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| The last day of "nesting" for this family of three Vireos that had chosen our Windermere Lilacs as a suitable place to be hatched. It's what we love about our proximity to nature here opposite the bog. |
IN SUMMATION - BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, HAS A RELATIONSHIP WITH WASHINGTON IRVING, WHETHER THEY WANT IT OR NOT!
HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF LITERARY CONNECTEDNESS -
"TRUTH AND TRUTH ONLY IS OUR AIM. WE ARE BOUND AS HISTORIANS TO EXAMINE AND RECORD FACTS WITHOUT FAVOUR OR AFFECTION, TO OUR OWN NATION OR ANY OTHER....SEEING THAT WE ARE, BY THE WORK WE FOLLOW, LED TO LOOK FURTHER BACK AND MORE WIDELY AROUND THAN MOST OF OUR FELLOW-CITIZENS CAN DO, ARE WE NOT CALLED UPON TO DO WHAT WE CAN, TO TRY TO REDUCE EVERY INTERNATIONAL ILL-FEELING. AS HISTORIANS, WE KNOW THAT EVERY GREAT PEOPLE HAS HAD ITS CHARACTERISTIC MERITS, ALONG WITH ITS CHARACTERISTIC FAULTS. NONE IS SPECIALLY BLAMELESS; EACH HAS RENDERED ITS SPECIAL SERVICE TO HUMANITY AT LARGE. WE HAVE THE BEST REASON FOR KNOWING HOW GREAT IS THE DEBT EACH ONE OWES TO THE OTHER; HOW ESSENTIAL NOT ONLY TO THE MATERIAL DEVELOPMENT OF EACH, BUT ALSO TO ITS INTELLECTUAL AND SPIRITUAL ADVANCE, IS THE GREATNESS AND WELFARE OF THE OTHERS AND THE COMMON FRIENDSHIP." (QUINQUENNIAL HISTORICAL CONGRESS, LONDON, ENGLAND, PRESIDENT, MR. BRYCE)
As of this blog, today, I have now spent just over fifteen years, developing the story, of Bracebridge, Ontario's connection to the literary legacy of American Author, Washington Irving. I have tried to explain, to the best of my ability, that the federal government authority, who granted the name, to the South Muskoka hamlet's first post office, had borrowed it, out of respect, for the literary accomplishments of Irving; who had passed away several years prior to the 1864 postal grant. And, most of all, to explain that Dr. William Dawson LeSueur, was in fact, and beyond doubt, an extraordinary Canadian "man of letters". A brilliant writer, literary critic, and exceptionally talented historian, who debunked a lot of the popular history of his day, to reveal a more accurate version of events and occurrences, that led to our national identity. He wasn't just a postal authority, and this must be understood, or the rest of the story falls to pieces. It's one of the reasons, in my opinion, the connection with Washington Irving has never achieved what it should have, and would have, if LeSuer had left a little road-map behind, to explain his reverence to the author, such that the citizens of Bracebridge, in the future, would more fully appreciate the memorial dedication. It's a shame really, because it is a great provenance to possess, and to have had it, for 150 years, without much more than a murmur, has made it all the more difficult to re-visit, and establish as a modern day promotion. Political indifference, and in some cases outright obstruction, has made it all the more difficult to develop properly.
It is not my job, as regional historian, to do anything more than question, delve, delve some more, and present the findings. I have, on many occasions, offered the editorial opinion, that the connection with Irving was full of great tourism possibilities, with many networking channels in the "authors" circle, which is a wide one. Even in 1999, when I offered to discuss the new information with Bracebridge Town Council, all I hoped to do, was establish it as firmed-up history, with all the facts presented, and contacts with Irving historical sites included in the deal. (His home, and museum, at Sunnyside, in New York). I wasn't planning to attend, in order to commence another historical society or town museum, to honor Washington Irving, or get a financial commitment from the municipality to do anything at all. It was to confirm with them, that should they be interested in pursuing the matter further, I would love to be the historian on recall, who could assist in whatever way was required. For the record, I never asked for a penny of investment from the town. I gave them a template for free. And they discarded it, like yesterday's news. But then, it's sort of what I expected to happen, so as far as being disappointed, I had already prepared to revert to a stewardship role instead. I hope you will appreciate, this is exactly what I've done. As far as approaching the town, and seeking support for a 150th anniversary recognition, of its name being granted, it wouldn't have made any difference, other than to satisfy me, that I had followed protocol. When I sent a note to the Mayor of Gravenhurst, two years ago, to acknowledge the 150th anniversary, of that town's naming, also by LeSueur, (as a tribute to British poet / philosopher, William Henry Smith), I received a polite response, but nothing that showed an ounce of interest in pursuing it as a heritage celebration. So as far as feeling Bracebridge would be any different, I just mitigated the situation of rejection, by simply notifying the Chamber of Commerce, and the Public Library, that they were welcome to use any of my blogs for information, or release otherwise, to interested members and patrons. But as a direct result, of some new support in the community, I have been given the opportunity to write another monthly piece, for "Curious; The Tourist Guide," on Bracebridge history, and I'm delighted to have the privilege.
