A River Runs Through It and Of Course Happy New Year 2016

HAVE A HAPPY NEW YEAR, FOLKS, FROM ALL OF US AT BIRCH HOLLOW / GRAVENHURST


     I want readers of this blog, to know how much I appreciate their ongoing support. It has been a difficult task this year, moreso than in years past, because, well, the old body is letting me know, that it doesn't want to be hunched over a laptop for five hours every day. I am a beast this way, that's for sure. I have hurt myself quite severely, but I've enjoyed every minute of it! I don't drink or smoke, and I am no longer a womanizer, so gosh, having a vice in writing is pretty mild when it comes right down to the decision to pack-it-in, to see if my back and neck improve, or become a professional golfer to occupy my time, in between hunting books and antiques.
     I have a lot of plans for the New Year and this blog, and I hope you will stick with me, as I try to fit all the loose bits and bobs together.
     This may seem daft to admit this, because if you've read this column for more than a couple of weeks, you would appreciate how much I am devoted to the maintenance of status quo. I don't like change, and even if it's God's will, it doesn't mean I suddenly change my mind, if commonplace for me, or us, as a family, is shattered for whatever reason. It's ridiculous, I know, but it's the way I operate, and when something profound happens, it will take me ages to re-adjust to the new reality. This is pretty much taken for granted when it involves God's plan. I'm pretty sure God doesn't care too much whether I can get along with his shift of the new normal, and lets me complain to my heart's content.
     This morning, was son Robert's last day living at home, which we call with affection, Birch Hollow, and his mother and I were both fighting back the tears, because even at twenty-eight, we still consider him our baby. He has lived at home as a sort of subsidy arrangement, while building his music business, which he shares with his brother Andrew. He has done so well recently, that he has decided to break away from our version of Walton's Mountain, and get his own digs in a local apartment. We are happy for the little guy, who is over six feet tall in his bare feet, but it is not the same around here, even after a few hours of his absence. Let me explain why I'm having a tough time, more so than Suzanne, who, as a former teacher, is used to seeing kids, looking like they should still be in public school, become graduating adults, in such a short span of time, eager to get started building their empires.
     My problem, I think moreso, is the fact I was a Mr. Mom from the third month of Andrew's young life, and I was an at-home parent for their entire school career. If they were home sick, dad (Mr. Mom) was sitting at bedside or close by. I began my lengthy stint as a Mr. Mom because it was easier for me to write at home, and do the antique thing, than it was to live without Suzanne's better paying job, which would have required a leave of absence that we couldn't really afford. It was a best case scenario, and we survived this way right up until a few years ago, when she retired, and together we stepped out together, to open up the antique shop portion of our family business, in Gravenhurst. We've reached a time in our lives, and family maturity, when the wee lad decided it was time to leave the nest, which facing reality, was a ten year bend of time, but needed, in order to bolster economics to advance his business concerns. It all worked; every thing we set out to do, has been realized successfully. I should be delighted, and feel satisfied our role change, to stay with the kids, when they were younger, was pulled off without a hitch.
     But I feel somewhat blindsided, none the less, by the empty nest feeling, even though we still have one son living at home. Robert has only been gone for less than a day, and I'm already feeling as if I have been abandoned. My mother used to call that "feeling sorry for myself." Yup, that's what it is alright. I had no idea I was cheating time as much as I had, by having the little fellows together, just like the good old days, when they played with Lego and Hot Wheels from sunrise to sunset. I sat in his room a while ago, and found myself pining for a return to the simpler family times, as a sort of Peter Pan ideal. Many of us have felt like this, and I'm told it is a short-lived feeling, replaced by new projects and, maybe another pet or two to fill the empty space.
     This was all I could write today, feeling a little indifferent about the future, for various reasons, I'm sure are all part of the same situation of realizing one's age, is greater than once thought, and usefulness becomes a whole new issue for consideration.
     Anyway, it's New Year's and we're supposed to be happy, right. Well, bring it on! Thanks for visiting with me, and appreciating just how silly an old writer can get, when his status quo is challenged by the reality of time forever moving forward, as it is supposed to!

     Please be safe out there, walking, or driving.

