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| Right Off The Shoes Of Hans Brinker. Rob Currie Photo |
HANS BRINKER'S WOODEN SKATES - FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I OWN SPEED SKATES MADE IN HOLLAND
"HANS BRINKER OR THE SILVER SKATES," WRITTEN BY MARY MAPES DODGE, CIRCA 1865
Probably you were doing the same thing as me in the wee hours; wandering aimlessly around in the middle of the night, wondering if the Wizard of Oz was replaying in South Muskoka. Listening to the rain, the wind, and wondering how long the power would be out on Christmas Day. I might have slept through the whole power outage and wind storm, if it wasn't for the fact we are downwind of at least two honking big generators, flanking the houses of our neighbors. As Birch Hollow is built on a cement pad, without a basement, the vibration drifts in waves through every board foot of the entire bungalow. The sound of these housebound "choppers," minus Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, kick-starting up, means there is no chance of sleeping through the power outage. Impossible without ear plugs. Even then, we can feel the vibration. I don't hate back-up generators, just the ones next to Birch Hollow. The biggest concern, other than the noise pollution very early on Christmas morning, was whether or not any of our trees have toppled over in the wind. We have a lot of trees on a small piece of property, and although I trim them regularly, we have a number of poplars that defy being cut-back, when they're fully grown. They just kind of topple in sections. The good news, at first light, was that all our trees were unscathed, except for the birches, that were a little thinner than before the big wind; but the clean-up of busted-off boughs was pretty light, in comparison to what some property owners found this morning. We heard the chainsaws whirring away, so this is a pretty fair sign something made of wood, had become lodged where it wasn't supposed to be.
The power came on before daylight, and the motorcycle engines strapped to my neighbors' houses were shut down. It was a gentle, charming Christmas morning for us afterall; but I'm sorry for those who had the complications of no power, and fallen trees on their property. It wasn't an entirely green Christmas, and there were a few snow flurries by early afternoon. Suzanne, as she likes to do at the old homestead, made so much food, we have been stuffed for most of the day with incredible edibles. There were lots of food and beverage given for Christmas presents this year, and I think that everyone got what they had asked for; or hinted about wanting for months in advance. I got my classic fare of craft beer and nice wine, and Suzanne got all kinds of bath and beauty accessories, and a wonderful array of preserves from around the world. We were spoiled by others, let me tell you. But there's no way this should be considered a complaint of the season. I feel fatter than our cats, that also enjoyed their presents from the Thomson family, as available at the Muskoka Animal Shelter. Son Robert has only had ten percent luck getting cat Zappa through the special "tunnel" and at one point got his head stuck trying. As for the catnip toy, that was a huge hit with our big Tommy, named "Angus."
SOMETHING SPECIAL FROM MY SON, AND I ONLY WISH I COULD STRAP THE SKATES ON, AND TAKE OFF LIKE THE SILVER STREAK
Andrew Currie is a pretty fair musician, according to critical review, and an accomplished buyer and seller of antiques, but it is his incredible memory that continually surprises me. Even in my youth, I had a sieve-like memory, so he definitely takes after his mother when it comes to recall. The reason I make this notation, for a Christmas Day blog, is that if refers to an amazing gift Andrew got me from an Orillia vintages shop, on Mississauga Street, known as "Carousel Collectables." I saw our friend Cindy, one of the shop representatives, speedily wrapping up something at the counter, while chatting with Andrew; they're good friends brought together by antiques and a mutual love for history and music. I thought it was a little early for Andrew to have already found something in the shop, and usually he runs items past us, just as we do with him. We are a family that critiques each others' purchases, except in areas of speciality. I don't ask Andrew about purchasing antiquarian books, and he doesn't usually ask me about vintage instrument purchases. It looked like Cindy was wrapping old drum sticks or something similar, that were long and slender. I am a very astute collector, hunter-gatherer, just not very good remembering stuff unless, well, I remember first off, to write down what is important for later-on. I sort of suspected he might be making a gift purchase, for his mother, because we like to give each other old stuff on special occasions, including birthdays. What does this have to do with Andrew's sharp memory?
When I was curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, over a period of twelve years, working on behalf of the Crozier Foundation, I was always looking for interesting sports relics for my exhibition. During this time, our family purchased many sports artifacts on our own dime, to display in the new glass showcases, former National Hockey League goaltender, Roger Crozier, had helped finance, constructed in the lobby of the Bracebridge Memorial Community Centre. Even before the showcases had been finished, I had managed to collect fifty pair of old leather skates, even a pair that had a Bracebridge-made sole from the Beardmore Tannery on the Muskoka River. I used to rotate them through the exhibits over the course of each year, showing early figure and hockey skates. In a Cookstown Antique Mall, I fancied a pair of really old wooden platform skates, that fastened onto boots for pond skating. At the time, I didn't have a lot of money to work with, and I hated bugging the Foundation for more acquisition money. I think, at that time, which has to be well more than a decade ago, the skates were priced at around one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I looked at those skates for at least three years, and I hated to leave them behind when I left on each visit, but even antique dealers have to walk away at times, despite the hankering deep within.