A friend asked me the other day, if all the work had been worth it; had fifteen years been invested wisely? Historians worth their salt, make a life-long commitment to their work; some of it more prosperous than others. For the first time in Bracebridge's history, they have a clear, relatively concise knowledge of the Washington Irving connection. There should be a lot less guessing than previous. And honestly, I have enjoyed reading all the books connected to Washington Irving, and paid special attention, to the work of Canadian historian, William Dawson LeSueur, who is really the chap we should have in bronze, sculpted for our main streets, because he was the pivotal individual, for these name tributes, in both South Muskoka communities. He gave both towns a provenance they should be proud of, and celebrate, but alas, I am only the humble servant of elected overseers. Outside of free enterprise, they call the shots for municipal properties, and agendas.
If you were to come into our Gravenhurst antique shop, I will answer any questions about either, William Dawson LeSuer, William Henry Smith or Washington Irving, and there is no admission; no fees, no service charges, and no protocol other than friendship in exchange.
One of the most important reasons, for putting this in text, over these past fifteen years, other than to promote the roots of the story, has been to lay claim to the research and development of the project. Not that I want to profit from it, because this has never been the intent, even with our 2000 publication of the companion booklet. There are historical "pickers" out there, rooting through what has already been written, about Muskoka history, and taking it for their own profit-making, without permission; and offering only modest credit if you can call it that. I don't mind any of my work being used to further the cause of regional history, but it's always nice, to be asked permission first of all. It's not like I'm hard to find. I was in a book store, a few months ago, when Suzanne handed me a book, and told me that I needed to read one of the pages, where she had it opened. There I was, published in a "for profit" book, and although these were my words, and they were printed accurately, they had been taken from my blogs. When used for non-profit, I don't have a problem. So while I would find it quite expensive to challenge these "borrowing" writers, for what I consider a minor professional transgression, my ongoing concern, is that they might take the whole story, as a template for their work, beyond using just a few relevant quotations. It's happened before, and it's likely to happen again. I'm always willing to share, because that's what the whole effort has been about; developing a pool of information to facilitate a better understanding of how this naming incident came about in the first place. It should be public. And seeing as I didn't spend fifteen years, working on this research, to pay for a cottage on the lake, or a new car in the driveway, suffice to say, it has just been an enjoyable adventure in history; in the company of some incredible authors, who, I wish I had known in life. It's an honor then, to be a keeper of this story, and a steward of their archives; something I will maintain until the end, and then it will be up to my remaining family members, to decide what shall be done with it all. I don't envy what a chore it will be, to clean up after their historian father. It will be bad enough to sort out the relics of their "antique hoarder" father.
WHAT COMES NEXT? THE OPERATION OF THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP!
This morning, I was charged with the task of cleaning items, awaiting pick-up at the shop. Two vintage stereo cabinets from the 1960's and early 70's. Heavy and awkward. I kind of like opportunities to do physical work around here, even some heavy-duty cleaning and light refurbishing, is a nice break from working at this lap-top. I like writing, but I enjoy the diversity of this mainstreet business, which can change from moment to moment, depending on what inventory is coming in, and being shipped-out. Lately, we've had some of our original inventory, from our back room, sold to collectors, and it has opened up some more space for items we've had in storage. Suzanne gives me assignments in the antique wing of the multi-section shop, and Andrew asks for help in the music component, and I comply willingly. I get told to "hustle," but I confess to them that I'm a little battle weary, from writing so much, and they'll just have to be patient. I eventually get the job done, and then without them knowing it, I head back to the studio, and start working on the lap-top again. Call it separation anxiety. But it's really called "laying-low" until the heavy stuff has been moved by someone else. But honestly, I do enjoy the rigors of the business, and any chance to work on different chores that come up. As Andrew and Robert rent out sound equipment every week, to local entertainment venues, there is always the task of shipping these speakers, amps and microphone stands in and out of our storage facility. It's enough of a diversion to make it interesting, but not too demanding on this old body of mine.
