Thankful This Season To Reside In Gravenhurst

THE ETHEREAL EXPERIENCE OF OUR GREAT OUTDOORS - AT HOME HERE IN GRAVENHURST, ONTARIO

AT THANKSGIVING…..WHAT A DIVINE HONOR TO RESIDE IN AN EARTH-SIDE PARADISE

     IF MY WEATHER-ETCHED TOMBSTONE WAS TO READ, SIMPLY, BLUNTLY, THAT "HE LOVED THIS TOWN; HE ADORED THIS REGION; HE DIED A HOPELESS ROMANTIC, A FAILED POET, AN ASPIRING PHILOSOPHER, THEN MAY HE REST IN PEACE…..A WRITER OF MODEST ACCLAIM WITH BIG PLANS."

     OF COURSE, IN ORDER FOR MY FAMILY TO AFFORD SUCH A MONSTROUS TOMBSTONE, TO CONTAIN THIS RATHER BULBOUS EPITAPH, I WILL NEED ONE ABOUT SIX FEET TALL, WHICH MAY BE AGAINST EXISTING CEMETERY RULES. THEY'D HAVE TO SEEK A MINOR VARIANCE, OR A BYLAW FORGIVENESS. I'VE ONLY GOT ENOUGH MONEY SAVED UP NOW, FOR A SMALL CEMENT SLAB AND A WEE DECORATIVE SHRUB. I'D LIKE TWO, BUT THERE'S ONLY ENOUGH CASH FOR ONE, AND IT HAS TO BE ON SALE. I MIGHT EVEN HAVE TO MAKE THE SLAB MYSELF. AH, I'M JUST KIDDING. 

     AS I'VE ALREADY PUBLISHED THESE WORDS ONLINE, VIA THIS MEMORIAL BLOG BEFORE THE FACT, I SUPPOSE INSISTING IT BE CHISELED ONTO MY GRAVE MARKER WOULDN'T BE NECESSARY…..MAYBE EVEN A TAD REDUNDANT, PARDON THE PUN ON DEATH AND DIEING. INSTEAD I COULD CUT DOWN THE EXPENSE, BY SIMPLY HAVING ENOUGH WORDS ON THE TOMBSTONE, TO DIRECT ENQUIRIES TO MY FAMILY….WHO LOVE TALKING ABOUT ME (NOT), OR CONTAINING JUST THE PERTINENT INFORMATION……."JUST GOOGLE ME," AND LET CYBERSPACE DO THE REST. THIS WORKS AS LONG AS CYBERSPACE REMAINS HEALTHY……AND DOESN'T DIE PREMATURELY.

     THE POINT OF ALL THIS PREAMBLE NONSENSE, OF WHICH I AM FAMOUS (IF FOR NO OTHER REASON), IS THAT I WANT PEOPLE, HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE, TO KNOW THAT THIS WRITER….THIS HOME BOY, LOVES HIS COMMUNITY AND THE MUSKOKA ENVIRONS, MORE THAN HASTILY OR EVEN THOUGHTFULLY PENNED WORDS, CAN ACCURATELY REFLECT. OF THIS I'M SORRY TO SAY, I FAIL MISERABLY WHEN IT COMES TO DESCRIBING THIS MAGNIFICENT REGION, WITH THE POETIC MASTER-STROKE IT DESERVES. THERE'S AN ETHEREAL SIDE TO ALL THIS THAT HAUNTS ME IN PERPETUITY……SUCH THAT WHAT I SEE AND FEEL, ESCAPES ME WHEN I SIT DOWN HERE, TO TELL YOU HOW MANY GHOSTS I SAW OUT THERE…….WANDERING THE WINDING TRAILS WITH ME. THESE HAUNTED WOODS ARE HARD TO DESCRIBE…..ESPECIALLY IF I WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THE STORY I'M SPINNING.

HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING IN MUSKOKA

     It's when I take a wander in these profoundly enchanted woods, along some winding, leaf-strewn path, that I am not nearly the wordsmith I fancy myself……sitting alone in my abyss of self-absorption. But it will never be said of me, that I didn't try my level best, to perform the impossible; writing about the good graces of nature. A project I have endured, and suffered with, in self doubt, since I sought refuge here in the late 1970's, fleeing the city life and its rigors, on the vulnerable mind and body. It was killing me, and not slowly. In retrospect, I don't think I would have lived this long, if I had remained in the urban jungle. I would have need that gravestone much sooner, and the words would have been painfully blunt. "The city killed the poor man."

     Driving through the District this past week, on several antique hunting adventures, I have at times, been mesmerized by the haunting beauty of the painted autumn countryside…..the hazed-over pastures, and misty woodlands, and the mirroring lakes and black ribboned streams, that at subtle bends in the course, turn silver in the direct sunlight through the remaining canopy. As I motor slowly along these nicely treed lanes, my favorite being the Muskoka Beach Road, I try to compose some meaningful overview, that I might pen eventually into a travel piece for my favorite regional publication……"Curious; The Tourist Guide." I often feel overwhelmed by the landscape, as Canadian artists, like Tom Thomson and A.Y. Jackson might have sketched, sitting in one of these heavenly alcoves, of spiraling-down leaves, and the blotching sunlight, dancing in the wind of the perfect autumn solitude. Is it fair to claim this then, as a heaven on earth. There is nothing more confounding to an artist, that to be immersed in this art as nature, and feel it an utterly impossible mission, to represent what is witnessed…..sensed, believing that to fail, would be, on a parallel, to fail God, as the ultimate creator.

     Being in the middle of these painted woodlands, of such epic light and shadow, the halos of sunbeams, bending across the pasture, does inspire thoughts beyond the mortality that beats in one's chest, and always evokes a stirring sensation of poignant spirituality……if only your own. Looking up at the azure sky through the wreathing of hardwoods and pine, into the great beyond, under which we bask in our mortal sojourn. To describe this place, this provocative feeling of freedom, as if just now released from all of society's fettering, the shackles being cracked open, and tossed aside in a great iron heap. The limits to our vision have been removed, so that we can see eternity for what it is…..no longer elusive and forbidding. Boundaries are no longer for keeping us in, but guiding us away from preconceived notions. Staunch opinion, that sculpted our prison, crumble away, and turn to dust upon the fallen leaves of this new autumn season. If only I had the eloquence of pen, to poeticize this remarkable feeling of re-birth within nature, such that all other statutes and bylaws are suddenly revoked, and equally turned to dust, of needless pages, in needless books. Time is open, and there are no appointments.

     I could stand here, in the Muskoka forest, long enough to root, before I could ever feel truly comfortable as its spokesperson. I could never be as precise and insightful about all the glorious details of such a precious, thriving place as this; where a myriad of life forms dwell in the shadows of moss covered stumps, and decaying old logs turning to soil, fringed by tired, brown ferns, touched by the latest frost to penetrate these woodlands. I can't help but feel small and insignificant amidst the bounty of nature. The writer-kind is a voyeur, trying to find the words to explain what, in reality, requires no explanation. Just the passion for discovery, without even the slightest need for more creative enterprise, than to engage the imagination…..set free to wander paradise at will.

     As many times as I might try to interpret, as folly, the natural environs, where our hometown is settled, I can only ever offer a tiny, biased overview, that if it is in this inspirational bosom of countryside, that I will die one day, then I will pass this mortal coil, with pleasant memories of what has been……my contented life, in this grand old world.  If my epitaph in review, had to be reduced again, on account of budget, it will suffice to read, "God, he loved Muskoka….nuff said!"

     Have a walk through paradise this Thanksgiving weekend. Visit some of your favorite places. Old haunts you remember from childhood. Former homesteads, fondly recalled neighborhoods, main streets you used to amble, and the sand lots where you used to play. Most of all, please celebrate the good graces of the Muskoka hinterland……and the character of our little town in its midst.

     We will be enjoying our Thanksgiving Tom Turkey here at Birch Hollow, in the Town of Gravenhurst……a place we are so thankful to reside.

     Thank you for joining today's blog. Feel free to visit any time. Just pull up a chair to the hearth, and we'll chat. Happy Thanksgiving.