FROM THE HISTORIAN'S PERSPECTIVE - WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT?
WHAT HISTORY DO WE WANT TO PASS ON TO OTHERS?
I HAVE TO ADMIT THIS, BECAUSE MY LIFE AFTER ALL, IS AN OPEN BOOK (BLOG), BUT THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I SIT BACK IN MY OFFICE CHAIR, LOOK AT WHAT I'VE WRITTEN, AS A CLUMP OF BLACK ON A WHITE QUIVERING SCREEN, (I PREFERRED PAPER IN AN OLD UNDERWOOD), THEN CLASP MY HANDS OVER THE TOP OF MY HAIRLESS HEAD, AND PONDER ALOUD, "WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT?" YOU KNOW. THIS WRITING - HISTORY THING, I'VE BEEN DOING MOST OF MY LIFE. WHY DID I WORK SO BLOODY HARD TO SAVE AN HISTORIC BRACEBRIDGE HOME, TO OPEN A COMMUNITY MUSEUM, WHEN TODAY, BY SHEER NEGLECT, IT SITS IN A FRAGILE STATE ON THE HILLSIDE I ONCE TENDED WITH RAKE AND MOWER…….WHEN WE DIDN'T HAVE MONEY TO HIRE SOMEONE TO LOOK AFTER THE GROUNDS. THE STATE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA, THE MUSEUM I HELPED LAUNCH IN THE LATE 1970'S, IS TO ME, A MOST UNFORTUNATE (BUT PREDICTABLE) TURN OF EVENTS, AND I FIND IT HARD TO FEEL VERY POSITIVE ABOUT ITS FUTURE. I HAVEN'T BEEN INVITED TO PARTICIPATE IN ITS RESTORATION BID, BECAUSE I'M KIND OF CRITICAL OF HOW THE MESS HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE. THAT'S A BLOG FOR ANOTHER DAY. IT'S HARD TO FEEL GOOD ABOUT HISTORICAL ACCOMPLISHMENT, AS WOODCHESTER ONCE GAVE EVERY APPEARANCE, WHEN WHAT WE STARTED WITH SUCH COMMUNITY PRIDE, IS NOW MORE OF A BLEMISH THAN THE JEWEL IT SHOULD BE. I DON'T LIVE IN BRACEBRIDGE, BUT BY GOLLY, IT WOULD BE SOMETHING SPECIAL, IF MEMBERS OF FORMERS HISTORICAL SOCIETY BOARDS, STEPPED FORWARD AGAIN, TO MAKE SURE THE TOWN DOES THE RIGHT WORK TO RECTIFY THE SITUATION. IF IT WAS WORTHWHILE IN 1980-81, IT IS WORTHWHILE TODAY! I DID VOLUNTEER MORE THAN A YEAR AGO BY THE WAY, AND I MEANT IT! I'M NOT EXPECTING A RESPONSE. SEE, I CAN PREDICT THE FUTURE. IF THEY DO CALL FOR MY ADVICE, YOU'LL BE THE FIRST TO KNOW.
WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL THE BIOGRAPHICAL / HISTORICAL RESEARCH, CONTAINED IN THE LENGTHY FEATURE ARTICLES I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MUSKOKA'S HERITAGE, AND ALL THESE HOURS SPENT, TO RE-CREATE, IN A MODERN SENSE AND APPLICATION, EVENTS LONG IN OUR COLLECTIVE PAST…….AND MIGHT JUST BE BEST LEFT THERE, TO BLOW ALONG LIKE OLD LEAVES, EVENTUALLY FORMING THE SOIL WE CALL MOTHER EARTH.
