "The Beatles"……and I'm pretty sure of this, was when Mary-Ann showed me her collection of "Beatles Cards" she had purchased…..and I was really freaked-out that any one would have cards with bugs on them. I remember the sweet smell of chewing gum on the cards…..as this is how they were sold in those days. The gum was horrible but it smelled nice. Now if it wasn't the Beatles, it was something similar. She didn't have a lot of interest in the snotty-nosed Currie kid from upstairs. She was in high school then, I believe, and she was always on the go, if I remember correctly. I'd just sit beneath the piano, when I was bored, and play with the pedals, until I heard Anne's booming voice once again.

     As a career writer, who has always had more fun at the craft, than financial success, I have been drawing on all my fascinating connections, built-up over a lifetime……and Burlington still offers a big pool of past experiences to fill my bucket. I might be an historian by profession, but I'm a "memory keeper," by habit. I relate many contemporary realities and events, to my years growing up, and if I look at you strangely, I may be either connecting with your previous life, or you look similar to someone I knew in those neighborhood ambling days in Burlington…….creekside relics hanging out of my pockets, a snake or toad in my hand. I was a real treat coming home from school, with arm-loads of chestnuts, some still in the barbed green husks, others all shiny and oddly shaped in every pocket. I can remember occasions when Anne and my mother saw me coming around the corner, and I know they were hatching a plan to reduce my load before it made it through the apartment door. They got some of the contraband, but I became a capable smuggler.

     As I got a little more independent, Anne just became the somewhat invisible "watcher," to make sure I was safe, and held nothing in my possession that would either start a fire, or blow something up. My mate Ray Green was the trigger man in our operation. We would be standing there one moment, good as gold (as my mother used to quip), and then something large would fall over, or a neighborhood kid would come home screaming about the fact we had pulled his underwear so tight, in a see-saw motion, that it had completely disintegrated in a whisp of smoke. I won't lie. Ray and I were the devil's spawn in those days, and on many occasions I heard the angry footfall of a Nagy, either Anne or Alec, or both, running to see what the commotion was all about. Like the time Alec told me to stay away from my dad's old car. It was really old, as it was all he could afford. It was about a 1947 Pontiac. He had parked it out the front, after having just bought it at a local car lot, and I was particularly interested in how the trunk worked. Alec was at his work shed, at the side of the building, and every now and again, even without seeing me perpetrate the deed, he knew the trunk had been disengaged. After about four or five interventions, only to find that I had disappeared before he could catch me, the final act was precious for all those who felt I deserved a little something special. Yup, I slammed my hand in the trunk. I was stuck there, when Nagy came around the corner hell bent on catching me. It was real easy that time. "What did you do Teddy," he barked. I couldn't spit out the words to describe the pain I was in, as my fingers were wrapped around the frame of the trunk. He popped the truck, looked at my hand, cussed a little under his breath, and led me to his shed. I knew what that walk meant. My feet only lightly touched the ground. Out came the first aid box, and before I could object, I got the iodine treatment again. I was of course speechless, but I cried a lot. I always felt Alec thought, that even if I'd had a broken bone, there was nothing better for one's recovery, than a heaping helping of iodine. His heart was in the right place. My father treated all ailments, even my mother's initial stroke, with a glass of ginger ale. Every childhood illness I had, he'd order a bottle of Canada Dry to be delivered from the drug store. I survived all this illnesses. Maybe he was right. I not so sure about the iodine. I hated the smell. The pain wasn't so great either.

     So then there was the occasion when Anne, Alec and Merle told me to stay away from a metal vent pipe, or conduit for something, at the side of the building, near the doorway to the furnace room. I didn't know much about Mud Daubers…….still don't, other than what I learned that fateful day. It seems these wasp-like creatures make their hives out of gathered mud….or dirt that they somehow moisten with secretions. So at the end of this candy-cane style pipe, there was a clog-up of mud and these flying critters. I was told I could watch them from a safe distance. They didn't tell me, I couldn't send my friend Ray in for a closer look. In fact, they never once explained to me, how dangerous it could be, to suggest Ray actually sniff the mud, because I told him that these unusual, magical insects made it smell like honey. They certainly didn't warn me that while Ray was sniffing the Mud Dauber's den, that throwing a baseball at the base of the pipe was employing horrible judgement. Poor kid. Ray had his nose within an inch of the suckers, and I hit the pipe with the ball, and the kid's whole body was covered in these bandy legged wee beasties stinging the crap out of him. So I started screaming too, to diminish the likelihood I would be seen as the villain. I hadn't counted on witnesses who heard me instructing Ray to get a closer look. Well, the good news is, Ray recovered, but looked kind of funny in class the next day. I told those who were kidding him, to back off, or they'd deal with me. What are friends for? It wasn't like I'd been trying to kill him or anything, or at least this is what his mother wondered. Ray made up for this, on the winter afternoon when he suggested I should jump on thin ice, over a deep pool of Ramble Creek. I had a body-type snowsuit on, that when full of water, was like wearing several cement blocks around your neck. When I started screaming, in the chest deep water, Ray did what he thought was right. Buggered off. If it wasn't for a couple of girls playing in the driveway above, who heard my shouts, I would have been reduced to ghost status, to forever haunt the ravine. I think Merle was with Anne when they found me just about to slip below the ice, and it took a behemoth effort to pull me out of the water. Ray and I did this to each other until our late teens, and it is truly amazing that we survived as long as we did. Of course there was the time Ray and I and some of the local notables, dared each other into a frenzy, to climb through the levels in the still open structure of Torrance Terrace, in the middle of construction. We were about six floors up, I think, and were running all over the place, with nothing closed in, to stop us from plummeting over the side. I was pretty good at fobbing things off on someone else, as I do today, so on this Sunday afternoon, I was the only one not hauled home by the ear lobe home, courtesy the attending constable. Why did we do it? Well as a famous Mount Everest climber once answered, "Because it was there."

     I have so greatly benefitted, throughout my life, as a journalist, writer and historian, possessing so many recollections of the places I have lived before. There are few writing jags at this keyboard now, when I don't push back the chair for a brief hiatus from work, and think about the collective of positive influences I've enjoyed, and the truly wonderful characters I've known in these charming places I have dwelled. I will spend the rest of my life, feeling fortunate, to have had the good company of Anne and Alec Nagy, and their daughter Mary Ann, who tried everything possible, to keep me, as they say, on the straight and narrow. It might sound sappy, and sweetly nostalgic, and of this I can only offer the apology….."I'm sorry you weren't there with me…..we would have had a heck of a time."

     So here's one last little tidbit of recollection, about an event I kept secret from the Nagys and my parents. Despite all the warnings, and dire predictions, I was going to kill myself by excess…….as a rabid seven year old, (or in that general vicinity) there was the time I managed to ride my two wheeler down the street without crashing on my own. I was thinking about the iodine. I was riding on the sidewalk, and heading past the driveway of the Ratkowski (not sure of spelling) market garden, straight up Torrance, and I met a car that went through the intersection without stopping, and into the driveway of the farm warehousing. I got hit while on the sidewalk, and I know it wasn't my fault. The older gentleman hadn't seen me, but reacted quickly once he did. I was knocked over by the big chrome bumper of the car, and the bulge of the hood crushed my fingers against the handlebars. If he hadn't hit the brakes when he did, I would have been the dearly departed. I jumped back on my bike, and fled the scene. Even before the guy could get out of his car, I was gone like a shot. I had never been that frightened of anything….even the iodine. One of the reasons, is that if word had got out, and the fuzz had been called, I inevitably would have brought down our Elmer the Safety Elephant flag, at Lakeshore Public School. The last kid that was hit by a car, destroying a three hundred day incident-free period for our school body, had been beaten to a pulp by students, for his carelessness on the street. I could live without that! 

     Well, I could never tell my mother what happened that day. When Anne asked what was wrong with my hand, I admitted to falling off my bike, but not that I had just been hit by a car. My mother always figured that's how I would finally meet my maker. A car on top of me and my bike. I don't ride bikes any more, but I proved her wrong. I had the urge to tell her, shortly before she died, but I couldn't have faced my father either, as I had also been told about the "going to hell" part, if I told lies. I told my boys the same thing and they lied to me as well. It's kind of a requirement of youth, to bedazzle those who care for us, by always holding a little bit of the truth back, for an uncertain posterity, none of us really understands.

