I CAN DAYDREAM BACK TO MY DESK AT THE WINDOW; HEAR THE CREAKING OFFICE CHAIR ON THE WOOD FLOOR, THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE BACK STAIRCASE
IT SMELLED LIKE AN OLD HOUSE. IT LOOKED ITS AGE, INSIDE AND OUT. AN EARLY 1900'S RESIDENCE, WITH SO MANY LARGE WINDOWS. IT CREAKED LIKE AN OLD HOUSE, AND I OFTEN THOUGHT, BECAUSE OF ALL THE MYSTERIOUS INTERVENTIONS, WITHOUT ANY IDENTIFIABLE SOURCE, THAT THE GHOST OF EVERYONE, WHO HAD EVER LIVED IN THE BUILDING, WAS LODGING WITH ME, IN THOSE THREE FLOORS OF RESIDENTIAL SPACE.
I LOOKED OUT FROM THOSE FRONT WINDOW PANELS, WHEN THERE WAS SNOW AND FROST CRUSTED AROUND THE EDGES OF THE GLASS, IN MID DECEMBER, AND THOUGHT CHARLES DICKENS COULDN'T HAVE HAD A MORE INTERESTING PERSPECTIVE, ON HIS OWN HOME NEIGHBORHOOD. WHEN IT RAINED, THE STREAKS RUNNING DOWN THE GLASS ALWAYS MADE IT APPEAR AS IF THE HOUSE WAS CRYING, AND MOURNFUL ABOUT ITS PAST. AT TIMES THERE WAS A DETECTABLE SCENT OF BAKED BREAD, WAFTING UP THE BACK STAIRCASE, WHEN NO ONE ELSE WAS HOME, AND THEN THE PERMEATING AROMA OF FLOWERS, WHERE NONE WERE TO BE FOUND. IT HAD A GOOD SPIRIT WITHIN, AND IT WAS ENCOURAGING TO WORK THERE; AND I CAN'T SAY THE SAME ABOUT MANY OTHER ANTIQUATED BUILDINGS, OF WHICH I'VE BEEN AN OCCUPANT.
ON AN AUGUST DAY, JUST LIKE THIS ONE, BEING COOL, BREEZY, RAINING AND OVERCAST, BACK IN THAT FIRST YEAR WE HAD OPENED OLD MILL ANTIQUES, CIRCA 1978, I WOULD HAVE EITHER BEEN DOWNSTAIRS, LOOKING AFTER THE SHOP, OR OUT HUNTING RELICS IN REGIONAL SECOND HAND SHOPS; MAYBE UP AT MY DESK IN THE ATTIC, NURSING A CUP OF TEA, TRYING TO SELF-INSPIRE. IT WAS A RUSTIC, TWO ROOM ATTIC, BACK TO BACK, VERSUS SIDE BY SIDE. THE ONLY HEAT SOURCE WAS FROM WHAT TRAVELLED UPWARD, FROM THE LOWER FLOORS, AND IN THE SUMMER, WITH THE WINDOWS SHUT, IT REMAINED QUITE COOL AND ENTIRELY COMFORTABLE. IT WAS NO DISADVANTAGE RETREATING TO THE ATTIC. I DIDN'T LIKE TO BE DISCOVERED, BY ANYONE, ONCE I FOUND SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT. EVEN A SHORT HIATUS, TO TALK WITH MATES, COULD THROW ME OFF THE POINT OF WHATEVER I WAS WRITING. I'M A LOT BETTER TODAY, BUT NOT MUCH.
IT WAS COMING UP TO OUR FIRST FULL YEAR, OPERATING THE SHOP, ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET, OPPOSITE MEMORIAL PARK, AND BESIDE REYNOLD'S FUNERAL HOME, AND THE SEARS ORDER OFFICE ON THE NORTH SIDE. ACROSS THE MAIN STREET, AS I LOOKED OUT THE SMILING, NARROW SLIT OF ATTIC WINDOW PANELS, WAS THE PROTRUDING, ILLUMINATED MARQUEE OF THE NORWOOD THEATRE. ACROSS FROM THAT, ON THE EAST SIDE OF MANITOBA STREET, WAS ST. THOMAS ANGLICAN CHURCH. I COULD ONLY SEE THE CHURCH SPIRE, IF I STEPPED OUT ONTO THE SECOND FLOOR BALCONY. I COULD SEE A SUBSTANTIAL NUMBER OF THE STATELY VICTORIAN ERA HOUSES, LINING KIMBERLY AVENUE, THE STREET THAT STRETCHES FROM MANITOBA STREET, ALL THE WAY TO ONTARIO STREET, AS I KNEW IT AS A KID; AND RIGHT TO THE HILLSIDE OVERLOOK BRACEBRIDGE BAY, BELOW THE NORTH FALLS. IT WAS A POSTCARD SCENE. I WAS LUCKY TO HAVE THIS OPPORTUNITY. SO I TOOK FULL ADVANTAGE, AND WROTE MYSELF INTO A STUPOR, ON MANY NIGHTS, WHEN I JUST COULDN'T SLEEP; BUT COULD MUSTER SOME TIME AT THE PORTABLE TYPEWRITER THAT NEVER WORKED PROPERLY FROM THE DAY I MET ITS ACQUAINTANCE.