  A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT, MY OLD HOME TOWN

  I nearly drowned in the Muskoka River, once upon a time. I saw my wee life pass before me, and it was a short review. A rather pathetic replay, truth be known, to show for all my many exciting adventures to that point.
    I was fifteen years old, and I came within a hair's breadth of being on display, in all my lost youth, at the local funeral home. So when I write or talk about the Muskoka River, I do so with the greatest reverence. I survived a frightening encounter with its undertow; and what had appeared so gentle and soothing, in casual recreation, possessed, in stark contrast, a serpent's constriction of invisible current.
    It was the first warning I was given, less than twenty-four hours, after we arrived as new permanent residents, of the Town of Bracebridge. "Stay away from the river," my mother warned me, as I put on my winter boots, with the failing sole, and my coat that had been repaired at least twenty times, to the point you could see all of Merle's scattering, of less than proficient stitches, on the shoulders and arms. She was more concerned that I would drown, in the black water of the Muskoka River, than die of wet feet or from the chill-wind, cutting through my old parka.
    When we lived in Burlington, up on Harris Crescent, a block off Lakeshore Road, Merle warned me to "Stay away from the lake," instead, which meant that while I could play in the ravine of Ramble Creek, I was forbidden to cross through the conduit under the road, which would have put me on the slippery rocks of the lakeshore. So in Burlington Merle worried I might be swept away by a wave on Lake Ontario, and in Bracebridge, she figured my curiosity, the lure of adventure, would pull me to the bank of the Muskoka River. She was right, you know. I frequently arrived on the rocks of the lake, in Burlington, after a short, wet hike, and I spent a good portion of my youth, sitting with mates, and swimming off the embankment of Bass Rock, southeast of the rapids, and Wilson's Falls, on the North Branch of the Muskoka River.
    I've been indebted to water for enhancing my life, in so many ways. At the same time, I have to admit, that despite my mother's most emphatic warnings, I nearly drowned on four occasions. First of all, I fell through the thin ice over a chest-deep pool on Ramble Creek, one spring afternoon, wearing a bulky snowsuit. Which by the way, immediately acted like a bladder, trapping gallons of creek water. My mother always warned me to stay away from the creek as well, in the spring of the year. I just didn't listen. I almost drowned in Lake Muskoka, at Kirby's Beach, after my chum, Al Hillman, jumped off a dock onto my head, knocking me out temporarily. I came to in the knick of time, because no one knew I'd been injured as a result. Then I almost succumbed to exhaustion, while trying to swim across Bass Rock, and once again, Al was with me. We had been on the opposite side of the river, and our mates were on the west, or downtown side. As they wanted to head downtown for an ice cream cone, after swimming, and Al and I were too lazy to go all the way around, and down Hunt's Hill, we decided to swim across, like we had done about ten thousand times. The only difference, is that we had to bring our dry clothes across, meaning we had to keep one arm in the air, while we dog-paddled with the other. Al was wearing diving flippers, so he was across the narrows of Bass Rock, in less than a minute. I wasn't a great swimmer to begin with, and I got caught by the current, and pulled down toward the larger bay, south of the same narrows.