After a brutal couple of weeks, cranking-out the story of Washington Irving, and the naming of Bracebridge, Ontario, I am hurting all over. I used to feel this way after every hockey game I ever played. Especially when I was playing net. Working at the keyboard, is much more demanding, in the physical sense, than I appreciated before this past year. I have been devoting far more time to the development of stories I've had on the back-burner (so to speak) for the past decade. I finally decided to clear up some of these projects, so that I could clear the path for other proposals I've been entertaining. The wear and tear on my wrists and shoulders has been considerable, and at times, I can't muster more than an hour on the laptop before I'm spent. For the Irving feature story, I've put in five to six hours every day, for the past couple of weeks, because I often write ahead of time to budget for other more pressing issues; like running our antique shop for example. It has been crazy in here, for the past few weeks, and we've been shifting inventory to compensate for larger pieces, that have been sold; always a struggle in the antique trade, where inventory often does double-duty as display fixtures. So I can never get too comfortable here in the studio. Even in this cozy, instrument-filled room, there is a remarkable, and pleasant din. We have had a huge number of traveling musicians dropping by to visit, already this summer. It's always interesting be in their company, especially to hear them talk about gigs they've had, all across Canada, and the United States. If I'm lucky enough, to be in here, when they sit down to play one of our vintage instruments, wow, what a great front-row seat. With all the aches and pains from writing stuff, it is a generous and welcome respite, to fold the laptop back into its carrying case, and sit back for the unscheduled show.
Suzanne and I have decided to re-fashion our book room, because of demand, to showcase our inventory better, and offer more creature comforts to those who might wish to sit down, to examine a text more closely. We didn't want to jump immediately into a proper book shop, because as a recovering bibliomaniac, I worried about the associated excesses. I apprenticed with a book hoarder, David Brown, of Hamilton, and Suzanne once said to me, with a worried look in her eye, that I was carrying on in his tradition; which meant, we would soon be getting a divorce. As Dave's wife left him, at an early point in his bibliomania, I was heading that way myself, especially because of the thousand or so books, that I was storing in her bedroom. I had an estimated 30,000 books at one time, which was 70,000 short of what Dave had jammed into his small Hamilton bungalow. "Yes, but you can acquire a thousand books at an auction or estate sale, so just because you only have thirty thousand now, doesn't mean you won't have as many as Dave in ten years." I knew she was right. There was no way of downplaying it either. I had subtly shifted from being a bibliophile to a bibliomaniac in only a few years. A bibliophile loves books. A bibliomaniac smothers in their love of books,
We took it slow with our antique shop, attached to our sons' vintage music business, and instead of buying in bulk, now I purchase books, one at a time (or more depending on the sale), but never estate libraries, or at auctions, where there are forty to fifty boxes of books up for bid. I sort what I want out, and what I believe will interest our customers. As a book collector-gone-wild, I would get this urge to buy them all; leave no book behind, just like the attitude that drove Dave Brown to hoard, even books he didn't like. This is generally what happens when you buy bulk, and then can't get around to recycling or selling-off the titles of which you have no interest. When I started clearing out my books, from every nook and cranny at Birch Hollow, I couldn't believe how many books I owned, of which I had zero interest. I purchased many of them in job-lots at auctions, and estate sales, and outside of lifting them from the original boxes, didn't look at them before they were shelved. After I had brought a large collection down to sensible proportion, I vowed never to be as indiscriminate again; buying only books that were marketable, whether they were first editions, signed copies, or 29th editions; as long as they were in good condition, and could be sold affordably, I wanted them for the new shop. After a couple of years, of hand-picking books all around the region, in company with some of my own private stock, the little "haunted bookshop" is finally taking shape. It will never be uncomfortably jammed with old books, because I don't want to be the proprietor of such a business. I want it to reflect our respect for old books, whether fiction or non-fiction. We want the book room, which is quite large, to be a calming and inspiring place to visit, and sojourn for a period of time, to check out what we have hand-picked through Muskoka, Algonquin, Haliburton and Huronia. We like the fact, that like general antique hunting, we never know what we are going to come back with, and that's what makes it so much fun, being out on the hustings every week, questing after the best books we can afford.
This will eventually be, my "84 Charing Cross Road," bookshop, inspired by the movie of the same name, with actors Ann Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. It will be as much, my indoor Walden Pond, where I can escape when I feel the urge, to drink-in the marvelous wonder of print; being embraced by literature, and the work of great minds, and liberal philosophers. I will be satisfied, when I find patrons, lounging contently in comfortable chairs, enjoying what we have hunt and gathered, to make this room as enlightening as inspirational. This is what my current project involves, and as my favorite book, is "The Haunted Bookshop," by author Christopher Morley, my chronicle from this point, addressed in these blogs, will have a lot more to do with the love of books. Hope you will continue to visit this site, for some interesting new stories, from the world of our print heritage. There's no shortage of things to write about as you can well imagine.