THIS MARKED THE OFFICIAL COMMENCEMENT OF MY WRITING CAREER, ALTHOUGH AT THAT POINT, I WAS JUST HAPPY TO BE PUBLISHED IN ANYTHING THAT HAD MULTIPLE PAGES, A STAPLE BINDING OR NOT, AND A CIRCULATION OF MORE THAN TEN. TO THI S POINT, I HAD ONLY BEEN SUCCESSFUL WITH A DOZEN OR SO POEMS, BEING PRINTED IN AN ONTARIO-BASED POETRY MAGAZINE, AND IN THE COMMUNITY SECTION, OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, WHICH I WOULD ONE DAY, BECOME THE EDITOR. IT WAS A RATHER CONFLICTED TIME, IN THOSE FIRST WRITING FORAYS, NEWLY RECONNECTED TO THE SMALL TOWN, I HAD JOYFULLY LEFT TO ATTEND UNIVERSITY. I NEVER EXPECTED TO RETURN HOME, TO SEEK OUT MY FAME AND MODEST FORTUNE. I HAD MY EYES ON WRITING POETRY AND SHORT STORIES, PUFFING ON A SEASONED PIPE, WHILE SIPPING BRANDY, AT CAFE TABLES, SET IN THE OPEN AIR, IN PARIS, LONDON, OR MADRID. NOT UPPER MANITOBA STREET, IN A TOWN, THAT AT THAT POINT, MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAD A HORSE, RESIDING WITHIN THE URBAN BOUNDARY.
AS I MENTIONED IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, I HAD ALL THE DUCKS IN A ROW, TO BECOME MUSKOKA'S FIRST POET LAUREATE. DOWN THE ROAD A BIT OF COURSE. I JUST DIDN'T SUSPECT, THE REGION'S GOVERNANCE, DIDN'T NEED ONE. THE FIRST PROBLEM I RAN INTO, WAS, OF ALL THINGS, MY NAME. IT CAUSED SOME FAMILY DISHARMONY. BEING A POET, SUGGESTED TO THE SIMPLE-MINDED, FOR ANY NUMBER OF RIDICULOUS REASONS, THAT ONE WAS MOST LIKELY GAY AS WELL. I NEVER KNEW THAT WAS A REQUIREMENT. I DIDN'T KNOW THAT, THINK THAT, OR REALLY CARE ABOUT THAT, UNTIL MY FATHER ED, AN OLD SALT, STARTED TO GET SOME HOMOPHOBIC BLOKES, REFERRING TO HIM AS A LIMP-WRIST POET. IN RETROSPECT, OF COURSE, I UNDERSTOOD HIS CHAGRIN. I WAS THE NON-GAY POET, AND HE WAS THE ALPHA MALE OF THE LUMBER INDUSTRY, WHO HAD LUMBERJACKS FOR FRIENDS. THERE COULD NOT BE A LUMBER-GUY POET, BECAUSE THERE WERE NO GAY LUMBERJACKS. HERE'S HOW IT ALL WORKED ITSELF OUT, YEARS DOWN THE PIKE.
I HAD NOTICED MY FATHER BECOMING A LITTLE DISTANT, THAT YEAR, AND ALTHOUGH HE AND I DIDN'T CONVERSE MUCH, EVEN WHEN TIMES WERE GOOD, IT BECAME CLEAR HE HAD SOMETHING TO SAY, BUT COULDN'T FIND THE RIGHT OPPORTUNITY, OR THE CONSECUTIVE WORDS, TO GET WHAT WAS BOTHERING HIM, OFF HIS BURDENED CHEST. NOW, MY FATHER, WAS A SUBSTANTIAL DRINKER, FOR MOST OF HIS ADULT LIFE, AND IT'S OBVIOUS TO ME NOW, THAT HE HAD SUFFERED POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER, AS DID THOUSANDS OF OTHERS, LEFT UNDIAGNOSED AFTER TWO WORLD WARS. I KNOW MY FATHER KILLED GERMAN PILOTS AND CREW, BECAUSE TOWARD THE END OF HIS LIFE, HE ADMITTED SUFFERING FREQUENT NIGHTMARES, ABOUT SHOOTING AND DESTROYING THE PLANES, FROM HIS SHIP, THE "COATICOOK," WHERE HE MANNED THE ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUNS. I KNOW HE HAD SAILORS DIE IN HIS ARMS OF HYPOTHERMIA, AFTER THE CREW OF HIS SHIP HAD PULLED THEM FROM THE COLD WATER, OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC; AFTER DEADLY GERMAN U-BOAT ATTACKS HAD SUNK THEIR RESPECTIVE SHIPS. HIS BIGGEST REGRET OF ALL, WAS WHEN THEY WOULD HAVE TO LEAVE THE SHIPWRECKED SAILORS, STRUGGLING IN THE WATER, BECAUSE THE COATICOOK, PROTECTING THE CONVOY OF MERCHANT SHIPS, COULDN'T STOP TO RESCUE THEM. IT WOULD HAVE LEFT THE CONVOY'S MERCHANT SHIPS VULNERABLE. SO AS FAR AS CONVERSATION, MY FATHER SAVED THAT FOR HIS MATES AT THE LEGION BRANCH. BUT THIS TIME, HIS SILENCE WAS DEAFENING TO ME, BECAUSE WE WERE NOW INTIMATELY TETHERED TO A FAMILY BUSINESS, AND I NEEDED HIS INPUT, ABOUT PURCHASES AND FINANCES, FOR THE BULKING-UP OF SHOP INVENTORY.
