Ramble Creek, The Jungle Ravine, Burlington, Ontario

THE MYRIAD ENCHANTMENTS OF OLD RAMBLE CREEK -

A SANCTUARY FOR A KID, IN BURLINGTON, THAT PREPARED ME FOR MUSKOKA

      ONCE AGAIN, I AM INDEBTED TO TRACY MCKELVY, OF BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, WHO SENT ME A FEW (EXCELLENT) PHOTOGRAPHS THIS WEEK, OF SOME OF MY OLD HAUNTS, FROM MY DAYS LIVING IN THE COMMUNITY, DATING BACK TO THE LATE 1950'S. FROM A CHANCE ENCOUNTER, WHILE SEARCHING FOR SOME NEIGHBORHOOD HISTORY, ONLINE, TRACY FOUND ME, A LINK TO THE PAST, HOLED-UP HERE IN THE WILDS OF MUSKOKA. SHE WAS PARTICULARLY PLEASED TO FIND THAT I HAD WRITTEN ABOUT ANNE AND ALEC NAGY, WHO OWNED THE APARTMENT BUILDING WHERE MY FAMILY LIVED FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS, BEFORE WE MOVED NORTH TO BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO. ANNE NAGY WAS MY SECOND MOTHER BACK THEN, AND ALEC, WELL, HE WAS CERTAINLY MY BACK-UP FATHER. I MAY HAVE SPENT MORE QUALITY TIME WITH ALEC, FOLLOWING HIM AROUND THE APARTMENT PROPERTY, THAN I SPENT WITH MY OWN FATHER, ED, WHO SEEMED TO WORK ALL THE TIME, AND WHEN NOT WORKING, WAS COMMUTING TO HIS PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. WHILE ALEC WORKED, AT INTERNATIONAL HARVESTER, I BELIEVE, HE MANAGED QUITE A BIT OF TIME AT HOME, BUT AS HE LIKED TO WORK, AND I LIKED WATCHING, WE GOT ALONG OKAY. I LEARNED ALOT AS HIS APPRENTICE. I PROBABLY DROVE HIM NUTS BUT IT NEVER SHOWED. ALEC WAS TOO POLITE TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE "GO AWAY KID, YOU BOTHER ME," TO BORROW A LINE FROM W.C. FIELDS.

     SEEING THE PHOTOGRAPHS TRACY SENT ME, BROUGHT BACK A FLOOD OF MEMORIES, AND  AFTER ALL THE WILD AND CRAZY STUFF, I HAD ENGAGED MYSELF IN, DURING THOSE HALCYON DAYS OF CHILDHOOD, I HAD ACTUALLY DONE SOMETHING PROFOUNDLY INSIGHTFUL AT THE SAME TIME. I HAD, YOU SEE, MADE A POINT OF CAPTURING THESE SCENES AND MOMENTS, AS IF I KNEW THEN, THAT ONE DAY IT WAS GOING TO BE IMPORTANT TO DELVE BACK, AND REMEMBER CLEARLY, THE WAY IT WAS. AS I'VE NOTED BEFORE, THE ODD AND CERTAINLY COINCIDENTAL ASPECT OF THIS PRESENT JAG OF REMINISCENCE, IS THAT SOMETHING ETHEREAL INFLUENCED ME, BACK THEN, TO PAY ATTENTION…..AS IF I WAS AN HISTORIAN IN TRAINING EVEN THEN. I HAD NOSTALGIC FEELINGS BY THE TIME I WAS SEVEN YEARS OF AGE. NOT THAT I WAS PARTICULARLY NOSTALGIC FOR THE SIX PREVIOUS YEARS, BUT FOR SOMETHING ELSE. THIS NEIGHBORHOOD. EVERYTHING ABOUT IT HAD A RELEVANCE, AT A TIME WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT "RELEVANCE" OR "HISTORY" MEANT; AND AS FAR AS HAVING NOSTALGIC FEELINGS, IT WAS JUST A STRANGE INTRUSION OF MELANCHOLY, WHEN AS A KID, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN BOUNCING-HAPPY ALL OVER THE PLACE. POSSIBLY I WAS REINCARNATED. MAYBE I HAD LIVED IN THIS PLACE BEFORE, AND I WAS RE-VISITING THE OLD HAUNTS. I DON'T KNOW. BUT BEING RE-INTRODUCED TO HARRIS CRESCENT AGAIN, IN THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS, HAS CERTAINLY REMINDED ME OF THOSE SHUFFLING, SLOW, MINDFUL WALKS, NOTICING EVERYTHING I COULD ABOUT THE PEOPLE, PLACES AND THINGS; IRRELEVANT AS A MEMORY FOR SOME, BUT OF CRITICAL IMPORTANCE TO A KID LIKE ME…..WITH AN OLD SOUL. WHEN LATER IN THIS TOME, I MEET UP WITH ANGELA, YOU WILL REMEMBER THIS REINCARNATION THING. I STILL LIVE WITH ONE FOOT IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE. I DID THEN, AS WELL!

