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Next Currie's Session Event on Friday August 15th, advance tickets $10 and $15 at the door
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SO WHY ARE THE RUSSIANS HAVING A MILITARY PICNIC ON THE BORDER OF UKRAINE? WHY IS POLAND CONCERNED ABOUT TOO MUCH FUN, TOO CLOSE
ALONG THE LINE OF "HOW LUCKY WE HAVE IT HERE IN CANADA," WE HAVE TO STOP FREQUENTLY THESE DAYS, AND CONTEMPLATE HOW THE CARNAGE IN MANY OTHER PARTS OF THE WORLD, OS GOING TO INFLUENCE US, A WEE BIT DOWN THE ROAD. EVEN IF IT'S JUST THE INCREASING COST OF GAS AND OIL, WHICH IS HIGH BY MOST STANDARDS OF THE PAST, THE MOMENT THE RUSSIANS CROSS INTO THE UKRAINE, IT WON'T BE COLD WAR, BUT A REAL WAR, AND WE WILL THINK PRICES AT THE PUMP TODAY ARE WONDERFULLY LOW. IT'S A PRECARIOUS TIME, IN MANY WAYS, ESPECIALLY WHEN PASSENGER AIRLINES GET SHOT OUT OF THE AIR, "JUST BECAUSE," AND RUSSIA FEELS IT OWNS WHAT IT DOESN'T. I THINK THERE'S A MADNESS IN THE AIR, AND WE'RE GOING TO GET THE COLLATERAL DAMAGE. SO ENJOY THE REST OF THE SUMMER. THIS IS POTENTIALLY GOING TO BE THE SUMMER OF THE WORLD'S DISCONTENT.
I'M INVESTING IN MUSIC, AS A HEDGE AGAINST EVERYTHING ELSE.
DON'T MISS OUR UPCOMING "CURRIE'S SESSIONS CONCERT," WITH PERFORMERS JERRY LEGER, AND SHAWN WILLIAM CLARKE
FRIDAY, AUGUST 15TH, AT GRAVENHURST'S ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH
IF YOU WANT TO SUPPORT THE GROWTH OF NEW MUSIC IN CANADA, AND LEND A HAND TO HARD WORKING MUSICIANS ON THE INDY SCENE, PLEASE CONSIDER COMING OUT TO OUR UPCOMING CONCERT IN GRAVENHURST, ON AUGUST 15TH. WE WANT TO SHOW OUR GUEST ENTERTAINERS, JUST HOW MUCH SOUTH MUSKOKA SUPPORTS THEIR EFFORTS, TO CULTIVATE EXCITING AND INSPIRATIONAL NEW, HOMEGROWN MUSIC IN OUR COUNTRY. THESE TRAVELING MUSICIANS, WHO WANT TO EARN YOUR SUPPORT, THROUGH CREATIVITY AND LIVELY PERFORMANCES, NEED TO LOOK OUT ON THE VENUE, AND SEE LOTS OF FACES LOOKING BACK. IT'S IN ALL OUR BEST INTERESTS TO HELP THESE TALENTED CANADIANS, OF WHICH WE ARE ABUNDANTLY PROUD, ACHIEVE THEIR GOALS; AS WE BENEFIT FROM THEIR CREATIVE ENTERPRISE IN OH SO MANY WAYS. AND AT THE SAME TIME, WE WANT TO SHOWCASE ONE OF OUR HISTORIC LANDMARKS; THE BEAUTIFUL LITTLE CHURCH, OF ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, TUCKED INTO THE PICTURESQUE TREED LOT, IN UPTOWN GRAVENHURST.
