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| Found in Gravenhurst, a signed first edition of The Erthring Cycle by my colleague in history, Wayland Drew. |
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| Voyageurs walking on water, not sure which one is Bill Rathbun of Gravenhurst |
AN AFTERNOON CHAT WITH A RETIRED MODERN DAY VOYAGEUR
THE LAST TIME HUGH MACMILLAN STAYED WITH US, HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR HUMBLE URBAN CABIN OVERLOOKING "THE BOG," I HAD ARRANGED FOR AN AFTERNOON VISIT AT THE GRAVENHURST HOME, OF BILL RATHBUN, WHO AT ONE TIME, SHARED A CANOE ADVENTURE WITH OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
WHEN MR. AND MRS. RATHBUN INVITED US THROUGH THEIR CHARMING ABODE, TO THE BACKYARD, THERE, ON A STAND, WAS AN ENLARGEMENT OF THE ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPH, TAKEN IN THE 1970'S, OF TWO RE-ENACTMENT VOYAGEURS, APPEARING TO BE WALKING ON WATER. ONE OF THE VOYAGEURS, IS BILL RATHBUN, WHO AT THE TIME, WAS WORKING WITH THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT. BILL WILL BE MAD AT ME FOR GETTING THIS WRONG BUT I'M PRETTY SURE, ABOUT THIS! SAY, AREN'T THESE THE LAST WORDS, YOU WANT TO HEAR FROM ANY HISTORIAN. "PRETTY SURE!" WELL, FOR ONE THING, IT WAS THE TALK OF THE FIRST HOUR OF OUR SUNDAY MORNING CONVERSATION. IF MEMORY SERVES, AS IT USUALLY DOES (AFTER A FEW WARM-UP MILES), HUGH HURT HIS LEG ON THIS SAME RE-ENACTMENT CANOE ADVENTURE, WHICH WAS BEING FILMED FOR A BRITISH TELEVISION STATION.
"IN THE LATE 1970'S, THE NATIONAL CAPITAL COMMISSION WAS THE MAIN SPONSOR OF THE CANADA CANOE FESTIVAL, A WEEK-LONG CELEBRATION CENTERED ON THE VOYAGEURS. THERE WERE RACES, DEMONSTRATIONS, AND HERITAGE EVENTS, WITH THE FINALE, ON JULY 1ST, CANADA DAY. THOUSANDS OF VISITORS THRONGED TO VICTORIA ISLAND IN DOWNTOWN OTTAWA, TO SEE THESE EXCITING ACTIVITIES FIRSTHAND. THE EVENT WAS DEVELOPING INTO A UNIFYING FORCED IN THE COUNTRY," WRITES HUGH MACMILLAN, IN HIS BIOGRAPHY, "ADVENTURES OF A PAPER SLEUTH."
"THE BBC IN LONDON, ASKED ME TO ORGANIZE THREE CANOES TO CREATE SCENES OF CANOE EXPLORATION, FOR THEIR SERIES ON THE BRITISH EMPIRE AROUND THE WORLD. WE RAN RAPIDS, PORTAGED, AND EVEN ARRANGED TO HAVE THE TOP BBC PRODUCER, CHASED UP A TREE BY AN IRATE BLACK BEAR. THAT ADVENTURE GAVE HIM PLENTY OF COCKTAIL CHATTER BACK IN LONDON. THE CAPTION OF THE PHOTOGRAPH OF BILL RATHBUN, IN HUGH'S BOOK, READS, "A PAIR OF MODERN-DAY VOYAGEURS NEAR THE SHORE OF THE FRENCH RIVER, FOR THE FILMING OF A BBC DOCUMENTARY." THE PHOTOGRAPH WAS FROM HUGH'S COLLECTION.