I don't, as of this point, have any plans to invest another fifteen or so years, in a research project comparable to that of the Washington Irving story. I don't think my body could survive such an assault. Instead, I am content to settle down with this antique trade, and book enterprise, and share some of the joy Suzanne and I experience daily, being imbedded players in the whole enterprise of sharing history. We no longer haul flat-to-the-wall cupboards, and back-breaking hoosier cabinets, or wrestle with massive Victorian sideboards, or china cupboards that dwarf-us, and weigh as much as a stone wall. We have instead, pursued the kind of vintage inventory, that can comfortably in the palm of your hand, and doesn't need a fork-lift to move for a customer. Unless you happen to buy in bulk, and then we'll turn over shipping responsibilities to someone with more agility and stamina. Thus it is a profound change for us, but one we had anticipated when the shop opened several years ago. We just took our time to make these adjustments; in part, admittedly, because Suzanne and I are both in that semi-retirement frame of mind, and insist that our business be more fun than profit. It's not that we don't like to make money for our efforts. Like Charles Dicken's character, "Old Fezziwig," from "A Christmas Carol," our business today, is "a way of life" that we enjoy. We won't compromise this approach, and if you've met us up close, and our boys, you will appreciate that profit is a means to an end, but it can never be more compelling, than the joy of association with something that encourages and enthralls, any day of the week. If you think I'm embellishing this, consider, that none of us have had a non-business related vacation in eleven years. Even our vacation excursions, have business components. Yet, because we have a good attitude about business, and it is as much a hobby, we don't consider it work; and we hope this dream job never changes from its glorious tradition.
In the spirit of "The Haunted Bookshop," and Morley's other book, "Parnassus on Wheels," a story about a horse-drawn book-wagon, traveling village to village, we'll share some of our book related stories with you, in my new collection of blogs-upcoming. Thank you for making this blog so successful. It would have no future without a readership. Before November Ist, of this year, it is now clear, I will attain the milestone of having had 250,000 views; a quarter of a million. Pretty exciting for a small town writer like me. None of it based on sensationalism, or by routinely dropping celebrity names, of Hollywood circumstances. On November 1st, 2014, it will mark my third complete year of blogging on a daily basis. Now that has been a challenge. I can remember being rejected by publishers of the local media, back in the late 1980's, after ten years of dedicated service, who undoubtedly thought my best and most productive days as a writer were over. While I was pretty upset, at being cast off as a spent-writer, while still a young staffer, it was exactly what I needed to spark my writing ambitions. Whenever I get tired, and a little frustrated, all I have to do is think back to the way I was treated, as yesterday's news, and it always generates a restored will to carry on. As of this date, I have the largest readership, in print and on-line, than at any other time in my entire writing career. Believe me, I don't take it for granted. I do occasionally chuckle to myself, when I hear news, for example, about my former newspaper managers, who turned their backs on me, being no longer in the media profession; and writing colleagues, who thought they were so well connected and required as contributors, being dismissed themselves, as yesterday's news. Never again, will I take for granted, what has to be earned daily to be considered, "today's news". I want to earn my readership. It's admittedly hit and miss, but that's the story of life itself.
Once again thanks for your ongoing support. I think you'll like some of my new material, even if you're not of the rank and file of the bibliophile.
"Somewhere on the sunny hill, or along the winding stream, through the willows flits a dream." Robert Louis Stevenson. I concur!
FROM THE ARCHIVES
A PREAMBLE TO AUTUMN - WHAT A GREAT TIME TO VISIT MUSKOKA
SUZANNE CAN VOUCH FOR THIS. BY THE END OF AUGUST, MY WRITING JAGS DOUBLE AND THEN TRIPLE IN COPY PRODUCED, BY THE TIME WE'VE HAD OUR THANKSGIVING DINNER. EVEN AS A KID, MY MOST PROLIFIC PERIOD OF PLAY INTERTWINED WITH MISCHIEF, CAME DURING THE LATE SUMMER AND INTO THE FALL. I AM THE SAME TODAY, EXCEPT I DON'T OFTEN HIDE FROM HER IN THE TALL GRASSES OF THE BOG, OR PLAY PRACTICAL JOKES ON THE POOR SOUL.....LIKE I USED TO, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MY CHUMS, BACK IN THOSE GOLDEN ADVENTURE-FILLED DAYS, GROWING UP IN BRACEBRIDGE. AS SOON AS I GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL, I WAS OUTSIDE PLAYING WITH MY MATES, UNTIL MY MOTHER MERLE BELLOWED THAT IT WAS TIME FOR SUPPER. I WOULD GOBBLE IT UP, TELL MERLE THERE WAS AN ISSUE OF VITAL IMPORTANCE, AWAITING IN THE BACK YARD, AND THAT I WOULD BE IN BEFORE IT GOT DARK. SHE ALWAYS USED THAT STATEMENT....."I WANT YOU IN BEFORE IT GETS DARK," AS IF THIS WAS THE TIME WHEN MOST CHILDHOOD MISHAPS OR MISADVENTURES OCCURRED......OR THAT SHE REALLY DID BELIEVE IN THE BOOGEY-MAN.....ARRIVING ON THE SCENE AFTER THE SETTING OF THE SUN.