AS PART OF OUR ONGOING "SESSIONS CONCERTS,' IN GRAVENHURST, ANDREW AND ROBERT ARE PROUD TO INTRODUCE TWO FINE PERFORMERS, FOR THEIR NEXT EVENT, ON FRIDAY, AUGUST 15TH, AT ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, ON HOTCHKISS STREET. JERRY LEGER AND SHAWN WILLIAM CLARKE WILL PERFORM AT THE CHURCH, BRINGING WITH THEM A WEALTH OF MUSICAL EXPERIENCE AND ENTERTAINMENT PROWESS. HERE ARE THE BIOGRAPHIES OF BOTH MUSICIANS:
Shawn William Clarke: "In the past four years, Shawn Clarke has released his debut album, 'Like Birds Too Tired to Fly," which "Exclaim Magazine" called 'a thoroughly endearing portrait,' and band-driven five song EP 'Stray Birds.' Shawn has toured Ontario and played solo shows throughout the East Coast; also playing the prestigious North By North East Festival on numerous occasions. In 2011, Toronto Exclusive Magazine awarded him 'Best Folk Album,' for 'Like Birds,' and 'Best Folk Song,' for 'To Think I Was Once Lost.' In September 2014, Shawn will be releasing his 2nd full length album, produced by James Bunton, of the well known Canadian bands, "Ohbijou" and "Evening Hymns".
Jerry Leger: "On a Wednesday night in August 2013, Jerry Leger stepped onto the stage, at the Horsehoe Tavern, in Toronto, a rite of passage, for any aspiring troubadour, Canadian or otherwise, as the likes of Jeff Tweedy, and Lucinda Williams, would surely admit. The ever-present echo of 'Stompin' Tom Connors' boot heel is audible, if you listen hard enough, but what flashed through Jerry's mind were the long-forgotten singers, who often performed on nights like these, to crowds barely visible through a low-hanging fog of Export A smoke."
"What they (the audience) heard is Jerry's uncommon songwriting gift, an ability to express the thoughts and emotions we all so often choose to suppress, crafted around irresistible melodies, and a deep understanding of North American music in all its forms. It's a path that Timmin, Sexsmith and many others before Jerry have followed, which has made Toronto arguably the most vibrant and competitive place for singer-songwriters, outside of Nashville and Austin. But as his talent has continued to blossom with each release, Jerry Leger has likewise shown both stamina and resilience. 'Early Riser,' is another major step forward, a ten track collection that finds Jerry clearly hitting his stride."
"Jerry Leger doesn't need to rely on hope. His body of work to this point speaks for itself, and 'Early Riser,' continues to live up to every promise he's made from the start. It's time to wake up and listen."
I can tell you one thing for sure. Andrew and Robert, the show's promoters, are big fans of both artists, and that's why they're going to be performing here. They've got good taste in music, and so far, with all the shows they staged in the Sessions Series, all turned out to be milestone events for local music; well appreciated by respective audiences.
Tickets in advance, are on sale from Currie's Music, on Muskoka Road (opposite the Opera House), in Gravenhurst, for ten dollars per person, Tickets at the door, will cost fifteen dollars. So get your tickets ahead of concert night, and save five bucks. If you can't afford the ticket, but would like to attend, please talk to either Robert and Andrew in advance of the concert, and arrangements will be made, so that you can see the show. We want to share this music experience, because honestly, we think music is what the world needs most right now! It promotes peace at a time when we're a little short.
Thanks for your past and ongoing support of the Sessions Concerts, which we hope will become a monthly event for many years to come.
IS MUSKOKA A SPIRITUAL PLACE ON EARTH? WHAT IS IT ABOUT THIS REGION THAT ATTRACTS ARTISTS, WRITERS, MUSICIANS AND CREATIVE MINDS?
IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S SOMETHING NEW! BUT HOW DOES A LANDSCAPE, A LAKELAND MOTIVATE US?