     I am a better person for having known the Nagys. I had the benefit of living in a safe building, with many on-duty parents "of the day," and Harris Crescent was one of the most comfortable places to reside in the whole community. It was my first and most important portal, to look out from, as a writer in training. I always remember one sad occasion, in retrospect, when Anne had once arranged, that I would stop for lunch at a friend's home, who lived near the base of Torrance at the Lakeshore. When I sat down for lunch, the charming host served me a large plate of golden brown french fries, which were my favorite. But to my chagrin, she only had cider vinegar. As the world was supposedly made for me, I put on quite a show that afternoon……the prince didn't get his white vinegar, and thus, no fries could be consumed. When Anne found out about this, I think for the first time, she may have felt I was possessed……the devil incarnate, or something like that. I was just fussy. Ask Suzanne, about the cider vinegar thing. I'm awful when it is a food related crisis.

     I can remember hearing about it, some years later, that the same woman's son, had been hit and killed by a car, that had accidentally mounted the curb near their lakeshore home. While I realized that eating my fries with cider vinegar wouldn't have made any difference to that particular outcome, I did feel bad about being a horrible house guest…..and ignoring the fact, I had been rude and inconsiderate……and well, the young mind does funny things this way, and it all just remained unresolved business of childhood.

     I hope Anne will recall some of these instances that were important and life-changing for me. I grew up with a good outlook, because of all the kindnesses I knew I had received during those formative years……while I was also hatching some contrary ideas in the minds of neighbors who watched me grow. I would like Alec to know how good a surrogate parent he was, to me, and as my protector, my healer, and my lawnmowing chum; and how his tutoring influenced how I dealt with my own boys, Andrew and Robert, now businessmen here in our town. And Alec taught me how to truly enjoy good food. As if we were both spellbound by culinary artistry. We both knew that the magic, was with the "preparer-of-these-foods", and that was Anne.

     Through good times and dark, joy and sadness, success and failure, I have always found sanctuary in those old dog-eared memories, of picnics beneath the old cherry tree in the backyard, and smelt fishing in the spring, and darting here and there in the tangle of jungle, we loved as the "wild" characteristic, of the overgrown Ramble Creek Ravine. But it is recollection of the people I knew once, that brings a smile to my face, no matter what the circumstance, or the pressing engagement at that precise moment. Just before my father, Ed, passed away, several years ago, he came out of his confusion one afternoon, and we had a great chat about those days at the Nagy apartment, and in fact, it was the last real conversation we had before the end. While Merle and Ed may never have told Anne and Alec how much they had needed their friendship, for those early years of parenthood, I know they cared very much……and it was always a positive reminiscence when we talked about the ups and downs we'd had as a family. You can then imagine how wonderful it was, to know Anne is still at 2138 Harris Crescent, and doing well.

     It's in the fall of the year, I get most nostalgic about this neighborhood, when I think about climbing up that chestnut lined avenue from the lake, and seeing, in all its melancholy grandeur, the old Victorian house on the hillside, where the apartment was eventually built, and watching my contemporaries playing in the piles of leaves being raked up…..and feeling as if my sensory perception might at once burst…….as it was all so memorably heartfelt and beautiful……and a scene that even could even impress a wild child of the 1960's.

     In many ways, I have never really separated from those sensory-powerful days, of youthfulness, and even here at Birch Hollow, just above the forest and lowland we call The Bog, Gravenhurst is very similar……and what I enjoyed as a wide-eyed child adventurer, I celebrate just as heartily, and spiritually, but here, now, in my present hometown…..where Suzanne and I have, quite contently, spent most of our adult lives……raising a family, and playing host to assorted abandoned cats and such, that also, with some affection, call this place home. I have always been an historian. When someone asks what my qualifications are…….I never offer my university degree, as proof I've earned the title. I will tell them about the past. I will represent it with respect. I will acknowledge the importance of remembering, and paying respect to times past, and people once known. To be proud of one's heritage……carrying the torch of legacy from one generation to the other. I will tell them with a wee, detectable grin, about the kind of life I've had….and the people I've remembered, and the foundation I've built……and suffice that this is all that can be expected of any historian……to have enjoyed the experience of living…….and when all is said and done, feeling the satisfaction of enlightenment…… history dutifully rewarding its survivors.

     I want to thank Tracy for putting us together, finally, after all these years. How neglectful I feel, that it wasn't so much sooner.

     Bless you.

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DO YOU WANT TO READ SOME WILLIAM HENRY SMITH?

YOU CAN READ "GRAVENHURST; OR THOUGHTS ON GOOD AND EVIL," ON "GOOGLE BOOKS" FOR FREE

     ON THE FIRST OF JULY, I WILL PRESENT A 150TH ANNIVERSARY BLOG, TO COMMEMORATE THE NAMING OF OUR TOWN. IT WAS IN JULY 1862 THAT THE FEDERAL POSTAL AUTHORITY, GRANTED THE NAME "GRAVENHURST" AS A TITLE FOR OUR NEW POST OFFICE. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER THERE HAS EVER BEEN A CASE WHERE THE POST OFFICE HAD A DIFFERENT NAME THAN THE HAMLET IT WAS GRANTED. IS THERE A CASE, IN CANADA, WHERE A POST OFFICE HAD ONE NAME, THE COMMUNITY ITSELF, ANOTHER? IT DOESN'T REALLY MAKE SENSE, THOUGH, AS IT WOULD PRETTY MUCH GUARANTEE LETTERS GETTING LOST N THE MAIL. IT WAS AN ISSUE IN OUR TOWN, BECAUSE THE INHABITANTS, WHETHER AT A FORMAL OR INFORMAL GATHERING, HAD THE PLAN TO CALL THE SETTLEMENT "MCCABE'S LANDING," AFTER MR. AND MRS. MICKY MCCABE WHO OPERATED THE HAMLET'S FIRST ROADHOUSE……WHICH WAS A PRETTY IMPORTANT PLACE FOR THE NUMBER OF NEW SETTLERS COMING INTO THE REGION, IN QUEST OF HOMESTEAD LAND GRANTS. AS I'VE NOTED BEFORE, I HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF RESPECT FOR THE MCCABES, AND THEIR CONTRIBUTION TO BUILDING THE EARLY FOUNDATION OF THIS TOWN, IS WELL DOCUMENTED, AND I DARE SAY, CELEBRATED.  THE PROBLEM WAS THAT WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR WASN'T ENTIRELY CLERICAL ABOUT HIS JOB, AS THE POSTAL AUTHORITY OF THE TIME. THOSE CLOSE TO HIM, AND HIS LITERARY COLLEAGUES, KNEW HE WAS MUCH MORE DYNAMIC THAN HIS ADMINISTRATIVE POSITION AFFORDED. SO HE NIPPED OUTSIDE THE LINE ON OCCASION, AND MADE SOME FOLKS MAD. SO IN THE CASE OF THE FINE FOLKS OF MCCABE'S LANDING, HE SIMPLY TOSSED THEIR SELECTION, AND MADE HIS OWN SUBMISSION ON THEIR BEHALF. AND NO, HE DIDN'T ASK IF THAT WOULD BE OKAY. HE DID THE SAME WITH BRACEBRIDGE, AND NUMEROUS OTHER COMMUNITIES WHO GOT NAMES WITH PROVENANCE, BUT NO EXPLANATION WHY.

     So when he made it official, that the Muskoka Bay hamlet would be called "Gravenhurst," it's likely a few of the citizens, at the time, were privileged to some information, as to why their name was rejected, and why another title was selected. Maybe it didn't matter at the time. I've never read any reference to "Hamlet citizens riot over sudden name change for post office." If they were mad, it didn't warrant rebellion or protest, although I can't say if there had ever been an appeal launched to save the name "McCabe's Landing."