IT'S AT TIMES WHEN I'M FEELING PARTICULARLY ROUGHED-UP BY THE PHYSICAL DEMANDS OF BEING HUNCHED OVER THIS KEYBOARD FOR HOURS ON END, AND SORE ALL-OVER FROM CRAPPY POSTURE, THAT MY MOTHER, AND COUNTLESS PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHERS, WARNED WOULD CRIPPLE ME ONE DAY. THAT AND JUST FEELING BLOODY TIRED, BECAUSE, BELIEVE IT OR NOT, BEING POSITIONED LIKE THIS FOR HOURS AT A TIME, IS LIKE DIGGING A LONG ROW OF POST HOLES ON A REALLY BIG FARMSTEAD. SO WHY DO I DO IT? I CALL IT MY PROFESSIONAL ADDICTION. IT'S NOT THAT IT MAKES ME HUGE WHACKS OF MONEY, OR ANYTHING, AND I'M AS FAR AWAY FROM A PULITZER AS I WAS IN 1978, WHEN I WROTE MY FIRST ANTIQUE COLUMN FOR THE NEW BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER.
I MIGHT ASK THE QUESTION BUT I'VE ALWAYS HAD THE ANSWER. IT'S JUST MY FORM OF RECREATION WITHIN A PROFESSION. WHEN I HAVE TO GET UP FROM THIS BEAT-UP OLD OFFICE CHAIR, THAT THE SMITHSONIAN MAY WANT WHEN I'M GONE, I CREAK LIKE THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE TITANIC SETTLING ON THE OCEAN BOTTOM. WHEN I SIT DOWN, FOR AN EAGERLY ANTICIPATED WRITING JAG, I'M LIKE THE LUNAR LANDER, WITH SUCH A SOFT, EASY DECLINE INTO THE UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIR THAT HOLDS ME TO TASK. IT'S ONE OF THOSE "LUCKY" CHAIRS AMONGST MANY CHARMS I KEEP CLOSE BY FOR GOOD LUCK. THE CHAIR IS SO UNCOMFORTABLE, THAT I HAVE TO WORK AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE, TO ESCAPE ITS GRASP, BEFORE I'M SWALLOWED ALIVE INTO ITS DEVILISH ABYSS WHICH I DAYDREAM ABOUT, BEING A SORT OF LIMBO WHERE ALL BROKEN CHAIRS AND WRITERS GO AT THE END OF LIFE, TO BLAME EACH OTHER FOR THEIR INHERENT FAILURES.
I WAS BROUGHT UP IN A FAMILY THAT RESPECTED HISTORY. IT'S BECAUSE OF THEIR ENCOURAGEMENT, THAT I PURSUED A DEGREE IN HISTORY, AND BEGAN WRITING ABOUT IT, EVEN BEFORE I GRADUATED UNIVERSITY. ATTEMPTING TO OPEN A MUSEUM IN MY FORMER HOMETOWN? THAT WAS A MOST ENJOYABLE PRE-OCCUPATION. IT WAS A "HAPPENING" IN BRACEBRIDGE, AND MANY OF US HISTORY LOVERS, WANTED TO GET IN ON THE EXCITEMENT. I WENT UP TO SEE THE HOUSE THE OTHER DAY, AND I WANTED TO CRY. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN, IN A TOWN REVERED FOR ITS LOVE FOR HISTORY? YUP, SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I EVER GOT INVOLVED…..AND IF I HAD THOSE YEARS TO LIVE OVER……KNOWING WHAT I KNOW TODAY……WELL, THIS IS MY PROBLEM. THOSE FEW GREAT YEARS AT WOODCHESTER WERE WORTH IT…..BELIEVE IT OR NOT. I'M JUST HAVING A PROBLEM WITH MY RETROSPECTIVE OF IT ALL, REALIZING I COULDN'T DO NOW, WHAT I WAS ABLE TO DO THEN.
THE POINT OF THE HISTORIAN? SOMETIMES I'M JUST NOT SURE
I wonder if these research pieces, that I've written and published in so many newspapers and magazines over the past thirty-five years, have been worth the abuse on my body…..my neck, wrists and fingers. Even my wonky hip, that gives me a little hop to my step, is proportional to bad work habits over those same three and a half decades. When friends ask why I have a noticeable limp these days, I tell them it is the result of too many years tending the hockey net, and far too many splits to make the big saves. This has played a part, but I won't tell them that sitting improperly at my desk, and poor posture, has led to back issues. Call it stupid male pride, but I would have a hard time admitting, that after all the pucks I took in the face, neck, groin, knees and ankles, that my limp is the result of a writing mishap. I mean, if there had been a tornado, and it hit our house while I was working on a manuscript, and I was then smashed in the knee with a flying typewriter, well then, possibly, it would be worth attributing a physical dysfunction with writer's work. To some of my former hockey buddies, everything that is wrong with us today, had something to do with Canada's national sport. It's vogue, especially over a cold beer at the local tavern, while we're slapping each other on the back, recalling the great moments in our hockey days…..and then limping to the washroom, hoping nobody notices our failing joints.