A well-meaning customer informed us, a week or so ago, that we made a mistake setting up our vintage music and antique business on the main street of Gravenhurst. She thought we would be more successful and financially well-off, if we had opened the same type of business amalgamation, in Toronto instead. It was kind of a general remark, we have heard many times previous to this, and as a rule, we don't often offer a rebuttal. We just smile and nod. It would take a lot of time to explain the reasons why we chose Gravenhurst, besides the fact it's where we reside; and where it was convenient to open our store-front. They wouldn't get it, and then look at us strangely, (the other planet thing) if we told them, it's because we thrive in a haunted, energy-filled environs; full to overflowing with spirituality. In fact, it's all about the Muskoka-allure, which none of us Curries can explain easily in a mid-hallway, half-out-the-door, efficient one-liner. Suzanne and the boys, Andrew and Robert were born in Muskoka; Suzanne in Huntsville, both boys in Bracebridge. I have lived and worked in Muskoka since the late winter of 1966. I tried to live elsewhere for university, and I hated every minute away from Muskoka. I thought I could work abroad, and it didn't work. I remember living in neat little boarding house in Toronto, near Runnymede, and being totally unable to write more than a few lines, before I'd have to quit. I never had a single locations, out of dozens I was associated with, in Muskoka, where writing and creativity was a burden. It's true, I did find that some places here were more inspirational than others, but nothing like a block, or hiatus that went beyond a couple of days. Muskoka has been good to me, in this way, and for our whole family, we have come to depend on its good vibes, and we're not kidding about this; just finding it hard to explain, in simple terms. Why, for example, it was better to open a business here, in South Muskoka, despite what economic disadvantages we have to live with, not being in the to-die-for, four season economy of a major city. Honestly, we would shrivel into ourselves, if we didn't have this magnificent nature around us, and the feeling, at any moment, we could shut-up the shop, put a note on the door, lash the canoe to the van, and head out for an afternoon's paddle on a picturesque lake. Believe me, our regular customers would understand. "Gone Fishing!" They probably would do the same thing themselves, if the opportunity presented. Fact is, we're so calm and inspired with our shop environs, and by the friendships made within, that we find it less and less the case, we need to scramble our way into the hinterland, to cope with resident stresses. With the parade of musician friends through this building, who stop to play for awhile, almost daily, it is impossible to find this an uninspiring place.
What we hope however, is that our business reflects our unyielding respect for Muskoka. We want folks to visit here, and say at the conclusion of their visit, that they have benefitted somehow from the experience; whether they have found something to purchase, or have been calmed and even entertained, by the music coming from the multitude of rooms in the former Muskoka Theatre building. Some of it from our vintage record players and radios, and some "live," as performed by our special guests, who take full advantage of instruments ready to be played, and a comfortable room in which to jam with mates. But make no mistake, there is a Muskoka atmosphere in this building, and maybe something a little on the spiritual side as well.
The editorial piece below, was written a few days ago, after I was thinking about some of those comments we get, suggesting that we should have been a city-based music shop, versus a small town retail attraction, out of the urban loop of economics. I don't plan on printing it, to hand out to all the customers, who make a point of critiquing us in this fashion, but maybe it will mean something to you. I suppose we could have made lots more money, in a busy city retail neighborhood. But the business was set up originally, to fit with our family's rural lifestyle, and our love for small towns generally, with a business attachment we happened to enjoy. It really was that simple. Not to get cliched, but it was taken out of the movie, "A Field of Dreams." We built it, with full confidence, that if it was done well, and reflected our passion for home and district, customers would come. It took a few years. But that would have been the case in the city as well. Today, well, "they've come." And we never apologize, for having located our business on the mainstreet of our hometown. We hate politics, and it shows. So ours is a politics-free zone. We are happy and if there's anything we do share frequently, with patrons who think we should move, in order to improve our stake in the enterprise, it is summed up with the handshake response, "Well thank you, but this is where we belong!"
The material below, is part of a quest I have undertaken, over many decades as a regional historian, to explain why Muskoka has an allure beyond what has long been known, as the "picturesque." It takes a look at one of the most important Muskoka overviews ever written, and was well received by the international community, in the 1920's, when it was first published by poet Wilson MacDonald, a highly regarded Canadian author, of this romantic era of national literature. Here now, is a brief examination, that in some ways, explains our own reasons for setting up what has become, in so many ways, a happenstance social / cultural centre, for art and artists, alongside a country store. We're the last people to self congratulate, or refer to our enterprise, as being any better, or worse for that matter, than any other business. But we will gladly accept the critiques of our patrons, who by majority, find it a spritually pleasant, friendly place to visit and lounge-about. It is all part of our pleasure of living in this beautiful part of the world. Now, in the words of Wilson MacDonald, circa 1926.
