WHY WE SHOULD TAKE TIME TO PONDER WHAT SACRIFICE HAS AFFORDED MODERNIST MUSKOKA
WHAT GOOD IS A VILLAGE CURMUDGEON, IF HE CAN'T COMPLAIN NOW AND AGAIN, EVEN ON THE OCCASION OF THANKSGIVING SUNDAY. I HAD THIS WILD IDEA, WHEN I WENT TO SIT ON OUR VERANDAH THIS AFTERNOON, THAT WE WERE OF ALL THE SAME MIND HERE, BORDERING HERE THE AUTUMN BOG, ON THIS SPECIAL DAY. THE PART ABOUT "SILENCE BEING GOLDEN," AS BIRCH LEAVES, AT THIS SEMI FESTIVE TIME OF THE ROLLING YEAR. I FOUND QUITE THE OPPOSITE TO HOLD TRUE. IT WAS LIKE A CARNIVAL WITHOUT BORDERS. I SUPPOSE WE ALL CELEBRATE IN DIFFERENT WAYS, AND WITH VARYING AMOUNTS OF JET-FUELED EQUIPMENT.
I GOT MY CHORES DONE EARLY TODAY, IN ORDER TO SCORE SOME BLOG-TIME OUT HERE ON THE VERANDAH, MY IN-HOME-COTTAGE AT BIRCH HOLLOW. I MADE MY WAY OUT HERE SHORTLY AFTER NOON, AND FOLLOWING A MINOR PAINTING JAG, TO SPRUCE-UP A CANE (WALKING STICK) STAND, I WANT TO USE TO HOUSE PART OF MY COLLECTION (I COLLECT VINTAGE AND UNUSUAL CANES), THE PLAN WAS TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR MY SERIES OF PIONEER COLUMNS. TWO MINUTES INTO MY BLOG, AND ENJOYING THE TAPPING OF THE WOODPECKER ON THE TELEPHONE POLE, MY NEIGHBOR DECIDED IT WAS THE PERFECT TIME TO CRANK UP THE GARDEN TRACTOR, (LAWN ZAMBONI) AND WITH HIS LEAF-GATHERING ATTACHMENT, (WHATEVER THAT LOOKS LIKE), ATTACKED WITHOUT MERCY, THE HUNDRED OR SO FALLEN LEAVES ON HIS POSTAGE-STAMP SIZED LOT. THE MOWER IS SUITABLE FOR THE LAWNS OF THE WHITE HOUSE. IT IS TOO BIG, IN MY ESTIMATION, FOR THE MINOR AMOUNT OF TURF INVOLVED, AND TODAY, THESE FEW LEAVES, WHICH BY THE WAY, ARE STILL FALLING BECAUSE THE HARDWOODS IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD HAVE ALMOST FULL CANOPIES. IT HAS BEEN ABOUT TWO HOURS NOW, AND THE ENGINE IS STILL CONSUMING THE SOUND-SCAPE, MUFFLING OUT THE MORE PLEASANT SOUNDS OF NATURE; LIKE THE WOODPECKER AND THE BLUEJAYS NEAR THE FEEDER. OH, WAIT A SECOND. ANOTHER OF MY NEIGHBORS HAS DECIDED THANKSGIVING SUNDAY IS THE PERFET OPPORTUNITY TO FIRE UP THE LEAF BLOWER, WHICH SOUNDS LIKE A JET ENGINE; AND HERE COMES MY OTHER NEIGHBOR WITH HIS TRACTOR AND COMPANIONED WITH THE SOUNDS OF OVERHEAD AIRCRAFT, AND A TABLE SAW SOMEWHERE DOWN THE STREET, GADS, IT'S JUST LIKE CITY-LIVING. IT'S RURAL GEOGRAPHICALLY, BUT SCARBOROUGH IN EVERY OTHER WAY. IT IS A CITY SOUNDSCAPE IN A COUNTRY SETTING. I'D LOVE TO HEAR A HORSE CLOMP, OR A WAGON RATTLE, MAYBE EVEN A THOUGHTFUL MOO FROM A WAYWARD COW. AN OWL! A SQUIRREL CHATTERING WITH A MATE. ANYTHING BUT GAS FUELED ANNOYANCES.
IF THERE WAS A LOON CALL, SOMEWHERE OUT THERE ON THE LAKE, I WOULDN'T HEAR IT. THERE ARE NOW SIRENS FROM DOWN ON HIGHWAY 169, AND A BOAT ENGINE THAT SOUNDS AS IF IT WAS RIPPED OFF A SNOWBIRD'S JET, FOR A LITTLE AFTERNOON HIGH SPEED ADVENTURE. IT IS VERY MUCH NOISE POLLUTION. IT IS INTRUSIVE, JUST LIKE THE MOTORCYCLE THAT RATTLED DOWN OUR DEAD END STREET, AND WILL SOON COME BACK, WHEN HE RECOGNIZES HE MADE A WRONG TURN AT THE INTERSECTION. I WRITE A LOT ABOUT SOLITUDE HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, BUT MUCH OF IT IS WISHFUL THINKING. I JUST BLOCK OUT THE HEAVY EQUIPMENT SOUNDS. I JUST CAN'T TODAY FOR SOME REASON. GOSH, IT'S THANKSGIVING. HERE COMES THE MOTORCYCLE GUY. YUP, MADE A WRONG TURN. HAPPENS ALL THE TIME, AND ALWAYS INTERESTING WHEN ITS A TRANSPORT, OR GROUP OF MOTORCYCLES HEADING TO THE LAKE. OUR STREET DOESN'T CONNECT WITH