AN EXPLANATION ABOUT WOODCHESTER VILLA SENSITIVITIES
THERE ARE TIMES, DEAR FRIENDS, WHEN I FLIP DOWN THE VISER OF THE CAR, (WHEN PARKED OF COURSE) AND LOOK DEEP INTO THE MIRROR ON THE UNDERSIDE, TO SEE IF I'M STILL OF THE MORTAL-KIND. THERE ARE MOMENTS OF SELF DOUBT, HONESTLY, WHEN I'M WRITTEN OUT OF THIS LIFE, AS IF A FAILING CHARACTER IN A SOAP OPERA SCRIPT, TO NEVER BE SEEN OR HEARD OF AGAIN. ACTUALLY, IT'S A LITTLE WORSE THAN THIS, AND IT PARALLELS THE STORY OF "A WONDERFUL LIFE," WITH JIMMY STEWART, AND THE MORAL OF "BEDFORD FALLS," AND WHAT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE IF STEWART'S CHARACTER HAD NEVER BEEN BORN. IT'S A LITTLE DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN, BUT THERE ARE OCCASIONS, WHERE HISTORICAL PRECEDENTS HAVE BEEN SET IN THIS REGION, AND I'VE BEEN A PARTNER IN THE OUTCOME, YET I AM CONVENIENTLY BYPASSED WHEN SOMEONE PENS A STORY ABOUT THE EVENT. I'VE BEEN WRITTEN-OUT OF A LOT OF REGIONAL HISTORIES, ALTHOUGH MY HANDIWORK IS IN SOME CASES, THE FOUNDATION OF THE STORY ITSELF. IT'S WHY I MENTIONED, A FEW WEEK'S AGO, READING A RECENTLY PUBLISHED BOOK ON ONTARIO GHOSTS, AND FINDING MYSELF QUOTED RATHER SUBSTANTIALLY, YET I HAD NEVER BEEN ASKED PERMISSION FOR ITS INCLUSION. OH WELL. HOPE THEY PROFIT. I WON'T. ANOTHER HISTORIAN FRIEND ASKED IF HE COULD INCLUDE SOME INFORMATION I HAD WRITTEN IN A PREVIOUS BOOK, I WROTE ON THE ALICE STREET NEIGHBORHOOD, IN BRACEBRIDGE, AND EVERYONE HAS BEEN TELLING ME HOW GREAT THE BOOK IS......BUT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE TO HAVE AT LEAST BEEN OFFERED A SIGNED COPY FOR MY ARCHIVES. I'VE GIVEN AWAY FAR MORE BOOKS THAN I'VE EVER SOLD. JUST A LITTLE PROTOCOL ISSUE.
WHAT IRKS ME ABOUT THE WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM RESTORATION SITUATION, IS THAT I AM CONTINUALLY BYPASSED WHEN IT'S THE SUBJECT OF DISCUSSION, AT THE MUNICIPAL LEVEL. EVEN THOUGH I HAVE A LOT OF INFORMATION THAT THEY DON'T HAVE A CLUE ABOUT, THERE'S AN UNWRITTEN POLICY, IT SEEMS, OF EXCLUSION......AND IT'S SILLY AND A SHUNNING WELL BEYOND ITS SHELF LIFE. HEY, I AM AN AGGRESSIVE SON OF A BITCH AND I WILL NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR BEING A POLITICAL ACTIVIST......UNLESS I AM PROVEN WRONG. BUT WRITING ME OUT OF THE HISTORY OF WOODCHESTER, FOR EXAMPLE, IS JUST DUMB. HATE ME AS A POLITICAL CRITIC, BUT AT LEAST GIVE ME THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT WHEN IT COMES TO WHAT I HAVE ACCOMPLISHED. AND THERE WOULD BE FEW IN THE MEDIA, OR AT TOWN HALL, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHO WOULDN'T REMEMBER MY LONG ASSOCIATION WITH THE MUSEUM. AND MY FAMILY'S PAIN AND SUFFERING KEEPING THOSE DOORS OPEN WHEN THERE WAS NO MONEY IN THE KITTY FOR STAFFING.
MY ONLY APOLOGY, IS TO MY READERS, FOR BARKING OUT ABOUT A STORY IN THE LOCAL MEDIA, THAT JUST RUBBED ME THE WRONG WAY......AT THE END OF A BUSY DAY OF MAIN STREET RETAIL. I CONTACTED THE OUTLET, TO OFFER MY FULL CO-OPERATION, SO THAT THEY COULD RUN A MORE ACCURATE, ALL ENCOMPASSING OVERVIEW OF THE WOODCHESTER DEBACLE.......AS I WAS IN THE CENTRE OF THE STORM. I ACTUALLY STARTED THE STORM. IT JUST BOTHERS THE DICKENS OUT OF ME, THAT YOU CAN HAVE ALL THESE OARS IN, AND YET BE OVERLOOKED AS IF I HAD NEVER WORKED ONE DAY ON BEHALF OF WOODCHESTER VILLA, AND THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, OF WHICH I WAS......ACCORDING TO OFFICIAL RECORD, A FOUNDING DIRECTOR.