     Now here's how I got involved in this project, because this will explain how I've arrived at this point…….planning a blog celebration to honor the 150th anniversary of getting a name we didn't ask for. Hey, Bracebridge got the same treatment. Two year later, their chosen name of 'North Falls," didn't turn LeSueur's crank either, so he awarded them the title, "Bracebridge." Before LeSueur died however, a reporter for a local newspaper, confronted him at an event in Toronto, and he confessed that it was true, the "Bracebridge" name had been taken from the title of a book by American author Washington Irving. Here's where it gets interesting for Gravenhurst you see. Either LeSueur didn't understand the next question, or the reporter misquoted the former postal authority. Somehow, in some fashion, the reporter included a question about the naming of Gravenhurst as well, and it was jotted down……that LeSueur admitted, he had also found the name "Gravenhurst" in Washington Irving's book. THIS WAS NOT TRUE!

     This one gigantic error, of reporting, or LeSueur's simple misunderstanding of the question, or having an extra glass of bubbly at the historian's convention, (and not hearing correctly) caused immeasurable damage over the years, and I can't tell you precisely, how many books and reference sources in Canada and elsewhere, contain this historical error. It's not an easy fact to erase, because even new books out today, especially some of the specialty books on "Names of Canadian Towns and Cities," use reference material that is inaccurate. Web sites, and online references, often contain this erroneous information, and it drives me crazy because it is so far wrong. It's one of the reasons I would love to see our town take an interest in the 150th anniversary of the granting of the title "Gravenhurst." I'd be happy if they did it to finally set the record straight. They don't have to like the handiwork of W.D. LeSueur or British Poet William Henry Smith, who wrote the book "Gravenhurst." Suffice that we could officially correct, that we were not named after the same book as Bracebridge.

     Here's a little historical detail to mull over. When I was doing a book on the naming of Bracebridge, circa July 1864, I got caught on this odd detail, that LeSueur, a brilliant literary critic and Canadian historian, would have used Irving's text to scrounge for a name to present to our hamlet. But this is what Bracebridge historians were still fobbing-off as the truth. How nuts was this? Why would LeSueur, not use the name "Bracebridge" when the folks from McCabe's Landing made their official request for postal status? Why would he have read through Irving's book, for some obscure title to borrow? Why not just take the name off the title page, as he did with Bracebridge, two years later. If you follow my logic here, the names then should have been reversed. Gravenhurst got its name two full years ahead of the hamlet ten miles north. This is what Bracebridge historians have claimed, and probably still cling to, because it had been imbedded in the work of the community's most trusted historians. They certainly shunned me for finding this out. And all it took was buying a copy of "Bracebridge Hall," and reading through the text. It didn't hurt to have back-up information from Irving scholars in the United States, and his museum at Sunnyside in New York, to verify this as true.  Irving never referenced Gravenhurst in any of his books……and there were quite a few books to examine. I even provided the book to our own historical experts in Gravenhurst, and gave them the same challenge. If what Bracebridge historians had been writing for years was true, then they would actually be able to find the name themselves. Case closed. To that point however, they had not read this book, to reject or concur with this inaccurate detail of our community history. So the fact was, our town was not named by LeSueur, as inspired by Washington Irving.

     What local historians here didn't realize, was that LeSueur was not just a run-of-the-mill pencil-pusher with the federal postal authority. The written assessment, touted as accurate by the historical community, was that LeSueur had simply borrowed the name from a book he was reading at the time. On the toilet? Was it that cavalier an event? This was untrue, because LeSueur was a well known literary student, and budding critic, and would become well known in the literary world……and many publications, such as Blackwoods, sought out his opinions. When he granted the name "Bracebridge," he was honoring both the integrity of the new community, and paying tribute to the memory of one of the world's finest authors, Washington Irving. Two years earlier, he did the same thing, but borrowed the name Gravenhurst, from a philosophical work by William Henry Smith, also revered as a literary critic. Both Smith and LeSueur knew each other from their connection with specialty magazines, where Smith used the pen name "Wool Gatherer." Smith lived until 1872, ten full years after the name was granted, and this means, "Gravenhurst" was a tribute given to a living, still-writing author. I suspect, and I may be wrong, that LeSueur may have let his associate know about the naming of a hamlet in Canada, in his honor. It should be our honor as well. LeSueur must have had an incredible opinion of William Henry Smith, in this case, as he was very serious when it came to matters of philosophy.

     William Henry Smith was born in Hammersmith, London, in 1808. In 1821 he attended Glasgow University, and in 1823 he entered a lawyer's apprenticeship and was called to the bar, but never practiced law as a profession. He was a regular contributor to major publications such as the "Literary Gazette," "Athenaeum" and "Blackwood's Magazine." For Blackwoods, he had a 30 year relationship as their philosophical critic. This is most likely where he met up with LeSueur, as this is what he was writing for North American publications, and obviously shared some opinions. Smith was offered the chair of Moral Philosophy at University of Edinburgh, but he didn't want to leave the studious, creative life in the Lake District. In 1857 he wrote "Thordale," a philosophical romance, considered, at the time, "of real intellectual value," by critics. "Gravenhurst, "Or Thoughts on Good and Evil," was published in 1862, also as a philosophical tome. So when LeSueur got a review copy, he must have approved, because he borrowed the name for our town. Smith also wrote two major plays, including "Athelwold," and "Sir William Crichton." He died in Brighton, England, on the 28th of March, 1872. In the world of contemporary philosophy….."Gravenhurst" is in active reprint, and if you were to look it up on the Advanced Book Exchange, you would be able to find many of the modern day editions for sale. Thus it is still a coveted book. 

     As a matter of historical record, in the late 1990's, while working on this project, Suzanne and I decided to purchase a post 1872 copy of Smith's book, for the town Archive's Committee….as they didn't have a copy. In 1967, in the book "Light of Other Days," there was a stated reference to the possibility William Henry Smith might have been the source of the name Gravenhurst, but there was nothing conclusive. I wanted to fix that. So we found an American rare book dealer, and purchased a second edition, important because it contained a memorial biography by Smith's wife…..which I thought was more important for the town to have, in order to know more about the author responsible for our name. So guess what? There was a missing postal code on the parcel. Thus the Gravenhurst Post Office sent the book back to the United States, because they didn't have the right address. How ironic is this? The very Post Office that was granted its name from this book, chucked it into the undeliverable bin…….despite having everything else in the address except the postal code. I got it on the second try. When I contacted the committee, to tell them of our plan to donate the book, I also had to note that the text had an extended title, they may not be very happy about. "The Good and Evil" part. You have to read the book to appreciate that this isn't anything bad. It's actually kind of neat.

     At the same time, we donated a copy of a book written for Carleton University, on William Dawson LeSueur…..the postal authority with a little bit more!!!! Plus an Archives Canada black and white portrait of the man who brought a fledgling town together, with an internationally recognized poet / philosopher.

     I will have much more information on Smith in July, when I host a massive…..or modest, 150th Anniversary of the naming of the Town of Gravenhurst. I've got to do it on the cheap, as I don't have any grant money to purchase a plaque, and as it isn't generally accepted as interesting by the town anyway, we'll just share some information about what we believe is a hell of an honor……and let the world know how proud we should be of our little burg here in the Ontario hinterland. I know it's not as prestigious as the 125th anniversary of incorporation, celebrated by the town a week ago. You know I'm being sarcastic, right?

HAVE A LITTLE GOOGLE FOR A HISTORY LESSON

     What cost us more than a hundred bucks, for a second edition, is now free for all of us to enjoy, courtesy the fine folks at GOOGLE BOOKS. If you would like to read what all the fuss is about, you can Google up "Google Books," and register to read "Gravenhurst, or Thoughts on Good and Evil," by William Henry Smith. You judge for yourself, if this is a namesake we should be proud of. Or were we a happier population, when Bracebridge was handling this for us……..as a name found somewhere in the text of "Bracebridge Hall." We have a right to celebrate our literary provenance. This is an international honor. The 125th Anniversary folks, is very much a clerical, statistical bit of heritage, that frankly, isn't marketable on its own. So if you have wondered, what makes me so damn mad in this town, here it is in a nutshell. Town Hall has taken advice that the 125th, as it coincides with the same number of years as the RMS Segwun, is the holy grail of coincidences. Maybe it is. But I'll offer the 150th anniversary celebration, as gentle and no frills as it will have to be, with the conviction that it is of much greater importance……and should be recognized.  So here's your chance to make the comparisons yourself. Let me know what you think.