THE STORY, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, WAS THAT THE TWO CHAPS IN THE PHOTOGRAPH ABOVE, SET THE SCENE SO THAT IT LOOKED AS IF THEY WERE ACTUALLY STANDING ON THE WATER. WHAT THEY WERE DOING, IN FACT, WAS STANDING ON A ROCK SHELF, THAT ONLY HAD ABOUT AN INCH OF WATER OVER-TOP; THUS, WHEN THE WATER WAS AS CALM AS IT APPEARS, IT WOULD INDEED LOOK LIKE THEY HAD THE CAPABILITY OF "WALKING ON WATER." WHY THIS INSPIRED SUCH LAUGHTER AND CONVERSATION, DURING THE LUNCHEON GET-TOGETHER, WAS THAT THE CHAPS IN THE PHOTOGRAPH, HAD A LARGE BLOW-UP (PRESUMABLY THE ONE I SAW IN BILL'S BACKYARD), PLACED IN THE QUEEN'S PARK OFFICE, OF THEN PREMIER BILL DAVIS, WITH A CAPTION THAT READ, SOMETHING IN REGARDS, "YOU SEE, YOUR STAFF CAN WALK ON WATER!"
IT WAS A GREAT AFTERNOON OF HISTORICAL CHATS, AND LOTS OF REMINISCING ABOUT CANOES AND CANOE ADVENTURES, REKINDLED FROM THE DAYS OF THE VOYAGEURS. IT WAS ONE OF THOSE SIDEBARS TO WHAT STAYS WITHIN THE LINES OF FORMAL HISTORY; THE KIND OF ACCOUNTS THAT MAKE THE HISTORY BOOKS, AND THE ANECDOTES THAT DON'T QUITE FIT. BUT THEY SHOULD! THIS WAS A FREE-SPIRITED ADVENTURE IN CONVERSATION, AND IT WAS A SOCIAL / CULTURAL HERITAGE TREAT FOR A VOYEUR LIKE ME, WHO COULDN'T ADD MUCH TO THE DISCUSSION, BUT I SURE MADE A LOT OF MENTAL NOTES. BILL RATHBUN IS A GREAT STORY SPINNER, AND WITH HUGH, IT WAS JUST LIKE WE HAD ALL BEEN PUT BACK IN THAT VOYAGEUR CANOE, TO PADDLE OUR WAY THROUGH THE CRASHING, FOAMING WHITE-WATER, OF THOSE HISTORIC CROSS-COUNTRY FUR-TRADE ROUTES. HUGH MACMILLAN WAS INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT, BRINGING BACK THE HERITAGE ROUTES OF THE FORMER FUR TRADE, THAT OPENED OUR COUNTRY UP, IN THOSE EARLY YEARS OF EXPLORATION. HE HAD CLOSE FRIENDS LIKE KIRK WIPPER, A LEGEND IN THE CONSERVATION OF BIRCH BARK HERITAGE CANOES; AND CHARLIE HUMBER, A WELL KNOWN CANADIAN HISTORIAN, AND ONE OF THE MOST KNOWLEDGABLE FOLKS I'VE EVER MET, WHEN IT COMES TO THE SUBJECT OF CANADIANA, AND ITS ASSOCIATED ANTIQUITIES. CHARLIE HUMBER WAS ONE OF MY EARLY CAREER INTERVIEWS, THE FIRST SUMMER I WORKED FOR THE MUSKOKA LAKES-GEORGIAN BAY BEACON, OUT OF MACTIER. HE AND HIS FAMILY HAD A NEARBY COTTAGE. CHARLIE WAS GOING TO BE RE-ENACTING THE ROLE OF LIEUTENANT JOHN GRAVES SIMCOE, ON THE AUGUST HOLIDAY WEEKEND; A HIGHLY PRESTIGIOUS OPPORTUNITY FOR ANY CANADIAN HISTORIAN, ESPECIALLY BEING ABLE TO SHOW RESPECT FOR ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT HISTORIC FIGURES IN THE FORMER UPPER CANADA. IT WAS A WHOLE UNITED EMPIRE LOYALIST SITUATION, AND I WAS PROUD TO ANNOUNCE THAT MY FAMILY WAS OF THAT PROVENANCE, COMING IN CLUSTERS TO THE BRITISH COLONY, BEFORE, DURING AND AFTER THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. I WAS DELIGHTED TO MEET WITH CHARLIE THEN, WHICH I EXPECT WAS BACK IN JULY 1979. OUR PATHS WOULD CROSS MANY TIMES IN THE YEARS FOLLOWING, IN PART, THANKS TO THE CONNECTIONS WITH HIS FRIEND HUGH MACMILLAN, AND KIRK WIPPER. THESE FOLKS TENDED TO BE A MAGNATE FOR A LOT OF HISTORICAL TYPES TO NETWORK FROM, IN MANY WAYS, ON MANY VARYING HERITAGE PROJECTS, FOR THE OVERALL BENEFIT OF ONTARIO AND CANADA GENERALLY.