I CHOSE A BUSINESS THAT IS TRADITIONALLY MOST ACTIVE IN THE FALL SEASON. ANTIQUES FLOURISH DURING THE HARVEST SEASON, ESPECIALLY FOLK ART AND VINTAGE PINE. THE COUNTRY KITCHEN AND DECORATING IT, WILL KEEP US BUSY IN OUR GRAVENHURST ANTIQUE SHOP UNTIL AT LEAST THE CRANBERRY FESTIVAL, IN BALA.....WHICH DRAWS THOUSANDS OF PATRONS. BUT IT'S JUST AN ENJOYABLE, HOME ORIENTED TIME OF YEAR, WHEN THERE ARE SOFT HUES OF FLOWERS, AZURE SKY, PUFFY WHITE HORIZON CLOUDS, AND THOSE PAINTED LEAVES OF THE HARDWOODS. IT'S WHAT WE LOOK FORWARD TO ALL YEAR, TRUTH BE KNOWN, BECAUSE COOLER TEMPERATURES AND LESSER NUMBERS OF TRAVELERS, RELAX THE RAPID PACE OF THE SUMMER SEASON.
I SAT DOWN AWHILE AGO, AND LOOKED UP SOME OF THE INSIGHTS I'D WRITTEN PREVIOUSLY, REGARDING WHAT HAUNTS ME ABOUT THE AUTUMN SEASON....FROM THE DAYS OF LATE AUGUST, TO THE FRINGE OF NOVEMBER. I CAN LOOK AT OUTPUT FOR THE YEAR, AT THIS KEYBOARD, AND THE AUTUMN SEASON BRINGS ALMOST THREE TIMES THE QUANTITY....WHICH IS WHY I OFTEN WRITE WELL IN ADVANCE. I HATE BEING UNINSPIRED AND IT DOES HAPPEN, EVEN TO A JOURNEYMAN WRITER, USED TO PRODUCING COPY FOR PUBLICATIONS ON A TIGHT SCHEDULE. WHEN I'M WORKING FOR MYSELF, IT'S A LOT DIFFERENT, AND I NEED MUCH BROADER INSPIRATION, THAN JUST WORKING FOR A PAY CHEQUE. MONEY'S NICE BUT IT HAS NEVER DEFINED ME AS A WRITER.....AS NINETY PERCENT OF MY WORK ISN'T TITHED TO ANY CHEQUE BOOK, OR EMPLOYER. I'M HARD TO SATISFY THIS WAY, AND IT'S WHY I STRIKE WHILE THE IRON'S HOT, SO TO SPEAK, AND WRITE LIKE A MADMAN WHEN ALL CONDITIONS ARE PERFECT. THIS IS MY JOY UPON REACHING THE LATE SUMMER.
THE REMINISCENCE BELOW, IS THE COLORATION OF MY BLACK AND WHITE SOUL. IT IS A RECOLLECTION OF A RICH TIME SPENT, ENJOYING MY YOUTH, BUT BUILDING IT INTO MY CREATIVE FOUNDATION.....LIKE FIR TIMBERS OF A LOG HOUSE, STILL SECURE AND TRUE ALL THESE YEARS LATER.
EVEN WHILE I'M WRITING THESE BLOGS, I'M STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT MAKES ME DESIRE THIS AUTHORDOM THING. SUZANNE ASKED ME THAT, ONE DAY LAST WEEK, WHEN I'D LOST A FILE DUE TO A COMPUTER MALFUNCTION. TEMPORARILY MAD, BUT THAT'S A FLEETING ISSUE FOR ME, I TOLD HER BLUNTLY, THAT I WRITE TO AVOID EXPLODING. LIKE THE TEA KETTLE, I NEED TO LET OFF STEAM....EVEN WHEN THAT STEAM IS NOTHING MORE THAN A CALM, SEPIA TONE MEMORY OF ANOTHER TIME. THE SAME ONES YOU HAVE ON A REGULAR BASIS, ABOUT THOSE PRECIOUS MOMENTS WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY....WHEN YOU WISHED TIME WOULD NEVER BETRAY THE PERFECTION OF THE MOMENT. THEN WE LOST PEOPLE, AND MOVED ON IN LIFE AND TIMES. LIKE YOU, UNDOUBTEDLY, I CAN GET PRETTY CONFLICTED WITH THESE MEMORIES, AND SOMETIMES I SIMPLY CAN'T HANDLE THEM, AT SOME POIGNANT MOMENT......FOR FEAR THAT I MIGHT WALLOW IN SELF-PITY, THAT THOSE GOOD FOLK ARE ALL DECEASED NOW...AND NOW, MOURNFULLY, IT IS JUST THIS VAPOR MEMORY WAFTING IN MY MIND, PREVAILING TO MEET THE DAUNTING REALITIES OF THE PRESENT.