Well known Muskoka Writer, Sylvia DuVernet, remarked to me, one day, while visiting the former Herald-Gazette office, in Bracebridge, to meet with her long-time friend, Muskoka Sun Editor, Robert Boyer, that, "You know, Muskoka is a very spiritual place." At the time, I was writing a feature article on Canadian Poet, Wilson MacDonald, a writer of which she was very familiar. She gained this intimate knowledge from her research of "The Muskoka Assembly," the literary gathering of writers, poets and philosophers, during the 1920's and 30's, on Lake Rosseau's Tobin's Island. Her book was on the "Muskoka Assembly" was landmark in local history, and it is one of my prized possessions, with her companion autograph. Sylvia died a short while ago. Wilson MacDonald was one of the best known of the Canadian poets, during this period, and was part of the Muskoka Assembly exchanges, with poets, Bliss Carmen, Charles G.D. Roberts, and authors, Gilbert Parker and Marshall Saunders. There were many more of Canada's leading authors of the era, in national literature, and many other writers with international acclaim, taking part in Muskoka Assembly events.
Through Suzanne's Windermere and Lake Rosseau connections with the family, who opened their cottage to MacDonald during those years, and many more following, I had been afforded many reprinted documents and a rare biography of the poet, from which to write the feature articles, Mr. Boyer had requested for The Muskoka Sun. Sylvia had made the comment, during our conversation about the Muskoka Assembly, and why it was believed our region of Canada, had been so well suited to the cultivation of creativity and philosophy. It was at this point, when she made the statement about Muskoka being "spiritual." From what I had read so far, of the MacDonald papers, he concurred with her assessment. There was something unique about the Muskoka experience that I wanted to know more about. Sylvia, a huge supporter of literary and creative enterprise in Canada, actively promoted Muskoka in this fashion, especially in her own poetry. I didn't understand all that she meant by the reference to "spiritual," but over time and years of research, I feel closer than ever to finding out. When I asked her, on that day, to offer me some additional insights, she replied bluntly, "Ted, if anyone knows what spirituality means to a writer, it's you!" By this she meant, that writing daily, as I did back then, I was constantly benefitting from this spiritual aura. And yes, it was a most generous fountain. The longer I have remained as a working writer, the more I have come to appreciate my author-friend's sage advice.
In MacDonald's 1926 book, "Out of the Wilderness," which Sylvia had pointed out, as being an excellent portrayal of the district, in the poet's time,there is a poem, entitled "Muskoka." I have read it hundreds of times, but it never answered my own ongoing enquiry, about Muskoka's spirituality. What makes this a region that inspired authors like, Wayland "Buster" Drew, Max Braithwaite, Algernon Blackwood, for a short while, and of course, Sylvia, the author of dozens of books. In the last month, I have undertaken another look at this question, and started by re-visiting MacDonald's poem, "Muskoka." Why did this scholar and internationally revered poet, think Lake Rosseau, and Muskoka was a "spirited" place? Why have so many since, felt exactly the same, and benefitted from its natural enhancements, to further their creative ambitions? I've talked to many artists and writers, who as well, understand what Sylvia meant by "spiritual place," but they can't define it much beyond, "it's a special place for a lot of different reasons."
In Wilson MacDonald's overview, he wrote, possibly while sitting along the shore, on a moonlit summer night; "Chide not the leisure of this drifting moon, nor blame the lazy loitering of stars, that pass above these isles of bearded stone; Nor wonder should the slowly wheeling cars of Algol and Arcturus crave the boon, To ever here remain. And Night pause like a nomad who has found, In woodlands strung with neither scent nor tone, the haven wither age long she was bound."
"Dark are these groping waters, dark as wine, From a wild cherry's heart; a light wind comes, With speed of fire around a wooded turn, Within whose drowsy haunts a partridge strums, In dreams, disturbing slumber of the pine, Here the white poplars boil, Above the moon-fires kindled in a pool, Wherein the dying hemlock pours its oil, And where the brown, decaying fronds of fern, Lie in a dreamland slumber, sweet and cool."
A brilliant and well known poem, shared with readers and scholars around the world, MacDonald knew there was something exceptional, and unique yet to uncover, in the Muskoka lakeland; and he never gave up searching for it, during his many trips back to Windermere and Lake Rosseau, long after the years of the Muskoka Assembly.
