Bracebridge's Unsung Historian, Mentor Norman Tanner; Where The Heck Is Tom Thomson Buried?

MY UNOFFICIAL EDITOR, TUTOR, AND MENTOR AT THE BRACEBRIDGE HERALD-GAZETTE; WITH NARY A LICK OF RECOGNITION

WHY WOULD I PUT NORMAN TANNER INTO THE CHRONICLE OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORY? BEFORE GOT TO OUR READERS, IT HAD TO PASS HIS SCRUTINY

     There are many heroes out there, who did their part, as unsung as it often was, to make our hometowns just a little bit better, in all pertinent areas. We hogged all the credits, at The Herald-Gazette, when things went right, and our way, but I never remember once, stopping a positive review, mid-sentence, from one of our readers, to remind them, that before it got to them, (the paper) it had to pass the inspection of a truly remarkable and intelligent man. There is no award today, as a memorial to the man, and his work, but there should be, and seeing as he had to be part historian, part english professor, it should be a literary achievement with his name attached. He might not have achieved the rank he deserved, but his imprint on the local writing community, was both profound and long-term. I still think of him regularly, when I stumble on sentence structure, or think to myself, there must be a better word to use; more appropriate punctuation to employ. Possibly a better, shorter, more sensible way to write a description, to have a greater impact on the reader. Sage advice, I wish I still had, because he would still be my editor of choice, if that is, he was still walking amongst the living.
     I was on my way into the old A&P store, on upper Manitoba Street, at the intersection of Monck Hill, half-pulling son Robert through the electronic door. He had a couple of near misses, with these doors, almost pinching him against the door frame, so his reluctance wasn't surprising. He didn't like escalators, snowmobiles and sitting on Santa's lap. So I was concentrating on him, and not who I almost bumped into, at the confluence of traffic at the store's narrow entrance. I thought I had heard someone call my name, but I was in a poor physical contortion to look up, at that precise moment. I was also keeping an eye on eldest son Andrew, who was already in the store, and making for the bread aisle unescorted. Once I got past the door, I did look back, and there was a man staring back at me, with a big smile on his face. At first, I didn't recognize him, but at the time, there was a photograph that ran with my weekly column, and it was quite common to have people address me, who I had never seen before. It was both good and bad, because some of those folks wanted to bop me on the end of the nose, for something I had written previously. Not so much for the column material, but from the news pages, and considering they knew what the writer looked like, it could be a little precarious, especially if I had been covering court that particular week. Reporting on impaired driving charges was always a bad one for me, because we started printing full names in the news stories. Many papers refused to do this, at the time. I always watched for incoming fists from hostile family members, who thought it was wrong for the newspaper to print these stories, and tarnish their family's reputation. I never got hit as such, but threatened regularly.
     "Hello Ted," the elderly gentleman called-out again, but this time with the British accent I recognized. It will always be, for me, the most regretted missed opportunity I have ever had, because the man just outside the door, had been very important to me, in my fledgling years in newspaper work. I couldn't go back after him, because Robert, by this point, had taken off to find his brother. This was what scared the grocery store management, and frankly, me too, because I had also been a holy terror, as a child, in this same circumstance. Here now are my kids running around with a shopping cart, and I think it was senior citizen day.
    "How are you," the chap yelled, as I was turning back toward the boys. As there were now people between us, and no easy exit, I just waved, nodded and smiled. I remember him smiling back, and waving once more. I spent the rest of the time in the grocery store, being preoccupied with what I had seen, and feeling enormously bad, that I hadn't insisted on running back for even a short visit, and a handshake at the very least. I owed it to this kind and gentle man, who had helped me so many times, over the years at The Herald-Gazette, clean up my editorial copy. Every writer needs a mentor, a tutor, and confidant. For me, it was Norman Tanner. Norman was an unsung hero, and dammit, I never let him know how much I appreciated his interventions on my behalf.
     I hadn't recognized Norman at the doorway. In fact, I only figured out that it was my old work-mate, from the other side of the door, when it was too late to change direction, and there was no way of stopping the momentum of shoppers, jamming through the electronic door. I didn't recognize him, because he was terribly thin and gaunt, and his clothes were way too big, just hanging off his body, his hair gray and thin, and he was steadying himself on a cane. I did eventually recognize his life-long friend Al Bonnell, who was a few steps ahead of him. They were gay men at a time when it wasn't cool, or contently accepted around town, and they did face ridicule and mean spirited gossip. I don't think they ever declared themselves a couple, or even thought of it in these terms, but if one was at the bar of the Holiday House, you could usually find the other, socializing near by. I was told Norman was gay, when I began working as a reporter for Muskoka Publications, by someone who didn't even work there; but felt I should know, just in case he started hitting on me. I have worked with many gay men in my life, and have never yet been hit-on. Norman was my friend, and he was above and beyond, a hell of a fine employee, and a good friend for a lot of years. Gay or straight, I didn't care. None of us close to him cared a darn about any of that, because it never became an issue, except outside the office. I'd occasionally hear someone remark about his sexual preference, when he came in for a drink at the Holiday House. I'd just glare at them, and then welcome him with a big handshake. Maybe I was the one making the scene. I never remember him being bothered by the happenstance of off-hand, or rude comments.
    He was a pillar in this regard. Norman saved me from making a fool of myself, as I was prone to making errors in my copy, out of laziness more than lack of proficiency; that he caught during the final proofing.
     I had heard, through friends, that Norman had been diagnosed with cancer, but this was the first time I had seen him since hearing the rumors. I was stunned to find him in such poor condition, being so unsteady on his feet, and dangerously thin. We've all had situations like this, happen during unanticipated bouts of social intercourse, and found it almost impossible to find the words to exchange, that wouldn't make either party feel uncomfortable. I think God may have helped with this by-chance meeting, keeping us apart, thinking possibly, I might say something stupid and muddled; except to exchange limited greetings via hand gestures and reflective smiles of friendship. I try to avoid these situations as much as possible, because I am not very good at making small talk, even at the best of times, circumstances, and with family. I know, without a doubt, I would have fumbled and garbled, something ridiculous, because it would have seemed necessary, to fill the void of what I really wanted to ask him. And that would have been about his deteriorating health, and we both might have started to cry, amidst the throng of patrons, who just wanted to do their shopping; not play a role in an unfolding drama. I was a wordsmith. I wrote huge feature articles, risque columns, and hard hitting front pages stories, but I could not have put the words together, to make a gentle landing with Norman. He was skeletal, and it ripped my heart out, and all I wanted to do was hug him, and wax mournful about the unfairness of God, to take such a fine human being before his time. Well, that wouldn't have been right, under the circumstances, because Norm was a tough englishman, in his demeanour, and he may have seemed like an emotional person, at first introduction; but he was in no way a shrinking violet. He was honest but courteous. If you didn't want his opinion, too bad. You were going to get it, because he was proud of the paper he helped produce. If you thought you knew it all, he could fix that in about five minutes of proof-reading.
     A year before I became employed by Muskoka Publications, I turned in an on-spec manuscript, to see if the company might be interested in releasing it as a new book. The Herald-Gazette Press did publish quite a number of local titles, but not so much in the way of poetry. They would print poet Sylvia DuVernet's books, but mostly as a customer, not as an author they were promoting. In other words, the company was hired to print her books, not publish them for the marketplace. I had also submitted a manuscript of recent poems, which when I look at them today, I am horrified that they were even given to Norman, for a preliminary read-through. Well, the only person to have read the manuscript, cover to cover, was my old friend Norman, who told my mother Merle, when she went to pick it up from the Dominion Street office, that "Ted has some real talent as a writer; but The Herald-Gazette publishes mostly regional histories." The day I was introduced to Norman, who had the big portion of the office, directly behind the front counter, said without missing a beat, "Why yes, I know quite a bit about Mr. Currie, from reading the book he has written." That was news to staff writer Bill Kelly, who had made the introduction. Norman was like this. In private, he would give me crap for writing inconsistencies and making too many typos, but when it came to conversations with others, he would never, ever think, to embarrass a staffer with a critique.    He was a man who stuck to office protocol, and with his own good manners, he was the perfect clerk for the printing division of Muskoka Publications. He was smooth, and was always a credit to the company; although I'm not entirely sure management ever knew how much money he made for the paper, by being so accommodating and polite to our customers.
     Like most writers, starting out, we have to boost our resilience to negative reviews. I've known writers, who actually quit because of critiques they felt clearly indicated they would never be taken seriously, as authors, of anything, except their own misfortune. So we all are a little guarded in the early going, but no matter how pensive I was, Norman knew how to fix what was wrong, without inspiring me to jump off a building, or face a train in the middle of the tracks. He could be brutally honest, but he weighted it on the individual, and sensed accurately, how much a writer could take, before abandoning the newspaper industry. He forced us to be more careful with language use, and how to be more effective with presentation, on a budget of words. He used to warn me all the time, about writing too much. But he gave up trying to curtail my enthusiasm after about the fiftieth warning. What I did pay attention to, was his advisories about sentence structure, better word use, and never, ever, being without a dictionary on our news desks. He helped us polish our work, and that was his priority, because ultimately, he was the one who fielded complaints from subscribers, when he was on phone detail, usually on press mornings, after that week's paper had hit the news-stands. A few of us thought he was a bossy little englishman, and way too intrusive for his job description. That's the thing however, because what he did for us, was above and beyond his job description. He felt it incumbent to make better writers of us, and as writer Brant Scott, once noted, "Norman knows more about the english language, than you and I will ever know." Brant was right. I had never before, even in university, had someone to critique my work in such minute detail; like noting the improper place for a comma or semi-colon. Here's how it came about, because it wasn't just about editing copy fresh from our typewriters. There was one step before this.
      The freshly inked copy, from the rollers of our old Underwoods and Smith Coronas, in the newsroom upstairs, was edited by me before it got to our typesetter, Ida Middelstadt, who was one of the most important staffers on the premises. If I didn't make the edit marks suitably, for her to read, it meant she'd have to come upstairs, and collar me for clarification. This took time away from her busy schedule, which included some extra work for advertisements, and special requests from management. So Norman made it real clear to me, without his trademark wink, that my errors, and shortfalls, impacted on the whole mechanism of getting print copy set, for the newspaper. Deadlines got crowded. The printers started to call from Muskoka Web. Ida was always so polite and patient, but Norm was very protective of her, because he knew the stress that had been placed on her typesetting speed, without any back-up if she happened to be sick. So Norman would make sure we all knew, the ways and means, to make her life a little easier. It was Norman Tanner, you see, who proof-read Ida's typesetting, looking for typos. He hated, thusly, to find that most of the mistakes had been made by us, instead, especially using poor grammar. It wasn't Ida's job to edit us. So when it got to the stage of being one step from "camera-ready," to then be waxed, and rolled onto the paper flats, he showed us no mercy, when challenging us to pay attention, and work to improve our writing styles, according to the rules of english language structure.     He had no concern about our hurt feelings, when he'd come up to my desk, and challenge me on several sentences, that were both weak and improperly worded. His point to me, "You should have caught this Ted, at your end, because that's where it's easiest to make the correction." True enough. Admittedly, in those first two years of employment, I caused a lot of unnecessary delays in newspaper production, on those incredibly electric Mondays and Tuesdays, when Norman was a blur, running here and there through the office, trying to do the job he was hired to perform, and a half dozen additional chores he took on, that he felt obligated to address with or without pay. One of them, was to take an average writer, and make them "A" quality before they moved on to other newspaper or writing jobs. He didn't polish dozens of writers, but a choice few, and happily, I was one he felt compelled to hone, no matter how much time it took.
     It wasn't just Brant Scott, Judith Brocklehurst, Scott McClellan, Tim DuVernet, Bill Kelly, and I, who were blessed with Norman's helpfulness. It was Robert Boyer, our senior editor, and regional historian, who was impacted the most, without question. Bob was always asking for Norman's opinion, and benefitting from his extensive knowledge about literature, history, and language. If I had corrected Bob Boyer, (we were related to one another by marriage), he would have butted his lit cigar on my forehead, and used my hand as an ashtray. I was an underling, even though I out-ranked him eventually on the mast-head of the paper. The publisher, rightfully so, decided that the tempest in the tea pot, would be to let me edit Bob's weekly columns. So the status quo, was to let Norman Tanner look after all Bob's editorial needs, and it worked perfectly fine, for the years I was employed by Muskoka Publications. I never remember even one occasion, of walking by Norman's counter, and hearing Bob having a confrontation with Norman. They got along famously, and in so many ways, Norman was encouraging, and nurturing, for all ages of writers under his broad wings. If Bob Boyer, the most recognized local historian, and newspaper personality, could take advice and criticism from Norman, who was not much more than an office clerk by status of the payroll office, well sir, we staff writers, could weather whatever our mentor found necessary to interject. How could we complain about his critiques, when arguably, they made us better writers overall?
     Why should we devote some ink, in the history of the Town of Bracebridge, to this newspaper clerk, for just doing his job. You see, the part of his job that most consider basic and upper clerical, was a small part of what he actually performed, each week, and on specific projects, to guarantee the copy was accurate, historically so; when it came to his work with Bob Boyer, and many other historians he co-operated with, to produce their "Herald-Gazette Press" publications, of the 1970's. It was Norman and Ida who did so much of that print work, and editing, that bolstered the credibility of the entire business. Steamboat historian, Harley Scott, was particularly fond of Norman, and the sure hands of all those who composed those pages for the printing press. Norman and Ida caught the errors before they hit the pages, and that made all the difference between a book, and an exceptional reference text; a newspaper from a good newspaper. As historians today, are eager to use the back editions of The Herald-Gazette and The Muskoka Sun, because of the prevalence of heritage features, thank goodness we had Norman Tanner to give us the quality assurance, we writers didn't always take too seriously. When our names were printed onto the top of those articles, he wanted us to be confident of the quality we had built-in to the presentation. It's often the case, we can get a little lazy with finishing details, but all Norman saw, was that by these shortfalls, we were hurting the paper's reputation, and our own portfolios, when we decided to move on to a new writing gig. He showed us, by example, how important it is to be meticulous, and never send anything for publication, that is in the least bit unpolished. He was a kinder, gentler drill sargent, but we didn't fear him. When you passed by Norm's counter, you could always find one of us, leaning over the woodwork, to follow Norman's pen, as he circled yet another editorial misadventure. As we got better at the enterprise of writing, we still hung over his counter, but just to talk about current events. Chris Thompson, formerly of the production staff of The Herald-Gazette, knows exactly what I mean, and she had many enjoyable chats with Norman as well. If Norman was in a good mood, so were we. If he was harried, and a little frustrated, it affected our mood as well. Mostly, through any storm of the work place, he was calm and cheerful. His work area was kind of an oasis at times, and Norman could brew an amazing pot of tea for mid afternoon; and he wasn't adverse to sharing.
     If there was any intimate, personal moment in recent history, for me, that I could do-over, it would be that occasion, of seeing Norman at the entrance of the grocery store, and not being able to talk, because of parental responsibilities. He died a short time later, and it was a crushing blow. Al Bonnell didn't last too much longer either. I know I would have fumbled with the words, to express my concern about his illness, and Norman would have brushed them off, as emotional trifle; instead reminding me that "life is short Ted, enjoy every moment." He would have ordered me inside, to take care of my kids, and that he would see me some day soon under less stressful conditions. I knew when I saw him, as a faint silhouette, walking back to Al's car in the parking lot, that he was going to die. I hadn't seen Norm much since he retired from The Herald-Gazette, except on occasions when he occupied his favorite bar stool at the Holiday House, owned at this point, by Sylvia and Arthur Richardson, two very kind and overly generous innkeepers. I read in the local media that Arthur passed away recently.
    So my happiest memories, were seeing Al and Norman saddling up to the bar, after work, and Sylvia and Arthur in animated conversation, with those fine citizens, who in their own way, made Bracebridge a pretty neat place to live, work and socialize; Al with his well known dancing instruction, and leadership, during evening classes, and Norman with his editorial guidance, and publication experience.
     There wouldn't be many people today, in Bracebridge, who would remember when Norman Tanner was the amicable clerk at The Herald-Gazette. Gosh, there would be few now, who even remember the old newspaper itself, and it's historic office space, at 27 Dominion Street, adjacent to the former fire station, and town hall. Whenever I drive by, the place where I used to spend my days at that old creaking and thudding Underwood, on a askew wooden desk, I ponder if Norman's ghost still hangs-out in the former area, behind the front counter, where I always expected to find him, on those bright and sparkling mornings, when I couldn't wait to get back to work; a time when I truly enjoyed being an editor of the local press, because it seemed so important and relevant to what I enjoyed most about living in Bracebridge.
     I am haunted by a lot of memories, of folks who have been a part of my writing career, whether they have known it or not. Mentors who didn't know I was using them to fashion a career. Norman Tanner will always haunt me, but fondly so, and whenever I get lazy about proofreading, or working a little harder to write better, and more effectively for my audience, I will suddenly sense his hand on my shoulder, as if to remind me from the other side, that I am shirking responsibility, and that I should smarten up. There is not a lot of mentorship in the writing profession, that comes in such an amicable package, as was the case with Norm Tanner. Right up to the final punctuation, of the final sentence, on that final day of my writing career, Norm's goodwill and encouragement will be ingrained into my soul; finishing off my work with the proficiency and accuracy he instilled of his underlings. Much, much more than even I had imagined as a milestone achievement. My promise to Norman, and my subsequent request of God, in this matter, is that I be permitted to die, at the end of a sentence, not in the middle.
     Norman Tanner was a man you would have liked. He was a teacher without portfolio.