IT'S WHY I TAKE MY TIME WITH RECOLLECTIONS, AND WHY I AM ALWAYS BRINGING UP NAMES, IN THIS BLOG, OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO HAVE GIVEN ME SUCH INCREDIBLE MEMORIES.....AND WHO HELPED SO MUCH, SHAPE THESE TIMBERS THAT HOLD ME UP ON ANY GIVEN DAY.......AND INSPIRE ME TO REMAIN KEEN TO WHAT ASPECTS OF HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY, HAVE FUELED MY INTERESTS IN CARRYING-ON IN WRITING.....WHEN SO MANY OF MY CONTEMPORARIES HAVE MOVED AWAY FROM THIS CREATIVE ENTERPRISE. MEMORIES LIKE THE ONES PENNED BELOW, PROP ME UP WHEN I'M FEELING LOW, AND LEVEL ME OFF, WHEN I FEEL A LITTLE TOPSY TURVEY......WHICH SEEMS A DAILY EVENT THESE DAYS. POSSIBLY WHEN YOU READ THIS, IT WILL HELP YOU THINK BACK TO YOUR OWN YOUTH, AND WHERE YOU FOUND SOURCES OF ENTERTAINMENT AND EXCITEMENT......AND MOMENTS YOU WISHED YOU HAD PAID MORE ATTENTION TO......BUT DIDN'T. THESE ARE THE TIMES OF OUR LIVES, THAT WON'T INSPIRE MANY HISTORIANS......BUT WILL REMIND THOSE WHO CHERISH THE CREATION OF FAMILY CHRONICLES, TO ADD A FEW NOTES ABOUT EVENTS THEY MAY HAVE MISSED INCLUDING.
SUZANNE IS DRIVING ME CRAZY NOW, AS I TRY TO CONCENTRATE ON THIS INTRODUCTORY EDITORIAL. SHE IS BAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES, FOR THE STORE GANG TOMORROW.....A WEEKLY RITUAL, AND THEN SHE'S PLANNING TO MAKE SOME JAM, AND THEN, VERY SOON, CHILI SAUCE WHICH INTOXICATES ME WITH AROMA. BUT IT IS THE FUEL FOR A WRITING JAG TO END ALL JAGS. THE HOMESTEAD TRADITIONS ARE THE ALIXER FOR ALL THAT AILS ME......AFTER A CRAZY-BUSY SUMMER. HOPE YOU ENJOY THE PIECE BELOW, AND IN SOME WAY, IT INSPIRES YOU TO THINK BACK TO THOSE DAYS WHEN FAMILY MEMBERS BELLOWED FROM THE BACK DOORS OF OUR RESPECTIVE HOME TOWNS......."IT'S TIME FOR SUPPER......COME IN NOW, BEFORE YOU FOOD GETS COLD."
Something enchanted about those autumn nights
By Ted Currie
I think we all have those moments of haunting reminiscence, when we challenge our own memories, pondering if they were truly moments lived, or passages of time found in a book we once read, a movie we remember, or a story told to us by another. Like when you are visiting some place for the first time, and feel a strange aura about a neighborhood or particular building, as if you have had some history there but don't have a clue why or when. A few of us will believe it is some sort of re-incarnation event while others dismiss it as a reference of vague familiarity with someplace else in the universe. A coincidence of emotional attachments playing tricks on the mind, you might say.
When I was growing up on Bracebridge's Hunt's Hill, I felt like that every day. I adamently believed that what I was actually living day to day, was somehow pre-determined, making me strangely aware I was living in the past, one foot in the present, the other back in a history I knew little about. I possessed a curiosity about everything around me, much as the reincarnated believer senses personal history from the realities of a presently encountered scene. The way I would one day look back at this childhood and its minute details, was eeriely similar, such that I knew what I would be writing about, decades before I became even modestly interesting in writing as a profession.
This isn't all that odd but what was peculiar moreso, came with my first few columns in the early 1990's, published in The Muskoka Advance (a weekend newspaper), entitled "Sketches of Historic Bracebridge." It became obvious after the first month of columns that I had indeed been a good watcher as a child, remembering things that would be easy for others to forget. Not historical milestones. Emotional history! Feelings about the environs, the people and circumstances of that 1960's community in rural Ontario. Things that in only a few short years, would change forever in the new era of "progress" and urbanizing ambitions even here in the hinterland.