THE LAKE, WHICH MEANS WE GET TURN-AROUNDS ABOUT TWENTY OR THIRTY TIMES A DAY, ESPECIALLY WHEN THERE ARE A LOT OF SIGHTSEERS MOTORING ABOUT. THE LAWN TRACTOR HAS BEEN PUT AWAY FOR NOW, AND I SUPPOSE IT MAY BOTHER MY NEIGHBOR LATER TODAY, WHEN THE LAWN HAS A HUNDRED OR SO MORE FALLEN LEAVES, BEDDING ON THE TIGHTLY MOWED TURF. NO, IT'S NOT WALDEN POND. IT IS RARE IN OUR BALLYWICK TO FIND AN OLD FASHIONED RAKE THAT YOU PROPEL BY HAND, ARM AND SHOULDER. THE PUSH MOWER IS THE KIND OF ARTIFACT YOU FIND IN A MUSEUM. WHY USE AN AXE OR SAW WHEN YOU CAN USE A UBER-CHAINSAW TO CUT THOSE ANNOYING TINY BOUGHS OFF THE EVERGREENS? IT'S WHAT WE'VE BECOME. ADDICTED TO THE TIM TAYLOR, BINFORD, "HOME IMPROVEMENT" KIND OF EXISTENCE, WHERE TRUE RECREATION IS AT THE OTHER END OF A MEGA-LEAF BLOWER, AND THRILL SEEKING CAN BE SATISFIED, RIDING A LAWN MOWER THE SIZE OF A NHL ZAMBONI. MY COUNTRY WAY OF THINKING, IN THE PIONEER SENSE, IS A PAGE FROM A STORY-BOOK; AND SOME OF MY NEIGHBORS MIGHT THINK OF THAT STORY BOOK AS BEING FICTION. WHO THE HELL WOULD RAKE THEIR LEAVES, AND PUT THEM IN A BAG, OR WAGON, TO PHYSICALLY MOVE THEM (FOR EXERCISE), TO A DUMPING PLACE. THERE USED TO BE FUN DOING THIS KIND OF MANUAL LABOR. WHOLESOME FAMILY FUN. NO GAS NEEDED. NO EXHAUST FUMES INHALED. MY IDEA OF THANKSGIVING, IS TO HAVE A TOUCH OF SOLITUDE IN THE FESTIVE SENSE, WITH GOOD FOOD, FRIENDS AND FAMILY, MINUS THE AUDIBLE CARNAGE OF EVERY YARD-WHACKING DEVICE TECHNOLOGY CURSED US WITH. WHAT'S THIS NOW? FOR GOD'S SAKE, THERE'S A HUSH OVER BIRCH HOLLOW. EITHER I'VE DIED AND DON'T KNOW IT, OR ALL THE YARD CHORES HAVE FINALLY BEEN LOOKED AFTER; OR THE FUEL TO DRIVE THE CONTRAPTIONS HAS FINALLY RUN OUT. I'M GOING TO SIT BACK FOR A FEW MOMENTS, AND LISTEN TO THAT FORLORN LOON, AND WOODPECKER, IF IT COMES BACK, IN SILENT CONTEMPLATION OF A TOM TURKEY BROWNING-UP IN THE OVEN. I MISSED THE WINDOW. A KID JUST WENT BY ON AN ALL TERRAIN VEHICLE BUT NOT SILENTLY.
THE THANKSGIVING WALL CLOCK -
REVEREND ALLEN, IN HIS BOOK, "FROM THE LUMBER CAMP TO THE MINISTRY," MADE REFERENCE, TO A STORY HE HAD HEARD, ABOUT AN EMIGRANT FAMILY ARRIVING IN THE AREA OF LAKE OF BAYS, DURING THE HOMESTEAD LAND GRANT PERIOD IN MUSKOKA; LATE 1860'S. THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE FAMILY, INSISTED ON CARRYING THE CLOCK ON HER LAP, FOR THE ENTIRE WAGON JOURNEY TO THE HOMESTEAD ACREAGE. THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN INCREDIBLY UNFORGETABLE, TO THE POINT OF SUFFERING INJURY AS A DIRECT RESULT OF THE WEIGHT, AND THE JOSTLING IN THE WAGON, THE RESULT OF TERRIBLE CONDITION CARTWAYS. IF THE PASSENGERS WERE ASKED TO REMOVE THEMSELVES FROM THE HORSE-DRAWN WAGON, SO THAT THE TEAM COULD HAVE AN EASIER TIME CLIMBING A STEEP HILLSIDE, THE WOMAN INSISTED ON CARRYING THE OLD MANTLE CLOCK, DESPITE THE FACT IT HAD A SUBSTANTIAL WEIGHT. IT WOULD ALSO HAVE BEEN THE CASE, SHE WOULD HAVE CARRIED IT DOWNHILL AS WELL, DUE TO THE POTENTIAL OF A RUNAWAY WAGON. THIS IS HOW IMPORTANT THE CLOCK WAS TO THE WOMAN, AND THE WAY SHE WAS GOING TO DEAL WITH THE ISOLATED HOMESTEAD. IT'S WHAT I WAS ALSO THINKING, WHEN I HEARD THE FIRST TICK-TOCK OF THE ANTIQUE CLOCK I PURCHASED THE OTHER DAY. I DIDN'T CARRY IT AS FAR AS THE PIONEER LADY, BUT FAR ENOUGH TO APPRECIATE BOTH THE WEIGHT, AND HOW AWKWARD IT WAS; AND HOW DETERMINED SHE MUST HAVE BEEN TO WALK ALL THOSE MILES, HUGGING AN HEIRLOOM TIME PIECE.