"Against the soft, gray ashes of a cloud, The red stars burn and fade like dying coals. And, lured by them beyond the shore's deep shade, My slim canoe draws near unguarded shoals, Where white waves dance about me in a crowd, Nor ever tire of song, And on the burning beauty of this flood, Around which quiet and dusky waters throng, I pillow drifts of light against my blade; And all the Redman's lust in my blood.
"No hue is on the canvas here outrolled, Save one frail touch of amber on the sky, Spilled by the yellow moon in her slow flight. The high, dark shore, where pine and hemlock sigh, Seems like a drift of shadows, deep and cold, Washed hither from the gloom, Of countless nights in ages passed away. Brave is the task that brings once more the bloom, Of that wine-flower of morning, and delight, Of feathered choirs and furry hosts at play."
Spiritual, as Sylvia meant of the description, did not mean to suggest, our region was a haven for lost spirits, and wandering other souls, to be considered a "haunted place." "Haunted" in terms of its beautiful lakeland" Yes. More so, she meant, that Muskoka was enhanced by a sort of spiritual conduit, that in terms of energy, was like a great fountain, with many sources of profound inspiration, refreshing all those of creative ambition. It was, above all else, a place of peace and solitude, and spiritual harmony. It was found by accomplished artists, musicians, writers and country philosophers, searching for a positive place that would unfetter their creative enterprise; a feeling of spiritual energy, that doesn't need explanation, as part of fulfillment.
"How rich is silver, fallen with sweet grace, Upon the ebon velvet of this lake! How fair the throat of water, bared to heaven! This hour I long will keep for Beauty's sake, And store its memory like old, treasured lace. And on December nights, When it is hard to think of life as kind, And when the frozen tempest coldly smites, The fingering of this pattern fair shall leaven, The gray and frosty reaches of the wind.
"In one forgotten cove on Tobin's shore, My frail canoe crawls up the crying sand; And here I watch the lights of Windermere - Strange lights the stars can never understand. Here a forsaken dwelling evermore, Dreams of its kinder past, While tides of moonbeams wash its broken doors; And all iys ancient order stands aghast, That any vagrant storm may enter here, Or any stranger wander on these floors.
"Here once I came with one who softly leaned - As softly as this moonlight - on my arm. And we, together, climbed the groaning stair, In this old wreck of wood, and felt alarm, When at our touch the slender flight careened; And in the dark her hand, Came searching for my own, and I could feel, Her hair against my temples softly fanned. And that was long ago; She still is fair, But I am touched with wounds that cannot heal."
MacDonald quests ever further to find his answer. "And yet tonight I have a lovely dream, Which in our lives too often is destroyed, When love is granted all her dear desires, So long one phantom face have I enjoyed, That, should it bloom in flesh, the holy gleam, Might never shine again! Her grace is ever with me in the wind, Her hair is in the falling of the rain; And beauty that is absent never tires, The changeful fancy of the human mind."
Sitting out on the rocky shore of Tobin's Island, watching the moonlight sparkle off the expanse of Lake Rosseau, MacDonald wrote, "Sweet is the mossy earth to wounded life, When in the heart regrets and griefs abound; And so I rest and read the starry scrolls, Until a loud thing comes like a frothing hound, And cuts the waters swiftly as a knife, And clear above its roar, Swift, unharmonious music, mad, profane, Blasphemes above the sobbing of the shore; And they who sing are dull, demented souls, Whom beauty calls for evermore in vain.
"For them the hemlock vainly broods and sighs; Nor do they ever heed the poplar's mirth, When it is roused by sudden wind; they care, For not one wistful wonder of the earth; No lovely thing is lovely to their eyes, When the white-surpliced choir, Of singing waters marches up the sand, Or when the wild rose with her tongue of fire, Laps the cool vintage of the northern air, They never dream, nor love, nor understand.
"Muskoka! Who hath syllabled in tones, More lovely than this mellow Indian cry, Born to the rhythm of fire and dancing feet, And copper silhouettes against the sky! O land of lyric trees and epic stones! Today thy granite shores, are presses making wine of all my dreams - The purple wine that here in music pours. Drink thou, O weary heart, the grapes are sweet, And pure the flow as these cold, woodland streams.