     I AM NOT THE ONLY PERSON TO HAVE GROWN UP WITH A KEEN INTEREST IN HIS OR HER SURROUNDINGS. THERE ARE READERS RIGHT NOW, WHO RECOGNIZE OUR KINDRED SPIRITS, AND CAN REMEMBER MUCH FROM THEIR YOUTH, BECAUSE THEY KNEW THAT SOME DAY, IT WOULD BE AN IMPORTANT ASPECT OF INTERNAL FORTITUDE, TO BE ABLE TO RECALL EVEN  MINOR EVENTS, SOME GOOD, SOME BAD, FRIENDS AND STUDENT CHUMS, AND WHAT MADE IT ALL SO INTERESTING. AT TIMES, SO PERPLEXING. I HAVE TALKED TO QUITE A FEW FOLKS, WHO HAD ENTERTAINED WRITING A PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY, BUT HAD VERY FEW MEMORIES OF THEIR CHILDHOOD. ONCE I GET THEM PERFORMING A FEW MIND-LIBERATING EXERCISES, THEY DO EVENTUALLY RECOVER MORE MEMORIES, AND QUITE A FEW HIDDEN FEELINGS ABOUT WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT THE HOME, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD AND IN THE COMMUNITY. THE MORE THEY WRITE, THE MORE COMES BACK. SOME TIMES IT SNAPS BACK WITH A STING. SOME TIME'S IT'S LIKE SITTING IN YOUR MOTHER'S, OR GRANDMOTHER'S KITCHEN, SNIFFING A FRESHLY BAKED PIE, AND IT FEELS LIKE A DRYER-WARM TOWEL AGAINST YOUR BODY. THIS IS WHAT WRITING A BIOGRAPHY TURNS UP, WHEN YOU'RE HAVING A GOOD DAY.