I WROTE YESTERDAY ABOUT A LOVELY WOODEN WALL CLOCK, MADE BY FREDERICK MAUTHE, OF GERMANY. I HAVEN'T BEEN ABE TO FIND THE REGISTRATION NUMBERS, THAT SHOULD HISTORICALLY SITUATE THE CLOCKWORKS TO EITHER 1900 OR 1925. THE CASE WAS LIKELY MADE BY THE THIEL BROTHERS, AND THE MAGNIFICENT SOUNDING CHIME, CAME FROM A COMPANY NAMED "DIVINA." THE CLOCK ON THE OPEN MARKET, WELL, IT MIGHT FETCH A HUNDRED AND FIFTY BUCKS. NOT MUCH IN ACCORDANCE TO THE PRICE FOR ANTIQUE CLOCKS. AT THE SAME TIME AS I PURCHASED THIS OLD CLOCK, FROM A SECOND HAND SHOP, I ALSO PICKED UP A SOOTHEBYS AUCTION CATALOGUE, FEATURING NOTHING BUT ANTIQUE CLOCKS, RANGING FROM WALL, MANTLE AND GRANDFATHER CLOCKS, TO SOME OF THE MOST ELABORATE AND ELEGANT I'VE EVER SEEN. THEY WOULD BE NO GOOD FOR A CHAP LIKE ME, OR A FAMILY LIKE OURS, BECAUSE WE HAVE CATS. I LOVE CATS AND CLOCKS EQUALLY, BUT THERE IS NO WAY WE COULD HAVE VALUABLE ART PIECES LIKE THE VINTAGE CLOCKS IN THE AUCTION CATALOGUE. THEY GET INTO EVERYTHING WHEN WE'RE NOT AT HOME, AND I'VE LOST AT LEAST TEN OF MY ANTIQUE COAL OIL LAMPS, BECAUSE CURIOSITY TOOK OUR FELINE HOUSE-MATES TO HIGH-UP PLACES, WHERE THEY HAD BEEN STORED. THEY LIKE TO GET BEHIND THESE PIECES, AND EVENTUALLY, SPRAWL AND FROLIC ENOUGH, THAT THEY SIMPLY KNOCK THEM TO THE FLOOR. GOOD FOR THEM, BAD FOR ME. YOU'D THINK THEY'D HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR THE HUMANS IN THE HOUSE, WHO RESCUED THEM AS KITTENS, FROM A LIFE OUTSIDE. ALL OF THEM WERE RESCUED FROM IMMINENT DEATH, AND WE WILL NEVER, EVER, REGRET OUR ACTIONS TO BRING THEM INDOORS, TO SHARE OUR MODEST ABODE. SO WE HAVE JUST OPTED TO PUT MOST OF THE MORE SIGNIFICANT PIECES, IN CLOSETS, IN STORAGE, OR ON A SHELF IN OUR SHOP FOR SOMEONE ELSE (WHO MAY NOT HAVE CATS), TO ENJOY AS WE ONCE DID. THE POINT OF BRINGING UP THE CLOCK? I HAVE WANTED A PLAIN, WOODEN, ANTIQUE CLOCK FOR THE PAST TEN YEARS, AND ON FRIDAY, I GOT A BIG BREAK. I FOUND IT IN A SECOND HAND SHOP, AND IT FIT EVERY ONE OF MY EXPECTATIONS, OF A CLOCK THAT WOULD TICK-TOCK ALL THE LIVE-LONG-DAY, AND WITH ITS LOVELY WOODWORK, AND HANDSOME SILVER FACE, PLUS THE LEADED-GLASS DOOR, AND FIT NEATLY AND SECURELY IN THE LIVINGROOM; IN SUCH A WAY THAT THE CATS CAN'T GET BEHIND IT, OR OTHERWISE KNOCK IT DOWN. IT'S A SUBSTANTIAL CLOCK, AND I PROBABLY SHOULD HANG-IN, BUT IT LOOKS SO NICE WHERE IT IS NOW, ON THE HARVEST TABLE, THAT RESTS AGAINST THE WALL. WE DON'T HAVE THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE SITTING AROUND IT THAT WE USED TO, ON THESE HOLIDAY OCCASIONS.
AFTER SETTING IT UP, GETTING IT HOME, AND WINDING ITS CHIME MECHANISM AND THE CLOCK-WORKS, I WAS BLOWN AWAY BY THE SOUND OF THE CHIMES, FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER. I TOLD SUZANNE IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS, THAT IT WASN'T GOING TO THE STORE. IT WAS MINE, ALL MINE. AND HERS TOO, BUT SHE'S NOT NEARLY AS PASSIONATE ABOUT OLD CLOCKS AS I AM. BEFORE BED, THE OTHER NIGHT, I ASKED ANDREW TO HELP ME WIRE IT TO A HOOK ON THE WALL, (BUT SITTING ON THE TABLE) JUST FOR AN ADDED MEASURE OF SECURITY, AND THAT'S WHEN SOMETHING FELL OFF. YUP, IN CURRIE FAMILY TRADITION, WHAT HAD SOUNDED SO MAGNIFICENT, SOUNDED NO MORE! ANDREW DIDN'T KNOW THIS, BECAUSE HE WENT TO BED AFTER FINISHING THE SECURITY ATTACHMENT. I FELT JUST LIKE CLARK GRISWOLD, IN THE MOVIE "CHRISTMAS VACATION." AS RELATES TO HIS MILLION-LIGHT OUTDOOR ILLUMINATION, THAT WHEN PLUGGED IN, AFTER THE DRUM-ROLE, FAILS TO DEPLOY. THE DARN CLOCK WOULDN'T CHIME ON THE HOUR OR HALF HOUR, AND THE ONLY WAY I COULD CHANGE THAT WAS BY VIBRATING THE WHOLE CLOCK, SO THE PENDULUM, OFF ANGLE, HAD TO HIT THE CHIME BARS. THE STORY OF MY LIFE. A BEAUTIFUL CLOCK THAT SUITS MY INTERESTS PERFECTLY, AND INSIDE OF TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, I KILL THE MAGIC OF ITS LEGACY OF TIME KEEPING. A CENTURY SCREWED UP IN A MATTER OF MINUTES. IT'S WHY MY WIFE DOESN'T ASK ME TO FIX STUFF.