Originally Published in The Great North Arrow

WHERE IS TOM THOMSON’S FINAL RESTING PLACE? CANOE LAKE, LEITH?

By Ted Currie

The mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, for most researchers, began with the "who done it!" Most Thomson researchers agree his tragic, unceremonious tumble into the depths of Canoe Lake, in July 1917, was an assisted event. He didn’t topple over the gunnel while having a mid-lake pee, as some contend, and there’s little to suggest he had suicidal intent. When I began my own research on the Thomson caper, back in the mid-1990's, Mowat Hotelier Shannon Fraser, had replaced cottager Martin Blecher Jr., as the prime suspect, in Thomson’s allegedly violent demise.

After reading most of the books and articles, about the circumstances surrounding his death, including the 1970 CBC documentary on the Algonquin cold case, I have focused my attention on the actions of those in attendance at Thomson’s Coroner’s Inquest, held at the Blecher family cottage. Without going into detail, because frankly it simply isn’t warranted, there were two aspects of the gathering that are troubling.

First of all, there had been no opportunity for the coroner to view Thomson’s body. It had already been buried. Despite what may have been considered a compassionate act, to bury the badly decomposing body, it was a substantial breach of protocol. The coroner had every right to demand the body be exhumed. As it turned out, the body was going to be raised soon after the inquest anyway, by family request, for reburial in the family plot, in Leith, Ontario. The serious questions that linger today, can be traced back to the fact the coroner had not examined the body for signs of foul play.

Second, those in attendance, from the Canoe Lake community, all who knew the painter, and his foibles, his excesses and willingness to scrap, outrightly refused to make their concerns known to the coroner, preferring instead to go along with the easy-fix theory, Thomson had simply drowned. I am convinced, from all the books I have read, on the subject, that he didn’t have many friends around that lake in 1917, contrary to popular opinion over the decades. Imagine yourself in that same situation, attending a coroner’s inquest, and knowing full well that Thomson had been in a scrap with at least one person, close to the time his body slipped into the depths of Canoe Lake. Even if you had only heard about the incident, wouldn’t it be logical, obligatory, to bring it to the coroner’s attention? There was a deafening silence you might say that has resonated to this day, as part of the stranger than strange circumstances, surrounding the artist’s death. There was most definitely a cover-up then and in evidence thereafter, which may explain why there are hundreds upon hundreds of conflicting details, and stories still in full vigor.

Blecher and Thomson had gotten into a fight, during a drunken get-together the night before, a number of people having heard the German-American cottager threaten the artist, to stay out of his way in the future. How could you not make some minor mention, for posterity’s sake, at the very least, about the fact there had been an incident worth knowing about? The coroner, did afterall, ask for these concerns, from those in attendance. Of course the coroner’s report, I understand, went missing. Yet it is accepted fact, that the coroner’s suspicions had not been raised beyond what initial medical (on-site) examination of the body had revealed. Accidental drowning seemed to fit the cursory examination, and the responses from the less-than-keen coroner’s inquest. Why were concerns not raised? They were raised once the inquest was complete, and the coroner was aboard a train headed home to North Bay. There were suspicions of murder, and that’s exactly what Thomson biographer, Blodwen Davies discovered from her 1930's interviews around the Canoe Lake community. Was the coroner being adversely influenced by political meddling, to close the book on the case before it got ugly? We’ll never know for sure!

Most at the coroner’s inquiry, that July night, knew Thomson had a love-interest on the lake, in Winnie Trainor, who may or may not have been pregnant at the time. There may have been pressure on Thomson to marry Winnie, and it is suspected Shannon Fraser knew about the situation, and may have even tried to strong-arm the painter to do the right thing. He was a long time acquaintance, of Winnie’s father, and may have believed he was helping a friend out of an embarrassing situation. Then there was money owing to Thomson from the hotelier, which also may have sparked the argument, leading to the dust-up, allegedly causing the artist to fall and hit his head on a fire grate. There are accounts, suggesting it was Fraser and his wife, who rowed the unconscious but not deceased Thomson, out onto the lake in darkness, with his dove-gray canoe in tow, to make his disappearance look as if it had been a simple case of misadventure.