    The danger of this, was that entering the bay, as the current pulled me downstream, was the reality the distance to shore doubled and tripled the further along I was pulled, because of the shape of the bay. Add to this, the fact I dropped my arm and the clothes I had elevated, thusly submerged, quadrupling in weight. None of my mates had any idea what had happened, and were getting ready to head downtown. I dropped some of the clothing, worrying less at that moment, about my mother being mad, at lost attire, than if I had become a casualty of her greatest fear; the river. I could have drowned and my chums, who were all good lads, wouldn't have thought it odd, until halfway uptown. "Where's Ted?" "Oh, he'll catch up." By that point, I would probably have been cast over the falls, to add insult to a drowning victim. It was my fault on several counts. When I got home that night, Merle seemed to know that her son had come within a whisker of drowning, just by the look of me coming through the door. I was also wet, which kind of gave the swimming part away, but she never said a word about my missing shirt, socks and dress pants. I'd thrown my shoes across the river before I got into the water that evening. So the Muskoka River spared me.
    There are hundreds of former residents who weren't as fortunate. From pioneer times to the present, a lot of lives have been lost in the deep running currents of that black snaking river, that looks so picturesque on post cards, and in tourism videos.
    As I've written about many times previously, in these blogs, I was nearly drowned, as was my wife Suzanne, as well, during a canoe mishap, on the South Branch of the Muskoka River, during the annual Muskoka Shield Canoe Race. We toppled out of the canoe in a small rapids, and we weren't wearing life jackets. After some precarious moments trying to balance, in the middle of the rapids, we were rescued by Dan Lacroix and his daughter, Angie, a father-daughter team entered into the event.  A few moments longer, and I would have lost my balance, and fallen right into the area of the rapids, where the undertow would have been strongest. Suzanne had an injured hand, and couldn't use it to swim free of the rapids. So we survived because of the proximity of our rescuers. 
    If you were to conduct a modern day survey, to ask permanent residents, especially in the urban area of town, most exposed to the river, whether or not they think of the waterway frequently, some times, seldom, or not at all, the results would be predictable. If you were to ask, regardless of the answer to the first question, whether or not they considered the Muskoka River part of their psyche, living in Bracebridge, I doubt there would be anyone who would answer affirmatively. It's not something we think about, as such, unless we are boating on it, or swimming in its chill water. From an historical perspective, the Muskoka River, being the north and south branches, has been part of the characteristic of this community, dating back to the first explorers and surveyors. The river has provided a canoe route, a navigation link, a power source, a water resource, and the means of transporting logs to mill sites. The first settlers selected this location because of the cataract, of the present Bracebridge Falls, which in the very early 1860's, was known as "North Falls." The larger of the cataracts, but located on the South Branch, was known as "The Great Falls." The falls and the navigable waters, represented economic potential, and a connectedness with the wider Lake Muskoka, and Gravenhurst, where the first steamship was launched.
    In those early years of town history, the river was all important to economic development, and future prosperity. From a toppled pine tree, that served as an inaugural bridge across the rapids, above the falls, to the construction of several major iron linkages, across the waterway, this permanent relationship with the river became part of the culture of the hamlet, village and then town. It became so ingrained in fact, that most residents probably would have answered the questions above, roughly the same as they would today; denying that they spend much time at all, thinking about the "river that runs through it!" I know differently. It is a quality and quantity of living in Bracebridge. It is just a deeply imbedded reality. We know it's there, and we see it numerous times each day and week, but it never seems a rite of passage, or necessity, to analyze its social / cultural or spiritual connotation. It is what it is! Or maybe there's more to it!
    I will never forget the amplification of the daily train horns, and the roar of the engines and long line of cars, that echoed and throbbed through the deep river valley, through the four seasons. It was part of my life then, as it is for residents today.