MISSING ARCHIVES AND OH BOY, DID HUGH GET MAD AT ME
Hugh MacMillan was a forceful, aggressive human being. He could be stern, obstinate, critical, and pushy. Did I mention intimidating. For a small kilt-wearing chap, he talked as if he was eight feet tall. These were good traits for the work he was expected to perform, as a freelance archivist. You had to be tough out there, like his Nor'Wester kin. I can remember our first conversations, over the phone, while I was editor of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, and at the same time, president of the local historical society. As his old friend Wayland Drew and I had helped establish the Bracebridge Historical Society, in 1978, Hugh felt it was the case, he could trust me on a matter of archives repatriation. If there was one problem above the dozen that transpired, that set the mood to negative, early on, it was the fact he never told me exactly what was coming down the pike. This wasn't like Hugh, because he was a man who not only dotted his "i's" but made a hole in the paper doing so. He told someone else what I was going to get, and for the first few days, these were nothing more than scribbled notes on my desk, taped down to the top, by the less-than-helpful, front desk clerk. As Hugh was winding-down, his relationship with the Archives of Ontario, there were certain collections he wanted to return to regional historical societies, and libraries for safe keeping. They had been copied by the Provincial Archives, and they needed to be moved from the Toronto facility. Thus, he had a large box of heritage paper, known as the Dorothy Coate collection, kept by a dutiful former citizen of the Village of Rosseau, situated in a beautiful pinery, just north of the boundary of the District of Muskoka. His idea, in the form of a pretty fair plan in his opinion, was that he could pass off this collection, to the local historical society for safe keeping, and for the general use of the public as a resource archive. The problem was, we didn't have any library or archive facility at Woodchester Villa and Museum, that was climate and humidity controlled; meaning, we had an unsafe interior that was unsuitable for paper storage. The Bracebridge Public Library wasn't well off in that area either, although they did finally agree to accept the collection. Hugh just assumed that if we had a museum, and operated on heritage grant standards, we would have our humidity issues under control. We didn't have any money, to upgrade anything. We could only pay our staff for the summer, and generally Suzanne and I worked with volunteers, to keep its operation on budget. It never improved in the decade I was most closely associated with the historic site. If Hugh had even asked Wayland Drew, in advance of delivering the box, he would have known this. A disaster in his mind, had begun to unfold, the day he handed the box off to a guy whose name wasn't Currie.
The real problem began in earnest, after our first few under-stress conversations, following the day, without warning, Hugh actually drove up from Guelph, where he was living, to Bracebridge, with the collection in the back of his car. The unfortunate issue was, he hadn't given me a time he was planning to arrive. Thus, I was somewhere else, and it was before the day of "a cell-phone in every pocket.' The stuffed box, was handed over to another staff member, of The Herald-Gazette, and for whatever reason, (even after being told it had to be marked to my attention), the chap put the container in Bob Boyer's office, which looked a lot like what I imagine Charles Dickens workroom, might have appeared as, after an earthquake. Bob was editor of The Muskoka Sun, and he thought the collection had been donated for us to use in the paper. I was supposed to be taking it up to Woodchester Villa for temporary storage. It became lost in Bob's million pieces of paper, and books, jammed into a cubby-hole office. I couldn't find it when Hugh called me later that day. I couldn't find it for a couple of weeks. It may have been longer. The reporter who took the box in the first place, had gone on holidays, and didn't bother to leave a note. Then Hugh couldn't remember the employee's name, or even give a good description. I was getting mad about Hugh's almost daily calls, which were kind of nasty. He couldn't believe an historical society could lose a whole collection of heritage paper. I had to remind him, that an archivist with a hell of a track record of recovery and conservation of heritage documents, had unceremoniously dumped an important collection, on someone he didn't know, at an office that was not part of the museum; any museum, with no curatorial staff. He chortled and mumbled something in retort, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. He was mad, and I was mad. This was not an ideal way to start a relationship.