Why all the suspicion after the coroner’s inquest? Books have been filled with innuendo and speculation ever-since. It is rumored that doubts about his accidental drowning were full blown gossip, only days after the coroner’s conclusion had been signed-off. Why was it that Thomson’s friends, "alleged" I think is better stated, decide to withhold evidence, like the fight witnessed between Blecher and Thomson, yet would go on to talk about it for years to come. Under the same circumstances, and being true friends of a caring nature, any one of us might have interrupted the proceedings, that night, to advise the coroner of some incidents, and suspicions, which could have led to the manifestation of foul play. But those intimates of Thomson, decided silence was infinitely better than drawing attention to other friends, work-mates, gathered in that cottage room.

The other most blatantly ridiculous situation, a carry-over of suspicions raised shortly after exhumation, from the Mowat Cemetery, his first graveyard accommodation (of two that are known), is the nagging problem of having one deceased artist, and two resting places for his bones. There is huge speculation whether or not, the undertaker in charge of the exhumation, actually removed Thomson for reburial. Or simply sent a dirt filled, soldered-shut, metal box instead. There are published accounts that Tom Thomson’s father asked that the exhumed metal casket be opened, so he could attest to the remains being those of his son. Then there are denials this ever happened. And then there was the sensational, headline-grabbing, 1950's unauthorized grave opening, at the Mowat Cemetery, when a group of eager-beaver Thomson bone-hunters found remains in a supposedly vacated plot.

While the Thomson mystery gains momentum, contrary to what some folks wish, most agree that there’s one all consuming issue. Moreso than the cause of Thomson’s demise, is the rather unfortunate "two-plot, one corpse" scenario. For those who believe it’s best left alone, they tend to be the same ones perpetuating the mystery in the first place. While it is understandable that an exhumation is a deeply upsetting event, it seems to me a lesser consideration than the reality the mystery will always have its theorists, researchers and sundry historians; who will doggedly perservere on the matter, in all degrees, until someone, at some time finally relents to the common sense of the matter. An exhumation will allow for a DNA examination, and will support, or put to rest, at least part of the Tom Thomson mystery.

Although we all respect the rights and privileges of the Thomson family, and their longstanding desire to avoid an exhumation at Leith, Ontario, where the artist is supposed to be, the bone of contention is an occupied grave in the tiny Mowat cemetery, where an exhumation, in part, was already conducted. Of what consequence would it be, if the family believes the artist’s body is properly in Leith, to having the Mowat skeletal remains, exhumed and given the full CSI treatment, which I have suggested before. Without disturbing even a spoonful of earth in Leith, an exhumation at the Mowat plot would allow this part of the mystery to be resolved. Is it Thomson or not? If it is ruled by science, not to be of the Thomson DNA, then we know our best known landscape artist is resting in peace..... in one place only!

Solving this mystery will not alter or diminish in any way, the respect Canada and Canadians have for the work of Tom Thomson. I have heard this weak argument, and I refuse to give it any legitimacy whatsoever. Thomson’s work is compelling with or without a mystery attached. There are some who feel we shouldn’t perpetuate the mystery, yet they are dead set against its resolution if there was such opportunity. If you were to ask a hundred Thomson art enthusiasts, scholars and historians, if they would support a DNA examination of bones found in Algonquin Park......in Thomson’s vacated grave, how many today would say "Why not?" Fifty out of a hundred? More or less? But the question moreso, is why would they care at all, because the artist was moved to Leith. Right? So attempting to find out who is buried there, shouldn’t really be a moral dilemma whatsoever. Of course, this is when we find out how deep the mystery is, when even Thomson intimates admit to being less than certain, just where their artist kin is buried.

If the matter of Thomson’s resting spot is ever resolved, and I believe it will be in the future, it could never detract from the influences we have celebrated, the result of Thomson’s creations.

"Thomson never fumbles. He orchestrates, with an imposing and decorative largeness, the rugged and sumptuous natural aspects that present themselves to his vision. His painting is strong, and without subterfuge, the painting of a man immensely concerned with the nature he depicts." The following observation was made by a French art critic, at an exposition in Paris in 1927. It was the regard Thomson was earning, independent of any mystery being attached, or any controversy about where he had been laid to rest following his 1917 death. By the time a full blown crisis was raised, to a wide audience in Canada, in the 1970's, Thomson was already a legend. His reputation didn’t need a mystery to propel him to acceptance, or full appreciation, as one of the country’s great national painters. Thomson had arrived quite on his own. This can never diminish, and it is short-sighted to believe that any truth revealed about the artist, could destroy what we have enshrined in our national character.

Today we are working wonders with forensic technology, from identifying those who perished on the Titanic, to understanding what killed the crewman of the failed Franklin expedition. Forensic advancements have helped us clarify and correct misinformation, held as truth for generations, and it is to our general improvement as a civilization, to embrace its full potential. It is not a tool for sensationalist profit but a way and means to set things right that have been wrongly attributed. It can only be a positive change in the Thomson mystery, to serve respectfully the artist’s own right to rest in peace, by finding out precisely where the artist is really buried. If it is in the Mowat Cemetery, then we need to erect a substantial national memorial marker, and make this important site a public place of visitation. Just as recognized today, as his plot in Leith, Ontario.

It seems to me a matter of national significance to solve this two grave, one artist dilemma

Her Harbour and Friends At St. James Anglican Church in Gravenhurst; Communities At The Crossroads

Betty Smith (top picture), Her Harbour (middle picture) and Caitlin Harnett (bottom picture). Photos by Rob Currie

"HER HARBOUR" OPENS SUMMER "SESSIONS" CONCERTS, AT ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, IN GRAVENHURST

HOT NIGHT, BUT COOL EVENT, PLEASES AUDIENCE

     If you were there, then you realize what can be achieved with willing partners, and a lot of networking in the Canadian music community. What it comes down to, is a willingness of organizers, and promoters, doing their job, the venue being found, with a willing directorate (Board of the Anglican Church, in Gravenhurst), musicians who want a responsive, critical audience, and patrons, who are willing to support something different in their home community, and home region. For the second time in just over a month, the union came together as if it was meant to be. No frills, no bells and whistles. Just an evening that brought out performers, a good crowd, and keen organizers. Of course, you don't get repeat business, if the event doesn't live up to a high standard. The word is, last night's concert with Ottawa based, "Her Harbour," and friends, was by patron account, a magical evening with good friends.
     If you missed the event, well, you can still get in on the summer of music, in the heart of Gravenhurst, with one of the upcoming "Session's Events," up next on Friday, July 11th, with well known entertainer, Nick Ferrio, and the "Weather Station," both of the Toronto area, also playing at the Anglican Church, on Hotchkiss Street. As for "Her Harbour," organizers want this group back for another stirring evening of music, that gently but powerfully, challenges you to imagine and fantasize.
     As it began, it ended. The concert was initiated on high strung anticipation, and we ended with the same feelings. It's why many in the audience, after the concert, felt compelled to visit with the performers, to buy CD's and chat for awhile. (There was also an interview being conducted, at the same time, with Her Harbour by Hunter's Bay Radio) The anticipation, at this point, was "when are you coming back to Gravenhurst?" It was one of those hot, humid, sunny early summer evenings, perfectly made for Muskoka! "Her Harbour," a tantalizingly brilliant sound experience, from Canada's capital, offered an interesting, unique opportunity, for a few of us Muskokans looking for a little something different, in musical entertainment. I don't think there was any disappointment in this regard.
     The Saturday evening concert, sponsored by Andrew and Robert Currie's Music, of Gravenhurst, was the second of the 2014 "Sessions" series of musical evenings, held at the historic, and elegant St. James Anglican Church, on that park-like, beautifully treed, corner lot, on Hotchkiss Street, less than a block from the town's main street. The fact there was a town sponsored event at the Opera House, on the same block of urban landscape, didn't take away from the crowd that had gathered for something special.
     Starting off the evening performance, was well travelled indie folk singer, Betty Smith, who has just recently, after years absence, moved back to Bracebridge, her former hometown. Passionate about her music, Betty has been performing around the region over the past few months, getting good reviews, for her bright and engaging style. Shortly after hearing some of her work, recorded previously, Andrew asked if she would consider opening for one of the "Sessions" events, and it happened that the main act would be "Her Harbour." Having considerable experience, playing the bar circuit, she admitted it was rather nice, to play a venue where she wouldn't have to scream over the sound of patrons yelling and laughing, and the tell tale clinking of glasses. Well, she used the opportunity to her advantage, and her powerful, alluring voice filled the interior of the church, like the daylight illumination, softly glowing through the stained glass windows. If ever you were to feel the warmth of a neighbor soul, hers was shared with the audience, and you can't be any more honest, and trusting than this, with an audience you don't know. The applause was heartfelt, and responsive to her faithful representation of music, she feels passionate about. Songs about life experiences; you know the ones, of joy, sudden sorrow, intrusive loneliness, love found, love lost, yet resolve, to tell the story in song; intimate music that makes sense of our own obstacle-laden travels through life. And when it doesn't make sense, or seem justifiable in actuality, Betty Smith takes away the rough edges of tough times, and makes them seem less daunting and insurmountable. Her music is message-filled, but never burdensome. Her music, if I could only describe it in botanical terms, well, it would be a cheerful bouquet in a charming vase, in one of these window frames, of this old church; bright, colorful, and uplifting, while at the same time, strong and bold. A flower that is of perpetual growth, and, as much, a fountain of life inspiration. Even songs, that she describes as "dark' or "sad," are the exact opposite, if you enjoyed the music as much as I did. It reminded me of the simple pleasures of commonplace, and shared inspirations, and on this evening, she was singing for us; maybe in some ways, about us!
     Thank you Betty Smith, for performing at this "Sessions" event, and making us think, and think hard, about what music is supposed to be, besides being for listening pleasure. The story. She is a worthy story spinner in song. And the greatest challenge for the story-teller, is to convince us that it is real. This, she accomplished. By the ovation, and it was a long one, she hit the mark with sincerity. Looking forward to having Betty back for many more of these "Sessions" concerts in the coming years.

Australian Singer / Song-writer Caitlin Harnett

      The second performer of the three act evening, was a musical treat, from down-under; Australian Singer / Song-Writer, Caitlin Harnett, on tour of Canada, pleased to make a stop-over in South Muskoka. Releasing a new album, Caitlin treated the audience to the best from the compilation; and you couldn't avoid being enthralled, with a song having its inherent woes, at no expense of good will, and momentum; because you do feel like you're rolling along with her, wherever she wants to go. But not to worry, it was safe passage, and the sensory perception was free. It's what I expect of music, and I got to experience a different spin of a folk tale, and I liked it; whether it was about the inconsistencies of Canadian men or not, of which I am of that particular ilk. Caitlin has a subtle wit, or is that a wry sense of humor? Hers is a gentle play of the emotions, whether by banjo, acoustic guitar, and companion harp, and she is as much fun to be around, as she is skillfully talented. She didn't come with a companion video, so I imagined my own, and it was neat. It was like happenstance therapy. There I was standing on a railway platform, watching trains coming and going; but staying in place on the platform, waving to all those faces and silhouettes of travellers. The music didn't have to be about trains, or railway stations, fond farewells, or hardy welcomes; it's just what the music reminded me of, because, sure, I love trains, and I used to hang-out at trains stations as a kid. As I've written about previously as a new music critic, in an old body, I have always been moved, as a writer, by music; maybe too much some times. Caitlin is a singer you could listen to for hours on end, and never get tired of the blessing. There really isn't more to say, other than I know she has a great future ahead, wherever she travels; maybe even by train some time.
  