MY MOTHER MERLE, WHEN I CONFRONTED HER ONE MORNING, AT AROUND THIS TIME OF YEAR, EXPLAINED RATHER BLUNTLY, THAT "YOUR FATHER IS BEING EMBARRASSED AT WORK, BY CONTRACTORS WHO THINK HE IS WRITING POEMS FOR THE PAPER." I WAS DUMBFOUNDED. SPEECHLESS FOR A COUPLE OF MINUTES, TRYING TO FIGURE OUT, WHY WHAT I WROTE, WOULD AFFECT HIS WORK AT BUILDING TRADES CENTRE, IN BRACEBRIDGE. "YOU HAVE THE SAME NAME AND HIS CUSTOMERS THINK THAT BECAUSE THEY ARE SIGNED 'TED CURRIE,' IT MUST BE HIM WRITING THEM." CONSIDERING HOW MY PARENTS HAD JUST HELPED FINANCE MY UNIVERSITY DEGREE, WHICH IN PART, WAS TO ASSIST MY WRITING ASPIRATIONS, I WAS DOUBLY SHOCKED AT THIS ADMISSION. YOU SEE, IT ALL HAPPENED, WHEN MY PARENTS GOT THE SWELL BUT SHORT-SIGHTED IDEA, TO CARRY ON A THREE GENERATION FAMILY TRADITION. AS MY IRISH GRANDFATHER'S NAME WAS 'EDDY,' AND MY FATHER'S NAME WAS "TED," OR "ED" AS I ALWAYS CALLED HIM, THEY SHOULD NAME ME THE SAME. ALL THREE NAMES BEING THE SAME. EDWARD JOHN CURRIE. BUT I'D ALWAYS BEEN KNOWN AS TED OR "TEDDY." AS I HATED "TEDDY," AND DETESTED "ED" OR "EDDY", IT'S CERTAINLY TRUE THAT SOME WOULD HAVE CONFUSED WHO, OF THE FAMILY, WAS ACTUALLY PENNING POETRY. THE HARD LIVING, HARD DRINKING, FORMER SAILOR? OR THE NEWLY GRADUATED, ARTSY-FARTSY 'SON OF POPEYE THE SAILOR MAN.' I USED TO CALL HIM THIS, WHEN I WAS LITTLE, BECAUSE OF HIS NAVAL PORTRAIT THAT HUNG IN THE LIVINGROOM, THAT REMINDED ME OF THE CARTOON. I WAS JUST HURT INITIALLY, THAT MY PARENTS WERE THAT SHALLOW. THEY WEREN'T PROUD OF ME, GETTING PUBLISHED IN THE FIRST PLACE, WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH THE BATTLE IN A NUTSHELL. I DIDN'T NAME MYSELF, AFTERALL. BUT I DID GET MAD AT BOTH OF THEM, AT THIS POINT, AND I THINK I WAS JUSTIFIED; SO FROM THAT INTERSECTION OF OPINION, I CHANGED MY PEN NAME TO EDWARD JOHN CURRIE. HE STILL WASN'T HAPPY ABOUT IT, BUT I LET HIM KNOW HE NEEDED TO SHAPE-UP, IN THIS REGARD; AND LET HIS CONTRACTOR BUDDIES, KNOW IT WAS INSTEAD THE LITERARY HANDIWORK OF HIS SON, AND HE COULD GIVE THEM MY PHONE NUMBER FOR CONFIRMATION.