Richard Karon Biography, Part 12A

UPDATE ON RICHARD KARON BIOGRAPHY -

A FEW WORDS FROM HIS SON-

     The moment I introduced myself to the artist's son, back in January, I knew we had been destined to meet, and to work together. It was as if I had known him for years. I had even experienced visions of this eventual meeting, one day, and a hunch, there was going to be some writing involved. I write a great deal about the paranormal, in my other line of work, so trust me, this kind of stuff happens a lot. For the past five years, I've had hundreds of requests to appraise Richard Karon paintings, as an antique dealer. Primarily, it all generated from an article, I had written some years earlier, that a painting owner had posted on the internet. I only became aware of this, when I finally asked my son to do a google-search, so I could identify what article these people were quoting, that I'd written many years earlier, for the local press. Right up until the fall of 2011, I was still answering these enquiries. As I've written about before, I was getting so many requests that I finally wrote a standard email to send back, offering what little information I had…..and ball park estimates on painting values. I remember saying to my wife Suzanne, that I should write this biography, just based on the volume of people who are seeking information. Of the many artists I know about, in our region, Karon requests are a hundred times, to each of the others I know a little about. This biography was destined, in many ways, to happen.

     It began two years earlier, when Richard Sahoff Karon contacted me, asking whether I had any biographic information on his father's art career, especially in Muskoka. I knew the story of Richard Karon Sr., but most of it was based on the actuality of numerous events, exhibitions, and contact, while his studio was still operational.

     I realized as soon as we began exchanging emails, that he would benefit from my participation, because there were things I knew, and people I had talked to, shortly after the artist's death, in 1987, that would shed some light on some details, the younger Richard needed to know about. As a newspaperman during the lated 1970's and 80's, I picked up news tips wherever I happened to be…..and for Richard Karon, the artist, that came during his mid-1980's auction sale of his remaining art, and the official closing of his studio. I knew something was seriously wrong that day, and when I talked to the artist's friend, Eva Scheel, shortly after reading a notice of the artist's death, (several years later) there was no doubt in my mind, this story would turn and confront me one day……as I had long admired his landscapes, and wanted his name to remain etched in local history, in respect to his contributions to art and culture in Muskoka. When Eva told me how sad he had been to leave his studio and home, in the Township of Lake of Bays, it confirmed for me, what had happened during the auction sale……when the pall over the event seemed to affect everyone……certainly those who knew the artist.

     Auction goers generally, are very sensitive to the prevailing situation, and why the auction is being held, in the first place. I can't really explain why, but it may be in the fact, that in those days, attending auctions regularly was a social event, as it was business for many of us dealer-kind. The same people showed up at every sale, and it became like a club. There were always newbies but they soon fell in with the regulars, and word went around about the nature and circumstances of the sale. The artist was upset this day, and no one who knew him, could offer any consolation that might have made him feel better. His marriage hadn't worked out. That's not unusual. It's pretty commonplace, in fact. Richard Karon had to be close to his son. That was the bottom line. Art wasn't as important as being close to his family. Being separated was problem enough for the family. He didn't need three to four hours of traveling time between him and his wife and son. Financially it was a necessary move. Emotionally, it was a necessary move. Enduring the stress of the move, was necessary as well.

     It would take me hours to explain to the artist's son, why I knew that we would eventually connect after all these years. In the two years' lapse, between the first time he contacted me, and January of this year, we had zero time to even think about taking on any research projects. My father had a stroke and even before he passed away, we had to close-out his apartment, and make plans for his accommodations in a nursing home. He never made it to that point, and died in hospital. The coincidence here, is that a Richard Karon original hung on the wall above his favorite chair in the apartment. He had worked with the artist in the early 1970's, when he was employed as an estimator and sales manager for Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge, and had been on his studio property many times, doing measurements for windows, doors and cupboards. I suppose he also arranged for the lumber as well. My dad always told me that I should do a story on Richard Karon one day, when I worked for the newspaper, as he thought he was not only a good artist, but an easy person to talk with. That day of the auction, I purchased a number of framed landscapes off Richard, who was still manning his studio sales desk, and Ed picked the one he wanted for over his chair. Even when they shifted apartments, three times, the Richard Karon original, was always hung above my father's chair. I remember telling him, before he got sick, that I was planning to do some work for Karon's son, at some point, and he seemed quite pleased. "Tell him I enjoyed working with his father, won't you," I recall him saying. And I have. Numerous times. Sometimes fate does stuff like this……things we just can't explain, and just do because it feels right. When Richard got back to me, after a several year hiatus, I was already signed on, before we'd shaken hands. This was a project that had to happen, and being a big believer in the afterlife, I half assumed Richard had met up with Ed in that other dimension, and thought it would be a swell idea to finish what had been a decent plan a long time ago……that I do a story on a Muskoka artist, and the artist's son act as my co-writer and research assistant. As Richard worked with my father on his art studio project, here we were then, decades later, "two sons" with a final chapter to write, as if by providential necessity, to complete some ethereal circle. I warned my associate, that we would make some interesting connections, and have many serendipitous moments throughout the research, and well into the future, that would put people into our lives we could not have anticipated from the beginning. It has already happened in part. My gut feeling is, there's something in Poland that is beckoning the young Karon, and I told him, before I wrote the first word of this biography, that he would one day, be making a pilgrimage to his father's home. He might still think this is outlandish, and impossible at this point in his life, but I'm pretty sure, as the elder Karon had always wanted to return to see his family, he will give some encouragement from the "great beyond," that his son should make the trip he was denied by illness. One day!

     The younger Richard Karon is a frequent flier, as a charter jet pilot. He was away for a number of days, and I had to move on with the biography without his concluding words. I was so happy he still wanted them published on this blog site, to wrap-up the biography of his father. As I promised earlier, and I couldn't deliver because of a computer glitch, I have included this precious photograph of his young daughter Aurora, looking through her grandfather's easel, at the Lake of Bays studio of Muskoka artist, Janet Stahle-Fraser (near Baysville). The artist was kind enough to invite Richard into her studio, to see and photograph his father's easel, that he had given her shortly after closing his own studio / gallery. It was a puzzle piece found, as the younger Richard had asked many times, where the easel had gone, and each lead he followed, had proven wrong. Richard was ecstatic after the visit, and very thankful for Janet's kindnesses bestowed. The photograph, to me, says it all, as a chapter unto itself. That despite what the biography wears, seemingly as only misfortune and displeasure, hardship and suffering, it arrives, with great positivism, at an optimistic outlook for the future; a portal onto great adventures yet to come. From the encouragement of a loving family, this young lady, will come to welcome all the possibilities of a wonderful, remarkable life……and be richer in spirit, knowing more about the grandfather she never met. Being able to feel, for a lifetime, a connection to a beautiful place on earth, a link to Muskoka; feel those enchantments of nature, her artist grandfather thrived-on, and inherit the will and courage that Richard Karon demonstrated throughout his life…..for freedom of art, and liberation of spirit. I must again, thank the Karon family, for having permitted me to work on this important biography, which hopefully will benefit researchers and painting owners for years to come. Now in the words of my associate in this project…..Richard Sahoff Karon.

I have to begin by giving my most sincere, heartfelt thanks to Ted Currie and his wife Suzanne, for their time and effort on my father’s biography.  Words cannot begin to show my immense gratitude for this gift, I have waited a lifetime for.  I would also like to thank Robert, Ted and Suzanne’s son and Dani O'Connor, for their contribution with the video.  The help from family and friends in filling in the details, and their help in furthering my research has been truly priceless.  I also would like to extend my thanks to the many people who so quickly and enthusiastically responded to Ted’s article in the newspaper, seeking any information or comments on my father’s work, including Ms. L, who so warmly invited me into her house to admire, alongside her, two of my father’s paintings. I would also like to thank Baysville artist, Janet Stahle-Fraser, who is the current user of my father’s easel, and who without hesitation offered me the easel.  