"Her Harbour," takes us out upon a misty sea, to fare for ourselves; to experience those tantalizing mysteries of life

     "Her Harbour," is a sound garden by the sea. It was a pleasant experience of being engulfed, by the strange magic of a music that fuses together life sounds, and expectation; as if sitting on a precipice, looking out at a great untiring body of water, and feeling as if, at any moment, an ominous stormscape will rise, at any moment, from over the far horizon, and echo its inherent thunder, and augment its lightning flashes, with the black twist of clouds moving ever closer. But as an epic event, it can never eclipse with awe, the beauty of the sunscape, still blazing the water in calming sunset; the storm that never arrived, as if willed away by the poet philosopher.
     "Her Harbour," has a relationship with melancholy, yet a brightness from its own velvet fog, that prevails upon us to listen and learn; that they know the way through the mist, so we should follow them, and we do. In essence, it is a haunting music they prevail upon audiences, but just when we might feel, we have been touched by an angel, we mire in a sudden uncertainty, about the very definition of life, from its beginning to its end; and we are made to believe, that we have much knowledge yet to seek. Singer Gabrielle Giguere, of this wonderfully mysterious "Her Harbour," stands in silhouette against a great light, and points for us, far down the road, that we must travel alone. Reluctantly and fearfully we walk away, with the echo of her enchantments, fading into the poetry that is our destiny.
     At one moment, you might feel Gabrielle is a vapor seraph, in the veil of her own music, rising from her own memorial, to walk the earth again. In the trace moonlight, bleeding through an evergreen wreath, she is of legend, and tall tales; the essence of enchantment, but she, and the musicians of "Her Harbour," are enchanters afterall. When they began playing, the audience became spellbound and ceased to chat, ceased to look around at others. Their focus was solitary. They had drawn us into their profound illusion, as if we could smell the pine forest, and the great open water, and the first drops of rain on the dirt road that leads from here, to somewhere, but we're not quite sure if this road ends by geography, or by our own mortality.
     My wife, sitting at my side, has reminded me of the music, she has always claimed to have heard, as a child, walking through the forest, just above her family's Windermere cottage, on Lake Rosseau, but could never finds its source. It was the voice of nature, she supposed, and listening to "Her Harbour," she grabbed my shirt sleeve and said, "This is it. This is what I heard on my walks. How beautifully chilling it is!"
    Their music is both calm and storm in one, as history has been both burdened and blessed by its chronicle. It is a symphony at once, and a dirge a moment later, but there is always, a beam of light that breaks through what might be considered the darkest moment; such that we might again rest in peace, at the last spray of sunlight before nightfall. We have been contented ironically by the musical storm, that should have left us unsettled and unresolved. It left us, as some irony, wanting more.
    Group members of "Her Harbour," include Gabrielle Giguere, lead singer, Pierre-Luc Clement, Philippe Charbonneau, and Jamie Kronick.    
     Organizers of the event, wish to thank the performers and the audience, for supporting this new-to--Gravenhurst music series, which will be back in action, on July 11th with Nick Ferrio and Weather Station. Tickets will be $15 per person, and are available now at Currie's Music on Muskoka Road here in Gravenhurst.

THAT WONDERFUL SENSE OF BELONGING TO A HOME REGION - THE HAMLETS OF ONCE, SOME LOST EXCEPT IN NAME

REGIONAL GOVERNMENT WAS NECESSARY BUT THE LEGISLATION HAD AN UNDERTOW WITH IT

     "WITH THE COMING OF WINTER I THOUGHT THE LIFE OF A FARMER MIGHT LOSE SOMETHING OF ITS CHARM. SO MUCH INTEREST LIES IN THE GROWTH NOT ONLY OF THE CROPS, BUT OF TREES, VINES, FLOWERS, SENTIMENTS AND EMOTIONS. IN THE SUMMER THE WORLD IS BUSY, CONCERNED WITH MANY THINGS AND FULL OF GOSSIP; IN THE WINTER I ANTICIPATED A CESSATION OF MANY ACTIVE INTERESTS AND ENTHUSIASMS. I LOOKED FORWARD TO HAVING TIME FOR MY BOOKS AND FOR QUIET CONTEMPLATION OF LIFE AROUND ME. SUMMER INDEED IS FOR ACTIVITY. BUT WHEN WINTER REALLY CAME, EVERY DAY I DISCOVERED SOME NEW WORK TO DO, OR SOME NEW ADVENTURE TO ENJOY. IT IS SURPRISING HOW MANY THINGS HAPPEN ON A SMALL FARM." (DAVID GRAYSON, "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT")

     FROM THE EARLIEST SETTLERS, COURAGEOUS ENOUGH TO BREAK TRAIL INTO THE MUSKOKA LAKELAND, THERE WAS AN INTEREST IN NEIGHBORHOOD DEVELOPMENT. EVEN THEN, A CLOSE NEIGHBOR COULD BE A COUPLE OF MILES OFF. EVENTUAL INHABITATION CLUSTERS WARRANTED CONSIDERATION FOR HAMLET POST OFFICES. TRANSPORTATION AROUND THE REGION WAS BY EITHER FOOT, SNOWSHOES, CART OR SLEIGH, PULLED BY OXEN OR HORSES. LENGTHY TRIPS WERE CONSIDERED NOT ONLY PRECARIOUSLY DIFFICULT, BUT POTENTIALLY DEADLY, DUE TO NATURAL OBSTACLES AND THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST FROM RATTLESNAKES TO A LARGE BEAR AND WOLF POPULATION. POINT IS, AS WE THINK NOTHING OF DRIVING FROM MUSKOKA TO TORONTO TO ATTEND A HOCKEY OR BASEBALL GAME, OR JUST A NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN, FOR THE HOMESTEADER, A TEN MILE TRIP TO A MAJOR SETTLEMENT, REQUIRED A LOT OF RESOURCES AND SAVVY TO PULL OFF, WITHOUT CASUALTY. SO NEIGHBORHOODS ESTABLISHED AT SIGNIFICANT CROSSROADS, DEVELOPED FAIRLY QUICKLY IN THE OUT-BACK, AWAY FROM THE LARGER SETTLEMENTS IN MUSKOKA, SUCH AS GRAVENHURST, BRACEBRIDGE AND HUNTSVILLE. THEY WEREN'T NECESSARILY SELF-SUPPORTING HAMLETS BUT THEY GOT THE JOB DOWN FOR BASIC NECESSITIES, UNTIL TRIPS TO THE LARGER CENTRES COULD BE UNDERTAKEN.

     THEY WERE CONSIDERED HAMLETS ACCORDING TO GOVERNMENT REGULATIONS, AND GUIDELINES, BUT THEY WERE OF VITAL IMPORTANCE TO THOSE WHO DWELLED IN THE VICINITY. THERE MOST LIKELY WAS A SMALL GENERAL STORE, A LIVERY, BLACKSMITH SHOP, AND POSSIBLY EVEN A WOODWORKERS SHOP, WHERE SHINGLES MIGHT BE CRAFTED ALONGSIDE HOUSEHOLD FURNISHINGS AND EVEN ROUGH BOXES IN CASE OF A DEATH IN THE SETTLEMENT. IT WOULD BE UNLIKELY TO FIND A LOCAL "SCHOOLED" UNDERTAKER, A PHARMACY OR DOCTOR'S OFFICE IN THESE TINY ENCAMPMENTS, BUT THERE WOULD SOON SPRING UP PLACES OF WORSHIP, A ONE ROOM SCHOOL HOUSE, AND FRATERNAL ORGANIZATION BUILDINGS. IT WAS VERY LIKELY, THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN AN ORANGE LODGE HALL ERECTED SOMEWHERE IN THIS CLUSTER OF PIONEER BUILDINGS.

     SO IT WAS THE CASE, THAT SETTLERS TOOK THEIR MONTHLY TRIPS TO THE LARGER CENTRES IN THE REGION, TO ACQUIRE ITEMS THEY COULDN'T PURCHASE, TO THEIR LIKING, LOCALLY; AND FOR THE LITTLE MONEY THEY HAD FOR PURCHASING ANYTHING AT ALL, IN THESE HAMLETS AND VILLAGES. ONE HAD TO BE FRUGAL. OF COURSE YOU KNOW THIS STUFF WITHOUT ME STICKING MY OAR IN, BUT IT'S FORCE OF HABIT. BUT GRADUALLY, THE LARGE CENTRES AND THE IMPROVEMENTS IN TRANSPORTATION, AND RELATED LINKS, DECREASED THE IMPORTANCE OF THESE TINY CROSS-ROADS SETTLEMENTS. WHEN THE LOCAL ECONOMY FALTERED, THERE WAS STILL A STALWART LOYALTY TO THE HOME NEIGHBORHOOD, WHERE GENERATIONS OF MUSKOKANS WERE RAISED; IN EVIDENCE ON THE DEEPLY INSCRIBED, MOSS-LADEN  FAMILY TOMBSTONES, TUCKED ALONG PICTURESQUE ROWS, IN SHADED CHURCH-YARDS. SOME OF THOSE PIONEER NAMES ARE STILL CONNECTED TO THESE COMMUNITIES. I AM THINKING ABOUT THE FOLKS AT THE RYDE COMMUNITY CENTRE, (THE FORMER PUBLIC SCHOOL, IN THE MUNICIPALITY OF GRAVENHURST) WHO ARE DOING SO MUCH TO KEEP THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD VIBRANT AND FORWARD THINKING, AND THE HALL, A REVITALIZED, CENTRAL MEETING PLACE FOR LOCAL RESIDENTS AND FRIENDS. THERE WILL BE A SPECIAL HERITAGE EVENT IN THE SPRING OF 2014 IN RYDE, TO RECOGNIZE THOSE AMAZING PIONEER ACCOMPLISHMENTS, AND ALL THE AREA TOGETHERNESS, ENJOYED EVER SINCE. FRED SCHULZ AND I HOPE TO BE A PART OF THIS IMPORTANT AREA MILESTONE. WE'LL LET YOU KNOW MORE ABOUT THE EVENT IN THE COMING MONTHS.