THINGS CHANGED MILDLY, WHEN I BEGAN WRITING MY FIRST COLUMN ON ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES, FOR THE BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER, AND MUCH BETTER, WHEN I ACCEPTED A JOB WITH THE GEORGIAN BAY-MUSKOKA LAKES BEACON, IN THE VILLAGE OF MACTIER, IN THE TOWNSHIP OF GEORGIAN BAY. THE REASON? MY BYLINES WERE NOW IN WEST MUSKOKA, AND I DON'T EVEN THINK YOU COULD BUY A BEACON IN BRACEBRIDGE AT THE TIME. SO HE GOT A REPRIEVE IN COMPARISONS. THEN IT HIT AGAIN. I STARTED TO GET SOME OF MY MAJOR NEWS STORIES, ESPECIALLY FROM MUSKOKA LAKES COUNCIL COVERAGE, PUBLISHED IN THE NEWS PAGES OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, A SISTER PAPER IN THE MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS FAMILY. THAT STARTED TO FREAK HIM OUT FOR A SECOND TIME, BECAUSE NOW HIS CUSTOMERS WERE ACCUSING HIM OF MOONLIGHTING AS A REPORTER FOR THE LOCAL PRESS. SO I STARTED USING MY FORMAL GIVEN NAME, "EDWARD CURRIE" FOR MY BYLINES. THAT'S WHY, IF YOU WERE TO LOOK THROUGH NEWSPAPER ARCHIVES, DATING BACK TO AROUND THIS PERIOD, YOU WOULD SEE THREE OR FOUR TIMES, WHEN I CHANGED MY NAME, TO PROTECT MY FATHER'S HARD ASS REPUTATION IN THE LUMBER BUSINESS. THE ONLY TIME I EVER APPRECIATED THAT MY FATHER APPROVED OF ME AS A WRITER, WAS WHEN I DID A STORY ABOUT HIM, AND HIS YEARS IN THE CANADIAN NAVY, AND HOW PROUD I WAS OF HIS SERVICE TO OUR COUNTRY. SUZANNE, WHEN WE WERE CLEANING OUT HIS BASS ROCK APARTMENT, AFTER HE PASSED AWAY, FOUND THAT HE HAD CLIPPED THE ARTICLE OUT OF THE PAPER, AND FOLDED IT NEATLY INTO A JOURNAL HE KEPT AT HIS BEDSIDE. I WAS GLAD TO KNOW HE LIKED AT LEAST ONE, OF THE THOUSANDS OF ARTICLES I'VE WRITTEN, SINCE MY FIRST DAYS TRYING MY HAND AT WRITING, FROM THE ATTIC LOFT OF THE FORMER MCGIBBON HOUSE, WHERE WE CO-HABITATED UNHAPPILY AND FINALLY CLOSED UP OUR BUSINESS AFTER ONLY THREE YEARS. WHEN THEY MOVED OUT, I STATED FOR ANOTHER THREE YEARS, WHEN I STARTED TO WORK AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE.
A Forgiving Place to Sit and Write
As I began today's blog, explaining the ambience of my former attic office, in the very haunted McGibbon house, I must also clarify, that it was a very spirited place. I've written many articles about the ghosts that walked the halls of the old brick house, which had once been used as Dr. McGibbon's medical office. I even contributed to a ghost compilation, written by John Robert Colombo, based on some of the paranormal experiences of the grand estate, that even, at the time I lived there, had a neat little haunted carriage house tucked into the backyard. I found that the strange activities which went on around me, were perfect enhancing qualities, to a writer in residence, who was also very much a writer-in-training. It's why I believe the period was so intense. Here I was, back home after university, with a girlfriend desirous of a life in Toronto, torn between love and profession. I couldn't see myself working in the city, so I had no choice but to make the writing-thing work. What this inspired overall, was one of the craziest writing jags of my life, that has never been matched since. From the fall of 1977, to the mid 1980's, I took advantage of every molecule of inspiration, that wonderfully haunted house could offer. I'd stay up most of the night, at that window-side desk, making copious notes about everything happening below, to smoking my manual typewriter, pounding out poem after poem, with hundreds of short stories flying out the carriage-roller.
One day, about four years ago, I got in one of my writer's funks, and turfed the whole lot into recycling. It was a sort of cleansing I felt I needed, but now I hate that this occurred. Suzanne is used to these "I hate what I do," periods, each year, and every time it occurs, she has to watch closely that I don't start pitching out all my other research materials, and published articles. The reason I cull my work, sort of like a painter, who does not want rough work, and studies, to hit the open market, I am always concerned that because the work was inferior, and a little embarrassing (now I understand my father), I can't risk the possibility it might one day hit the public domain; let's just say, when a daughter-in-law who I may not like, decides to sell some of my old manuscripts, to an antique dealer, having a minor interest in old paper, and Muskoka content.
If you think I'm being particularly fond of myself, let me tell you, it blows me away to be told by friends, that I've become somewhat iconic, in terms of Muskoka history; and if I was up for sale as a Muskoka relic, I would attract several hundred dollars. At least, depending on if I'm wearing my go-to-meeting clothes, or just my general work-wear! Possibly I would be purchased by a Muskoka collector, and put in a cottage cabinet, and brought out for show and tell with resort and boat memorabilia, when a dinner party was being held. So I'm told, my original handwritten notes, spelling mistakes and all, are worth quite a bit of money. Gosh, I'm flattered by this, but it has made me aware what needs to be destroyed, and as the poetry part of my life, was influenced by too much wine, and out-of-place hubris, about being a poet because "I said so," the work from that period, with wine stains here and there, is not how I wish to be remembered. I did a lot of work from the McGibbon house that eventually was re-written into books, and major articles for Muskoka Publication newspapers and feature magazines. So most of it was utilized. The sickly sweet crap however, was unceremoniously dumped on the poor recycling folks, who I hope didn't have to read much more than a few stanzas, as they were making my copious notes into a sort of paper sauce.