In the history part of writing, I do think about the post-publication use of the material. What is it that I hope to accomplish by the final reckoning, standing there in the bathing of white light at heaven's gate, feeling that my body of work was worth the knobby knees, hobble-hip and fused neck that I've endured for decades now? And would I have some suction from that mortal coil, to bring me back for just one more biography, to satisfy some urgent earthly need for information? Which brings up the point, that at my ultimate demise, with the angel chorus and bells ringing, will I feel in retrospect (if I have the ability to think back) that all this history stuff and the miles upon miles of newsprint that has carried my feature articles, impressed and impacted the readership the way it was intended? The nagging fear of course, is that one of the angels will mock me, gently, saying, "You bet Ted. It was all irrelevant. No one cares what you think, and you never convinced a single Tory to abandon their Party affiliation……despite your editorial attempts. That means you sucked as a writer!" I was going to say, well, "I just have to live with that," but in that upper region, with the angels, I'm not sure what the language dictates as far as "living with that." Maybe it will be more ethereal in nature, such as "floating without a care!" I like that!
I suppose each of us, on occasion of feeling life's tether loosening, thinks about the meaning of mortal existence, and what all this hustling about has accomplished, when in the end, it's up to God and nature to decide how you're going to wind-up for eternity. My mother Merle, may she rest in peace (not having to clean up after me) would appreciate the fact I've lived a Christian life, or as close as a horseshoe can get to a stake. But let me ask, if you have ever wished silently, but passionately, that a beautiful and pleasant moment would last forever……that it go on to infinity. Maybe it is a special moment with family, that you know may never repeat because of time and human ambitions…..that, though we don't like admitting it, also parallels its frailties. Occasions with good friends and old neighbors that seem so enduring at the moment but so fleeting in reality.
In many ways, as ridiculous an effort as it my be, I wish to keep these special times alive, at least in print-perpetuity. The feeling comes over me that I can save these important events and memorable connections, by writing them into what I mistakenly believe to be "the future of civilization." That my written records will survive, and mean something to someone in the future, is a compelling sensation of mission-rewarded, even if it's more likely I'm just deluding myself…..like the kid staring at the gold sparkles in a stone, pulled from a creek, believing it to be a great and valuable treasure……until a cloud passing across the sun, takes the sparkle away.
There is an allure to historical research, that just like antique hunting, (as I do every day of the week), turns up fascinating items (information) that should be of a general interest. Sometimes this isn't the case, and what I uncover as a "truth" of local history, isn't the big deal I had hoped it would be…..especially dedicating hundreds of hours to the project. Yet every now and again, there will be an occurrence or email, a phone call, or a letter in the mail, from someone who was impacted by a particular story, who claims to have been enlightened by the research findings. It's on occasions like this, that I sit back again, with hands on top of my head….as if holding my cranium in place upon my neck, believing that it all makes sense. All the sore joints and stiff neck, the limp from here to there, and the frustration that boils over when things mess-up, has been worth the effort. And at times when I have to start all over again, after being led down the wrong path, or hanging a right, when I should have gone left, is never more than a mild inconvenience every historian / biographer must contend. I might hate history some times, but not always. I will never be able to rid myself of the urge to write, and to seek out history for the sheer fun of adventure and exploration.
Thanks for joining today's blog. Please visit again soon. I do appreciate your support. Us old writers need a lot of support…..especially when our bodies are beat up like mine…..and begin to unceremoniously sag.
No comments:
Post a Comment