After the initial eight or so apologies, for not being able to find the box of old paper, including many old photographs of Rosseau area steamships and resorts, we both kind of huffed and puffed ourselves to a stalemate. I remember his last stand, as if it was Custard's; one last word, you might say. Basically, he wrote the whole affair off to the fact I wasn't really tuned-in to what archives was all about, as much to say, if I had been more like him, I would have been there to receive the collection in the first place. Even though I didn't know he was coming, and I didn't live at The Herald-Gazette office. At the very least, I should have been as doggedly determined as he was, and when it went missing, stripped the building to bare walls trying to find one box amidst a thousand. So I dropped the name Hart Bowsfield out of thin air. It was a sort of secret weapon that day. There was silence on the other end of the phone, finally. It seemed Mr. MacMillan was surprised I knew one of his archivist colleagues, historian, author of important papers on Western Canadian heritage, who had taught me (of all people) about Canadian history. It was at York University, in my final year, that Hartwell Bowsfield changed my life; first, by tutoring me to write a well researched essay. The second, just by giving me a passing grade that term.
I met with this curmudgeon (ogre) of the archives, (what some students called him, who were in his bad books) in his office at York University, after he had returned a paper I had written on Louis Riel, with a lot of things scratched-out, and notes along the border of every page. I was humble in his presence. Like MacMillan, he began tearing up my work without reservation, or concern that I might start crying at any moment. Here I was, a history major, in my third year of university, and I had submitted a rough draft that was so bad, that if it had been forced to fly solo, even a zero would have looked great on the top of the paper.
MacMillan knew Hart Bowsfield as an historian who had represented the west well, in his many scholarly works, and to hear that this rather extraordinary chap, the head of university archives, had helped me improve upon my Riel essay, impressed him a great deal; much as if MacMillan would have expected then, that I would have been swallowed alive, for my less than stellar first attempt. Well, Hart was a good guy underneath that gruff exterior, and when I got over shaking in his midst, he directed me to about a hundred sources regarding the life, leadership, crimes and punishment, of Metis Leader, Louis Riel; and gave me the first hardcore overview of what it would take to be a worthy historian, and author of historical overviews. I think there were three meetings in his office, to straighten me out. I was not an easy assignment. I loved his teaching method, in the classroom, and once the fear and trembling subsided, we got along famously. I think he was pleased to be able to give me a passing grade, because I had definately been one of those marginal students, who could easily go either way. He must have seen something in me, that I didn't see in myself, and since graduation, on every major heritage project I get involved in, I do measure my work ethic, follow through, and critical approach, that he offered to me as good advice. So Hugh, on hearing this name, and knowing what Bowsfield demanded of his students, gave me the benefit of the doubt. When I told him I knew another noted historian, Charlie Humber, he once again inhaled as if he was trying to get enough air to submerge himself in water. "You know Charlie Humber," he said, with a reverent tone. "He's a good friend of mine." The fact I was also a friend of Wayland "Buster" Drew, gave me a few other points in favor, and these names all helped me pave over the rough spots with Hugh, in the caper of the missing archives box.