I found myself as a writer, and historian, working from the attic of the McGibbon House, and loving every moment. Today, for example, thinking back to 1978, I would have spent a few hours, at around lunch, watching the traffic on Manitoba Street, and the pedestrian activity on both sidewalks, and those strolling through the beautiful sun and shade, of the triangular Memorial Park, with its bandshell on the south end, with one mounted antique canon; and on the other end, a second canon, guarding the central cenotaph, with the names engraved, of those soldiers from the town, who had died in action, during two World Wars and the Korean War. It was the spread of those huge, billowing maples, that lined the park, which made it all so country-picturesque, and so soft and gentle on the weary eye. I watched down on the park, as concerts were held in the bandshell; when summer sales took over the entire wedge of property, and then watched as local teenagers took over the bandshell during the late evening, after the final show at the Norwood Theatre. I watched domestic disputes develop, on park benches, and fly-bys, on the sidewalk below, and I laughed many times, to myself, watching a tipsy hotel patron, sit, then lay down on the bench, only to be roused from an alcohol induced slumber, by the local constable. I saw young and old romantics holding hands, strolling through the moonlit park, and I noticed the lonely dawdlers, hoping someone would stop by their bench to chat for awhile. I studied the cars that made ten to twenty trips, up and down Manitoba Street, a continuous loop, like scenes from the movie, "American Graffiti." No particular place to go, but north and south on electric avenue. Manitoba Street.
I watched as the police stopped drivers, around the holiday season, sometimes right in front of the house. I watched as police conducted their searches, and it was shocking to me, how many of the violators of drinking, and driving, I knew well, taking roadside sobriety tests, and then being placed in the back seat of the cruisers. I saw people I knew, having weekly clandestine meetings, with lovers, I assumed, and each of the fellows I knew from work and commerce, had wives at home. I recognized some of the young ladies as well, and there were many other incidents I can't write about, that occurred when they assumed wrongly, that no one was looking. Truth is, I had been spying on my hometown, since I was a kid, sitting on a small iron fence, at the train station, near the Albion Hotel, down on Main Street; watching the drunken patrons, getting tossed out the swinging doors head first. My historian colleagues may argue, that this isn't important enough, to be included in a town history; and that, for the good name of the town, I should never mention these kinds of indiscretions, and the list goes on. Well, it is all part of history, but admittedly, aspects that were most often sanitized from historical record, except as kept in court testimony. Yet it was the commonplace of the community, at the time, and still is. The really bad stuff needs to be buried, according to some of the old guard. It's not much different than other communities of comparable size. There are strikingly exceptional moments, and dastardly deeds that follow-up. That's the way the cookie crumbles as they say! It's all part of the mosaic that is our past, choose to recognize it or not. And I witnessed a lot of those moments, the good, bad and the ugly, from that attic portal, looking out onto the main street of town, where social recreation and culture collided on so many levels, throughout the four seasons. Just so you know, I have been conservative about these observations of the town, detected during all hours of day and night, and never once revealed names of those having dangerous liaisons, or those well known citizens, who were pulled over as suspected drunk drivers. I have, for all these years, alluded to this lesser known history, but never snitched on anyone intimately involved, in something under-handed or scandalous. It was the colour I have been writing about. The painted realities of all that went on here, not just the stuff graced by christian values. You can't get a clear profile of community history, by looking at only one side, or the most obvious, and reported-on side. Which is usually the case in town histories all over North America. The worts don't belong in these nicely wrapped tomes. I know what I saw, and while my observations were rather revealing, and on a few occasions, a little shocking, because I knew the individuals, it's just part of community life and times, to have misadventure play its hand.
Today, my opinion of town history, is still framed in a way, by the memory of that attic window, on the third floor of the old McGibbon place; because for me, it's where it all began. It was the most intensive period of writing, I've ever unleashed on my body. I still possess a romantic, almost Rockwellian perspective of town history, garnered from this point, with all the misdemeanors blended into the mix. My recollections, in print and otherwise, don't have a jagged edge, and isn't blinding with those glaring imperfections, of the society I witnessed. It's all part of the picture, and the most interesting qualities, of the park in all its glory, sunny, shaded, snow-covered, and beautifully bordered by venerable maples, frames everything else, as part of a town's maturing nature, humans included. If it was a painting, it would be an abstract in one sense of depiction, and if it was folk art, it would look like a Grandma Moses mural. It was so wildly animated, and spectacular, in its own way; and I was willingly its interpreter. No one else, in the good old town, has dared write in this same way. No matter how many times, I think what that depiction would look like, if it was a painting instead, with all its character flavour imbedded, it still comes out in the soft, sepia tone of an old group photograph. Like that of a conservative Church Picnic, mixing with the passersby, emerging from our historical chronicle; that while a little faded, and rough around the edges, incorporates all pertinent details in a lesser number of pages. Representing all told, that Bracebridge has for long and long, been a curious place to reside, and visit, no matter what time of day, or season of the year.
It's certainly true to say, that I was heartbroken, when the old McGibbon house was torn down, to make way for a new office building. I watched it disappear into a dust cloud, all those ghosts that haunted the place, being left homeless; including my spirit, still at the desk by the window, when the roof came tumbling in, and the sturdy walls, and cascade of brick, hit the edge of Manitoba Street with an almost inaudible thud. It's final scene played out without an audience. Just those with the wrecking bars, and navigating the heavy equipment, in the modest wake for an old life. I was watching from a bench in the park, and I refused to take either a photograph of its demise, or write anything about it, at that time. It was, as if, a bridge across a deep abyss had just been destroyed, without my having a chance to cross back over. I felt isolated for awhile after, and was happy to have that body of work to recall, as it had all been produced on those wonderfully haunted days and nights, in the bosom of a dear family residence, once owned by Bracebridge's best known doctor and family.