EVERY TIME I GOT UP IN THE NIGHT, I STOPPED FOR A FEW MOMENTS TO PLAY WITH THE DIAL, ALWAYS CLOCKWISE OF COURSE, AND MY EXPECTATIONS WERE DASHED, AND DASHED AND DASHED SOME MORE. I SAT THERE, LAST EVENING, WATCHING RE-RUNS OF "THE WEST WING," AND LOOKING AT THE CLOCK AS IF, HOPING AGAINST HOPE, IT WOULD ALL OF A SUDDEN, ADJUST TO ITS NEW REALITIES, AND BEGIN CHIMING ON THE HOUR AND HALF-HOUR. NOTHING. AS ITS MODERN DAY STEWARD, AND A KINDRED SPIRIT OF ANTIQUITY, I BEGGED IT TO SHOW ME A SIGN. I DID HAVE A LOOK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CASE, AND COULDN'T EXPLAIN THE EXTRA TWO ACCESSORIES FOUND ON THE BOTTOM. THEN SUZANNE TOLD ME SHE HATED IT ON THE HARVEST TABLE, AND THAT I SHOULD CONSIDER HANGING IT ON THE WALL. THEN I TRIED THAT, AND SHE YELLED AT ME, "NOT THERE, NOT THERE." SHE STARTLED ME, AND I WAS A FRACTION OFF, ON THE THWACK OF THE NAIL INTO THE WOODWORK, ON THE VERY NEXT SWING, WHICH SENT IT (NAIL) FLYING THROUGH THE AIR, LANDING SOMEWHERE AT HER FEET. "NOW SEE WHAT YOU DID," SHE SAID, LOOKING AT THE NAIL BALANCED AGAINST THE TOE OF HER SLIPPERS. "OVER THERE," SHE POINTED, TO A PLACE ON A WALL THAT WOULD ONLY AFFORD A PASSING GLANCE AT BEST, IF THE CLOCK WAS TO RESIDE THERE. THE SO CALLED SHADY SIDE OF THE STREET. "I WANT IT TO MOUNTED WHERE I CAN SEE IT, NOT JUST HEAR IT WHEN IT CHIMES," I SAID, PUTTING MY HATCHET (COULDN'T FIND MY HAMMER ANYWHERE) ON THE OUTSIDE HOOK AT THE BACKDOOR. "I'LL DEAL WITH IT TOMORROW," I ANSWERED WITH GENTLE RESIGNATION, THAT THE SOCIETY (MY WIFE) AND CLOCK CULTURE WERE WORKING AGAINST ME. I SAT FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT, TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE CLOCK'S INNER MOST SPIRIT, TO EXCHANGE IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO FIX THE NON-CHIMING CLOCKWORKS. IT REALLY BOTHERED ME. I HAVE A "COMPLETION" PHOBIA. IT HAS TO DO ALL THAT IT IS SUPPOSED TO DO, OR I MUST GET RID OF IT. I DIDN'T WANT TO SELL THE CLOCK BUT I HAD TO HAVE IT FUNCTION AS IT WAS MEANT TO KEEP TIME. WE DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER ORNAMENT AS SUZANNE OFTEN REMINDS ME, WHEN I HAUL SOMETHING ELSE HOME THAT ISN'T FOR THE SHOP.
THE MOST SIGNIFICANT, OR SPECIAL REASON, I SUPPOSE, FOR HAVING THE CLOCK WORKING PROPERLY, IS THAT I ACTUALLY MADE A VERY PUBLIC MEMORIAL OFFERING YESTERDAY, (SATURDAY), NAMING IT AFTER "GOWAN GILLMOR," OR BETTER KNOWN AS "THE TRAMP," THE FORMER ARCHDEACON OF THE DIOCESE OF ALGOMA, WHO I HAVE BEEN WRITING ABOUT FOR THE PAST SEVERAL DAYS. THE STRONG UPRIGHT CHARACTER OF THE MODEST ANTIQUE CLOCK, AND ITS DURABLE NATURE (HAVING OBVIOUSLY SUFFERED A FAIR AMOUNT OF ROUGH HANDLING IN ITS DAY; HOUSE TO HOUSE AND THEN TO THE SECOND HAND SHOP), REMINDED ME OF HIS STALWART WORK ON BEHALF OF HIS PARISHIONERS, IN ROSSEAU AND MUSKOKA, AND ALL THOSE HE CAME INTO CONTACT WITH, WHO NEEDED HIS CHEERFUL WORDS OF INSPIRATION. WHILE ADMITTEDLY THE CLOCK IS GERMAN, AND GOWAN GILLMOR WAS IRISH (I AM TOO, WITH A LITTLE GERMAN AND DUTCH ON THE SIDE), THE CHIME ACTUALLY SOUNDED TO ME, LIKE I IMAGINE HIS VOICE RESONATED, WHEN HE MET A NEW FRIEND ON A MUSKOKA COUNTRYSIDE TRAIL, OR AT A PORTAGE ON THE LAKES. SO I OFFICIALLY DECLARED THAT FROM THE SATURDAY OF THE THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, 2014, THE WALL CLOCK MADE BY FREDERICK MAUTHE, WOULD BE KNOWN AS THE "GOWAN GILLMOR "TRAMP" CLOCK," AND BE OUR SOURCE OF PIONEER INSPIRATION ATOP THE HARVEST TABLE. BUT I KILLED IT INSIDE OF TWENTY FOUR HOURS. I COULD DEAL WITH IT BEING SLOW, LOSING ABOUT A HALF HOUR EVERY TWELVE HOURS, BUT WITHOUT ITS BEAUTIFUL CHIME, WELL, IT LOST ITS LUSTER FOR SURE. I SUPPOSE GOWAN GILLMOR WOULD THINK OF ME AS BEING SHALLOW, AND UNINSPIRED; NOW I WAS REALLY EMBARRASSED, TO HAVE OFFERED THIS AS A MEMORIAL TO A GREAT MAN, AND THEN FIDDLED WITH IT, TO SUCH A DIRE CONSEQUENCE, THAT EVEN ITS TICK-TOCK IS SLOW AND SHALLOW. WHAT WOULD THE ARCHDEACON SAY TO ME, HAD HE BEEN FACE TO FACE WITH SUCH MISADVENTURE? "DON'T WORRY LAD, IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS."