      BY TIME THE PROVINCE INTERVENED WITH THE SWELL IDEA OF REGIONAL GOVERNMENT, IN THE LATE 1960'S, IT WAS ALREADY AN HISTORICAL REALITY, THAT THESE HAMLETS AND VILLAGES WERE FAST BECOMING "NAME-ONLY" PLACES ON OLD MAPS, AND AS MANY OF THE ORIGINAL FAMILIES PASSED AWAY, AND OTHERWISE LEFT THE NEIGHBORHOODS, MOST RESIDENTS CAME TO IDENTIFY THEMSELVES AS BEING FROM A RURAL ROUTE IN BRACEBRIDGE, GRAVENHURST, OR HUNTSVILLE INSTEAD. THAT'S WHAT THE POST OFFICE OPTED FOR IN THE REGIONAL GOVERNMENT OVERHAUL.  OBVIOUSLY, THE RURAL INTEGRITY HAS BEEN MAINTAINED LONGER IN THE TOWNSHIPS OF GEORGIAN BAY, MUSKOKA LAKES AND LAKE OF BAYS, DUE TO THE VILLAGE STATUS OF THEIR MAIN BUSINESS CENTRES; DWIGHT AND BAYSVILLE IN LAKE OF BAYS; PORT CARLING AND BALA IN MUSKOKA LAKES; AND PORT SEVERN AND MACTIER IN TOWNSHIP OF GEORGIAN BAY. THE ADVENT OF REGIONAL GOVERNMENT, OPPOSED VEHEMENTLY BY MANY OF THESE RURAL DWELLERS, CREATED SIX LARGE MEMBER MUNICIPALITIES, TAKING AWAY WARD, VILLAGE AND HAMLET COUNCILS. THE 1970'S PROFOUNDLY CHANGED THE CHRONICLE OF THE HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, AS IT HAD BEGUN IN THE LATE 1850'S. REGIONAL GOVERNANCE REALLY ONLY ACCELERATED WHAT WAS HAPPENING ANY WAY, YEAR BY YEAR, AS MORE PEOPLE WERE MOVING TO THE MAJOR TOWNS, FOR ECONOMIC REASONS.

    WHEN OUR FAMILY ARRIVED IN MUSKOKA, IN THE WINTER OF 1966, A NEW TREND WAS COMMENCING IN THE REGION, DUE TO THE ANTICIPATION OF NEW GOVERNANCE RULES AND TAXATION COMING. MY FATHER ED, WAS IN THE BUILDING INDUSTRY, AS A LUMBER SALESMAN, AND HE KNEW HUNDREDS OF CUSTOMERS WELL INTO THE 1970'S, WHO WERE LEAVING THE URBAN BOUNDARIES OF THE MAJOR TOWNS, IN A BID TO ESCAPE THE INCREASING TOLL OF PROPERTY TAXES. THERE ARE AREAS OF THESE TOWNS, THAT SHOW THIS MIGRATION, BACK TO RURAL LIVING, TO AVOID BEING FORCED TO PAY A LEVY FOR SEWER AND WATER HOOKUPS. IT IS STILL AN ISSUE TO THIS DAY, AND WHENEVER THE MATTER OF EXTENDING TAXATION FOR THESE SERVICES MUSKOKA WIDE, TO BE INCLUSIVE WHETHER YOU ARE USING A WELL OR A SEPTIC BED, THE EMBERS OF REBELLION GLOW RED ONCE AGAIN. THE MOVEMENT AWAY FROM URBAN AREA SERVICES AND TAXATION, IS STILL AN INCENTIVE FOR RURAL LIVING, ALTHOUGH TRANSPORTATION COSTS THESE DAYS, HAVE SOMEWHAT INHIBITED MORE MIGRATION TO THE HINTERLAND.

    AS I WROTE ABOUT IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, THE HINTERLAND IS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN FOR FLEDGLING MUSKOKANS, TAKING UP THE HOMESTEAD CHALLENGE, FROM THE 1850'S, AND TO AN ACCELERATED LEVEL, WHEN THE FREE LAND GRANT AND HOMESTEAD ACT WAS INITIATED IN THE LATE 1860'S, BASED ON A FEDERAL PLAN TO FILL UP A COUNTRY AS FAST AS POSSIBLE.......FIRSTLY TO JUSTIFY HAVING SO MUCH LAND UNDER BRITISH CONTROL, (AS THE AMERICANS BEGAN LOOKING NORTHWARD), AND SECONDLY, TO JUSTIFY THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILWAY. THE FEDERAL GOVERMENT WITH THE PROVINCE'S APPROVAL, BEGAN A RECRUITMENT PROGRAM, TO ATTRACT THOUSANDS OF IMMIGRANTS, TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THESE EXCITING NEW OPPORTUNITIES IN THIS GARDEN OF EDEN. OF COURSE, THE PROMISES MADE TO THESE FOLKS DIDN'T QUITE MEASURE UP, AND THIS WAS ONLY DISCOVERED, WHEN THE ILL PREPARED SETTLERS, FROM THE POOREST NEIGHBORHOODS OF EUROPEAN CITIES, ARRIVED IN A HARSH ENVIRONS, SHORT OF SUPPLIES AND GENERALLY BROKE. SO IT WAS THE GOOD GRACES OF THESE SHARING PLACES, THE CROSSROADS HAMLETS, THAT SAVED THE LIVES OF THESE BEATEN-DOWN HOMESTEADERS, WHO DID, OF COURSE, FIND STRENGTH IN NUMBERS. WHILE THESE HAMLET AND VILLAGE NAMES TODAY HAVE BEEN PRESERVED BY THE MUNICIPALITIES, ON THE FAMILIAR BLUE AND WHITE HIGHWAY SIGNS, THEY CERTAINLY AREN'T AFFORDED THE SAME RIGHTS AND PRIVILEGES OF ONCE. POSTAL CANCELLATION COLLECTORS, LIKE TO POSSESS THESE MARKERS OF TIMES' PAST, WHEN THE STAMP AT THE LOCAL POST OUTLET, IN A GENERAL STORE, PROUDLY DISPLAYED THAT PARTICULAR DOT ON THE MAP; A STAMP AND CANCELLATION THAT MIGHT TRAVEL AROUND THE WORLD, REPRESENTING THAT PLACE IN ONTARIO, AND CANADA. DID YOU KNOW HEKKLA WAS REGISTERED BY ITS SETTLERS AFTER THE TITLE OF A VOLCANO IN ICELAND? I'M NOT SURE IF THEY WERE RELATING LIFE IN NORTH MUSKOKA AS BEING A PARALLEL TO LIVING IN CONSTANT FEAR OF A VOLCANIC ERUPTION IN ICELAND. MAYBE SO!

     GRADUALLY THESE SMALL COMMUNITIES LOST THEIR LUSTER, AND FAMILY TRADITION WAS NOT ENOUGH TO COMPEL OFFSPRING TO REMAIN WHERE THERE WERE NO AVAILABLE JOBS, AND THUS NO FUTURE, EXCEPT THE CEASELESS TRAVEL TO BIGGER CENTRES FOR BASIC NEEDS. SOON THE POST OFFICE OUTLETS WERE CLOSED, AND THE POSTAL CANCELLATION STAMPS SHELVED, OR RETURNED TO THE FEDERAL AUTHORITY, AND THE STORES THEMSELVES WERE CLOSED FOREVER, THAT ONCE WERE GATHERING PLACES. THE KILWORTHY STORE COMES TO MIND, AS I'M SURE FRED SCHULZ IS THINKING ABOUT, AT THIS VERY MOMENT, AS HE READS TODAY'S BLOG. I'M PRETTY SURE HE'D BE INTERESTED IN RE-OPENING THE OLD STORE THAT HIS FAMILY USED TO OPERATE, EXCEPT FOR ONE STINGING REALITY. IT WOULD MOST LIKELY MEET THE SAME FATE, AS THERE ARE  NOT ENOUGH CUSTOMERS TO MAKE IT A GOING CONCERN. IT WOULDN'T BE FINANCIALLY VIABLE TO COMPETE AGAINST THE MEGA GROCERY STORES ONLY A SHORT DRIVE NORTH, OR SOUTH, AND SENTIMENTALITY IS A WEAK FOUNDATION ON WHICH TO BUILD A BUSINESS. NONE THE LESS, IT IS KIND OF SAD, THAT OUR CHILDREN TODAY, WON'T EXPERIENCE WHAT OUR RURAL TRADITIONS WERE, FROM THE LATE 1850'S. THERE WAS A LOT OF SOCIAL/CULTURAL HERITAGE GENERATING FROM THOSE OLD HAMLET GENERAL STORES.....THAT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN REALLY, BECAUSE IT WAS JUST SOMETHING THAT HAD TO BE EXPERIENCED. LIKE THE SIGHT OF A MASSIVE  WHEEL OF CHEDDAR CHEESE BEING SLICED IN FRONT OF YOU, TO FILL A CUSTOMER'S ORDER. CHRISTMAS TIME. I WANT FRED TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR US ALL, ABOUT HIS CHRISTMAS MEMORIES AT THE KILWORTHY STORE, BACK IN HIS GROWING-UP ERA. I'VE GOT LOTS OF WHITE SPACE TO FILL, AND WE WANT OLD PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE BUILDING. WE'LL TAKE UP A PETITION TO GET HIM WORKING ON THIS, IN TIME FOR OUR ANNUAL CHRISTMAS BLOG-SPECIAL, WHERE WE ALL GATHER AT HEARTHSIDE,  TO EXCHANGE STORIES ABOUT OUR MEMORIES OF MUSKOKA WINTERS OF THE PAST.

     VERY FEW CUSTOMERS WERE IN A HURRY TO LEAVE THE GENERAL STORE, IN THOSE HALCYON DAYS OF SIMPLE MERCHANDIZING. I HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE MYSELF TO CATCH THE FINAL DAYS OF THOSE MOM AND POP INDUSTRIES, THAT MADE THOSE HAMLETS SO ENDEARING, WITH THEIR UNIQUE SOCIAL TRADITIONS, IN THE RURAL CHARACTER. I ABSOLUTELY LOVED THE MACTIER RED AND WHITE STORE, AND THE DORSET GENERAL STORE.

   SUZANNE GREW UP IN THE VILLAGE OF WINDERMERE, ON LAKE MUSKOKA, AND KNOWS ALL ABOUT THE TRUE COMFORTS OF BOTH RURAL LIVING, AND THE NEIGHBORLINESS OF VILLAGE LIFE. WE TALK ABOUT IT FREQUENTLY, AND WE OFTEN THINK HOW NEAT IT WOULD BE TO RETURN, AND SET UP OUR OWN RETIREMENT NEST. YET THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER, IS THAT WHEN, ALMOST A DECADE AGO, WE HAD A CHANCE TO BUY HER FAMILY'S HOUSE IN THE VILLAGE, AFTER HER FATHER DIED, WE BOTH DECIDED RATHER QUICKLY, THAT WITH EMPLOYMENT CIRCUMSTANCES, AND A YOUNG FAMILY, THAT IT WOULD HAVE PUT TOO MUCH STRAIN ON US.....TAKING AWAY ANY ENJOYMENT WE MIGHT GAIN FROM LIVING IN PARADISE. THE SAME HOLDS TODAY. WE CAN FANTASIZE ABOUT THE POSSIBILITIES, BUT HONESTLY, RURAL LIVING DOESN'T SUIT US ANY MORE. WE FEEL KIND OF BAD ABOUT THIS, BUT IT DOESN'T CHANGE ANYTHING EITHER. AND THERE ARE A LOT OF FOLKS LIVING JUST LIKE US.....WHO WOULD LIKE A LESS URBAN NEIGHBORHOOD TO RAISE THEIR FAMILIES, BUT SIMPLY CAN'T AFFORD THE LUXURY FOR ANY NUMBER OF REASONS.