Sometimes, I do write as if I would rather paint a picture. This is also true. As I have failed on numerous attempts, to be an artist, even in the naive sense of folk art, alas, I am left with words as my only alternative. My passion for local history is often misunderstood, and considered flowery, and sopping with nostalgia. Associate historians don't often call me, to collaborate on stories, and this is fine. We all have our way of viewing and expressing thoughts, and memories, about what for most of us, can still be called the good old days. I don't want my work to parallel anyone else's, because I am too pleased by the remembrance of that character patina, of such portals onto the town, as the McGibbon House....and what it did for me, its faithful writer-in-residence.
Thanks so much for joining today's blog. It's always nice to have you drop by!
FROM THE ARCHIVES
THE RIDERS IN THE NIGHT - BRING OUT THE DEAD - THE HOMESTEADER'S DEMISE
MEDICAL ASSISTANCE WAS DAYS AWAY - AND DEATH COULDN'T WAIT
MAYBE I AM "OLD BEFORE MY TIME," AS SOME OF OUR FAMILY FRIENDS CLAIM. I CAN BUY THAT. HAVING SPENT SO MUCH OF MY TIME RESEARCHING THE PAST, I SUPPOSE IT'S POSSIBLE I HAVE ABSORBED QUITE A BIT OF HISTORY WITHOUT KNOWING IT! I'M NOT UNHAPPY ABOUT THIS. I REALLY FEEL I'VE LEARNED SOMETHING IMPORTANT, ABOUT THE PERILS OF DISCONNECTING FROM THE PAST……BECAUSE IT MISTAKENLY SEEMS IRRELEVANT. I FEEL DIFFERENTLY ABOUT THIS, AND I HAVE A GRAVE CONCERN THIS INCREASING IGNORANCE OF HISTORICAL PRECEDENTS, WILL SNAP BACK ON US ONE DAY, WHEN WE ARE MOST VULNERABLE. WE HAVE SEEN EXAMPLES OF THIS RECENTLY; AND THERE HAVE BEEN HUMBLING CIRCUMSTANCES, CREATED BY THE HAND OF NATURE, THAT HAVE MADE US ALL OF A SUDDEN, WONDER OUT LOUD, WHAT OUR PARENTS AND GRANDPARENTS WOULD HAVE DONE, DEALING WITH A SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCE OF HARDSHIP.
THERE SEEM TO BE A LOT OF PEOPLE THESE DAYS, WHO HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PASSED-DOWN STORIES, ABOUT THE INHERENT HARDSHIPS OF RESPECTIVE ERAS IN OUR FAMILY'S PAST. THE JOY AND TRAGEDY AS EXPERIENCED BY OUR ANCESTORS. MORE THAN EVER, I BELIEVE, WE ARE OBSESSED WITH THE RIGORS OF THE PRESENT, AND DRAW VERY LITTLE FROM THE EXPERIENCES OF THE PAST. WHICH OF COURSE, ARE LIFE EXPERIENCES THAT SHOULD MAKE US MORE RESOURCEFUL AND PREPARED. EVEN FOR WHAT WE ONLY PERCEIVE TODAY, AS ANNOYING INCONVENIENCES. YET IF YOU GO BACK INTO YOUR FAMILY TREE, YOU WILL CONNECT WITH A BLOOD-LINE THAT HAD IT VERY MUCH WORSE, THAN EVEN THE MOST TROUBLESOME DAY YOU CAN IMAGINE TODAY. AS AN HISTORIAN, I FIND THIS DISASSOCIATION WITH THE PAST RATHER DISTURBING, BECAUSE IN THAT SAME FAMILY HISTORY, WITH CENTURIES OF EXPERIENCE, THERE ARE LESSONS ABOUT SURVIVAL, AND ADAPTABILITY TO DO SO, THAT WE SUDDENLY FEEL WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.
WE ARE NOW BECOMING ISOLATED FROM A MEANS OF COPING WITH HARDSHIP THAT WAS ONCE COMMONPLACE. AS IF WE KNOW IT ALL, IN THIS MODERN TECHNOLOGICAL ERA, IT'S AS IF WE HAVE EVERYTHING WORKED OUT IN ADVANCE. WE CAN HANDLE CRISIS. THERE IS NO STORM BIG ENOUGH. NO EARTHQUAKE VIOLENT ENOUGH. NO FAMINE. NO DROUGHT SERIOUS ENOUGH TO DESTROY CROPS. THERE IS THE FEELING THE PAST WILL NEVER RETURN. SO WHY WORRY ABOUT THE WAY OUR ANCESTORS LIVED THEIR DAILY LIVES. WELL, THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM FOR MODERN SOCIETY. THE RECENT HURRICANE THAT HIT THE EASTERN SEABOARD OF THE UNITED STATES, TOOK THOSE AFFECTED, BACK TO PIONEER DAYS IN A MATTER OF HOURS. IF THEY HAD FOLLOWED SOME PIONEERING ADVISE BEFORE THE STORM, MAYBE THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS HARDSHIP AND DEATH ASSOCIATED, WITH THIS VIOLENT BUT NATURAL TURN OF WEATHER.