I FINALLY DECIDED, EARLIER THIS AFTERNOON, TO DISCONNECT THE WIRE SECURITY FASTENING ON THE BACK OF THE CLOCK, LAY IT DOWN ON THE TABLE, AND WITH A FLASH LIGHT, TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE CHIMES WERE NO LONGER ENGAGING. I MAY HAVE EVEN MUTTERED, "GOWAN, I NEED YOU TO WORK WITH ME ON THIS ONE." FIRST I CLEANED WHAT NEED TO BE CLEANED. THE PAST OWNER WAS A PIPE SMOKER, AND IT TOOK FOUR WADS OF PAPER TOWEL TO WIPE AWAY THE YELLOW RESIDUE OF THE AGES. I THEN TRIED TO FIGURE OUT WHY THERE WERE PARTS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CLOCK CASE. IT TOOK ONLY A FEW MINUTES, TO REALIZE THAT THE CLOCK HAD ACTUALLY SHIFTED IN ITS CASEMENT, MOVING THE HAMMERS FUTHER AWAY FROM THE GONG BARS. I FOUND TWO RELATED PARTS, SCREWED THEM TOGETHER, AND THEN INTO THE BRACING OF THE CLOCK INTERIOR, AND SET IT BACK UP FOR A TRIAL RUN. BANG ON! I COULDN'T BELIEVE MY GOOD FORTUNE. THEN, OF COURSE, THERE WERE THE PIECES ON THE BOTTOM THAT WERE SUPPOSED TO BE SCREWED ONTO THE BOTTOM OF THE PENDULUM. I'VE STILL GOT TWO ODD LOOKING SCREWS LEFT, BUT I FOUND HOME FOR FOUR PIECES, THAT HAVE ACTUALLY CONTRIBUTED TO A BETTER, NICER SOUNDING CLOCK. I WAS THRILLED AT MY HANDIWORK. EVEN SUZANNE COULDN'T BELIEVE THAT I HAD FIGURED IT OUT ON MY OWN, WITHOUT BREAKING IT FURTHER, OR NECESSITATING A TRIP TO THE HOSPITAL, TO HAVE THE GONG REMOVED FROM MY FOREHEAD OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. NOW I HAD A PERFECT IN-HOUSE TRIBUTE, TO "THE TRAMP." SIMPLE, NO FRILLS, BUT A STALWART, CHARACTER INFUSED, PLEASANT TICK-TOCKING, JOYFUL CHIMING WALL CLOCK, ANCHORED ON A HARVEST TABLE; IN TIME FOR THE THANKSGIVING DINNER SUZANNE HAS BEEN TEASING ME WITH ALL DAY. WE WILL INVITE THE CLOCK TO BE OUR MASTER OF CEREMONIES, SORT OF, AND OFFER A LITTLE TOAST BEFORE WE BREAK BREAD, TO THE MEMORY OF A WONDERFUL CHAP, GOWAN GILLMOR, AND ANOTHER BOUNTIFUL HARVEST SEASON IN THIS BEAUTIFUL REGION OF ONTARIO. THE DINNER WAS TERRIFIC, AND I ONCE AGAIN ATE TOO MUCH. ALTHOUGH THE PUMPKIN PIE MADE FROM A PRIZE WINNING UFFORD HOMESTEAD RECIPE, HAS YET TO ARRIVE FROM THE OVEN, I HAVE BEEN INTIMATE WITH MANY SUCH PIES IN THE PAST, AND MY MOUTH IS WATERING.
I KNOW THIS OLD, CONTENTLY CHIMMING CLOCK, LOOKING SO VENERABLE IN THE LIGHT OF THE OIL LAMP, WILL INSPIRE MANY STORIES FOR THIS WRITER, LONG INTO THE FUTURE. IT IS NOW MY SPECIAL MUSE. LIKE THE C.S. LEWIS STORY, OF "THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE," MAYBE I'LL FIND SOMETHING MAGICAL AS WELL, BUT FOR ME INSTEAD, HAUNTING THE SHADOWY CASE OF THIS OLD AND STORIED CLOCK; THAT, ME THINKS WOULD LOVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO TALK OF ITS MANY ADVENTURES, BEGINNING IN GERMANY, AND WINDING UP IN THE RURAL SPLENDOUR OF MUSKOKA.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ONE AND ALL. AS FOR THE FOUNDERS OF OUR FEAST, WE TOAST THE MEMORY OF THE MUSKOKA PIONEERS. NOW THERE WAS A STALWART, HARDY, RUGGED CREW OF CITIZENRY, WHO HAVE GIVEN US SO MUCH LEGACY TO BUILD UPON.
FROM THE ARCHIVES BUT LOOKING AHEAD TO CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA
HOPE YOU ALL HAD A COMFORTABLE AND PLEASING CHRISTMAS DAY
FIRST, THE GIFT OF AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH
AS AN ANTIQUE DEALER, I HAVE THOUSANDS OF UNNAMED, UNTITLED VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPHS. AMONGST ANTIQUE AND SECOND HAND DEALERS, IT WOULD BE MOST UNCOMMON INDEED, TO VISIT ONE AND NOT FIND THE TYPICAL BOX OR BIN FULL OF PHOTOGRAPHS THAT HAVE BEEN ACQUIRED AT ESTATE SALES AND AUCTIONS. IN FACT, THERE IS NOTHING SO FRUSTRATING, AS TO FIND A WONDERFULLY APPOINTED OLD PHOTOGRAPH, THAT IS UNIDENTIFIED, EVEN EXCLUDING THE NAME OF THE STUDIO IT WAS TAKEN. SO WE ARE VERY CAREFUL WITH OUR OWN PHOTOGRAPHS, TO LABEL EACH OF THEM, FOR THE BENEFIT OF GREAT GRANDCHILDREN IN THE FUTURE…..SO THEY CAN GET A GOOD LOOK AT THEIR KIN. THEY MIGHT BE SCARED BY IMAGES OF THEIR AUTHOR GREAT-GRANDFATHER. SO IMAGINE MY SURPRISE, THIS MORNING, WHEN SON ROBERT HANDED ME A THIN BAG, WITH A BOW ON TOP, CONTAINING ONE OF MY FAVORITE FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHS. SUZANNE AND ROBERT CONSPIRED TO HAVE A BLOW-UP IMAGE OF AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH, MY MOTHER PASSED-ON TO ME, JUST BEFORE SHE PASSED AWAY, OF MY GRANDFATHER, STANLEY JACKSON, OF TORONTO, PLAYING HIS VIOLIN. IT WAS A TINY, DARK PHOTOGRAPH, WITH A FAIR BIT OF SURFACE DETERIORATION. THEY TOOK IT TO THE ARTSTRACT COMPANY, OF GRAVENHURST, WHO CAN DO THIS SORT OF MAGIC WITH OLD IMAGES, AND HAD IT BLOWN UP TO AN EIGHT BY TEN FORMAT. I WAS SHOCKED TO SEE IT, BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH IT WAS STILL FOGGY WITH AGE, IT SHOWED HIS VIOLIN AND HIS CONFIDENT POSE WITH IT, TUCKED TIGHTLY AGAINST HIS NECK. I WOULD ONE DAY LIKE TO HAVE A PAINTING DONE FROM THIS SAME MARVELOUS DEPICTION OF MY GRANDFATHER AS A YOUNG MAN.