On each occasion, wee Andrew would try to encourage me to lay down the money, and make the wooden skates mine; and what a nice addition they would make to the other antique skates in the collection. By golly, Andrew remembered the wooden skates, and when he saw a similar but older, and much nicer pair, at Carousel Collectables, he whipped them off the display table as fast as he could, and hustled them over to the sales counter, so Cindy could wrap them before I could catch a glimpse. I had dropped Suzanne and Andrew at the door of the shop, while I went searching for a parking spot. When we were loading purchases in the car, on the day we visited Orillia, I was struck by the shape of the wrapped item in the shopping bag, at the back of the vehicle, and asked Andrew what he had purchased for the shop. I just assumed it was something musical he planned to sell in his vintage guitar shop in Gravenhurst. I tried to move it once out of the car, and he slapped my wrist. "It's okay right where it is, so keep your hands off." Of course I got suspicious. Who wouldn't under circumstances like this, and the fact we antiques dealers have a nose for vintage pieces, wherever they are!
I was pretty shocked when I opened the present in front of Andrew, this morning, and after unwrapping layers for about ten minutes, got to the treasure within. Here were a pair of late 1800's wooden platform speed skates, made in Holland, where the famous 1860's story, of "Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates," was based, and although Andrew didn't know it, "Hans Brinker," was the first book my parents gave me, for Christmas, back when I was about seven years of age. It's been a while between book and skates, but it was worth the wait. Andrew had made the purchase, because of all the times I had left the skates, back at that Cookstown Antique Mall, which by the way, burned down, undoubtedly destroying those old skates I had wanted for long and long. I was astonished that Andrew remembered how much I had wanted the wooden skates, and despite not being the curator of the collection any longer, I have still maintained my interest in vintage skating memorabilia. There is another connection, and it has to do with my kin folk from Holland.
It has only been in the past year, that I began to appreciate my own Dutch connection, via the emigrants who settled in New York in the 1600's, by the family name "Vandervoorte," who settled in the area of the Hudson River, to potentially having been in the imagined village of "Sleepy Hollow," as written by author Washington Irving, into the text of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Gradually, I am learning more about my Dutch ancestry, which I find almost incredible, considering that, as long as my parents were alive, the only family history known, was that the Jacksons and Sandercocks, who were originally from the Liverpool area of England. Even though my mother used to tell me about her grandmother, who she referred to as being of the "Pennsylvania Dutch," which meant German more so than Dutch in ancestry. It turns out that my great grandmother was a Vandervoorte, and on her side of the family tree, Suzanne, our resident researcher, found the mix between German and Dutch emigrants to America back in the mid 1600's. It was just kind of neat then, to get a pair of well made, and beautifully crafted wooden skates, actually made in Holland more than a century ago. If one can truly be smitten by inanimate objects, I am thusly and soundly smitten. I don't think I'll strap them on, because I wouldn't know how, and they are for feet much larger than mine. They are wonderful reminders of skating as it was in the days of Hans Brinker, one of my favorite old time stories.
I hope you managed, despite the big wind storm, to have a Merry Christmas. By golly, just now I had to unfasten my pants, because I ate way too much dinner, and was in danger of exploding here in the living room. What a downer that would have been. We are back in the shop tomorrow, because Robert and Andrew are putting on a vinyl sale; and we've got some musician friends planning to drop in, which explains why Suzanne has just started mixing-up ingredients to make brownies. That's right! We always have treats available for these hard working folks, who enjoy the occasional respite at Andrew's Music. Sometimes they "jam" (play) in the studio with Andrew and Robert, and Suzanne and I kick back and enjoy the music.
We love this festive week at the store, and enjoy all the folks who visit and share their Christmas stories, travels and adventures.
ALL OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOODS -
WHAT TO DO WITH THE MEMORIES?
I’M LEAVING THAT UP TO MY SONS AND GRANDKIDS!
In a notebook I keep by my livingroom chair, I occasionally jot down story ideas. Not invented stories but ones that I believe my biography should contain. Reminiscences I want my grandkids to know about. I’m pretty sure my grown sons, know how important my childhood recollections are......because I’ve been droning on and on for years, about stuff I’m sure they couldn’t care less about. It has relevance in the grand scheme but on the short haul, it doesn’t make much difference if I tossed green apples at roof tops, or played “nicky-nicky nine doors” till the cows came home. It is what it is. Important to me. Annoying chatter to them, when they’ve got more important things to do,....... than reminisce about something and someplace they never visited.
I don’t know how you feel about your own childhood neighborhood. Some were better than others, admittedly, and some may wish to forget about certain unfortunate, unhappy events and circumstances. Maybe you’d rather forget about childhood generally because of bad memories. I’ve always had a mid-zone approach. There’s lots of periods I’d rather forget but I know I can’t. Like when my parents argued and argued and argued. My dad had a free-flowing Irish arrogance, often drank too much, was jealous to a fault, and could be a social problem if given all the right conditions. My mother was determined and feisty, and soldiered-on despite the grief my father could raise from the most innocent of perceived offences.
