Writing At A Muskoka Homestead At Christmas

I WILL LIVE TO LOVE AND WRITE ANOTHER DAY - SO MUCH FOR THE END OF THE WORLD PREDICTIONS

IF I'M GOING TO PERISH, LET IT BE IN THIS PLEASING SOLITUDE I FIND SO HEAVENLY- AT THE TASK OF WRITING STORIES

     WHEN I ARRIVED BACK IN MUSKOKA, IN THE SPRING OF 1977, AFTER LIVING IN THE HEART OF TORONTO, WHILE AT YORK UNIVERSITY, I KNEW THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA WAS GOING TO BE HOME FOR A VERY LONG TIME. MY CONTEMPORARIES WHO HAD LEFT MUSKOKA AT THE SAME TIME, TO ATTEND VARIOUS UNIVERSITIES, IN THE PROVINCE, INCLUDING MY GIRLFRIEND, AT UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO, HAD DECIDED OVERWHELMINGLY THAT THE URBAN JUNGLE WAS A HAPPENING, OPPORTUNITY-FILLED PLACE. THEY DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE. I COULDN'T LEAVE FAST ENOUGH. IN FACT, THE DIPLOMA WAS ONLY IN MY HANDS FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES, AFTER THE GRADUATION CEREMONY, CONDUCTED BY THE DEAN, BEFORE I WAS WALKING DOUBLE-QUICK TO THE PARKING LOT. I WANTED TO GO HOME. WANTED TO BEAT HASTY RETREAT. NOT BECAUSE TORONTO ISN'T A GREAT CITY, WITH LOTS OF THINGS TO DO, AND OPPORTUNITIES FOR A WRITER TO MAKE A NAME FOR HIMSELF. IT JUST DIDN'T TURN MY CRANK. I HATE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE. UNLESS IT'S IN OUR TOWN AND IN OUR STORE. I CAN GO HOME AT NIGHT TO A RARE, WONDERFUL SOLITUDE. IN THE CITY, NO MATTER WHERE I LIVED IN THOSE YEARS, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT URBAN ROAR OF LIFE AND INDUSTRY ON THE GO.

     AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MANY TIMES BEFORE, MY LIFE CHANGED FOR THE BETTER, THE DAY MY FATHER ED, GOD REST HIS SOUL, DECIDED TO MOVE OUR FAMILY TO MUSKOKA, WHERE HE HAD A JOB AT THE J.D. SHIER LUMBER COMPANY. IT WAS HEAVEN ON EARTH, TO ARRIVE AT THE SOUTHERN BORDER OF OUR DISTRICT, AND FEEL THE AURA OF WIDE OPEN SPACES; VIEW THE MAGNIFICENT LAKES, AND WANDER THE BEAUTIFUL ACRES UPON ACRES OF LUSH FORESTS…..AND LIFE-FULL LOWLANDS AND UPLANDS, WITH NATURE BEING AN INTEGRAL PART OF EVERY DAY LIFE. AS A KID, I NEEDED THIS, AND MY FATHER MAY HAVE SAVED MY LIFE, GETTING ME OUT OF SOUTHERN ONTARIO, WHEN HE DID. EVEN WHILE WE LIVED IN AN URBAN  BURLINGTON NEIGHBORHOOD, I SPENT MOST OF MY QUALITY TIME, WANDERING DOWN BY OLD RAMBLE CREEK, FULFILLING MY FANTASY ADVENTURES…..OCCASIONALLY, AGAINST MY MOTHER'S WARNINGS, MAKING IT ALL THE WAY TO THE SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO, WHERE I DREAMED OF ONE DAY SETTING ADRIFT ON A RAFT, CONSTRUCTED BY US HARRIS CRESCENT RASCALS…..FOR A DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