Since my father’s death 25 years ago, I have longed to keep his legacy alive in my heart and mind.  There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him.  The opportunity to write my father’s biography in conjunction with someone who was himself so enamoured by my father’s work and had actually met him, was something that I simply could not pass up.  The timing of this project also could not have happened at a more opportune time, as I was contacted only late last year, for the first time in my life, by my father’s family members.  They had no idea of my father’s passing or even knowledge of my existence.  I had so many questions that had built up over the years that were finally beginning to get answered.  I finally found out for example that my father was the youngest of four siblings, and the only son.  I saw a photograph of my grandmother, his mother for the first time only a few months ago.  I am now sharing with them the story of my father, a man who through so many unbelievable hardships was able to make a living at what he loved, and in such a peaceful, beautiful setting.

I have always admired my father’s work, and am so pleased to see that it is at last getting the recognition it deserves.  As Ted mentions, not only does his work capture the spirit of the beautiful locations which he painted, but his story of how he got to where he did is astounding.  I have met some people recently who are still awe struck by his paintings, and it really is wonderful to hear.  To me he was simply my father, and he was an artist who painted beautiful paintings; I didn’t think there was anything uncommon about it.  Of course to many young boys, their father is larger than life.  I am no exception to this rule, and continue to admire his work and accomplishments.  I have nearly 40 pieces of his work, many of them hanging on my walls at home.  I feel like they’re watching over me.  About 10 years ago I was given 3 of his paintings by a co-worker, Peter Freake, whom I worked with at Air Canada in Toronto.  Through conversation it was determined that he had 3 of my father’s pieces, and that I was his son.  He told me how his mother had an art gallery in Toronto, and had sold several of my father’s pieces.  I believe they knew each other, as my understanding was, that she came up to the studio in Baysville to buy them.  These particular paintings hung in Peter’s home.  When he determined my relation to the artist, he had no hesitation in giving me the paintings.  Sadly Peter passed away a few years ago, but I will never forget his generosity and cherish these paintings which now hang in my home.  He spoke of all the years those paintings hung on his wall, and the joy they brought him and his family.  

I don’t know how to begin to thank all the people involved in helping with this biography.  It has been such an amazing few months, with new discoveries and stories about my father surfacing regularly.   It is difficult to lose one’s parents at any age, but as my father’s only child, and having him pass away at such a young age, without knowing very much about his life story, it has left a huge hole in my life.  My mother tells me of how her father passed away when she was in her thirties, but that he was never there for her and she reminds me of how lucky I was to have a father who loved me so much, regardless of how little time I had with him.  I remember him as a good father, with lots of love for me, although I do remember him having a temper as well.  My mother and father’s relationship was not an easy one.  She puts a lot of blame on the events that shaped him during WWII.  Although I would say that I can see how each one of them might be difficult to live with, I cannot image the horrors my father witnessed during that time and what kind of a man he would have been if he did not go through that.  In this regard I can side with my mother, that what is now known as post traumatic stress disorder, was evident in his life and how he reacted to the world around him.  My mother also mentions that I brought great joy to his life, as since he had lost contact with his family in Poland, I was now his only blood relative.  He was very protective of me for this reason; my mother also claims in her opinion that he spoiled me.  Of course I don’t remember things that way!  Looking back, and as I learn more of his character and the events that shaped his life, I can see how he did become a very reputable artist; in fact he was able to do many things well.  I remember that he was a good cook, a skilled carpenter, he spoke several languages Polish, English and I’m quite sure French and German as well, unfortunately he never taught me.  This is beginning to be evident, I regret, with the raising of my daughter, as I speak Spanish and French and have not taught her as much as I should have, but I am trying to improve.  

Although I did not experience the hardships that my father went through, I am his son, and as I learn more about him I am beginning to see more of myself in him.  I miss him tremendously.  I hope that those of you who have his pieces continue to cherish and enjoy them.  A piece of my father is in each one.

RICHARD KARON BLOGSITE WILL BE IN PLACE BEFORE THE FIRST OF JULY 2012

     While this concludes the formal blog-biography, we will be transferring all the chapters and graphics to a new site in the near future, that will continue to be inter-active, offering painting owners and admirers the opportunity to submit comments and critiques, and connect with this biographer and Richard Karon. We will make changes to information when it becomes available, as we are sure it will, and make corrections accordingly where required to improve the story's accuracy. We invite those who have recently purchased a Karon original, to submit the price they paid, and we can do this confidentially. The reason this is important, to the dynamics of this reference resource, is that we require a "traded valuation" of his work, in order to establish the market value for various sizes of his paintings. If you are aware of one of his paintings, having sold at auction, we would like to know the price it reached. This, over several years, can provide some foundation for future valuations. We can not, as authors of this biography, influence the price of paintings, by making appraisals, as it can be considered a conflict of interest, or perceived that we are purposely inflating prices, because of our own personal holdings of his paintings. Establishing a "traded" value, from sales in antique shops, estate sales, and auctions, with validation of the transaction, will be offered as a guideline only. A qualified art appraiser, who must establish a market value of Karon's original paintings, for insurance purposes, may also benefit from a listing of these past sale records. Asking prices are irrelevant. Selling prices set the traded valuations.

Gravenhurst's 150th Anniversary! REALLY?

GRAVENHURST'S 125TH CELEBRATION? TOWN INCORPORATION 125 YEARS AGO! WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?

MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT RECOGNIZES 125TH ANNIVERSARY, BUT WON'T WHISPER ABOUT 150 YEAR LINK TO HISTORIAN AND POET

     WAS THERE A GRANT OR SOMETHING, OR WAS IT JUST ONE OF THOSE MUNICIPAL "LET'S GRAB IT" PROJECTS, THAT SEEMS TOO WONDERFULLY COINCIDENTAL AND OPPORTUNISTIC TO LET PASS? TOWN INCORPORATION? PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I'VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD THIS AS A SOCIAL / CULTURAL HISTORIAN, BUT I SUPPOSE MUNICIPALITIES THINK IT'S A BIG DEAL. AS FAR AS BEING HISTORIC, IT'S NOT AS SIGNIFICANT A MILESTONE AS WE'RE LED TO BELIEVE, BY THOSE WHO ARE INFREQUENT WANNABE-HISTORIANS. NOW WHEN THE OPERA HOUSE WAS TO CELEBRATE ITS 110TH ANNIVERSARY, CRIPES, THERE WAS HARDLY A MENTION. WELL THERE WAS. WE MADE THE ANNOUNCEMENT, AT OUR CHRISTMAS FUNDRAISING CONCERT FOR THE SALAVATION ARMY FOOD BANK, LAST DECEMBER. I WROTE A TRIBUTE TO THE THEATRE, AND FRED SCHULZ, FORMER OPERA HOUSE MANAGER, WAS KIND ENOUGH, FOR OLD TIMES' SAKE, TO READ IT TO THE AUDIENCE. FOLKS SEEMED INTERESTED, MOSTLY TO KNOW THE GREAT PERFORMERS WHO HAVE GRACED THE OPERA HOUSE STAGE. I'M ALL FOR ANNIVERSARY RECOGNITION, AND I'VE BEEN INVOLVED WITH NUMEROUS SIMILAR EVENTS IN THE PAST, INCLUDING MY BRIEF STINT AS HISTORIAN FOR SOUTH MUSKOKA MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, WHEN IT WAS RECOGNIZING A 75TH ANNIVERSARY. BUT TOWN INCORPORATION IS REALLY KIND OF MOOT AND DRY AS AN ANNIVERSARY, BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MARK MUCH MORE THAN WHAT A PENCIL PUSHER, CHECKED OFF ON A GOVERNMENT FORM, SIMPLY VALIDATING THAT POPULATION CRITERIA HAD BEEN MET, AND SURPASSED, TO BUMP-UP STANDING, FROM VILLAGE TO TOWN STATUS. THERE ARE ADVANTAGES TO THIS RECOGNITION, TO A MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT, SUCH, AS MAY BE THE CASE ONE DAY, WHEN OUR TOWN BECOMES A NEW CITY. HAMLETS DON'T STIR THINGS AT QUEEN'S PARK. TOWNS ARE MORE INTERESTING. CITIES ARE HIP! IT WILL HAPPEN. MOST OF US WON'T BE AROUND TO CELEBRATE THE ARRIVAL OF CITYDOM. ONCE AGAIN, IF ONE WISHES TO CELEBRATE A STATISTIC, AND A CLERICAL ACTION, THEN GO RIGHT AHEAD AND PLAN FOR OUR UPCOMING CITY STATUS FETE……IN ABOUT 2035. THIS IS WHEN TORONTO WILL REACH US WITH ITS URBAN SPRAWL.