OUR PIONEER COMMUNITY DIDN'T HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF ANYTHING MORE THAN BASIC PROVISIONS, IN ORDER TO SURVIVE THE HARD LIFE IN THE WILDERNESS. THEY HAD LITTLE CHOICE BUT TO PREPARE FOR THE COMING WINTER, EVEN IF IT WAS THE EARLY SPRING. IT WOULD TAKE THE BETTER PART OF A YEAR, TO MAKE SURE THERE WAS A FULL SUPPLY OF FOOD AND WOOD IN TIME FOR THE TURN OF WEATHER IN OCTOBER. AS FOR PROFIT, IT WASN'T NEARLY AS IMPORTANT AS PREPARING FOR WINTER WITH THE RESOURCES AT HAND. ANY PROFIT WAS TURNED BACK INTO THE FARMSTEADS, TO MAKE A MORE COMFORTABLE LIFE FOR THOSE KNOWING FEW COMFORTS IN A SMALL, DRAFTY LOG CABIN CARVED FROM THE MUSKOKA BUSH.
ONE OF THE GREAT HARDSHIPS ENDURED, OF COURSE, WAS THE DISTANCE FROM MEDICAL ASSISTANCE. IT WAS BAD ENOUGH TO BE A CONSIDERABLE WALK OR WAGON RIDE TO THE NEAREST CHURCH, OR GENERAL STORE, BUT THE LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE IN ISOLATION, COST A LOT OF LIVES THAT COULD HAVE BEEN SPARED, HAD THEY BEEN RESIDENTS OF ONE OF THE LARGER SETTLEMENTS…..WHERE A DOCTOR OR TWO HAD SET UP PRACTICE. IN TERMS OF HEALTH, THE HOMESTEADERS WERE CONSTANTLY AT HIGH RISK, BECAUSE OF THE NATURE OF THEIR LIFESTYLE, SHORTAGE OF NUTRITIOUS FOOD, LACK OF MONEY TO PAY FOR A DIVERSE FOOD SUPPLY, AND THE PHYSICAL STRESSES OF THE HOMESTEAD. THERE IS A STORY TOLD BY SUZANNE'S UNCLE, BERT SHEA, IN HIS WELL KNOWN TALES OF PIONEER TIMES, IN THE THREE MILE LAKE AREA OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES, ABOUT AN ELDERLY WOMAN, LEFT ALONE AT HER CABIN, WHO WAS INJURED WHILE SPLITTING WOOD TO KEEP THE HOME FIRE BURNING. A SHARP FRAGMENT OF WOOD FLEW-UP WHEN THE AXE HIT THE LOG, AND HIT HER EYE, EDGE FIRST. THE WOOD SHARD IMBEDDED SO DEEPLY INTO HER EYE SOCKET, THAT SHE COULDN'T PULL IT OUT BY HERSELF. MEDICAL HELP WAS A LONG DISTANCE AWAY, AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO COME BY HER CABIN, SO SHE COULD ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. SHE LIVED WITH THAT WOOD SPLINTER IN HER EYE FOR SOME TIME AFTER, BUT THE INFECTION PROVED TOO MUCH FOR THE ELDER SETTLER, WHO EVENTUALLY SUCCUMBED. THERE ARE MANY SIMILAR STORIES ABOUT SICKNESSES THAT HAD TO BE TENDED BY THE SETTLERS THEMSELVES, AS DOCTORS OF COURSE, WERE NOT AS NUMEROUS AS THEY ARE TODAY.
THE SUDDEN ONSET OF A SICKNESS THAT COULD KILL OFF A HOUSEHOLD WITHIN HOURS
DIPHTHERIA: "AN EPIDEMIC INFLAMMATORY DISEASE OF THE AIR-PASSAGES, AND ESPECIALLY OF THE THROAT, CHARACTERIZED BY THE FORMATION OF A FALSE MEMBRANE." BY ANY OTHER NAME, A KILLER DISEASE THAT SPREAD RAPIDLY UNDER THE RIGHT CONDITIONS.
Suzanne's grandfather, John Shea, a former clerk in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and farm owner in the hamlet of Ufford, on the shore of Three Mile Lake, took it upon himself, to erect a fence around a small previously unmarked multi-plot gravesite, belonging to a family, wiped out by an outbreak of diphtheria, sometime, we believe, in the late 1800's. The Dougherty family, of which "Dougherty Road" was named, in Ufford, (near Windermere), had contracted the deadly disease, at a time when it was ravaging the pioneer communities in this vicinity of Muskoka. From what we can find, of this tragic circumstance, upwards of five family members died within twenty-four hours, and had to be hastily buried in the late hours of the night to avoid spectators, who could also become infected by close proximity. A number of lilacs were planted by neighbors at the gravesite, some time after, and it was how John Shea knew where to find the plots, when he decided to create a fence to mark the family plot as a latent memorial. This came many years after their deaths. Suzanne and I have visited the site numerous times, and it was always the same lilacs, that led us to the spot. The fence has long since deteriorated. It is located only feet from the route of the present Dougherty Road, not far from the present Ufford Community Cemetery.