     I WAS SMITTEN BY MUSKOKA AS A FLEDGLING WRITER, AND I BECAME OVER TIME, DEPENDENT ON ITS SEASONS FOR ALMOST EVERYTHING I'D COMPOSE. I NEEDED THOSE STARK CONTRASTS BETWEEN WINTER AND SPRING, SUMMER AND AUTUMN. I REQUIRED THOSE LONG, INTIMATE TRAVELS THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE, STOPPING FREQUENTLY TO WATCH QUIET CREEKS TURN INTO RAGING TORRENTS, AFTER AUTUMN RAINS; OBSERVING THE ONCE THRIVING CONNECTED PONDS OF A BOG, FREEZING OVER IN EARLY DECEMBER; BEING IMMERSED IN AN EARLY SPRING RAIN, WASHING AWAY THE LAST TRACES OF SNOW, AND THEN BEING IN A POSITION, TO SEE THE FURY OF A SUMMER STORM, LASHING THE LANDSCAPE WITH TORRENTIAL RAIN, AND DAMAGING WIND. IT WAS THE SHARP CONTRASTS, THAT SEEMED TO MOTIVATE ME THE MOST. I WAS AT MY MOST PROLIFIC, WHEN I WITNESSED THE ENVIRONMENTAL CHANGES, OF SEASONAL STORMS, AND SUDDEN SNOWFALLS THAT CHANGED TO MOOD OF LATE NOVEMBER, TO WAX POETIC ABOUT ROBERT FROST, AND "STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVERNING." MUSKOKA HAS ALWAYS OFFERED THE DRAMATIC, WHEN IT WAS MOST DESIRED, TO GENERATE ACTIVITY AT MY TYPEWRITER, ALWAYS POSITIONED FOR ME, ON A SMALL TABLE BY A WINDOW. JUST AS I ENJOY IT HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, IN MY MODERN ESCAPE ADVENTURES.

TOM THOMSON SEEMED TO INTERTWINE WITH THE PREVAILING MOOD INSPIRED BY A STORM-SCAPE

     I was always keenly interested, by a strange recollection, as told by an acquaintance of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. I read once, in my research of the famed Algonquin artist, that he always seemed profoundly immersed, mindfully so, in the day's prevailing weather; particularly if there was a storm front moving over the lakes. Those close to the painter, noted how withdrawn from the social circle he could become, and how intense he was, from the first rumble of thunder…..even before the bank of black clouds was visible over the border pines. He would study it, almost as if, from the inside out, trying to understand the power that rotated in the darkest, highest clouds, and how, so suddenly, the calm would be shattered, as if a large rock had been thrown into a still pool. He watched as the fist of wind unclenched, and slapped down hard at the earth; the trees bending in the powerful winds, and the lake turned into a cauldron of white caps and spray…..the rain falling at times, almost horizontal in the gale force. The lightning, and deep, rolling thunder, well known in the echo, through the Algonquin hills and valleys, enthralled his sensory perception of imminent and drastic change.

    Thomson very much enjoyed when visitors to Mowat Lodge, would remark about his sketches, found leaning here and there in the building, that they made them feel cold and lonely; isolated with a penetrating aura of spirits at play, such as the case, with his numerous depictions of the Northern Lights. He wanted those who viewed his work to sense what it had been like, out on those barren promontories, where he travelled to get a proper perspective of the light show, hovering so hauntingly above the autumn lakeland.   

    I have had these same feelings all my life. I always seem most inspired, when the quiet world is interrupted by some natural intrusion; that while frightening at the onset, stimulates the senses, and begs the voyeur within, to wander with great expectation, of some wondrous scene unfolding. I was encouraged when complacency was dashed, like the surges of water that erase imprinted footsteps from the beach-sand. I felt the need to be disrupted and challenged, possibly a little fearful at times, that a storm surge might actually erase me from my own imprint in life. Alas, I only wish, one day, to be as proficient at capturing these natural events, in print, as Thomson represented so brilliantly on his paint boards. After forty-eight years, residing in this most heavenly place on earth, I have taken every opportunity to experience it all - from the stern of a drifting canoe on a secluded bay; by hiking and skiing its mysterious forest and meadowland trails, to those mindful vigils, holed-up in strategic portals, to watch the days unfold, in the purity of the presiding season.

     I have wandered the streets of my hometown, then and still today, and passed with some nostalgia the places I used to visit, and the sanctuaries of once, where I lived for a time. It's as if I can see my own ghost, in these haunted locales, still occupying those window seats, where I had spent so many hours, just watching the days come and go, softly, vibrantly, darkly and often violently, in late autumn gales. I swear that on occasions, when all is still, at these locations, I can hear the cadence of fingers on an old typewriter, as an echo of biography; the author, tired, inspired, wishing only to find the most descriptive words to represent this district of Ontario; with the poignancy it deserves as credit……for all the stories it has inspired over so many life-full decades, of a most splendid liberation of imagination.