     From an historical perspective, the genuine article of anniversaries, comes with the first inhabitants. I believe this goes back to the late 1850's. For me personally, I'd sooner go back to the first rogue pencil-pusher, who took some liberties, to bestow a little unexpected honor upon our town. When Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur, got to work on an application for a new post office, to serve the fledgling settlement of McCabe's Landing, it was pretty rudimentary stuff. Stamp that seal of approval, jot the name down in the official federal post office directory, and give proponents of the name and the new post office, their mailing address and be done with it. First of all, you see, Dr. LeSueur wasn't a bureaucrat in the strictest sense. He was a pretty serious character, who was probably quite a bit more academic than his office associates at the time.  A well versed character, he was. He didn't like the name "McCabe's Landing," just like he didn't approve of "North Falls," when Bracebridge applied for their post office name, two years later. There are some people, in both towns, after a century and a half, believe it or not, still pissed off about this matter of federal protocol. LeSueur would laugh it off, because he had a lot of people pissed off at him. Stephen Leacock wasn't particularly fond of him, as LeSueur complained about those who write popular, but not insightful or investigative histories, of which the Leacock participated. The Prime Minister of Canada, William Lyon Mackenzie King didn't like him either, for the near libelous contentions LeSueur wrote about his grandfather, William Lyon Mackenzie, legendary in Canada as the great Scot, the firebrand, of the Upper Canadian Rebellion of the 1830's. LeSueur, through years of research, and critical analysis of uncovered fact, found that Mackenzie was more of a nuisance to the move toward representative government, than an asset. So when LeSueur planned to publish his book on Mackenzie, scaling back some of the honors bestowed by half-ass historians up to that point, Mackenzie King blocked its publication at every level…..via protracted litigation. It was long after both men had died that the book was finally published, in the 1960's. Now it's a commonplace reference book looking at the rebellion. Not a big deal at all. LeSueur just broke the convention of safe, non-controversial history. I own a copy of a biography written about LeSueur. It's a dandy, for those who hate compliance, as a non-confrontational short-cut, to the re-telling of history. We have sanitized versions of history all over the place and it drive me nuts.

     So here's my point. Feel free to refute it, or complain that I'm being petty about blowing-off the 125th year of incorporation, as being a "plaque-unworthy" event for our town!  In July of this year, Gravenhurst will quite honorably, reach its 150th anniversary, sporting the name "Gravenhurst."  Twenty-five years more than the anniversary affording us yet another plaque, to quickly become irrelevant by the younger generation, who won't ever make it a priority to know, or understand this municipal achievement. Do you really think it will make the course of study at the high school…..where's there's only a whisker, or less, of local history being taught? What's important about the 150th anniversary? Well, it's the fact that, if you were a betting person, and there were odds on whether this anniversary will be celebrated by the same municipality, the odds would be staggering against. I won't give you a number, but if your horse won, (and the town did recognize the real anniversary) you'd be rich betting a buck. Why is this? There's no grant for it? If there was some obscure post office grant for celebrating 150 years of service, by golly, someone at town hall would jump on this…… If there was a grant for being named after the work of a British poet, you bet, we'd have the best damn poetry fair in Canada. So in an historian's nutshell, the municipality of our town, unless by some act of conscience, or sense of opportunity to exploit what should be exploited, the only celebration this July, for the 150th, will be on this blog-site. I don't know if I can fit you all in, but by golly, I'm going to try. But I don't need a grant to get excited about it…..just the knowledge a few people may join me, for a pretty good story of factual history, is payment enough.

     The problem with this naming thing, dates back to 1862, and the refusal of LeSueur to rubber stamp McCabes Landing, as the new title for our hamlet post office. No offense to the McCabe family, because Mr. and Mrs. McCabe got our tourism industry going in this region, with the roadhouse they operated……and the sustenance and guidance, they provided to many a weary traveller…..and eager homestead. Their contribution to early Gravenhurst is the stuff of legend, and they have been honored in the past. The stumbling block here, is that LeSueur didn't leave proper documentation, to qualify the reasons he had, for adopting the name Gravenhurst, when the locals came calling in 1862. The same thing happened in Bracebridge, in July 1864. LeSueur borrowed the name "Bracebridge," from a book written by Washington Irving. What he didn't do was provide the provenance publicly at this time, as to the precise reason he declined "North Falls," and then selected a name penned by an American author, about an estate in Old England. So by basically, telling residents, at the time, their choice of name "sucked" big time, and then did what he was entitled. I took a shot at explaining these historical circumstances, back in 2000, when I published a small book dealing with this subject. Frankly, if not for the pure enjoyment of the project, it was a complete failure, and for one reason. It wasn't endorsed by council, the chamber of commerce or the local BIA. It seems LeSueur's cavalier approach, in 1864, was a "forever" thing. Now tell me honestly, why a town looking for its identity, after all these years, as relates to modern day marketing, or branding, refuses outrightly, to embrace one of the truly great writers in history. Even Charles Dickens, once said, he often retired to bedlam, with a book written by Washington Irving? It has been discouraged and blocked by people who don't wish to promote the literary connection. It's that simple. However, being branded a "Santa" 24-7 town seems perfectly acceptable to some objectors today, who are protesting a recent town council initiative to consider "education" as the centre of their universe. Tell you what. They'd put some proof in the old pudding, if in this education model, they'd pay attention to their literary heritage. As for Santa. Bad idea. Sorry if I've offended you.

     Now as far as Gravenhurst is concerned, LeSueur named our community after a book written by poet / philosopher William Henry Smith, entitled "Gravenhurst, or Thoughts on Good and Evil." I'm not going to expend the time now to re-examine the content of the book, as I'll save that for my July online anniversary celebration. Point is, William Henry Smith was a well established, well connected, and well thought-of writer, in England, who died a short time before our hamlet post office was named. LeSueur, as I've mentioned many times before, was a budding literary critic…..a man of letters, an historian in the making, who was a particularly serious chap, who didn't play practical jokes as a rule…….especially when he worked as a federal postal employee; at the time of the naming of both our town and Bracebridge. He borrowed the reference, as much as a memorial tribute to this British poet, as a wee bit of provenance to a hamlet on the shore of Lake Muskoka. If there was any misadventure on the part of LeSueur, it was that he didn't send along a little package of biographical information, to allow the new citizens here, to appreciate the connection between name and the individual responsible. What his omission did, was create decades upon decades of speculation. Many folks and historians fashioned their own attachments to the name, without even a shred of evidence. Writers who took liberties with a name that apparently had some malevolent connotation. The most controversial word liberties, were taken with the "Grave" half of our name, and the reality we had patients of the local sanatoriums passing-on quite frequently. Even the "hurst" caused some smart-asses to assume our proper name to mean, "Grave and hearse." It was a town that seemed to have a lot to do with death. Not poetry.

     I am not going to delve into the complex story of LeSueur and William Henry Smith at this point. I'll wait patiently until July of this year, to present a more thorough overview of the 150th anniversary of the official naming of Gravenhurst……and the neat provenance attached. At least I think so. The problem, of course, is bringing William Henry Smith's work to contemporary acceptance……because it will be the young generation that either sets the bard free, or keeps him caged in the archives for posterity.