I seemed to know, even at a young age, that what I enjoyed about small town life must be greedily, and heartily consumed. Observed to the finest detail, celebrated and eventually re-told in the decades to come. I believed the memories of that old, kindly, modest neighborhood, were just as important as all the other milestones recorded in the copious notes of town historians. All relevant characterisitics and accomplishments, if only from a kid's perspective, about what made a town a true "home town," and not just a place to hang a hat.
To a new-age town with city aspirations, it has always been difficult for this historian to clearly and unemotionally explain the importance of this perceived aura of goodwill, and why it must never be dismissed as simple nostalgia. I can't explain it other than to say I had a keen awareness as a youngster about the wonderful attributes of a small town's life and times, and an inner worry about the inevitability heart and soul would have no place in history's blunt, modern day reckoning. Nothing was being done to protect the true accounting of the mortal investment of goodwill, that was then the internal economic, cultural force in day to day existence. At at a time in our world when progress is measured by expansionary evidence, I'm afraid up an coming historians might fail to recognize that our communities of the past were progressive by being cohesive in ambition, neighborly as a rule, vigorous in competition, and sensible in proportion. Being small in stature was no detriment to any of the above.
I can remember so clearly playing hide 'n seek in the early evening hours, hiding in the tall, dry field grasses on the upper slope of land behind the old Weber Apartments, on Alice Street, a working class neighborhood where in every house we had surrogate parents to keep us in line. While hunkered down awaiting detection, I'd sit there thinking about the true joy of this old ballywick here on Hunt's Hill, on Bracebridge's east side, and be quite heartsick realizing that these would be memories only in a few short years, as new development would carve out this hillside for another apartment block. Why was a kid playing hide 'n seek worrying about the fate of good memories in the midst of good fun. I was scared enough that my childhood haunts were going to be compromised, and this splendid old hillside carved away, that I instinctively began recording what had been so important that warranted this historical imprinting on the soul.
It was sitting in these tall grasses, looking down on the lights of the old apartment, in this lessening light of early autumn, being comforted by the wind's gentle caress of nearby evergreens on the slope, and the brushing together of the dry stalks, which colored so nostalgic, the personal vantage point of watching one fondly enjoyed season evolve into another. It was as if this September moodiness itself, was striking the chord of deep affection for all that I had experienced of small town life to that point, reminding me at the same time the leaves would soon be falling, the snow of a Muskoka winter not far beyond. It was the change of season then that seemed so powerful and profound, making sense to me all these decades later, when I re-visit the urban landscape that was once an open field with kids hiding here and there all through the live long day.
While some of my associates used to change spots frequently to avoid detection, I would sit there listening to my world manifest, and be intrigued by the soft steps of my mates passing nearby, the rustle of colored leaves in the upper branches from a stirring autumn breeze, and being sensory stimulated in such a delightful way, by the scent of old season growth, the aroma of a soon-to-be turned-under home garden, and the tantalizing smell of someone's tomato canning wafting out a kitchen window. I could sit there for hours drinking it all in, such that in my lifetime, I would never forget the wonderful nostalgia of growing up in a town that was content to be small.
With a large amount of personal contentment, and many fond hometown memories, I've written about these precious moments for about thirty years now. Indeed it seems to make it all seem relevant that I spent so much time studying a time in the town's own history, because I knew it was on the precarious verge of profound change. I still, after all these years, wander about on autumn nights, celebrating memories of old chums and older haunts, aware of the toll of time and progress, aware moreso that no revisionist will ever be able to haul down or destroy what had been so important about the most basic rights and privileges, afforded a young and impressionable mind. The sincere joy of simple things, a season's change, and mates who never tired of just one more adventure.
Ichabod Crane, Sleepy Hollow and Hallowe'en in Bracebridge
By Ted Currie
As the chill wind of late October rumbles and tumbles away the hardwood leaves, rustling them over the well trodden lanes, and the midnight moon shines ominously through the bare boughs of the old forest, it's quite easy to conger up the wee beasties and assorted ghosts and goblins that thrive in local legend.
Like most kids then and now, Hallowe'en was one of my most fondly anticipated special occasions. Most of my trick or treating exploits, on that haunted October evening, came on the tree-clad neighborhood streets of Bracebridge's Hunt's Hill. It could get quite spooky out there, for those with vivid, seasonally invigorated imaginations, hustling about in the dim lamplight of Front and Alice Streets, up the narrow lane of the Richard Street Hill. Onward along the murky Toronto Street sidewalk, we would arrive at a safe portal, with an unobstructed view down into the haunted valley, where the black, snaking course of the Muskoka River has cut deeply into the rocky landscape. Watching over the citizenry, from its brick tower, as the serpent river wound behind the old town's main street, were the four illuminated faces of the old town clock, casting an eerie glow upon the autumn night. They were like the eyes of Eckleberg made famous in the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, "The Great Gatsby," letting us know with an almost parental aura, that it was time to head back home again. Enough haunting for one night.