     Since arriving at Birch Hollow, in the autumn of 1989, this modest vista of forest and lowland, has been my greatest source of pleasure, and daily motivation; my family of course filling in the spaces of this humble abode, with those familiar household sounds of domestic industry, that comfortably anchors me in the real world….when I drift off to my own Neverland. I am always beckoned by the winding path through the birch woods, and I can spend hours studying the intricacies of this enchanted little moor, in this urban neighborhood known as "Calydor."  It is still snowing and blowing wildly out there this evening, and the wind suddenly raps, and brushes the iced-over raspberry canes against the pane of glass in front; that like the venerable old cricket on the hearth, makes a welcome intrusion when suddenly, I become complacent and predictable about my work.

     I am writing this tome, in the picturesque heartland, of the ever-alluring clime of South Muskoka…….nestled into the bosom of our family's hometown, Gravenhurst, the historic gateway to the famed Muskoka Lakes. I have written on deserted tropical beaches, in Florida; composed post hippy poems in the embrace of London's Picadilly Circus…..in Robin Hood's legendary Nottingham Forest, in English Pubs known as the "Rose and Crown" and "The Admiral Rodney;" I have penned stories while living in old Toronto neighborhoods, and then in cottages on Muskoka lakes, including Rosseau, Joseph and Muskoka, as an aspiring but still green author. Yet there has never been a more accommodating portal, in all my writing tenure, than what I experience here daily, at Birch Hollow, in this charming neighborhood above Muskoka Bay, in Gravenhurst, Ontario Canada. The modesty of our homestead, I think, is what makes it all so fascinating and enjoyable - not being influenced by many creature comforts, beyond the ordinary, without any real luxurious appointments, that might make me feel too relaxed and complacent in comfort. My observations from this portal, onto the lowland, are not corrupted by material extravagances. I can look honestly and intimately, out over this beautiful scene and watch the maturity of the season, change before my eyes, into the spectacle of a sudden snowstorm, that removes all traces of the autumn in only a few hours.

     On the cusp of Christmas, I might be offered a basic provision of the season, with the steaming cup of mulled cider, Suzanne has been boiling on the stove-top, while tantalizing me with fresh baking for the holidays. There is the sound of distant Christmas carols playing on the radio, up on the hoosier cupboard in the kitchen, and the crackle of dry cedar, newly thrown atop the flames, illuminating the hearth. There is a tell-tale rattle of the old porch rocker, hitting back against the siding of the verandah, as the wind pushes and shoves a season emerging. The glow from the oil lamp at the side of my desk, is diminishing now, as my fuel topped-up three days ago, has finally run down to a teaspoon in the font. I always have a companion oil lamp ignited when I write in the evenings, as it reminds me of how I began in this creative enterprise, first as a young collector, purchasing old oil lamps at farm auctions….and then using them to light my first few homesteads on a long journey from there to here….Birch Hollow, a final destination. As the light grows dimmer, minute by minute, it coincides with the ending of today's story……as it has become a sort of historic tradition, I have adhered, for many years. The lamp tells me its time to retire.

     I often scare my dear wife, when she comes upon me, suggesting it's late, and finds me slumped over, my chin tucked into my chest; leaving her momentarily to wonder breathlessly, if her dear partner has finally succumbed to the rigors of his profession…….passing away on the eve of Christmas of all things. She will put her hand on my shoulder, ever so gently, almost as if fearing the worse, but finding instead, it was once again, a case of forty winks before bed……not the last words of a career ending chapter. But if these were the last words I ever wrote, I would indeed, cherish the idea, they were composed in lamplight of this humble homestead, tapped out musically on this beat-up keyboard, with this splendid view beyond my front window, in the warm embrace of a fine old town, that has always shown such kindness, and kinship, by the inspiration it has shared, abundantly, generously, and graciously, for all these years.

     Tonight, I have survived another story told. Suzanne hands me another mug of hot cider, and beckoned me to come and sit by the fire, to warm together against the stormy night…..and to enjoy the spirit of the Christmas season, now layering upon us, as warm, comforting quilts, in friendship forever. I hope you are having a similarly joyful and spirited start to the Christmas season. I hope, you will join me, for more Christmas themed stories, in the coming days…..each written this week, at this window seat, looking out onto the winter solitude……so stunningly beautiful……so historically Muskoka. Please visit again soon.