     I think it's self-defeating for our municipal councils, in both Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, to avoid this connection to their respective literary heritage. The are opponents, to Irving, and I know who they are. While admittedly, Bracebridge has hosted Christmas themed celebrations, as written about by Irving, regarding the seasonal festivities, at Bracebridge Hall, the town is entitled to so much more. Many communities in the United States, that do share a connection with Irving, participate in many literary-related celebrations……just as Bracebridge, Ontario is entitled. As for Gravenhurst, while Smith may not have been the celebrity-author Irving was, in his day, his work is brilliant none the less, as is the contribution made by William Dawson LeSueur, a giant in Canadian history…..whether we decide this is important or not. They both deserve far more recognition that they have received locally, but then that's just my tainted, frustrated opinion.

     So in July, I will offer a gentle, non-intrusive anniversary celebration, of the 150th year, since the naming of our hamlet's post office, and recognize unofficially (because I don't have a chain of office) the two chaps we owe our present name. I don't have a grant to do this, so there won't be a plaque or anything fancy to mark the occasion. I'm doing it without a nickel of expense to this municipality, and my effort will be out of respect, for our modest but storied beginning……nothing more, nothing less.

NOW GATHERING BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION, PHOTOGRAPHS OF PAINTINGS, AND PRINTS BY FORMER GRAVENHURST ARTIST, FRANK JOHNSTON

     Now that I've wrapped up the biography of Muskoka Artist, Richard Karon, I want to commence the "hunt and gather" of biographical information about Gravenhurst / and Canadian artist / print maker, Frank Johnston. I can't possibly do all that is required in a few months, so this will probably take upwards of a year to complete properly. I will need assistance from family, that may still reside in Picton, Ontario, where Frank resided in his later years; having moved from his Gravenhurst home, on Hughson Street, sometime in the 1990's if memory serves.  Frank was a very important artist in this town, who we need to recognize, for what he provided us, as historical record……..that we have been neglectful of for many years. When you entered Sloan's Restaurant, once upon a time, it's true the still-hot blueberry pies may have got your attention first, but it only took a few seconds more, to be titillated by the wonderful, large watercolors, depicting Gravenhurst's former steamship fleet, at The Wharf, and on the lake, painted by Frank Johnston. Even the menu cover art was from the hand of the good Mr. Johnston. He was known as one of the finest lithographers in Canada, and Canadian artist Harold Town thought so……counting on him to print his art work perfectly. Town was a fuss-pot when it came to what was a good print, and one destined for the garbage.

     With a printing press at his Hughson Street home, Frank produced many framable prints and greeting cards, that were available locally. I would like to build-up an archives, to be published online, and once again, to be offered to the National Art Gallery, and the Art Gallery of Ontario……and as a Gravenhurst resource for all researcher to benefit. This is a non-profit venture, and not established to speculate on the prices of his art. It is, primarily, a tribute biography, to an artist we knew very little about……even though he was the most representative Gravenhurst artist in our community's history. Any news clippings about Frank would be great. Personal reminiscences are welcome. Feel free to write your own accounts.

     Above my desk today, is Frank's 1987 painting (as a signed print) of the Gravenhurst Train Station in the winter, with the Northlander stopped at the platform. What a gem. What a great keepsake if you're a fan of the now ill-fated Northlander.

     Thanks for visiting today's blog. Please join me again, soon

Richard Karon Biography 11

RICHARD KARON BIOGRAPHY - OUR CONCLUSION IS ACTUALLY OUR BEGINNING

THE LEGACY OF A MUSKOKA ARTIST -

     The cycle of life. This blog-biography has been written in journal format. Daily entries. Carrying inadvertent judgements about good or inclement weather, and how it affects my arthritic fingers. Curious activities in the neighborhood. They always inspire me to be happy or angry. Like when a chainsaw is being wielded by a neighbor, unfamiliar with the lot lines, between his property and ours. All with the burden of strange moods, like wearing a cat on my shoulders, but feeling obliged to let fate run its course. I am not an island, you see, and each day brings about new interests, and initiatives I wish to launch. I get bored easily, so I try to self-inspire by reading and walking in the woods, numerous times each day.

     I have incorporated updates on the weather, what it was like during my walks down into the boglands, here at Birch Hollow, in the Town of Gravenhurst, and included news of the recent passing of an old friend here, by the name of John Black, who worked with me when I was an editor with Muskoka Publications. I most recently learned of the passing, of another friend, and former hockey teammate, Kim Hammond of Bracebridge, and this has been within one week, while finishing up the text of this biography of Muskoka Artist Richard Karon. I awoke this morning, at 5:30 a.m., to get a head start on this final chapter, only to find one of our house cats, named Fester, on the brink of her demise, and Suzanne and I spent the final hours of her life, passing her from one lap to the other, until the end. I buried her in a level bit of ground near where the trilliums will soon burst through the soft earth, and blossom in the May sunlight. I stood out in our little woodlot, listening to the chatter of birds and squirrels in the overhead boughs, thinking about the cycle of life, and how despite the passing of one life, budding new existence is in evidence all around me. Every day that I have sat at this keyboard, I have been influenced by all kinds of events and activities in this house, on our property, and over in the calming woods, situated above The Bog, here on Segwun Boulevard. Some days I have wound up here, at this old and familiar desk, full of vim and vinegar, and sat for hours typing the Karon biography. On other days, I've had several of our other rescue cats (that had been dumped in our neighborhood), resting on my lap, or on the window sill, their gentle, non-intrusive purring, settling my impatience to get more done, at a faster pace.

    There have been other times when I felt the urgent need to wander through the woods, and experienced some unanticipated resentment, having to work all day to meet deadlines. On other occasions, with Mozart playing in the background, I felt as if I was born to write. The next day, the complete opposite. I hated being a writer. After having just buried our own bandy-legged wee beastie, we called Fester, inspired by the Addams Family, I didn't feel up to writing at all. I stared out the window, trance-like, for what must have been a half hour. All of a sudden, just before making a decision to take the day off, I had this thought about the cycle of life, and how I've written this biography in journal format…..so that I would reflect the mood of the moment…..the light and shadow of each day. This was intentional, because I wanted it to be personal. While it would seem preposterous to put news of a cat's death, into the body copy of a book, as it was unrelated to the story, it wasn't so ridiculous to include the event in this blog……at this moment. And after I'd decided to make a little tribute, to my old friend Fester, I felt better.

   Writing has always been a release for me, in this regard. Funny thing, though, that after eleven chapters of the biography, about the personal challenges of being an artist, I had just put myself in the very same position, as Mr. Karon had found himself in…….throughout his artistic career. He had to paint through the same fluctuations of inspiration and moodiness, contentment and frustration, happiness and sadness……, that I have experienced and worked through, every day of this biography, from early January. Without thinking about it before, it took the last of an old cat's nine lives, to make me realize the actuality of the creative process. What Karon faced each day, to produce his landscapes, I had been subtly etched, by precisely the same ups and downs, of too much inspiration, or not enough. I sat for a few moments pondering this epiphany. Realizing that every mood I studied, about the artist, was exactly the same enterprise, that I was utilizing to write his biography. On positive days, when I felt rested and excited about the day's work, I'd write twice as much, with a lot fewer corrections to deal with when editing. When I found myself, by circumstance, melancholy, and frustrated, I not only wrote less, but had hours of work, to correct mistakes. I thought about Karon having thrown still wet, rolled-up canvases into storage, because he was unhappy with his work that day. I often re-wrote chapters three times to make improvements. Of course, that is the forgiveness of a computer screen versus stretched canvas.

Richard Karon in the forest

     "There is serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that enters into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations," wrote Washington Irving, in his book, "Bracebridge Hall." "They are haunted by the recollections of great spirits of past ages, who have sought for relaxation among them from the tumult of arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath their shade."