"Drink thou some winter night, when the white moon, Tires for her couch of waters, and the air, Grieves for the dance of wind on laughing leaves: Drink and forget the heavy heart's despair, Knowing the joy of summer cometh soon - And, having drunk my song, Lie down and dream that paradise of hours, When the tired sun will once again be strong, And when this blessed haunt of Eden weaves, Her rugged grass and slow and hardy flowers."
He read that poem at the Gravenhurst High School, once, and on other occasions around the District of Muskoka, where he stopped for awhile along the road, to share, in recital, some of his inspirations. But it was from the first reading at the Muskoka Assembly, that its vein of positivism, and sense of spirituality, bloomed like the giant hollyhocks, on Tobin's Island, he had a hand in planting, over those many summers, as a sort of visiting gardner / poet.
The highest compliment we could receive in this family business, is to be told by a patron, that it reflects the good graces of our district. It doesn't pay the bills, or put food on the table, but it proves to us, that we have properly imbedded local values, based on our appreciation of Muskoka's hinterland and small town experiences. It would hurt us deeply, to be referred to as a transplanted city business, because, of this, we are certainly not.
We remain, however, our harshest critics. If we no longer offer our customers an inspiring respite, and show Muskoka country hospitality, we might as well close the shop doors forever; it would be proof, you see, that we had been corrupted by the kind of strict business protocol, of the modern era, we detest. There's more to life than money. We love our business at present. And the music is sweet! You're always welcome to drop in for a visit. Home baked cookies are free on Saturdays.
And by the way, you'd be shocked to find out how many people want to work at our shop, and are willing to work for cookies. Yup, it's pretty neat to work in a vintage music shop. The fringe benefits are the people you meet.
From the Archives
MISSING THE SOUND OF THE PADDLE
A CANOE TRIP WITH A LITTLE BIT MORE
I DON'T BELIEVE, FOR ONE MINUTE, THAT I WAS THE FIRST, SECOND OR EVEN THIRD CHOICE, TO MAKE UP THE FOURTH PERSON IN A TWO CANOE ADVENTURE TO ALGONQUIN PARK…..THAT LONG AGO AUTUMN SEASON. I FOUND SLIDES FROM THE TRIP THE OTHER DAY, AND REMEMBERED I HADN'T GIVEN THEM BACK TO KEN SILCOX. OOPS. I'M KNOWN FOR DOING THIS KIND OF THING. I DON'T LOSE THE STUFF. I JUST NEVER GIVE IT BACK.
EVEN AT SANDLOT BASEBALL, I EXPECTED TO BE ONE OF THE LAST KIDS PICKED TO JOIN ONE OF TWO TEAMS. IT WASN'T THAT I SUCKED AS AN ATHLETE. QUITE THE CONTRARY. I WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE PLAYER, BUT I WAS A CROSS BETWEEN A NERD AND "AN INDIVIDUAL," WHICH WAS PROBABLY WORSE. I WAS A CRAPPY TEAM PLAYER. I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, A CENTRE IN FOOTBALL, AND I PLAYED LEFT FIELD IN BASEBALL. THAT'S WHERE THE COLACH PUT THOSE WHO WERE ON THE TEAM, BUT DIDN'T QUITE FIT IN WITH THE CLUB'S BOISTROUS "KILL 'EM DEAD" PHILOSOPHY. AND YES, NOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING THIS, IT MEANT AN UNBELIEVABLE FREQUENCY OF UNDERWEAR STRETCHING, SOMETIMES WITH PLAYERS FRONT AND BACK. IF YOU DIDN'T MIX, YOU SUFFERED THE CONSEQUENCES. I HATED THE CLUB MENTALITY BUT I LIKED COMPETITION. SO HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A CANOE TRIP? WELL, I WAS THE LAST GUY THEY CALLED, AND I'M SURE THEY TALKED AMONGST THEMSELVES, "OF COURSE CURRIE WILL GO…..JUST TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS NOTEPAD AT HOME." I GOT THAT A LOT, AS A REPORTER, IN SOCIAL OCCASIONS. I WAS A TELL-ALL COLUMNIST, AND SOMETIMES I TOLD TOO MUCH. MORE THAN A FEW WIVES FOUND OUT THINGS ABOUT THEIR HUSBANDS, THEY DIDN'T KNOW, JUST BY READING MY WEEKLY COLUMN. OBVIOUSLY, MY FRIENDS LIED A LOT TO THEIR PARTNERS. THE WIVES CLUB LOVED ME. THE HUSBANDS? NOT SO MUCH!