     WHAT MAY BE MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL, FOR ME, IS THE VERY REAL ENCHANTMENTS I FOUND, IN THOSE CHILD-WILD DAYS, IN BURLINGTON, WANDERING THE GREENBELT IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, WHICH WE CALLED WITH GREAT AFFECTION "THE RAVINE." RAMBLE CREEK (OR AT LEAST THIS IS WHAT WE ALWAYS CALLED IT, IN MY DAY) WOUND ITS WAY THROUGH THE OVERGROWN OPEN SPACE, TOWARD THE LAKE. THE RAMBLING, SHADOWY CREEK WAS PROBABLY LESS THAN A QUARTER KILOMETER FROM LAKE ONTARIO, IN GEOGRAPHIC TERMS, AND IT CAME FROM QUITE A DISTANCE UP BRANT STREET AND BEYOND. I KNOW IT CROSSED OVER THE ROADWAY TO LIONS CLUB PARK, WHERE IT RAMBLED AWAY THROUGH THE BEAUTIFUL LIGHT AND SHADOW, TREE-LINED LANDSCAPE OF THE MID-TOWN PARK. BUT THE SECTION CLOSEST TO THE LAKE, WAS MY SANCTUARY, AND I WANTED TO SPEND ALL MY WAKING HOURS, PLAYING IN AND AROUND THE RAVINE THAT ENCHANTED THE SUNLIT, FROTHING LITTLE CREEK, FLOWING TO THE LAKE. WHILE IT MAY HAVE BEEN A SMALL, SOMEWHAT INSIGNIFICANT GREEN BELT, TO THE ADULTS OF OUR COMMUNITY, TO ME, AND CHUMS, IT WAS OUR "NARNIA." IT WAS A MAGICAL PLACE, THROUGHOUT THE FOUR SEASONS. IT WAS A PLACE THAT NURTURED AND ENCOURAGED IMAGINATION. EVERY KID SHOULD HAVE A RAVINE AND A RAMBLING CREEK, TO IMMERSE IN NATURE. IT WAS, OF COURSE, THE PLANTED SEED FOR MY OWN LONG-STANDING WRITING EFFORT, TO HELP PROMOTE CONSERVATION IN OUR DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, AND TO SPARE THE LAKELAND FROM URBAN SPRAWL. I CAN TRACE IT ALL BACK, TO SITTING ALONG THAT CREEK BANK, LISTENING TO THE GENTLE, SOOTHING WASH OF WATER, SMOOTHING LIKE SYRUP, OVER THE FLAT ROCKS ON THE BOTTOM, AND RUSHING THROUGH THE CONFLUENCES, OF STONES BUILT-UP AS BRIDGES, SO WE COULD PASS FROM ONE MARVELOUS PLACE TO ANOTHER. IT WAS A POET'S SANCTUARY. A WRITER'S PORTAL. I WROTE ABOUT IT ALL, IN THOUGHT.

     I was always told I had an over-active imagination. It was said to me, by overseers, who often felt I was embellishing what I saw, or experienced. If a teacher, friend or family member, had said this to my mother Merle, about the eccentricity of her only son, she would have tightened her jaw, rolled back her eyes, stiffened her stance, and let loose with a tirade of reasons, to allow the creative mind its flowery pastures to roam…..its forest adventures to seek, and passage on the high seas to embark. It was like Joseph Conrad's novel, "Typhoon," when she finally finished. Every one was windblown with adjectives. Merle was a passionate defender of what others thought were mere extravagances, of an undisciplined mind. I see so much of this today, it's alarming…..young kids, who should be playing in the same woodlands, as I did; getting soakers and bumps and bruises by interacting with the natural environs. I get frustrated watching kids walk up our street to school, texting on their phones. They have had to walk a whole stretch of neighborhood, where a beautiful forest and lowland occupies the north side. If a deer was standing close enough to lick their faces, these youngsters would be so consumed by communication via expensive technology, they'd never feel its hot breath on their necks; and how sad, that they are missing these amazing intricacies, and displays of nature. This will have a tragic consequence over time. We can't possibly be stewards of nature, by the indifference that is being demonstrated these days.

     Long before I ever read anything Washington Irving had written, there was a passage he wrote that explained, with uncanny accuracy, my own intimate opinion of nature, and my outright refusal, to place science above creative enterprise. I held them as equals. Obviously, even the scientist needs to employ creativity to find solutions, and uncover natural truths, unseen by the naked eye, and even left undetected by the wandering poet. For those who have been reading my blog, for some time, they will recognize this particular reference, to the differences between science and the mysteries of life, science can't entirely explain. I never walk in the woods without thinking of this paragraph, written in and around the early 1820's, published in the book "Bracebridge Hall." (Bracebridge, Ontario, (Muskoka) was named after this book, by Irving).

     "I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject; yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost to wish that I had been born in the days when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look upon those fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my early days, tells me, that they were sources of exquisite delight; and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect the flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure from contemplating them, that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the advancement of truth; yet I cannot but mourn over the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel, Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy land, all vanish before the light of true philosophy; but who does not sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the sweet visions of the night."