I had successfully blown past Hugh, and avoided another four or five of his calls, when one day, as I was getting the paper finished up for that week's news stands, the clerk from the front counter, came to ask me if I could please come and get the box of old files from Mr. Boyer's office, because he was tired of tripping over it! At first I couldn't figure out what she was talking about, but when she described its size, weight and contents, as Mr. Boyer had relayed to her, gosh, guess what I found all of a sudden? The staff reporter had given the box, that had been left for me, to Mr. Boyer for safe keeping. Bob had just shoved the box, for convenience sake, under a table in his office, with a half dozen similar cartons. It was the one place in the whole building we hadn't looked, thinking that it would never have been given to Bob in the first place. I could now call Hugh and let him know the box of Dorothy Coate archives was safe and sound. I think he had a fear it had been left outside or something, to be torn apart by wild animals or destroyed by a passing monsoon, or wildfire. He was mildly chipper when I talked to him, but still as sarcastic as ever. Basically, it was one of those, "don't ever let that happen again," scoldings, but without the volume or the cussing. I was so mad, that I could have reached through the receiver of the phone, to grab his scrawny neck. Hey, that sums up what kind of relationship we had, for quite a few years, always based a little bit on irreverence. He never let me get too high and mighty, and I never let him dump new assignments on me; well, maybe a couple. Yet once we were both reasonably immune to each others stings, we became good friends and allies in the pursuit of heritage items; and historical hunting and gathering.
After the book was published, he wanted me to sell them in our antique shop. I had to explain about ten times, that we didn't have an antique shop at that point, and it wouldn't be practical to take them, with the plan of selling them for profit as quickly as possible. For that we needed an outlet. He also conned me into buying a copy, because I was included in the text. Finally, he just sent me a signed copy, but asked if I could write a review for him, which I did for a variety of publications. He was always bartering and trading, and well, sometimes it worked, and a few times, it fell flat. He didn't use my name in the book, but that didn't really matter. I was most interested in the content. He'd been working on it for quite a few years, and had experienced a problem with the original writer, helping him. I offered to work with him as a ghost writer, but he had many author friends with more credentials than me, at that time, at least. But I knew, after reading the book twice, that it was a biography that would be my research and professional crutch for the rest of my life. His professionalism in archives work, and stewardship, was what I wanted to aspire to, without question; so I drained every drop of inspiration out of that biography, as the biggest self help since Hart Bowsfield set me straight about writing a well balanced historically themed essay.
Hugh operated on a high standard all the time. He expected that any one he was associated with, certainly on a professional level, would act the same, and respect historical relics as if they were fragments of the holy grail itself. I might not have agreed with Hugh to his face, because we were cut from the same cloth; neither wanted to admit they were wrong, until someone had to point out we were wearing our shoes on the wrong feet. When it came down to my confidence in Hugh, in terms of heritage preservation, and thoroughness in research, that very high bar, as a standard, always left me with the feeling of distance; that I always had a long way to go, to live up to his ongoing achievements. Hugh MacMillan never really retired from historical sleuthing, and although his limp and poor eyesight restricted some of his activities, as long as he had a phone and someone else on the end of it, he was in business.
Sitting here, this warm autumn afternoon, on the verge of a heavy rainfall, positioned on the verandah where Hugh and I spent a few hours debating Canadian history, and the historians who write about it, (with a few sips from the flask) I all of a sudden thought about a well known scene from the movie "Uncle Buck," starring Macaulay Caulkin (of Home Alone fame) and John Candy. Caulkin, the child-nephew, Buck has to look after for a few days, at his brother's home, introduces himself to his uncle with a long rapid-fire, line of questioning. Candy, in the same style, rifles back his one word answers. It's as if Hugh stuck that in my mind, to describe how our relationship began in those first days, when I couldn't find the evasive Coate archives collection. It was reversed however. I was Uncle Buck, and he was Macaulay Caulkin. He had dozens of questions, and I had to have just as many answers. He would have reason to worry, if I had delayed in my answers. So I didn't. I think he would have got a chuckle from this several minute skit.
You can look for this book on the Advance Book Exchange, if you're interested in reading more about Hugh P. MacMillan. The book is titled, "The Adventures of a Paper Sleuth," published in 2004 by Penumbra Press of Canada.
Thanks so much for joining this feature series on my old colleague, and good friend, Hugh P. MacMillan.
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