HONORED TO BE ASKED NONE THE LESS
When old friend Ken Silcox came to The Herald-Gazette one day, where I was managing editor, it's likely he started looking for paddle-worthy personnel on the bottom floor first, working his way through the building, before coming up to my second floor office. He probably even asked the receptionist if she was free that weekend. There he found me, bored out of my mind, doodling in my notebook. He stuck his head around the door, and yelled something like, '"I've got a canoe paddle with your name on it!" Geez, I was outfitted, with some fishing gear, and sleeping bag long before he officially asked if I wanted to go on a weekend adventure. I was a newlywed, and Suzanne and I needed a little "quiet" time from each other. Cripes, if she reads this I'm dead. Good thing she won't. I hadn't even given Silcox my answer yet, and I was phoning Suzanne to tell her I was going away for the weekend for some male bonding. "As long as it isn't one of those "Deliverance" bonding things, it's okay," (referring to the movie) I thought she'd say, with a little outdoor's sense of humor. Suzanne isn't known for her sense of humor, so it was more like, 'Well, if you feel it's necessary to leave me on my own, during our newlywed year, then go and have a good time." Which meant, "I won't forget this for the rest of our lives together…..and I will use it against you forever and ever." "Hey Ken, she said I could go," I answered my friend at the door, who was engaged with one of our other reporters, who was probably back-up in case I couldn't go. Geez I'd love to be first string just once in my life.
"Should I bring some booze," I asked, looking like a wide-eyed puppy, just offered a begging strip and a pat on the head. As for the booze part, it was still very much a part of my writing career, just as the tavern was a home away from home. This is before Suzanne sobered me up for good. In this instance, however, booze was what kept me from coming home early, on this autumn adventure deep into the Algonquin wilds. It was more medicinal than a couple of ounces for pleasure.
My canoe partner was the good Mr. Silcox, a terrific paddler, and one of Muskoka's well known real estate agents. In the second canoe was teacher Dave Bird, and Ross Traviss of the local grocery industry, both with huge outdoor experience, and many miles traversed through Ontario's wilderness. Unfortunately, both Dave and Ross have since passed away, and the good old world lost two of its finest citizens. Ross died quite a while ago now, and Dave Bird was fatally injured during a logging mishap in the past year. I have wonderful memories of each gentleman, who made this weekend so memorable.
It was a little later in the fall season and the weather was bloody cold, windy, overcast most of the time, and snowing when it wasn't raining. Hell I wasn't complaining. I was just excited about doing something with pals, that didn't involve a sticky bar-room table, a jug of skunky draft beer, and a stripper who may or may not have tossed me her boa…..into my beer. And the trip was going so well, even the long bumpy trip into Algonquin Park's Rain Lake. Outside of having to pee like two race horses, I was thrilled to arrive at that beautiful Algonquin oasis. "Currie, we take the canoes off the truck before we hit the washroom," was what I think they were yelling at me….but sorry, I've got a bladder the size of a thimble. The plan was to paddle and portage our way to Big Misty, but I think because of the adverse weather, we only made it to Little Misty.
About two minutes of paddle, with the bow of our canoe (where I was) breaking through the waves coming right at us, I answered Ken's question, "how are you doing up there," with a simple response; "Isn't this the life?" The second I opened my mouth, it was like the devil himself, took a red hot six inch nail, from his forge, and pounded that sucker into the centre of my molar. The cold wind hitting me in the face triggered the most explosive toothache I've ever had, and it was as if my head was going to explode. My heart-beat was in my mouth. Every time I inhaled, the cold Algonquin air hit that tooth like its nerve on an anvil. Suzanne had saved the trip without knowing it. She had packed some aspirin, expecting that I would wake up with a hangover on at least one of the two mornings at the campsite. Bless her heart. But for that lengthy crossing of the lake, I cussed like a longshoreman. I said things that made my soul cringe. I would have bit the head of an Irishman, I was so mad that this was happening, on the first leg of our three day canoe trip. It wasn't fair, and I let God know as much. I think he may have retaliated, by making it just a little worse, and the wind a little stronger and colder.