     For well more than a decade now, I have kept this book, by Washington Irving, on my desk, no further than my outstretched arm. I purchased it, in the late 1990's, when I was doing research regarding the official naming of the Town of Bracebridge. The name came from Irving's book, as granted by Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur. LeSueur of course, gave the fledgling post office its name, as a tribute to a great author of the time……and as much, a gesture of goodwill, for the future prosperity of a pioneer settlement. A name with considerable literary provenance, to one of the best known authors of the day, a parallel talent to writer Charles Dickens. LeSueur when he wasn't administering business for the federal postal department, was also making a name for himself, as a literary critic and historian. While it's been about 14 years since I started my research on Irving, and LeSueur, it's been roughly the same time, trying to convince the Town of Bracebridge they should be proud of their namesake. Hasn't happened yet. I'm not hopeful either. Point is, I found the writings of Mr. Irving to fit my own moods and outlooks, and I consult it frequently for inspiration. When I would pause to think about Richard Karon's landscapes, and about the panoramas he captured in the Township of Lake of Bays, I might find little gems like the following, that reminded me how storied our woodlands have been throughout history.

     "As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all noxious qualities of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy," wrote the American author, creator of the famous "Legend of Sleepy Holly," and "Rip Van Winkle."

     I wish, for the preparation of this biography, I had enjoyed the company of the painter himself. It would have been so much more insightful and complete, if I had even been able to read notes, he might have penned into a personal journal. I would have been contented to have read anything, the man had thought important enough to jot down, even hastily, on notes he made of paintings, and sizes he required for wood framing. For much of this, I have depended on the word of others. I've spent a lot of time and research, looking at the circumstances of his life, and his travels in Europe and to North America, without a shred of hard evidence, other than the papers he filed as a "displaced person" seeking refuge in Canada. While the Karon family has been very generous with all the information they possessed, and have held nothing back, that would help fulfill this biography, it is still the case, much of the story has been diminished because the artist, himself, didn't play a key role in the editorial content. The same situation, occurred for me, during the preparation of the biography for Outdoor Education Teacher / Canadian book collector, David Brown, of Hamilton. I needed Dave Brown at my side, because everything else had to come from friends and associates. He appointed me as his biography, and died before we had written the first word of chapter one. Dave didn't leave any journals behind, that would have helped me with actuality, and the personal integrity of the biography. It became my story, and the story as recalled by others. The same can be said for Richard Karon, that my regret remains, I didn't have the chance to conduct a sit-down discussion, in person, to converse candidly, about the artist's interests and objectives.

     As a matter of some irony, after twelve years, I have only just recently, received a large contribution of editorial material, regarding Dave Brown, and his Camp Comack (Haliburton) days, working as an outdoor instructor. These reminiscences came from a long time friend who contacted me recently, referencing what I had already written about our mutual friend. He hadn't been aware that Dave had passed away, in the late 1990's, as he had been in Western Canada. The information that he provided me, while late, is still very relevant to the story of this well known outdoor educator…..and will be used in biographical updates. I'm sincerely hoping this will be the case with Richard Karon, that new information will be submitted in the years to come, to infill what we presently don't know about his early years as an artist, traveling in Europe. The great advantage of composing this as an online biography, is that it can be easily updated and revised, as new information becomes available. As with Mr. Brown's book, I'm not likely to reprint it, but rather, bring it to cyberspace as well, so it to can be upgraded with newfound material when available.

     There is a dog eared letter, pasted into the scrapbook, Richard Karon kept for his cut-out press reviews, that deserves special mention. It was dated the second of November 1976, and was written by an individual who had read an article, published in the North Bay Nugget, about one of the artist's exhibitions. It may be the case, this art admirer also saw one of his paintings up close, possibly at a North Bay showing, but didn't actually approach the artist at this time. The letter is poorly written, somewhat difficult to read, and eccentric, but Karon found something important about the message within. It obviously contained something he identified with, because it is pasted side-by-side letters of thanks, from Frank Henry, former administrator of South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, recognizing the gift, of an original painting, the artist had just recently presented to the health-care facility. It begins, "Mr. Karon. Please be kind enough to read me. Sunday afternoon, again I was moved by your painting. Now to read how, you too, have been out of a job, penniless, also exiled from your country, because you have great courage; and with hard work and perseverance, you've done it. I will go on alone; the example of your life gives me the assurance that I've done well, to leave everything behind, to paint with oxygen. Well, I just want to say, I admire your courage - love your skies - thanks for being you - a person in a million, who is still able to impress me; a person (the letter writer) who has suffered, to conquer threats myself, in the beauty of the hour, leaving forever. One can be so lonely, in this field of time, to keep a vestige of a moment in color, of a deep emotion, surrounded by futility in this world of over-consumption - when the true soul is forever a foreigner. Thanks again and accept my respect."

     The Richard Karon biography has been remarkable in many ways, and very much different from others I have worked on, during the past twenty years. I was, quite frankly, unsettled, at the beginning of the project, to find out that this significant Muskoka artist, had been buried in relative obscurity, away from the District he loved so much. Without reference, at graveside, to him having been an established Canadian Artist, and a friend of Muskoka, seemed reason enough to start making amends…..for what we should have done, in his memory, much earlier than this. Even his obituary, in the local press, in March 1987, wasn't more than a few paragraphs of very few words. I have no idea now, whether I wrote anything in The Muskoka Sun, The Muskoka Advance or The Herald-Gazette, of which I was an editor at the time of his death. I can't imagine having let this event go without acknowledgement, but I long-ago, sent off my paper files for re-cycling. What should have been front page news, was relegated to the community news, and I realize how we missed an important opportunity, to celebrate a storied and accomplished life.

     I know the family is considering some type of memorial tribute, to the work of Richard Karon, in the Village of Baysville, but as of yet it hasn't been finally determined, what would be most suitable, and appropriate, to remind citizens and seasonal residents, of the landscapes he was best known.

     I would like to thank all the kind folks who helped us out, during the course of this research, with stories and images of original Karon paintings in their possession. They have helped us build a resource for the future, and it is already being sought out by those interested in the artist's life. It has been submitted, of course, to both the National Art Gallery and the Art Gallery of Ontario, for their respective reference libraries…..for use by researchers in the future. I want to add special thanks to Muskoka artist Janet Stahle-Fraser, of the Township of Lake of Bays, for sharing, with the artist's son, and his daughter, Mr. Karon's original easel, which he gave to her shortly after closing his studio in the mid 1980's. The photograph with today's summation, of the Karon Biography, shows the artist's granddaughter, Aurora, peeking through the easel, still being used by the Lake of Bays artist. The background, of course, is Janet's studio setting. The meeting occurred in March, and it was certainly a highlight for Richard Sahoff Karon, as he had been searching for the elusive easel for many years.

     One art patron, who possesses several Karon originals, invited the young Karon and myself, to her house to see his father's paintings, and the hospitality we were shown, was generous and heart-warming. She asked only that her name not be used. Just having the opportunity to see how she had hung these paintings in a pine-clad Muskoka room, made us feel pretty good, about the respect his work was still garnering, years after his death. Both paintings were of waterscapes in close vicinity to Baysville.

     We had many kind notes and so many offers to visit, to see his major paintings, in homes across the district. We made this connection, in large part, thanks to the kindness of our regional newspaper, The Weekender, which published two of our requests for information on Mr. Karon. The responses were amazing, and at least half of this biography, and the available art images, came courtesy The Weekender's readership. Only hours after the first request was published, and the free Friday papers being delivered to the driveways throughout the district, we had begun receiving emails, and all kinds of offers of assistance, we couldn't have anticipated from just a Letter to the Editor. It was almost non-stop for two full weeks, and it literally gave the biography its wings.

     My son Robert and his musical partner, Dani O'Connor, of Gravenhurst, provided the music for the tribute video, which I hope you will take time to watch again. Robert did the filming and created the video. Dani provided the vocals.

     Here is a list of those friends of this biography, who offered us, on loan, images of their Richard Karon paintings; Joyce A. Medley, Beverley J. Robinson, Ches. and Betty Fulton, Shirley Bullock, Marilyn MacDougall, Kristina Campbell, Lois and Barry Swan, Ken and Cheryl Mann, Leigh Beal, Ike Kelneck, Peter Jackson, Ellen Gofforth and Rhoda Moeller and the collection of paintings owned by Richard Sahoff Karon. If we have left your name off this list we have done so inadvertently. Please let us know we have left your name off and we will make the correction.