     So what would the average public school student, today, say about a circle of padded-down grass, and bent-over vegetation, found in a secluded, shady woodlot? A place where a bear might have rolled around? Two Tom cats wrestling in the night? Something round having fallen from outer space, that was able to walk away from the landing spot? Or could it have been caused by something weather related? Out of ten kids, or a hundred, or a thousand, how many do you think would say, "That's a fairy ring, from a moonlight dance." My boys would have, offered this anecdotally, as they were children of the wilds, who had a mother who read them stories about the "fantastic."  I would have answered this the same, even at a very young age, because Merle always read me fairy tales, and the great children's fiction of the world. I knew, as did my wife, and sons, the differences between the actualities, and science of nature, and the intricacies of fantasy. The distance between the two, is what we all called, "the enchantment." Before I moved away from Harris Crescent, and that amazing little ravine, and Ramble Creek, I knew the science of that place. I knew how the seasons affected the habitat, for a million interesting creatures that lived there, and how the water flow was affected in the spring by the melting snow, and how it would be limited to a trickle in the last days of July. I knew the heart beat and pulse that was strong in this shadowy place, and despite the science and botany I enjoyed as much, there was never a time, when I entered the hollow of the ravine, when I didn't expect to find magic unfurled…..whether the glistening art of a spider's web with dew, or the strange designs a spawning Sucker had made in the sand of the shallow pools, between the smooth flat rocks of the creek. I amalgamated it all, into one impression, and it was that this was a place of endless possibility and great expectation. Within only several minutes, of my arrival, any day, any hour of the week, I got a "soaker." It was my initiation, you see, to this perpetually unfolding, natural world, of which I was a humble, inquisitive guest.

     It was the background, I called upon, when we were forced to fight the sale plans, the Town of Gravenhurst initiated, several years ago, targeting the marvelous little acreage I call The Bog, across from our home. They were prepared to sell it off for residential lots, without any consideration whatsoever, of the lowland eco-system they would be destroying…..that would affect the water quality of Muskoka Bay, of the broader Lake Muskoka. Many times during the rigorous battle, to preserve the open space, I thought about that little ravine, where Ramble Creek tumbled along, in its tiny natural paradise. I thought a lot about Washington Irving. And the happy ending, is that the people won, and The Bog was preserved……and all the bandy legged wee beasties that dwell there, have their home intact.