I'VE MENTIONED STAN JACKSON MANY TIMES IN MY BLOGS. HE WAS A HOUSE BUILDER FROM TORONTO, BUT ORIGINALLY FROM THE TRENTON AREA OF THE PROVINCE, WHERE HIS FAMILY WERE AMONGST THE EARLY HOMESTEADERS. HE BUILT THEIR FAMILY HOME, LATER IN TORONTO "THE GOOD," AND THERE WAS EVEN A STREET IN THE CITY NAMED AFTER HIM…..KNOWN AS "JACKSON AVENUE." I BELIEVE IT'S NORTH OF BLOOR, NEAR JANE STREET, IN THE AREA OF OLD MILL. HE WORKED AS A BUILDER, WITH HIS SON, CARMEN, AND MY FATHER TED SR. (ED), IN CONJUNCTION WITH PAUL HELLYER, THE FORMER MINISTER OF DEFENCE, FOR CANADA, WHO AT THAT TIME DEVELOPED MANY ACRES OF CITY LANDSCAPE. WHAT I ALWAYS FOUND ODD ABOUT STAN, WAS THAT HE WORKED IN AN INDUSTRY THAT WAS AWFULLY HARD ON THE HANDS AND JOINTS. YET HE WAS AN ACCOMPLISHED VIOLINIST, WHO I HEARD A WEE BIT, WHEN WE'D VISIT STAN AND HIS WIFE BLANCHE, MY GRANDPARENTS, WHEN WE LIVED IN BURLINGTON. HE WAS ASSOCIATED FOR A TIME, WITH THE TORONTO SYMPHONY OCHRESTRA, AND HE WAS ABLE TO GET MY MOTHER MERLE, A JOB WITH THE GROUP ONE SUMMER AFTER SCHOOL. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO FIND WHAT HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE SYMPHONY WAS, AS HISTORICAL FACT, BUT MERLE HAD CALLED HIM A "CONCERT MASTER," BUT THERE IS NO EVIDENCE HE PERFORMED THIS TASK WITH THE TSO.
HIS MUSICAL TALENT SKIPPED A COUPLE OF GENERATIONS. MERLE WENT TO THE ROYAL CONSERVATORY FOR PIANO, AND WAS A LOVER OF CLASSICAL MUSIC, BUT THE TALENT GENE JUMPED A GENERATION. THIS IS WHAT I TELL THE BOYS ANYWAY, ALTHOUGH IT'S TRUE I DID PLAY UNDER THE DIRECTORSHIP OF MUSKOKA MUSICIAN, JOHN RUTHERFORD, WHEN I ATTENDED BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, BACK IN THE 1970'S. I WAS EVEN IN THE FAMOUS ENGLAND BAND BACK IN 1974. JOHN RUTHERFORD WAS A LEGEND IN MUSIC HERE, AND COULD COUNT, AMONGST HIS FRIENDS, CANADIAN DIRECTOR, COMPOSER HOWARD CABLE.
I HAVE INCLUDED THE FOGGY IMAGE OF MY GRANDFATHER ON TODAY'S BLOG. IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST THOUGHTFUL PRESENTS I'VE EVER RECEIVED. WHEN I KNEW MY GRANDFATHER, HE WAS VERY ELDERLY AND WE DIDN'T HAVE A LOT TO SAY TO ONE ANOTHER. I REMEMBER MERLE, SHARING A STORY ABOUT HIM, AND ONE OF THE REASONS HE QUIT GOING TO CHURCH. IT WAS DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION, THAT HE WAS HIRED TO BUILD A CHURCH FOR A LOCAL CONGREGATION. WHEN HE HAD THE WELL CRAFTED STRUCTURE COMPLETED, THE MINISTER ADMITTED THEY DIDN'T HAVE MONEY TO PAY HIM…..BUT HE COULD BRING HIS FAMILY TO THE FRONT OF THE CHURCH EACH WEEK, IN THEIR OWN SPECIAL PEW. STAN WAS A HIGHLY PRINCIPLED MAN, AND REFUSED THE OFFER, AND AS IT CREATED GREAT HARDSHIP FOR HIS OWN FAMILY, HE VOWED NEVER TO SET FOOT INSIDE A CHURCH AGAIN. HE WAS GOOD TO HIS WORD EXCEPT AT THE END OF HIS LIFE. AFTER HIS WIFE BLANCHE DIED IN THE EARLY 1960'S, HE DID EVENTUALLY REMARRY, A WOMAN NAMED EDNA, WHO RESIDED IN FLORIDA. MY GRANDFATHER HAD A HEART ATTACK, COMING OUT OF CHURCH IN FLORIDA, AND DIED IN HER ARMS ON THE CHURCH STEPS. IT WAS A SORT OF TRAGIC COMING TOGETHER AT THE END, BUT WE KNOW HE HAD SUFFERED NUMEROUS SMALL ATTACKS OVER ABOUT FIVE YEARS, SO HIS DEATH BY HEART ATTACK WASN'T A SURPRISE. PASSING AWAY ON THE CHURCH STEPS DID SEEM RATHER IRONIC, BUT SO WAS MY GRANDFATHER.
THIS BLOW-UP PHOTOGRAPH HAS BEEN CAPTIONED FOR MY FUTURE GREAT GRANDCHILDREN I WON'T LIKELY MEET.