At the first portage, I put two tablets against the tooth…..one on the side, and one clenched between upper and lower teeth, that were all resonating like an Orangeman's bass drum on the 12th of July. The pain was so bad, at this point, my decision making capability had clearly been affected. I had hastily placed a plastic bag of chili Ross's wife had prepared for our lunch, on the end of a paddle, while Ken portaged the canoe. When we got to the next portage, and decided to have a lunch break, well, the chili was gone. So were the dozen buttered rolls in the same bag. It seems a rogue branch had relieved us of the chili and buns. I was still in so much pain at this point, the chili wouldn't have gone down well anyway. Good news though. On our return trip, we found the chili hanging from the same branch, and because it was cold enough outside, to keep it from spoiling, we had the lunch before we re-loaded the canoes on the trucks.
Once we arrived at our elevated campsite, overlooking the beautiful expanse of Algonquin lake, Ken knew I was suffering from something. "It's my tooth Ken," I answered with the garble of a man chewing aspirins, with a pounding ache in the jaw. "I can't stand the pain. How are you at pulling teeth," I asked. That's when the beautiful man handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps, from his backpack. "It's what we brush our teeth with out here, but it'll fix up a toothache." "Take a couple of shots, and then go and sit by the fire," he said. I may have taken a little bit more than I should have, because I was singing sea shanties at just over two ounces of the good stuff. I had the freshest breath that whole weekend. Actually, if it hadn't been for the schnapps, I would have had to leave, the pain was so severe. I thought about extracting the tooth myself, with any kind of primitive implement, but then I thought about the Bracebridge doctor, who bled to death, after removing his own tonsils. Historians know a lot of neat stuff like this.
After a good portion of that bottle, I lost all feeling in that radioactive tooth, and in fact, I couldn't feel my face at all. The booze bought me some time that's for sure. I was able to enjoy three days in Algonquin because of schnapps, so let's give credit where it's due. I sang like a opera star all the way across Rain Lake. All I was missing were the viking horns on a tin helmet. No you're right. I shouldn't have been paddling under the influence. But honestly, I wouldn't have been paddling at all without that liquid courage. I really enjoyed the trip, and spent hours writing stories, sitting around the campfire, listening to the tall tales and Algonquin lore as told by Mr. Silcox, Mr. Bird and Mr. Traviss. I apparently learned to yodel during that trip but I don't know who taught me how.
When it gets to this time of the year, I get a little toothy pang, to head into the Algonquin lakeland, for a little respite. I think about those guys and of course peppermint schnapps. But I also had a great opportunity to write about our amazing province, that has continued to influence me to this day. My notes were kind of hard to read but the inspiration was clear, even without words of explanation. I'm glad these buddies invited me on this autumn canoe trip. I'm really glad they brought the medication too…..because, as history reminds, it saved the entire trip. And I had a second trip to add on to the first.
Ken Silcox recently sold his Bracebridge house, and took a chance on Western Canada, as a good place to invest for the future. Suzanne and I were sorry to see him go, because for many years, and many, many circumstances, our paths routinely crossed, and they were always remarkable, insightful meetings, of old friends, who could and would finish each other's sentences……but only if necessary.
I never told Ken this story, so if he's checking the internet, he can read about it now. After he sold us our house on Golden Beach Road (the haunted one), in Bracebridge, he gave us a huge turkey he had raised on his rural property. How big was it? We had to take it to my parents' apartment, because we couldn't fit it into the one at our house. Suzanne was expecting son Robert to pop out any day, and the hustling residence to residence with the turkey in tow, back to our house, and then back for other supplies we forgot, got her so agitated…..thinking it wasn't going to be a perfect Thanksgiving spread in our new house, that she went into labour a short time later. I was eating leftover turkey for two weeks. So were my parents. I never properly thanked Ken for giving us this monster turkey, that may have induced labor, for son Robert……who by the way loves turkey.
Thanks so much for joining today's blog. It's been a pleasure writing it for you. Please visit again soon.
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