BUT REGARDLESS OF WHAT THE MEDIA CHOOSES TO REPORT, AND WHAT TO IGNORE, THE FACT IS, AND YOU'VE READ IT HERE BEFORE THEM, IT IS WHAT IT IS.......AND OUR FAMILY IS STILL PROUD OF THOSE DAYS WHEN WE HELD THE FORT.....AND AVERTED PREMATURE CLOSURE; BECAUSE THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF SUZANNE AND I HADN'T KEPT UP THE VOLUNTEER HOURS.
BELIEVE ME, THIS ISN'T SOUR GRAPES. IT IS UNFORTUNATELY THE FACT OF MY LIFE. I HAVE SOME FUN WITH IT, HOWEVER, OUTSIDE OF THE FRUSTRATION. IT IS THE REASON I CHERISH AND CELEBRATE WITH THIS BLOG-SITE, BECAUSE IT IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN ESTABLISH A FAIR CHRONICLE OF MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS IN LOCAL HISTORY.......AND TAKE FULL OWNERSHIP OF MY EDITORIAL MATERIAL, INCLUDING THE GHOST STORIES, DOCUMENTED AS TO PUBLISHING TIME AND DATE, WHICH TO ANY WRITER IS CRITICAL IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. IT'S NOT A GUARANTEE IT WON'T BE USED OR QUOTED FROM.....WHICH IS FINE. I'M NOT GETTING RICH WRITING IT.....BUT AT THE VERY LEAST, IT IS MY ONLY CHANCE TO COUNTER PUNCH THE "SHUNNING," OF WHICH FOLLOWS ME AROUND LIKE A SHADOW.....BUT IT NEVER SUCCEEDS IN ANYTHING MORE, THAN A MILD IRRITATION OF THE SPIRIT.....BECAUSE I HAVE NEVER ONCE, FELT IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO, TO DENY SOMEONE THEIR EARNED CREDIT.....WHETHER FRIEND OR FOE. YOU WILL RECOGNIZE THIS FROM THE MANY FOLKS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT, WITH THE UTMOST RESPECT, IN THIS COLLECTION OF BLOGS.
AT PRESENT, I STILL SEE MY REFLECTION. I'D HATE TO BE DEAD AND NOT KNOW IT. THAT WOULD BE EMBARRASSING. AS FOR BEDFORD FALLS....IT'S NEVER GOING TO BE POSSIBLE TO ERASE ME ENTIRELY FROM THE MUSKOKA BLOTTER. I'VE SPILLED INK EVERYWHERE.
BUT FOR THE RECORD, HERE AND NOW, I HAVE, ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS NOW, OFFERED MY FULL SUPPORT AND TIME, TO ASSIST WITH THE RESTORATION OF WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM. I STARTED THE BALL ROLLING ON THIS ONE IN 1977......AND I'M STILL WILLING TO HONOR MY COMMITMENT TO THE PROJECT ALL THESE YEARS LATER. AS TO WHETHER I WILL BE TAKEN UP ON THIS OFFER.......I'M NOT COUNTING ON IT!
HERE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE I KNEW AS A KID.........WHICH MIGHT BOTHER SOME THAT I REMEMBER SO CLEARLY.
ALL OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOODS -
WHAT TO DO WITH THE MEMORIES?
I’M LEAVING THAT UP TO MY SONS AND GRANDKIDS!
In a notebook I keep by my livingroom chair, I occasionally jot down story ideas. Not invented stories but ones that I believe my biography should contain. Reminiscences I want my grandkids to know about. I’m pretty sure my grown sons, know how important my childhood recollections are......because I’ve been droning on and on for years, about stuff I’m sure they couldn’t care less about. It has relevance in the grand scheme but on the short haul, it doesn’t make much difference if I tossed green apples at roof tops, or played “nicky-nicky nine doors” till the cows came home. It is what it is. Important to me. Annoying chatter to them, when they’ve got more important things to do,....... than reminisce about something and someplace they never visited.
I don’t know how you feel about your own childhood neighborhood. Some were better than others, admittedly, and some may wish to forget about certain unfortunate, unhappy events and circumstances. Maybe you’d rather forget about childhood generally because of bad memories. I’ve always had a mid-zone approach. There’s lots of periods I’d rather forget but I know I can’t. Like when my parents argued and argued and argued. My dad had a free-flowing Irish arrogance, often drank too much, was jealous to a fault, and could be a social problem if given all the right conditions. My mother was determined and feisty, and soldiered-on despite the grief my father could raise from the most innocent of perceived offences.