STORY BELOW TAKEN FROM AN 1871 ISSUE OF THE NORTHERN ADVOCATE - EXPOSING SOME SOCIAL FESTIVITY IN THE MUSKOKA WILDS
I WANTED TO SHARE THIS WEE TALE TAKEN FROM THE NORTH ADVOCATE OF 1871, ADDITIONALLY PUBLISHED IN THOMAS MCMURRAY'S SETTLERS' GUIDEBOOK, ENTITLED "MUSKOKA AND PARRY SOUND," ALSO PUBLISHED IN 1871. IT DOES NOT REFERENCE WHERE THE "WOOL PICKING BEE" WAS HELD, BUT IT WAS MOST LIKELY BETWEEN GRAVENHURST AND BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE MOST HUMBLE OF PIONEER ACCOMMODATIONS. IT DOESN'T REFERENCE IT AS BEING AT CHRISTMAS TIME, BUT IT WAS IN THE WINTER SEASON. IT SHOWS THAT WE MUSKOKANS, EVEN BACK THEN, COULD MAKE FUN OUT OF JUST ABOUT ANYTHING. THIS IS A NICE PIECE OF CANADIANA.
"Understanding one of the objects of your columns being to convey abroad information concerning our great country, as well as to supply means of edification to our own people - the settlers. It may, I think, be fairly regarded as a needful part of your work to give the outsiders some idea of bush life, as well as land. One of the questions, no doubt, arising in the minds of those moving in, would very likely be: how do the poor folks make out to pass their evenings, or, have they anything corresponding to missionary breakfasts, complimentary dinners, or oyster suppers? Some sketches of real life in the bush might serve the purpose of answering such questions.
"A 'wool-picking-bee' (let me guard against being misunderstood), does not mean an insect of the bee kind peculiar to this region, and noted for for picking the wool of the sheep, but is the name for a kind of affair which will be best understood by a brief description of a single 'bee'. The one I had the privilege of attending, was got up by a lady inviting her friends and neighbors on a given evening. A goodly number accepting, they assembled and commenced operations around a large home-made table, by teasing the tufts of wood, preparatory, to further manufacture; meanwhile some of the young people were good naturally at teasing one another. Amongst the company present might be noticed the various functionaries of the locality, as trappers, postmaster, path-masters, school teachers, miscellaneous traders, etc., and in most cases, several offices meeting in the same individual, and all claiming the addition of B.W. (Bush Whacker), and not in the least, the correspondent of the Northern Advocate (Thomas McMurray himself). But now the work and amusement proceed in unison, which is more than can always be accomplished. Interspersed, more-over, with something of edification, and not altogether with a religious bearing, hymn singing, and a trifle of political and theological discussion."
A verse was read as such; "Here in bush, life is found, work and play abound, and yet strangely agree, here extremes we'd unite, here the sombre and the bright, mixed together you see; unrestrained seem to run, both the serious and fun, in the 'wool picking bee.'
"About noon of night, there might, perhaps, be noticed a shade of falling off in the spirit of wool-picking, when a sound is heard indicating a change of scene and a variety in the exercises to be introduced, of which one might for an hour or two previously, have smelled the approach. Preparations are ordered, the wool is speedily removed, and picking of another kind introduced. It might do in the city to say 'the delicacies of the season,' but here the dishes, or what was on them, would require somewhat varied terms to describe. It was in fact a great meal, of which the items would be more tedious to describe than they were to discuss practically. A roast beaver might, perhaps, be the most notable deviation from the ordinary fare, but breakfast, dinner, and supper were so amply represented, that a good old-style brother declared, ' If this be wickedness, I hope to be always a sinner.'
"It is not too much to say that full justice was done in relieving the rude table from its cause of groaning; so, having picked the wool, and the bones of the beaver, and chickens, and singing the doxology, each seemed disposed to pick a partner, and the 'bee' stood adjourned sine die. This I must say in conclusion, for the relief of some of your uninitiated readers, who may feel a kind of commiseration for the sadness of poor bush life, and would start with alarm to hear of a wool picking bee; had they only the chance of taking part in the affair, they might be more disposed to envy than pity; and I seriously advise them, if ever they get an invitation to a wool-picking bee - to go." (The editorial piece was actually written by McMurray on October 26th, 1868, when he resided in Draper Township.)
An original copy of this rare Muskoka history, was given to me as a gift, when I married into the Stripp family of Windermere. Suzanne's mother, Harriett, was from one of the pioneer families, who settled in the Three Mile Lake, Ufford area, of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and the book had belonged to her father, John Shea, a farmer in the area and former municipal clerk. As an historian, I was honored by the gift, and it has been used many hundreds of times, to assist in research projects. There is a pencilled line above a verse written by McMurray, that John Shea found interesting. It reads as follows:
"Now in the primal woods, the axe resounds, and the tall pine receives its mortal wounds, as stroke on stroke disturbs the silent snow, the wound enlarges by each well aimed blow. The forest giant shakes in all his might, and crashing falls neath his disposed weight, and quickly carries to the branches bent, that strive in vain to stop his sure descent. A swift and certain ruin with rebound, and echoing woods repeat the thundering sound, stripped of his limbs, and squared, and hewn he lies, to human kind a good but hard won prize. It soon is made to raise the sheltering house, Or o'er the seas afar is doomed to roam, to build the bark, or adorn the hall, raised from the ruins of a forest fall. His roots remain to meet a slow decay, and mend the soil when sown some future day."
The Shea family was well connected in the logging industry of the pioneering period in Muskoka, so the fact this was marked, was quite relevant.