Although it is not widely embraced as being particularly important in Bracebridge, Ontario, none the less it is the kind of historical-literary connection that should be more publicly recognized and celebrated. The town has every right to attach itself to many of the great literary accomplishments of American author Washington Irving. It was Irving's book, "Bracebridge Hall," published in 1822 that inspired Postal Authority William Dawson LeSueur, to borrow the name in 1864, as the legal title of a newly granted federal post office in the pioneer hamlet, in the South Muskoka region of present Ontario. LeSueur, a career civil servant with the federal government, was also a revered literary critic, author and Canadian historian, and when he selected the name "Bracebridge," he did so with the utmost respect for the future of the new town, as much as a recognizable credit to a man he considered was one of the finest writers in history. Irving had died in the late 1850's, and as many of his works were being republished in tribute, LeSueur believed that by borrowing the name from an internationally known book, he was bestowing a great honor in the name of the author, his work, and of course to the people who would make this ballywick their home town.
His shortfall was that he didn't leave a clear written statement which would have clarified why he believed this was a particularly important namesake, and why the good folks of the hamlet should have been pleased by the association. The sticking point after all these decades, I am told, is not simply the title he chose without consultation but the fact he shot down their choice, which by consensus of the few settlers at the time, was to be duly noted forever as "North Falls." LeSueur did not offer an apology for over-ruling the founding settlers' choice.
Now that we know more about Dr. LeSueur, a Canadian Man of Letters, and his positive outlook for a town with an instant literary connection, there has been a slow turn toward recognizing the attributes of the association, particularly at Christmas with local celebration of "Bracebridge Hall" dinners as fundraisers. The book is very much about the traditional fare of an old English Christmas at Squire Bracebridge's peacock-feather adorned "Great Hall." While it is true that a Canadian scholar, LeSueur, chose the name of an American author to secure a town name, the story of Bracebridge Hall itself is about honoring old and still relevant traditions celebrated in England. Most settlers in Bracebridge at that time, circa the 1860's, had only just arrived from England, Ireland and Scotland. Irving, writing in America, was worried the new independent nation was foolishly distancing itself in cultural and historical reckoning, from the "old country" where most Americans, War of Independence or not, had their ancestral roots. LeSueur must have believed roughly the same, as he chose as much to remind townsfolk here, of their blood connection to old England.
Irving's "Bracebridge Hall," was a continuation of the 1818 release of "The Sketch Book," that first mentioned the family of Squire Bracebridge, and the traditions surrounding the old estate and its curious, colorful inmates. In these same Sketch Book stories is of course many with reference to the Haunted Hudson River, Ghost Ships, Rip Van Winkle, and then of course Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman, the key components of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." This had been one of my favorite pre-Hallowe'en warm-up stories. Although I didn't know the connection, at the time, between my home town and the author of this famous piece of time-honored literature, I most certainly kept watch for the horseman and the flaming pumpkin he might toss at innocent bystanders. If, that is, he couldn't catch the fleet-footed Ichabod Crane. Of course the most recent movie by Tim Burton took some artistic license over the original Irving text but it did bring about a new focus on an old and dear legend of the Hudson River Valley.
Even as a kid, I thought of the Muskoka River Valley as our own version of the spooky Hudson, and on moonlit nights like this, with the autumn leaves rustling over the River Road and the water gurgling along the grassy shore, it was easy to let the mind wander into the realm of spirited possibility. In the dancing swirl of mist off the water, the wash of moonlight and sound of wind in the pines, the trembling voyeur might soon watch the ghost of Ichabod himself manifesting into full flight, with the headless horseman in hot pursuit. I could hear the cadence of hooves on the lane getting closer and closer, and swear I could see the form of horse and rider coming across the valley, defiant of the open water. We could scare ourselves into a gallop home with full linen bags of candy dragging over the ground. By time we made to home sanctuary, and settled to look back at what was coming behind, alas, the only cadence was the thumping of our hearts, the only trail that of candy spilled from holes worn through the pillow cases. But we had made the light of home. There was no way we were going back for that lost candy. We'd pick it up on the way to school.
You won't find much today in Bracebridge, that identifies this historical connection between one of the world's best known authors, and one of the most recognized stories ever told but let me assure you, as the historian who did write the book, it is all very true.....as for the Headless Horseman, beware on nights like this when the moon and mist play tricks on the unsuspecting Hallowe'en traveller.
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