SNAKES, SQUIRRELS, RABBITS, FROGS AND PASSAGE TO THE SEA

     The "ravine," where Ramble Creek trickled all the live long day, was more than just a place to find frogs and throw stones in the still pools. I saw it as a natural portal onto the rest of the wide and amazing world. I knew the creek rambled its way to Lake Ontario, and from my early forays into school geography, I knew that one could travel to the Atlantic Ocean from there, and that made this little amber creek, dazzling in the sunlight, so poetic and alluring to me…..as if it was the clearest path to liberation, and eternal freedom from my oppressors. I loved my oppressors, don't get me wrong. But it's just the pull of nature, for a kid to want to leave the nest before the wings were strong enough to enable flight. From the moment I first arrived at Ramble Creek, as a wide-eyed child, in my father's arms, I wanted to get down and explore. One of my first serious adventures, down in the hollow, was during the winter, when a small section of the creek behind the Creighton Apartment block, had been cleared for skating. Merle had acquired some "Bobb Skates," and this was my first skating lesson. It didn't go well. There were quite a few other kids, that day, managing to stand, and eventually, I learned from them how to balance upright. Even from skates, I saw this as a watercourse route leading somewhere…..beyond what I could see clearly down the ravine. When I'd come down to its embankment, on early summer mornings, so cool and refreshing, I wondered what it would be like to sail off on a raft, like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, toward all kinds of amazing adventures. I can not tell you how many plans I had, to build the kind of raft, that I could sail out of the creek, and into the expanse of a Great Lake. I was always looking for newly fallen trees, so that I could harvest the trunks to add to other forest waste, to strap together for a good, secure, floating raft. The crazy thing about this, is that I knew full well, the only way I could ever do this, was in the spring, when the water was running fast and deep. All the children in that neighborhood were ordered away from the creek when the water flow became substantial. I knew the current would have killed the raft before it drowned me. I'd already faced near-death once, when I fell through the ice with my snowsuit on. And as I was up to my chest in cold water, the current was tugging at my boots, sucking me below the other remaining section of ice further down. As my mates ran like hell, some guardian angel was able to alert my mother, and possibly Anne Nagy, (I'm not sure of this), who somehow managed to pull me out of the current, toward shore. My boots and snowsuit were so full of water, that it doubled my weight, so it wasn't an easy extraction whatsoever. I know that the cold water had begun sapping my capability to stay upright, so however Merle arrived on that scene, and whoever got the message to her, my life was hanging by a thread, in the place I loved so dearly.  "You nearly drowned today Teddy," she said over and over that night, as I sat covered in blankets watching the television. I know she was right, as I was the one facing my own demise. This event came after I had experienced the vision of an angel, during a terrible illness, and I always wondered if the same angel had something to do with my rescue. She may have been getting a little concerned that I had a death wish. In later years, I would have two other near-drowning experiences, and another in a serious motor vehicle accident with my school chums.

     Even though I came within a whisker of slipping below that ice, on Ramble Creek, and washing out to Lake Ontario, (that I had wanted to do onboard a raft), I never feared being in that ravine, or near the flow of water. I was a little more respective about walks on thin ice after that episode. I also had a few questions for my mates, and why they had whipped off home, when they should have been hauling my wet ass our of the brine. They were scared of getting in trouble. Geez, is that all? In that ravine, I saw nature at its most gentle, and I watched its rage, when, after a storm, or a quick spring melt, it was a raging torrent to its mouth into the lake. I watched all the creatures react to these circumstances, and what the weather did, to keep them in hiding, or in cool places when the climate was hot and humid. I watched the minnows and water spiders, the snakes sunning on the flat rocks, old chubby raccoons ambling along the banks, and the rabbits that would all of a sudden dart across a path, into the tangle of vines and shrubs that grew thick and hardily in the basin. The hue of the water, in Ramble Creek, changed throughout the day, depending on how much sunlight spotted down through the hardwood cover. It might seem amber to almost golden, in sunlight pockets, and serpent black, in the maturing low light of early evening. The rippling water gyrated in concentric, moving shadows, silently in the sandy pools, and when the water was particularly diminished, the flow would become turbulent with white water, breaking over the above surface rocks. The crows and chirping birds flitting from bough to bough, gave this place a jungle aura, teeming with life forms……to the thankfulness of the patient voyeurs, who were satisfied to sit and watch a natural day unfold.