"Diphtheria, in the old days, took its course - whole families were wiped out. Burials after midnight by law," wrote family historian, Bert Shea. "The ghastly sound of wagon wheels and horses feet, or the thump of the jumper and the rattle of the bullchair, as slowly the oxen drew the caskets in the dead of night to the place of burial. I will not write more of the terrible procedure, save to say that there are cemeteries in Watt, where there were none present at the midnight burial, save the dim oil lantern…..two figures, one at each side of the grave, shovels in hand, and the good man at the head, conscious of the risk he was taking with his own family, but who, in faith, stood with his parishioners to declare the words of the Master….'I am the resurrection and the life."
He also notes that fumigations were ordered by doctors to prevent diphtheria outbreaks, including after infectious events had occurred. Diphtheria was an agonizing ailment marked by severe fever, coughing, choking, and sore throat. Having a whole house infected, must have sounded horrible, to the attending doctors, nurses, and preachers, if in fact, they were able to attend, related to proximity from established villages. One can imagine the fury of activity around these affected homesteads, and the worry in the surrounding neighborhood, with rampant fear that they would be the next victims of this most vicious illness, that killed children in front of their helpless parents…..the weakest succumbing first. Then the elderly and parents meeting the same fate, often in the same day. There were survivors. But it depended on the care the victims received.
Imagine hearing what Mr. Shea reported, on those fateful nights, the eerie sounds of wagon wheels on the hard packed dirt roads, and the twinkle of lamplights on the sides, helping to guide the way through the woods and partly cleared pastures, to the afflicted household, where death was imminent, some family having already succumbed, and been hastily prepared for a quick funeral before sunrise. This was not the work of an author penning a horror story, or a movie script for profit. It was reality at its most unfortunate, and there were many heroes from this period, and one of them was known as the "Tramp," an Anglican missionary of considerable acclaim, and compassion, by the name of Gowan Gillmor. From his Ministry in the Village of Rosseau, and the Diocese of Algoma, he moved his residence to nearby Ullswater, at the time of a smallpocks outbreak, (and circulated similarly during the diphtheria epidemic) and was one of very few who would tend the sick and those near death, medically and spiritually, and of this, he became a Muskoka legend in his time and beyond.
"Gillmor of Algoma, (written by E. Newton White), is the story of a missionary's life, his struggles, heartaches and joys in those early wilderness areas, along the base of the Canadian Shield, which one Bishop used to describe as 'a land of rock of ages and Christmas trees.' It is the story of a beloved priest who tramped over those rocks and probably even slept under some of those trees, here and there, carving upon them, 'The Tramp'."
"During the years Gowan Gillmor was at North Bay, the scourge of diphtheria was sweeping the north country. It was then a lethal disease and caused terror in the backwoods communities," notes E. Newton White. "What his son in Canada did, is best pictured in Gowan's own tribute to a predecessor in the Parish of Rosseau; the Rev. A. W.H. Chowne - "when there was a terrible epidemic of diphtheria and scarlet fever, he himself nursed the child patients; with his own hands, he prepared the dead for burial, put them in their coffins, dug their graves, and committed them therein, - in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal Life."
"The epidemic diseases did not spare Rosseau, and Gowan took up his self appointed duties again. Smallpox broke out in Ullswater, and he closed up the Rosseau Rectory, to take up residence there to minister to the sick. When diphtheria was rife in Rosseau, he had his parsonage quarantined and spent all his time among the stricken homes; only stopping when, as he said, 'there are no more throats to look down'." Additionally, according to White, there was also a case further north, when, on a bitterly cold winter night, with a storm brewing, he planned to attend a family suffering from diphtheria, more than ten miles away. He was to travel on foot, as he usually did. Before he left, he had secured groceries and medicine for the family. Eleven children were infected. According to Gillmor, "Arrived safely." He nursed the family until all were well.
"Gowan used to tell Rosseau people what he told many others in his long experience….that only he and death had undisputed entry into the homes where contagion had taken hold; quarantines notwithstanding. Death kept very close vigil while his own presence lent help, hope and consolation. He did not tell them that he often disputed death's entry, and many a time was able to bar the door to him," notes the author / historian.
There were others throughout our district who defied the deadly disease, to help those in need. It is known that amongst the bravest, were those who tended the burials of the deceased, risking the possibility of carrying the contagion into their own homes. Often there were no doctors attending, and it was family that had to send for help to bury the deceased. This was life and survival on the frontier.
"I have heard the voices of his loved ones in mourning, and the men of the river in silent groups, standing around, the slow tread of the horses and wheels of the carriages, as they bore him away to the quiet burying ground." From the book written by Bert Shea.
Thanks so much for joining today's historical blog. It's always good to have you aboard.
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