Ed didn’t have the best childhood either, and spent a lot of time, with his brothers, wards of the province. Having come from the tough Cabbagetown neighborhood, in Toronto, he was raised to be tough, and relentlessly hardened by reality. Fatherless, responsible for the family welfare most of the time, he’d learned that being gentle meant being vulnerable. He never gave the appearance of being a push-over that’s for sure. It made my mother’s life tough, and I often stepped between them, willing to risk my own neck to keep the cruiser away from the door. My peace of course, is that they patched their marriage up, Ed changed into a much kinder human being, and my mother was pleased to have calmer waters in the final decades of their life together. While I still prefer to dwell on happier times, I’m still abundantly aware, after many years, that it’s necessary to confront the adversity of personal history. It’s also true that there were many more good times than bad, in our family, and my love for the old neighborhood, in Bracebridge, Ontario will never dwindle.
The note I made last evening, was really for my lads, Andrew and Robert, who will inherit this journal and all my years of story-inscribing in these blogs......and in the stacks of publications I’ve, at one time or another, contributed columns. The note was about a game of road hockey I want them to play, some snowy Christmas Eve (after I’ve departed this mortal coil), up on that block of Alice Street where I played a thousands games during my years on the hill......Hunt’s Hill, that is! I want them to link the tradition of those years with their present, in celebration of good times in old places dear to our hearts. I want them to just show up, with sticks, ball and toques, chip off four big chunks of snow for goal-posts (as we did because we couldn’t afford nets), and with their buddies and family members, set up for a three period memorial game in my honor. How vain is this? Well, it doesn’t have to be a memorial. Just a “for fun” gathering that rekindles an activity us Hunt’s Hill / Alice Street kids enjoyed every day of the cold winter in Muskoka. We continued games on asphalt when the snow cover melted away but we played, and played. It didn’t matter that we were short changed a neighborhood park or even a big parking lot we could set up a makeshift arena. The road, as bumpy as it was, served our interests just fine.
It might seem a tad morbid to be planning your own tribute hockey game, but my boys will know just how passionate I have been in life, about preserving family legacies.....and keeping important traditions alive. I want them, in their lives, to know that good and memorable times have very little to do with money, and the privilege that can buy. We were a modest neighborhood and very few of us had money to spare. We lived from pay cheque to pay cheque like everyone else, and those on fixed incomes had gardens in their backyards, and they canned fruit and vegetables every fall, after the modest harvest. We had to be frugal. We didn’t care, or even think about hardship......we were too busy being thankful for our own blessings, our own daily rewards. We were too busy living to worry about what we didn’t have, or what others did. When we commenced the ball hockey game of the day, or under the lamplight for evening games, all differences were forgotten and we listened instead, to the lucky bloke selected to be Foster Hewitt, who would joyfully provide the game’s play by play. If you’d asked any one of us at that moment, what it was like to be poor, we wouldn’t have known how to respond. I knew my family couldn’t afford new boots because my feet were always wet, and most of us were playing with broken sticks we found at the arena, with short shafts and half blades, because we couldn’t buy new ones. Poor? We were resourceful more than we were poor. Rich kids called us that when they saw the soles of our shoes flapping and slapping noisely at recess, or when we had to wear the same clothes day after day....but it wasn’t the kind of slur we found hard to live with.
I’m fond of my old neighborhood for what it didn’t have. The was no need to offer an apology when a shared dinner was meatloaf, and “everything-in-it stew,” or cheese-dusted macaroni. Many of my mates enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches my mother made for intermissions....washed down with cold glasses of water to tide us over for another period of rigorous play.
The pay-off of all this modesty, was finishing dinner, and getting the chance to have yet another game of road hockey.....or in the spring, a pick-up game of baseball....the fall, a game of football on the modest grid-iron of our small front lawn. It was a safe and caring neighborhood, and for all that it didn’t have, it was blessed with an unpretentious honor, we upheld, wherever and whenever a show of prowess was required. We had many sporting encounters with other neighborhoods, and I would say Hunt’s Hill was always a top contender.
I want my boys to take their kids up to that sort stretch of old asphalt, to play just one more game, and to think, not just about their old dad, but about all the aspiring athletes, who had such great fun making the best out of every day in a worthy hometown. Maybe they’ll hear the echo of cheers and voices from legend, and the faint play by play of Randy Carswell, an import to the neighborhood, who always volunteered to be Foster Hewitt......and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want the boys, or family, to get misty eyed about my request, or get caught up in a perpetual mood of sympathy and mourning. I’ve had a damn fine life, with no regrets about choices I’ve made. I’d like to think they would find a connection with me, they’ve never really had in our time together,..... as team-mates (in spirit) not just the tedium of the father / sons relationship. Because I’d be there, on that snowy Christmas Eve, in my ghost-wear, just as I played every Christmas Eve for my entire tenure at the Alice Street apartments. During a truly enjoyable time of my life.....when kids spent most of their days outdoors, and even more time wondering what it would be like if this stretch of frozen roadway, was actually Maple Leaf Gardens, the lamplight, the beam over centre ice, the limelight of the official face-off.
I suppose you and I do have some warm memories of the places we used to live.......afterall!
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