     THE IMPLEMENTATION OF REGIONAL GOVERNMENT, WAS AN ADMINISTRATIVE BLOW TO THE LAST BREATHS FOR MANY OF THESE HAMLETS, TO EVER GROW INTO MORE IMPORTANT COMMUNITIES. IT CENTRALIZED REGIONAL GOVERNMENT, AND PULLED MUNICIPAL GOVERNANCE TO EITHER A MAJOR TOWN OR VILLAGE. IN MUSKOKA LAKES, PORT CARLING BECAME THE LOCATION FOR THE MUNICIPAL OFFICES; PORT SEVERN WAS THE ADMINISTRATIVE CENTRE FOR GEORGIAN BAY, AND DWIGHT BECAME THE MUNICIPAL HEADQUARTERS IN LAKE OF BAYS.

     AS HISTORIANS, AND MUSKOKANS GENERALLY, WE OWE A LOT OF RESPECT TO THESE PIONEER SETTLEMENTS, AND THE ROLE THEY PLAYED GETTING US FROM PIONEER STATUS, TO THE MODERN ERA. WHILE MOST TRAVELLERS OF OUR ROADWAYS TODAY, ARE AWARE OF THESE COMMUNITY NAMES, FROM HAVING SEEN THEM THOUSANDS OF TIMES, THROUGH ALL KINDS OF WEATHER AND THE FOUR SEASONS, VERY FEW PAUSE LONG ENOUGH, TO GIVE THEM MORE THAN A PASSING GLANCE AND MODEST CONSIDERATION, MORE SO AS A MARKER OF MILES TRAVELLED, AND MILES YET TO COMMUTE. WHEN SUZANNE AND I, ARE OUT FOR A DRIVE, AS I'M SURE IS THE CASE FOR PHOTOGRAPHER FRED SCHULZ, WE ALWAYS MAKE COMMENT ABOUT THE HAMLETS OF ONCE, WE USED TO KNOW, AND STOP TO VISIT. HOW MANY TODAY REMEMBER HAMLETS SUCH AS GERMANIA, COOPER'S FALLS, BARKWAY, UFFORD, ULLSWATER, DEE BANK, FOOTE'S BAY, UFFINGTON, KILWORTHY, ROSSEAU FALLS, PURBROOK, FRASERBURG, FALKENBURG, BEATRICE, LEWISHAM OR MONSELL? THE FOLKS WHO STILL LIVE THERE KNOW ITS HERITAGE VALUE, BUT DO YOU? I AM ADAMENT THAT REGIONAL HISTORY SHOULD BE TAUGHT IN OUR SCHOOLS, SO THAT THESE IMPORTANT CROSSROADS FROM OUR PAST AREN'T FORGOTTEN, OR SWALLOWED BY THE PROGRESSIVE AND URBANIZING TRENDS HEADED OUR WAY IN THE NEXT QUARTER CENTURY.

    

    

Bracebridge, Auctions, Yard Sales and The Pump Organ That Kept Coming Back

WHEN THE DAY STARTS OFF WITH A GREAT YARD SALE OUTING, IT'S GOING TO BE A GOOD DAY

"NOSTALGIA" FINDS BEST FOR US IN THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE TRADE

     I'M NOT SURE OF THE EXACT COUNT, BUT I'M WILLING TO BET ALL MY MODEST HOLDINGS, THAT ANDREW PICKED UP TWENTY VINTAGE RADIOS IN ONE MORNING, OF MUSKOKA YARD SALE HUNTING. WE HAVE A HUGE NOSTALGIA ROOM AT THE BACK OF OUR GRAVENHURST SHOP, AND HE SELLS A LOT OF THE OLD FRIDGE AND COUNTER-TOP PLASTIC AND BAKE-A-LITE RADIOS. IT WAS A GREAT MORNING FOR PICKING UP NOSTALGIA PIECES GENERALLY, FROM COMICS TO VINTAGE ICE BUCKETS, ELECTRIC CLOCKS, AND WIND-UP BEDSIDE AND TRAVELLING CLOCKS. IT WAS JUST ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS YOU DREAM ABOUT ALL WINTER LONG, WHEN YOU CAN SPEND A HUNDRED BUCKS AND LOAD A VAN WITH NEAT STUFF, INCLUDING THAT MUSKOKA FAVORITE, "WATER SKIS. YOU CAN GO TO A THOUSAND YARD SALES, AND SPEND A HUNDRED BUCKS. OR YOU CAN GO TO ONE DANDY, AND FILL A TRUCK FOR THE SAME AMOUNT. YOU KNOW WHEN A WOODEN COCA COLA BOTTLE BOX IS IN THE DRIVEWAY, AND THERE ARE ODD BUT INTERESTING BAR RELICS, LIKE NOVELTY ICE COOLERS, YOU EXPECT TO BE DAZZLED. FREQUENTLY WE HAVE TO LEAVE WITHOUT EVEN AN ARM-FULL, BUT FEELING ENTERTAINED AT THE VERY LEAST. TODAY IT WAS AFFORDABLE, AND THERE WERE LOTS OF NOSTALGIA ITEMS TO PURCHASE. AND WE WERE EVEN ABLE TO GET ANOTHER NICE PORTABLE SEWING MACHINE, FOR SUZANNE, WHICH I THINK WAS AN "AMBASSADOR" IF THAT MAKES ANY SENSE TO MACHINE COLLECTORS. SO WE HAVE BEEN GOING SINCE EARLY THIS MORNING, AND THE VAN HAS NOW BEN UNLOADED OF ITS YARD SALE FINDS. WE HAD CUSTOMERS LINED-UP AT THE DOOR WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE SHOP, AND WE STILL HAVEN'T HAD THAT SECOND CUP OF COFFEE. IT'S GOING TO BE AN EXTRA BUSY DAY, AS WE ARE ALSO HOSTING A LIVE CONCERT TONIGHT, AT ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, FEATURING "HER HARBOUR," AND GUESTS. SO WE FINISH OUR BUSINESS DAY, RUN OVER TO THE CHURCH, AND COMMENCE OUR CONCERT DAY ADVENTURE. ANDREW AND ROBERT LOVE THE BUSINESS, AND LIFE IN THIS TOWN, WHEN ITS ELECTRIC; MEANING THERE'S SO MUCH GOING ON, THAT YOU HAVEN'T GOT TIME TO BECOME COMPLACENT. AH, TO BE YOUNG AGAIN. THE TOWN IS BUSY. AND THAT'S THE GREATEST PART OF ALL. IT'S A CRITICAL TIME OF YEAR FOR LOCAL BUSINESSES, SO I HOPE IT WILL BE AS PROSPEROUS AS WE HAVE BEEN FINDING IT LATELY.