THE SLEIGH RIDE, OF THE 1870'S IN MUSKOKA
IN RESPECT TO THIS CHRISTMAS SEASON, OF 2012, HERE IN MUSKOKA, I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE THIS POEM PUBLISHED IN MCMURRAY'S BOOK, THAT JOHN SHEA OR A FAMILY MEMBER, AT THE UFFORD FARM, HAD MARKED AS WELL…..AS BEING A POEM TO REMEMBER. YOU WON'T SEE MANY, (MORE LIKELY NONE) TO THIS IMPORTANT LOCAL PIECE, THAT IS PART OF OUR FOLK LORE AND CULTURE. IT IS A GEM OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT HAS BEEN LARGELY FORGOTTEN; BEING CONSIDERED TOO OLD TO MATTER ANY LONGER. AS A LONG SERVING SOCIAL / CULTURAL HISTORIAN, THIS KIND OF LOCAL WRITING, ESPECIALLY FROM THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD, IS DEFINITELY AN IMPORTANT PART OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT IS JUST AS RELEVANT TODAY AS IT WAS AS THE INK DRIED IN THIS FIRST MUSKOKA BOOK. YOU WILL FIND MANY OF THESE CULTURALLY SIGNIFICANT TEXTS, STILL REGALED IN STATES LIKE VERMONT AND CONNECTICUT, AND IN THE HINTERLAND OF QUEBEC, AND THEY SHOULD BE SIMILARLY CELEBRATED AND USED AND RE-USED FOR WHAT THEY REPRESENT OF THE PAST…..AS APPROPRIATE TO OUR BEAUTIFUL WINTER LANDSCAPE OF THE MODERN ERA.
HERE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PIONEER JOURNAL EDITORIALS - IN THE FORM OF A POEM.
THE SLEIGH RIDE
"Calm is the night, and clear and bright; the silver moon is shedding, a flood of light o'er the snow so white, and an icy glory spreading. In misty light the moon does lend her, and the starry vault of blue above, is sparkling bright with a frost splendor.
"Swiftly we bound o'er the frozen ground, gaily, joyously, cheerily; and our thoughts to keep time to the musical chime, of the sleigh bells tinkling merrily. For our hearts are attuned to the pleasing strains, of gladness, glee and innocent mirth; and we feel the sin has made dark stains, yet happiness lingers still on earth.
"In wrap and rug, right warm and snug, all care to the winds we fling; and laugh and song, as we speed along, make the silent forest ring. The distant owl our voices hears, and screams from the dark and lonely dell, in answer to our joyous cheers, a discordant, wild, unearthly yell.
"Faster we go - the frozen snow, from our horses feet is flying; the echoes long repeat our song, far in the distance dying. Our joyous brass exulting bound, and utterance find in gleeful voice, till rocks and hills, and dales resound, and even the gloomy woods rejoice.
"Our sleigh now glides where the river hides, under the ice bridges strong, where deep and low the waters flow, so silently along. And now it is past, and on we roam, by the frozen lake - snowy plain, past the gleaming lights of the settler's home, and away through the lonely wood again.
"The fall, it is they; we can see the spray, that the seething waters toss, like a glittering cloud, o'er that foaming flood; and now, as the bridge we cross, its echoing thunders louder grow, Check'd is our noisy mirth and song, and we stop and gaze where far below, the rolling torrent roars along.
"The trees that stand on either hand, are hung with icedrops fair - with gems of light and jewels so bright, and dazzling crystals rare - reflecting back each twinkling star, with a sparkling beauty, rich and grand, a glittering scene, surpassing far, our wildest dreams of fairy land.
"When swiftly past, in the roaring blast, the frost king sweeps his pride, his icy form the raging storm, and the mantling snow wreath hide. And unseen spirits the way prepare, wherever his royal feet would go, with dazzling carpets white and fair, and the crystal bridge where waters flow.
"I love the clink, on the frozen rink, of the skater's iron heel; The merry huzza of the boys at play, with their sleds, on the slippery hill; the long, long nights, by the bright fireside, in the joyous home where happiness dwells; and best of all, the merry sleigh-ride, and the musical chime of the tinkling bells."
This is the Muskoka heritage scene I love to recall. When we ponder our identity these days, I draw back to the old books, to see if I can find something remarkable to show the public…….that believe it or not, Muskoka was more than a pretty face….way back when. This is our cultural identity. And there's a lot more to explore. I will be presenting some of these social / cultural anchors and traditions, in the coming week of Christmas season blogs.
I hope each and every one had a restful and peaceful Christmas Day. Everyone here at Birch Hollow is pleasantly stuffed with treats of all sorts, and yet, will hungering anticipation, for the presentation later this evening, of the roast beast and all the festive trimmings. Suzanne has cut-off all treats from this point on, so we will be tantalized for the next several hours, by the heavenly aroma, of a turkey in the oven. At dinner, we will say a little prayer of remembrance, to those who used to gather around this pine harvest table on Christmas day. Suzanne's father, Norm Stripp (her mother Harriet passed away shortly after we were married), my parents, Merle and Ed, who always made the most out of our family holidays. Also in fond remembrance, are our dear friends, Dave Brown, our teacher friend from Hamilton, Suzanne's aunt and uncle, Ada and Jack Gillis, of Ufford, (where we used to spend our Christmas Eves, for so many years), and Alec Nagy, of Burlington, husband of Ann, who both looked after me as a wee lad, when my parents were at work. Alec died this past year. He was a kindly chap, who let me follow him during yard work and lawn mowing, and of this, I was the content voyeur child.
Other friends not with us this year, are my antique and collectible buddy, Jack Kiernan, formerly of Baysville, Charlie Wilson, my historical colleague, of Delaware, Roger Crozier, the subject N.H.L. goaltender, who gave me my start as a biographer….working on his story. They've all made an impact on this writer, including writing colleague, Wayland Drew, who is on my mind every time I sit as this desk…….as I stare at the collection of books he wrote, stored on my office shelf for easy reference, when admittedly, at times, I'm feeling uninspired. "Superior; The Haunted Shore," and "Brown's Weir," are my favorites, and you can tell by the signs of wear. There can be no greater compliment, I think, than having loyal readers.
What a beautiful day it has been in Muskoka…..especially here in Gravenhurst, where the sun has been shining most of the day. The fire has gone cold this afternoon, but I can hear Suzanne poking at the embers, to get up a fire for the early evening, and the celebration of our Christmas dinner. Thank you all, for joining me this Christmas season……and I remain, your humble servant. Please visit me again. There is always room for another guest.
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