Ed didn’t have the best childhood either, and spent a lot of time, with his brothers, wards of the province. Having come from the tough Cabbagetown neighborhood, in Toronto, he was raised to be tough, and relentlessly hardened by reality. Fatherless, responsible for the family welfare most of the time, he’d learned that being gentle meant being vulnerable. He never gave the appearance of being a push-over that’s for sure. It made my mother’s life tough, and I often stepped between them, willing to risk my own neck to keep the cruiser away from the door. My peace of course, is that they patched their marriage up, Ed changed into a much kinder human being, and my mother was pleased to have calmer waters in the final decades of their life together. While I still prefer to dwell on happier times, I’m still abundantly aware, after many years, that it’s necessary to confront the adversity of personal history. It’s also true that there were many more good times than bad, in our family, and my love for the old neighborhood, in Bracebridge, Ontario will never dwindle.
The note I made last evening, was really for my lads, Andrew and Robert, who will inherit this journal and all my years of story-inscribing in these blogs......and in the stacks of publications I’ve, at one time or another, contributed columns. The note was about a game of road hockey I want them to play, some snowy Christmas Eve (after I’ve departed this mortal coil), up on that block of Alice Street where I played a thousands games during my years on the hill......Hunt’s Hill, that is! I want them to link the tradition of those years with their present, in celebration of good times in old places dear to our hearts. I want them to just show up, with sticks, ball and toques, chip off four big chunks of snow for goal-posts (as we did because we couldn’t afford nets), and with their buddies and family members, set up for a three period memorial game in my honor. How vain is this? Well, it doesn’t have to be a memorial. Just a “for fun” gathering that rekindles an activity us Hunt’s Hill / Alice Street kids enjoyed every day of the cold winter in Muskoka. We continued games on asphalt when the snow cover melted away but we played, and played. It didn’t matter that we were short changed a neighborhood park or even a big parking lot we could set up a makeshift arena. The road, as bumpy as it was, served our interests just fine.
It might seem a tad morbid to be planning your own tribute hockey game, but my boys will know just how passionate I have been in life, about preserving family legacies.....and keeping important traditions alive. I want them, in their lives, to know that good and memorable times have very little to do with money, and the privilege that can buy. We were a modest neighborhood and very few of us had money to spare. We lived from pay cheque to pay cheque like everyone else, and those on fixed incomes had gardens in their backyards, and they canned fruit and vegetables every fall, after the modest harvest. We had to be frugal. We didn’t care, or even think about hardship......we were too busy being thankful for our own blessings, our own daily rewards. We were too busy living to worry about what we didn’t have, or what others did. When we commenced the ball hockey game of the day, or under the lamplight for evening games, all differences were forgotten and we listened instead, to the lucky bloke selected to be Foster Hewitt, who would joyfully provide the game’s play by play. If you’d asked any one of us at that moment, what it was like to be poor, we wouldn’t have known how to respond. I knew my family couldn’t afford new boots because my feet were always wet, and most of us were playing with broken sticks we found at the arena, with short shafts and half blades, because we couldn’t buy new ones. Poor? We were resourceful more than we were poor. Rich kids called us that when they saw the soles of our shoes flapping and slapping noisely at recess, or when we had to wear the same clothes day after day....but it wasn’t the kind of slur we found hard to live with.
I’m fond of my old neighborhood for what it didn’t have. The was no need to offer an apology when a shared dinner was meatloaf, and “everything-in-it stew,” or cheese-dusted macaroni. Many of my mates enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches my mother made for intermissions....washed down with cold glasses of water to tide us over for another period of rigorous play.
The pay-off of all this modesty, was finishing dinner, and getting the chance to have yet another game of road hockey.....or in the spring, a pick-up game of baseball....the fall, a game of football on the modest grid-iron of our small front lawn. It was a safe and caring neighborhood, and for all that it didn’t have, it was blessed with an unpretentious honor, we upheld, wherever and whenever a show of prowess was required. We had many sporting encounters with other neighborhoods, and I would say Hunt’s Hill was always a top contender.
I want my boys to take their kids up to that sort stretch of old asphalt, to play just one more game, and to think, not just about their old dad, but about all the aspiring athletes, who had such great fun making the best out of every day in a worthy hometown. Maybe they’ll hear the echo of cheers and voices from legend, and the faint play by play of Randy Carswell, an import to the neighborhood, who always volunteered to be Foster Hewitt......and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want the boys, or family, to get misty eyed about my request, or get caught up in a perpetual mood of sympathy and mourning. I’ve had a damn fine life, with no regrets about choices I’ve made. I’d like to think they would find a connection with me, they’ve never really had in our time together,..... as team-mates (in spirit) not just the tedium of the father / sons relationship. Because I’d be there, on that snowy Christmas Eve, in my ghost-wear, just as I played every Christmas Eve for my entire tenure at the Alice Street apartments. During a truly enjoyable time of my life.....when kids spent most of their days outdoors, and even more time wondering what it would be like if this stretch of frozen roadway, was actually Maple Leaf Gardens, the lamplight, the beam over centre ice, the limelight of the official face-off.
I suppose you and I do have some warm memories of the places we used to live.......afterall!
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