BRACEBRIDGE DAYS A TOAST OF NOSTALGIA, AND ALL THAT SENTIMENTAL STUFF THAT GOES ALONG WITH IT

      When I write about Bracebridge, back in the days of my youth, I recognize that, unless you have had a stake in the old town yourself, these nostalgic stories are pretty run-of-the-mill, lacking in familiarity, the names meaning nothing in particular, and much of the sentiment, being lost because it wasn't your own hometown, or home region. When I write-up these recollections, although you may not appreciate this, I am keenly sensitive to the hamlets, villages, towns and city neighborhoods where you grew up. Each of you has a collection of sentimental reflections of those communities, that played a role in raising and nurturing you, and your family, through the years of residency. I always hope you will find something within my stories, that reminds you of the places you used to hang-out, and socialize, and the familiar characters, who made those neighborhoods and communities so interesting, and a little bit unique, from all the other towns in North America and beyond. It would make me feel great, as a teller of stories, and a lover of community history, for my readers, from all over the globe in fact, to feel inspired themselves, to jot down a few notes for posterity, about what it was like in the good old days; in your place(s) of residence. Capturing these memories is important, and it would take me a week of columns to explain it in full. You have to trust me on this one. There is always a need for another opinion, of say, a former or long-term resident, who saw things differently than the self-declared historians like me; who offer narrow points of view, because it's the way we structure the chronology year by year. Facing the reality of space and time on earth, we couldn't possibly make it a totally inclusive history. We'd be working from sunrise to sunset, seven days a week, for every day of our lives. Yes, there's too much history. But when you break it down, there's not as much social, family history recorded, as we should have, to create a better balance of information. We are dominated by political history and landmark events. These are what I refer to as the black and whites of history. I like the color of intimate, personal histories, that turn a chronology into a real, sink your teeth in, community history. You can't leave community history up to the discretion of a few scribes, and the reporters of the local press. I know what this reads like, and although its needed as a skeletal form, to build upon, often times, the historians give up after this, not considering personal anecdotes worthy of their attention. How wrong they are.     How many times have you read or heard an account of an historic event in your community, and shook your head about the inaccuracies. The published description, and what you actually experienced, at whatever age, may be miles apart in historical fact. Opinions may have muddied the water, from what you recall from the actuality of participation. So it is important to offer a different point of view, and as far as biographical notes, they're always necessary to historians, looking to stretch the framing of the big picture.     When I write these biographical, semi-historical notes, I want to inspire you to do the same; and feel free to challenge me, if you have a different point of view, on the same subject; maybe you have a conflicting opinion of old town politics, or have some neat anecdotes about going to the Norwood Theatre, on Manitoba Street, now in its 65th year of operation. Maybe it was a theatre in your own home town, that still inspires fond recollections. I consider myself, with these collected stories, a writer who stirs the pot, so to speak, generating points of discussion, and inspiring the kind of nostalgia feelings, that command further investigation. Were they the good old days, or is that an over simplification; because, well, some of us had rather unfortunate times, and may not wish to recall anything more than yesterday. I had some bad times in Bracebridge that I will never forget. I got the snot beat out of me every day for a month, at Bracebridge Public School, because I challenged the bullies who were picking on my friends. I will never forget those little bastards, but they can't spoil my overall feelings, that my childhood spent in Muskoka, was good despite the black eyes and swollen jaw.
     I have lived in six communities in Ontario. I started out in Toronto, as an infant, moved to Burlington where we lived until I was eleven years old, moved to Bracebridge, eventually back to Toronto, back to Bracebridge, did a stint in Foote's Bay, Windermere, Bracebridge for a third time, and then to Gravenhurst, where we have lived for the past quarter century. Each of the places I have lived, have a special place in my nostalgia file, and when I go back to visit, I honestly feel that I could live there again, if circumstances prevailed. I lived on Harris Crescent, in Burlington, close enough to the lake to hear the fog-horns of passing freighters. Near Jane and Runnymede in Toronto, (then at York University for one term), on Lake Joseph, at Foote's Bay (Township of Muskoka Lakes), Lake Rosseau, in Windermere, and various streets in the Town of Bracebridge, plus to cottages, one being at Golden Beach Road, and the other, on Allport Bay, of Lake Muskoka, just past the Beaumont Farm. I think I could write a book about living at each of these locations. But then, writing is what I do. Are they worthy of stories? Worthy of an actual manuscript? You see, in my mind, I believe they are worthy, but for the same reason as I write these sketches today. And that is to credit the past, for the outcomes of the present and future. It all plays a role. And for me, I honestly want my readers, who have followed me all over the place for the past five years, to be able to see the parallels of how they also lived, and resided in their own home regions; each reminiscence having a value to the entire dynamic of the life chronicle, which should be documented as part of your family heritage.     You might not think you've had an interesting life, but I'm here to tell you the opposite. It is a door opening exercise, once you get started, and you'll be surprised when you won't be able to shut the door ever again. Which is all right. Get a lap-top like I have, and work morning until night, to the point you feel that the essence of the chronicle has been captured. Then share it with others, because there is an interest. We can all learn something from the experiences of others.
     I have had an interesting life, but so have you. I might have a little edge, in the fact I've been a career writer, and historian. But it's largely a case, of weighing the social / historical importance, of these recollections, and what would inspire someone else, reading the material at some point down the road. For example, I have written these stories for two distinct reasons. The first, being my concern that most community historians, have no use for intimate, social, family history, unless it is in a business, industrial, or political category. There is no way, for example, that there would be any reference to the "Hunt's Hill Gang," I grew up with, in Bracebridge, unless I wrote about it as such. Well, we didn't do anything that was particularly historical, yet it was part of the social fabric of those years, growing up in that particular neighborhood; and whatever we did, was being mirrored by other groups of youngsters, in other parts of the town. Even if you didn't grow up in Bracebridge, chances are you had close friends who, for all intents and purposes, were character-doubles, to those I write about. I don't want this part of history to be lost, because it is the honest, ground-level, earthy, social heritage, that defined our community. Our gang threw green apples at our enemies. Maybe the gang you associated with, tossed burrs or pine cones. Maybe even stones. We all were throwing stuff, so it just depended on what we had in biggest supply. If we swiped the wheels of Seth Hillman's lawnmowers, to make our go-carts, possibly you scoffed cooling pies off window-ledges, or garden gnomes out of flower gardens. I find these stories fascinating, and far more interesting than the study of local politics, and the chronology of councillors and mayors doing their civic duty. Now, I would far sooner read about kids playing practical jokes, and stories about character antics you remember, that reflect honestly on real people doing real things; without any protocol to follow. Humans doing that human thing, which adds the color to the black and white stills.
     Shortly after I came home to Bracebridge, after university, I had a chance to manage an Experience '78 Project, for the Muskoka Board of Education, for co-ordinator, Jim Wood, and it became the single most important experience in local history, I've ever had in the years since. I had two reporting staff, one photographer, and two who had the job of transcribing the tape recordings into text. Our assignment was to interview as many long time Muskoka residents as possible, in the two months the project was operational. We managed quite a few interviews, across the district, and they were powerfully insightful to all of us, who may have thought Muskoka heritage was rather dull. We got stories ranging from the sinking of the steamship "Waome," hardships on the pioneer homesteads, the rigors of the logging camp, pioneer business development, to the Free Land and Homesteads Grant, which we were actually able to handle, still rolled and tied with a bow, while sitting in the original farm house, on the original property, owned from the 1870's by the Kirbyson family of Ufford. We got intimate stories that had only ever been heard before, in close family circles, which from the point of publication, later that summer, came to benefit students in all the schools governed by the Muskoka Board of Education. They are still in the archive collection of the Trillium Lakelands District School Board. We are richer culturally, and in social heritage, because of those tape recorded interviews. We had only just finished the project, when we began hearing news that some of our new friends had passed away, including Bracebridge's Bus Brazier, who I will have a story on in the coming week. But these taped interviews were just a tiny fraction of what we wanted to do, but couldn't budget into the time frame. There were so many more important stories to hear and record, that would have greatly infilled what historians know about our region. All I can tell you, is that we don't know as much as we think we do! There is a social heritage we're missing, that offers a clear characterization of a Muskoka identity, and a Muskoka lifestyle, in a most genuine sense; not the Muskoka lifestyle you hear and read about today, that is all about luxury and waterfront residency.



From the Archives

BUYING A BUNCH OF JUNK CAN TURN UP A "WINNER"

TAKING A CHANCE IS WHAT WE ALL DO, DAY TO DAY……ANTIQUE DEALERS LIVE WITH THIS CONSTANTLY…..MISTAKES CAN BE EPIC CAREER MISADVENTURES

AS I'VE TRIED TO MAKE CLEAR IN THIS COLLECTION OF BLOGS, ABOUT THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION SPECIFICALLY….., "COLLECTING" ON THE PERIPHERY…..,THAT WE HAVE QUITE A FEW CLOSELY GUARDED SECRETS, THAT LIKE MAGICIANS, WE SIMPLY WON'T REVEAL. WE ARE A BAND OF INDIVIDUALS, AND THE COMPETITION IS FIERCE. BUT MOST OF US HAVE DEVELOPED ATTITUDES THAT ARE COMFORTABLY APPOINTED IN BUSINESS SERIOUSNESS, AND AT THE SAME TIME, A HALF-JOVIAL ALERTNESS TO NEW SITUATIONS, SUCH THAT WE BRACE OURSELVES WELL IN ADVANCE, FOR THE EVENTUALITY OF WHAT CAN ONLY BE CALLED "GROSS MISADVENTURE." I WILL TELL YOU, THROUGH THIS SPRING SEASON, WHAT SOME OF THOSE AWKWARD MOMENTS HAVE MEANT FOR ME. SOMETIMES ITS A SERIOUS SITUATION THAT PREVAILS UPON US TO EMPLOY THE ALCHEMY WE'RE KNOWN FOR, AND THERE ARE MANY OTHER TIMES THAT IT JUST TURNS INTO A "I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST DID THAT," SCENARIO. LIKE THE TIME I WAS MOVING A BOOK OFF A COUNTER IN OUR KITCHEN, AND A TINY CORNER OF THE SPINE, CAUGHT THE HANDLE OF A BEAUTIFULLY HAND-PAINTED VICTORIAN TEA POT, AND SHAZAM……IT CAME OFF WITH EASE. THE DAY BEFORE I'D SPENT A HUNDRED BUCKS AT AN AUCTION, WINNING THAT FOR "MY GIRL." SO THE RESPONSE WAS SOMETHING LIKE THIS….."MY GOD, MY GOD, YOU STUPID MAN AND YOUR STUPID BOOKS," SHE YELLED OBVIOUSLY, FOR THE BENEFIT OF OUR NEIGHBORS. IF ONE OF THE BOYS HAD HIT THAT CHINA PIECE WITH A BASEBALL, AND SMASHED THE POT ENTIRELY, SHE'D HAVE SOUNDED SO CONCILIATORY. AS FOR ME, THEY DON'T MAKE A DOG HOUSE THAT BIG.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT PERCENTAGE OF THE WORLD'S ANTIQUE DEALERS GAMBLE AT CASINOS. I COULDN'T POSSIBLY EXPECT, EVEN IF I LOOKED CLOSELY, TO FIND STATISTICS ON ANTIQUE DEALERS WHO PLAY POKER…..OR WHO PLAY THE PONIES. I MEAN, IT'S NO STRETCH OF THE TRUTH, TO SUGGEST ANTIQUE DEALERS GAMBLE NON-STOP IN THEIR PROFESSION. THE RISK MIGHT BE LOWER BECAUSE THEY'RE SMARTER ABOUT WHAT THEY SPECULATE ON, BUT LIKE ANY RETAILER, YOU CAN'T GO TO FAR IN ANY GIVEN WORK WEEK, WITHOUT, IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER GAMBLING FOR A PROFIT. THE DIFFERENCE WITH AVERAGE RETAILERS IS THE SUPPLY CHAIN. THE ANTIQUE DEALER UNDOUBTEDLY HAS PICKERS TO PROVIDE INVENTORY, BUT MOST OFTEN, THE ITEMS ARE NOT THE SAME. A RETAILER CAN ORDER BY THE THOUSANDS OR MORE. THE ANTIQUE DEALER IS LUCKY TO "GET WHAT THEY GET". WE DON'T HAVE A CATALOGUE TO ORDER FROM. OUR INVENTORY GENERALLY, IS WHAT WE CAN FIND OUT ON THE HUSTINGS, OR WHAT IS ON THE BACK OF THE PICKER'S TRUCK PARKED OUTSIDE THE SHOP. A LOT OF FOLKS DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, WHEN THEY COME INTO AN ANTIQUE SHOP, AND EXPECT A CERTAIN VOLUME OF MATERIALS THEY'RE MOST INTERESTED IN……PILED TO THE CEILING. UNLESS YOU'RE A SPECIALIST DEALER, SELLING WEDGWOOD, OR FENTON GLASS, PEZ DISPENSERS (ONLY), OR VINTAGE CLOTHING, IT'S HARD FOR AN ANTIQUE DEALER TO PLEASE EVERYONE. DO ANTIQUE DEALERS PLAY THE STOCK MARKET? I END THIS PARAGRAPH WITH THE SAME DOUBT AS I BEGAN WITH……I DON'T HAVE THE STATISTICS TO BACK UP AN ANSWER. AS A WILD SPECULATOR MYSELF, I WOULD SAY ANTIQUE DEALERS, AS A GROUP, WOULD PROBABLY BE MORE INCLINED TO INVEST IN THE STOCK MARKET THAN PLAY POKER, THAN SPEND A LOT OF TIME AT CASINOS. THEIR DAY TO DAY GAMBLE, IS BUYING INVESTMENT PIECES. THEY DON'T BUY TO LOSE MONEY. AND WHEN YOU'RE MOST OFTEN, ONLY ABLE TO BUY SMALL QUANTITIES OF COLLECTIBLE MERCHANDISE, YOU HAVE LITTLE CHOICE, IF YOU WANT TO SURVIVE IN BUSINESS. WE HAVE TO BUY CAREFULLY, WITH FULL ATTENTION TO DETAILS OF EACH ITEM…..INCLUDING THE PING AND RING OF GOOD QUALITY CRYSTAL. CONDITION IS THE BIGGEST OF BIG DEALS. NO CHIPS, NO CRACKS, NO DAMAGE. IF FOR WHATEVER REASON A DEALER DOES ACCEPT SOMETHING, WITH DAMAGE, CHANCES ARE GOOD, HE OR SHE HAS AN ALMOST IMMEDIATE OUTLET ON THEIR CLIENT LIST, WHO WILL PURCHASE ITEMS TO RESTORE. IF WE GOOF UP AND MAKE A BAD PURCHASE, FINDING DAMAGE AFTER THE SELLER HAS LEFT THE BUILDING, WE'RE STUCK WITH A CRAPPY INVESTMENT. WE CAN CALL THE WHOLESALER UP AND COMPLAIN, AND THERE ARE NO REFUNDS. IF YOU BOUGHT IT OFF A PICKER, YOU MIGHT GET A CHANCE TO COMPLAIN ON THE VERY NEXT VISIT. THIS IS OUR GENERAL DISADVANTAGE, AND WHY WE HAVE TO BE ASTUTE ON OVER-THE-COUNTER PURCHASES PARTICULARLY. AND OF COURSE, IS IT STOLEN? WE HAVE TO ASK A LOT OF QUESTIONS.