     There is another foggy memory I have, that I have played with, and embellished to serve specific purposes, for years, and in dozens of stories……, about a girl I had great affection, as a wee floppy-eared lad. Her name was Angela, I believe (but I may be incorrect), and she lived in a house that backed onto the creek. I knew her from my class at Lakeshore Public School, and she knew me best, from watching our little Harris Crescent Gang, marauding through the ravine, like Tarzan and the Apes. She'd play on a creaking old swing set, in her backyard, waiting for the next time Teddy Currie might pop out of the jungle. One day, after school, she invited me to her house to play.  I didn't have girlfriends, except Ray Green's sister, Holly, who was just a good mate, so I was a little nervous about a girl summonsing me to an undetermined social encounter. I did emerge from the brush, and tangle of vines….(from a plant species I never identified), and followed the path she pointed out, as the best way across the creek to avoid a soaker. I didn't make it anywhere, without wet feet. Angela invited me to play on the swing set, which I concurred would be okay, and while we didn't talk, I could feel an aura I wasn't familiar with…..and as it turned out, it happened to be my own. Something clicked here, and I was getting pretty electric, swinging alongside this beautiful angel-sent creature. The only crush I'd ever had, to that point, was the pop I used to buy at Walmsley's Variety Shop (I think this is what it was called). Orange Crush. A human crush, oh dear. I was a rookie at this kind of stuff, and as my mother told me bluntly…….."Teddy, you're not dating any one until you're sixteen." She started telling me this when I was five, and couldn't have cared less if I ever dated. So here I was, still pretty much a kid, with a date, on a swing, and my God, the old heart was going pitter-patter. We were on the swings for about an hour, talking a little about school, and friends from class, when I heard the Herculean bellow of my mother, on the hillside above (which was pretty much the apartment parking lot), commanding me to come home for dinner. I remember being shocked at how long we had been swinging, as it had only seemed a few moments. Possibly Merle had a suspicion I had found a femme fatale. Angela didn't want me to go. Which was funny, because I knew enough from my occasional glances in the mirror, that I wasn't the cream of the crop, of good looking lads in my grade. My big ears usually kept me in the "best left to mature" grouping of classmates, with thick glasses, pants pulled up to their chests, and those who had odd and bushy uni-brows. Generally I wasn't a keeper, but that supposes, someone like Angela had reason to make that judgement. On this occasion, she decided I was worth a wee and measured investment of emotion. On a trial basis.

     As I headed to the creek bank, to hop the flat rocks to the other side, Angela grabbed my hand, and I stopped in my tracks.  "What's this," my body asked my soul? I stood with her for a bit, watching over the babbling creek, in this widened portion nearing the lake, and when I looked at her, gads, she had tears streaming down her cheeks. Again I asked myself, "What's this all about?" I went from being shocked that a girl would find me "swing worthy," to actually causing her to cry at news of my departure. I think at that moment, one old soul had encountered another. Maybe we were, without knowing it, in the historical sense, recreating a scene belonging to two other lives, of once upon a time, parting at this very point of local geography. Maybe a separation because of war. Possibly we were the spirits of a former boyfriend / girlfriend alliance, broken-up by circumstance. I don't know, but the sadness of that occasion was overwhelming. What had begun as a play-date with no strings, had ended with such melancholy, that it was hard to forget…..hard to let go of that little pink hand, so warm in mine. I almost fell into the water, looking back, at her tearful expression, and watching her clasp hands at the waist, and looking as if we had been together for years, rather than a few moments, on a creaking swing.

     I have no recollection of Angela after this. When I'd trek down the waterside path, to the back of her house, I never saw her again, and I have no memory whatsoever, of meeting her again in class, following this strange and perpetually haunting afternoon. I told my mother this one day, and she said, without hesitation, "Teddy, you were swinging with a ghost." I wasn't terribly familiar with what that meant, entirely, or what a ghost represented to the human-kind. For all these years, and with what ghosts I have witnessed in my life, I have always wondered about Angela, and just what made that hour in my life so darned eternal.

     Surely you have had similarly haunting encounters like this, to write down, in your own personal biography. We've all had curiously romantic liaisons we can't explain or justify simply, or rationally. Even after all these decades, I will see someone who instantly reminds me of this little girl, of once, who used to live on the shore of Ramble Creek, and I can almost feel my heart skipping beats. Both so much older now, could it be? Is it possible? Most of us can relate to one or more romantic situations in our lives, that was more enchanting and mysterious than the others. I just had mine a little earlier than most. Was it a ghost? An over-active imagination? The over-active imagination of my mother? Or just one of the raging enchantments, inherent of the Ramble Creek experience?

     Thank you so much for joining this third chapter of a seven part series, regarding my early days, in Burlington, Ontario. Have you considered putting your own recollections into a journal biography? Join me tomorrow night, for chapter four, and I'll give you a few more reasons, to sharpen your pencil, and start reminiscing.