So here's where an average antique dealer gambles most frequently, leaving many in the peanut gallery of auctions etc., wondering what kind of medication we're on. When I've written previously about auction job-lots, I'm not entirely sure other dealers know this term…….or whether it is just a regional Ontario thing. When I started going to auctions seriously, in the late 1970's, I didn't have much money to spend, but a hell of a lot of inventory to purchase, for our new Manitoba Street shop, in uptown Bracebridge, Ontario. Most of my furniture inventory was purchased "in-the-rough," because it was all I could afford. I put the sweat equity into the refinishing side of the business, and for the first three years, I sold almost a hundred percent of what I was able to refinish. Then I got a reporter's job in a community on the other side of the District of Muskoka, that actually paid me to write, and I left the business to my parents, who also found employment soon after, in the Town of Parry Sound. Point is, for that "experimental" antique shop tenure, I got pretty good scrounging antique sales, for whatever job-lots, and "picking rights," I could get. Here's how that goes, just in case you don't know, what a lot of antique-loving folks have to do to maintain their profession.

Often times, auctioneers will get frustrated if they're doing a large estate sale, for example, on their own. If they're concerned at all about timing, they realize they have to reach a certain number of sales per half-hour and per-hour, to get through the inventory, before everyone has left the property……or there is a sudden rain storm. So you will arrive at a situation as a bidder, when an auctioneer will start lumping things together, that he can't get bids on individually. Back in the seventies, I could get forty or fifty boxes of "junk" at one sale. If I stuck around to the end, I'd be invited to scavenge the leftovers. A lot of bidders, you see, will buy multiples of auction-ware, but will cull their purchases, and take only what they want, leaving the chipped china, broken chairs, rusty tools and sundry other bits and bobbs they don't want to haul home. This left a plethora of interesting finds, that with some invested effort, might be salvaged, repaired, restored and re-sold. During the sales, I studied the auctioneer very closely. I knew when Les Rutledge, from Gravenhurst, was getting mad at the audience. Actually, that was pretty easy to determine, because he'd get agitated by the crowd's reluctance to bid, he hated hecklers who would make loud comments he didn't find humorous, and distractions. Les was very focused, and he liked the cadence of his auction roll to go without interruptions. It was okay to talk before he started to sell another item, but not during. So when he got flustered, and it looked like he was going to step off the platform and smack somebody with his cane, inevitably he'd start rapid selling. Which meant for us dealers……pay attention or else. He'd almost double his speed of items sold per-hour.

What his speed increase meant, was that he wasn't going to linger on the uppermost bid, trying to get an increase. If the roll of bids finally hit a flat side, and he couldn't massage another quick bid, he'd just yell out, "Sold to Number 12." If by the way, you were a kind and considerate auction-goer, and you didn't piss Mr. Rutledge off, by golly, he could remember your number, and he'd shut down a bid if he thought you deserved a break. If you heckled him, your number was bypassed forever. Not for just a couple of retaliatory "bid misses." For eternity. So when he'd find himself getting backed-up with items to sell, box loads of kitchen collectibles, for example, he would start banking them together to make more attractive job-lots, to keep him on schedule. As a matter of some irony in the profession, Suzanne and I were big fans, and auction regulars, to events conducted by his son, Wayne Rutledge, of Huntsville, who had a more gentle approach to his audience, but still liked the idea of job-lots to speed things up. As for dealers, the job-lots we were able to get, often contained a significant number of salable items, some that were unknown to the auctioneer at the time of selling. For example, you'd be surprised what can be found in a jar of buttons. Well, seeing as many reading this column are collectors and dealers, I guess you do know. Especially from estates, we could find lots of military buttons in those jammed jars, including many hard-to-find button styles, that were valuable on the open market, plus coins, vintage game pieces, broaches, special pins, such as from the Red Cross etc. What looked like boxes of junk, were pretty much boxes of junk. The exceptions were the treasures we expected to find by experience. The gambles were measured. We always knew what we could invest, with a pretty fair knowledge how we could make our money back, on the average stuff, and profit from the half dozen or more gems found in the clusters of odds and sods.

At quite a number of auctions, I attended, from the late 1970's up to the end of the 1990's, it was common, especially at rural estate sales, to be given an opportunity to bid for "picker's rights," to buy the remaining items left in a barn or shed. The auctioneer and staff would be responsible for removing the bigger, more significant items from these out-buildings, to be included in the regular sale. But there were many occasions when there were too many small, damaged pieces left in these buildings, for the staff to worry about. The auctioneer would simply sell, to the highest bidder, the privilege of buying everything else in the buildings……except the structure itself. I've talked to people who have done this, and on each occasion that I stayed around to see what they got, during the clean-up, something major was found, to cover the cost of the opportunity to pick at will. I've never come across a case yet, when a picker, in this situation, didn't prosper with what they found. It was hard and dirty work, but well worth the effort.

A trio of half-arsed entrepreneurs in our region, decided to get into the second-hand game, as a means of making some future investment money. They all had good paying day-jobs, but they hatched this plan to make big-bucks, by purchasing entire building contents, off estates executors. So instead of using an auctioneer, to settle an estate, they'd offer a price for the whole works. It was a great idea for them, but not a new one, in the antique and second hand trade. It was a good plan in Muskoka, because no one was doing this at the time. It was either dispersal by auctioneer, by yard sale, or by dumpster pulled up to the side of the house. The only problem with these lads…..and they were all nice guys I had a lot of respect for…….just not in the antique trade, was their total lack of knowledge about the money side of the industry. They got involved with small bananas. A good place to start but they never got past the minor speculation. They'd buy cottage contents from a 1930's building, that was to be torn down, but the items inside were left by the last folks to use it…..meaning the vintage of contents was pretty shallow. They were getting 1960's and 70's items, not representative of the cottage's history…..which would have been nice and much more profitable. So we understudied with them, and made quite a few purchases of nostalgia items, and some other vintage fabrics that came with the cottages. They had rented a large barn type building, and all the left-overs we didn't want, got dumped there. The idea was to have regular "barn sales," or you could make an appointment to see what they had acquired. It should have gone okay. I think they were about twenty years too early for our region, because they had the right idea…..in so many areas, but they simply lacked the experience, trial and error provide folks like us.

So when the partnership got a little stressed out about the money they had invested, and the apparent inability to generate profits the way they wanted to, we started getting more calls from the trio, about taking some of the stuff off their hands. For example, they had a beautiful and large…..very large…..Victorian era pump organ. Sure it looked great, but the market for honking big pump organs is pretty small. They take up a lot of room, and chances are, there's going to be a mouse-damaged bellows, that needs a specialist to fix. Orb Kennedy was our master repairman around here, but he had passed away quite a few years before their organ acquisition. I do have a working pump organ in my living room presently, but mine has a perfect bellows. The first offer I was given was five hundred dollars. I laughed, picked up the "smalls" that I'd purchased at their barn sale, and jumped in the car fast, so they wouldn't carry-on the conversation. I didn't want the organ. No one else did either. All that summer and fall they labored to sell that organ. Every time I went to the sale at the barn….or saw any of the trio in the hardware store, grocery aisle, or restaurant, they came up with a revised price for the behemoth instrument. "No, No, No!" was my response, as was Suzanne's when they'd corner her, thinking she was the weaker of the duo. Not so. She turned them down an equal number of times. Then came the pause. Months went by and we hadn't heard a thing about the organ, and nary a barn sale to shop. I assumed the organ had found a home.

One day, while I was working in the garden, and covered in mud and manure, Suzanne called me to the phone. "It's them," she said. "They want to give you the organ." "Cripes, we don't have any room for the stupid thing," I mumbled, as I kicked off my shoes at the door, and wiped my brow with the manure that was once only on my hands and shoes. Well, we took the organ. They delivered it free of charge, set it in our front hallway, and had those painted-on sad faces that would have made a good model for a ceramic television lamp. I gave them fifty bucks and told them in no uncertain terms, to never again buy a pump organ, and if they did, to never tell me about it. They seemed okay with the fifty bucks which was a pretty substantial loss in fact from the $500 original asking price. I bet that on the average of what they had purchased, with this organ, they had still made a profit overall…..unless you put a price on aggravation. In that case they most certainly lost money.

It was just before Christmas one year, after we had "sold the organ for $100" at a yard sale, and moved to a new house in Bracebridge, that we got a call that the partnership was giving up the barn, and the second-hand profession. We were asked to make an offer for "picker's rights" to the barn, which we knew contained some interesting….but not valuable pieces. It was bloody cold with lots of snow, when Suzanne and I started poking through the building. It was tough slugging, and the inventory was scattered in boxes and bins all over the place. For the several hundred dollars we offered, (accepted), we were able to get enough out of it to triple our investment, which is pretty much the norm. Most dealers, who had to work this hard, in adverse conditions, would want to quadruple the profit. These lads were our friends, so we didn't feel right about knocking them down further. The gem of the whole affair, was the discovery of a magnificent pioneer-vintage crazy quilt, for a child's cradle. It was small and needed some repairs, but the blue and black velvets were stunning. These irregularly cut and sewn together quilt-blocks had once been Victorian clothing items, and this more than century-old-quilt was a nothing short of a museum piece. It had been folded up in the bottom of a box that nobody had ever looked into. It was assumed it was a box of bedroom knick-knacks, carried out of the barn for all their yard sales, over the two odd years, but nobody went past the chipped and broken articles on the top of the box, to see what was in the bottom. That's where Suzanne found the neatly folded quilt, that looked like a decorative piece of paper, when looking down into the container. It was much more than that, and the quilt was valued at $200. We sold it a year later to a quilt collector, at a sale we attended in the Village of Windermere. We did make an okay profit of the other items collected during that mission of hunting and gathering.

What really upset the lads, was that we didn't take everything in the barn. That's what they assumed it meant, when we purchased the lot. I informed them curtly, that "Boys oh boys, when did you hear me say, that I was going to take everything in the barn." And pay for disposal of their bad purchases. They had those sad faces again. I just winked and said, "that's business, nothing personal."

Les Rutledge had kind of an unspoken rule, at his auctions, that I learned by inexperience. When I started to sort through the boxes I had purchased, before setting off for home at the end of the sale, and having placed aside, a pile of items I didn't want, I looked to my right side to find two big shoes at the base of the pile. It was Les, rising from those shoes! And he said something like, "Now Mr. Currie (he knew me from working at The Herald-Gazette), seeing as I gave you a good deal on those boxes, I hope you understand that it means you own it all, and you can take it back to your house and then throw out what you don't want. I'm not going to clean up your mess." I never once argued with Les Rutledge, so I just loaded it all in the boxes, and trundled off to my car, while he twirled his trademark auction cane, satisfied he'd successfully educated a greenhorn, and run another profitable auction