What A Feeling To Hold Civil War Sword

United States Medical Staff Sword from the American Civil War, owned by Federal Army Surgeon from Illinois. Was worn during battles in the deep south.

THE FEELING OF HISTORY - HOLDING A CIVIL WAR SWORD IS PRETTY NEAT

THE PERKS OF THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION

      A FRIEND OF OURS, AND BUSINESS ASSOCIATE, JUST THIS MOMENT, BROUGHT US IN, BRAND SPANKING NEW, TWO AND A HALF DOZEN, FARM FRESH EGGS. MUSKOKA COLLECTABLES OF THE "EATING-KIND." HE WOULDN'T TAKE ANY MONEY. IT'S CRAZY AROUND HERE. GADS, WE GET ALL KINDS OF FREE STUFF. WE TRY TO OFFER RE-PAYMENT, BUT WE'RE SELDOM EVER SUCCESSFUL. SO WE DO THE ONLY OTHER THING POSSIBLE. SUZANNE OFFERS THEM OUR FRESH BAKED COOKIES AS A MINOR RE-PAYMENT. SINCE WE HAVE BEEN ON THIS MAIN STREET, AS PART OF THE RETAIL COMMUNITY, I CAN'T ADEQUATELY EXPLAIN, THE INCREDIBLE NUMBER OF KIND GESTURES, AND DONATIONS OF ARTICLES, WE'VE RECEIVED. THERE ARE A LOT OF BUSINESS COMMUNITY AND TOWN SITUATIONS WE'RE NOT FUSSY ABOUT, BUT HONESTLY, THE GENEROSITY OF OUR FRIENDS AND CUSTOMERS, IS SOMETHING FANTASTIC, AND THE REASON WE LOVE BEING A HOMETOWN BUSINESS HERE. AND WE DO LIKE TO THINK WE ARE REPRESENTING THIS COMMUNITY, TO THE BEST OF OUR CAPABILiTIES. THE OTHER DAY, WE WERE GIVEN A PUMP ORGAN, FOR GOSH SAKES, BY ANOTHER GENEROUS CITIZEN, WHO HAD GIVEN THE FORMER CHURCH PIECE, TO HIS WIFE, AS A PRE-WEDDING GIFT, MANY YEARS AGO. AS IT WAS IN STORAGE, YET A BEAUTIFUL PIECE TO SHARE WITH OTHER, HE THOUGHT WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE IT FOR OUR STUDIO. IT'S NOW HERE AND READY TO PLAY. COME HAVE A LOOK. ASK US ABOUT GIVING IT A WHIRL. WHAT NICE PEOPLE WE HAVE IN THIS TOWN AND REGION, WHO ARE ALWAYS WILLING TO SHARE WITH OTHERS.

     IT IS ANOTHER RAINY SPRING DAY. WE DON'T NEED FOR THE WELFARE OF THE WATERSHED. MY LAWN AT BIRCH HOLLOW, FEELS PRETTY MARSHY UNDER-FOOT, AND THE INTERSECTING CREEKS THROUGH THE BOG, ARE SHOWING SOME WHITE-WATER, AS THE VOLUME OF RUN-OFF IS STILL HEAVY FROM THE SPRING MELT OF A MOUNTAIN OF SNOW. IT WOULD BE NICE TO SEE THE SUN FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS, BACK TO BACK, BUT AT LEAST WE DIDN'T SUFFER FROM THE HUNDREDS OF TORNADOES THAT TOUCHED-DOWN IN THE UNITED STATES, THIS WEEK; CAUSING SEVERE DAMAGE AND LOSS OF LIFE. SO WE ARE FORTUNATE AND WE NEED TO THINK ABOUT THIS, WHEN WE START GRUMBLING ABOUT THE GLOOMY DAYS OF SPRING.

      IT DOESN'T HAPPEN ALL THE TIME. SELDOM ACTUALLY. BUT THERE ARE A FEW OCCASIONS, WHEN WE GET LUCKY. SOMETHING IS WALKED INTO OUR DOMAIN, THAT REALLY APPEALS TO OUR INNER HISTORIAN. WHEN IT DOES, WELL, YOU HAVE TO PAUSE FOR A LITTLE HISTORIC RECREATION. TRUE, WE GET OUR JOLLIES FROM DIFFERENT SOURCES THAN MOST OTHERS. WHEN, FOR EXAMPLE, A FRIEND ASKS YOU TO DO A LITTLE RESEARCH ON AN ARTIFACT THEY OWN. NOT BECAUSE THEY WANT TO SELL THE ITEM. RATHER, THEY WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE ANTIQUE OR COLLECTABLE, AND OFTEN, VALUE HAS VERY LITTLE TO DO WITH THE EXERCISE. THEY JUST WANT TO KNOW THE HISTORY OF THE MAKER, THE DATE IT WAS CRAFTED, WHERE IT WAS MADE, WHERE IT WAS USED, AND ANY OTHER RELATED PROVENANCE WE CAN FIND. YOU PROBABLY HAVE HEIRLOOM PIECES THAT YOU KNOW A LITTLE ABOUT, BUT NOT AS MUCH AS YOU WOULD LIKE. WE HAVE HUNDREDS OF CURIOUS COLLECTABLES LIKE THIS, THAT WE'RE STILL WORKING ON. SO, TO SOME DEGREE, WE'VE FAILED OURSELVES, BY NOT BEING ABLE TO NAVIGATE CERTAIN OBSTACLES OF INFORMATION GATHERING. WE CAN'T GUARANTEE, WE'RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE SPOT-ON WITH OUR INVESTIGATIONS. BUT IT SURE IS NICE WHEN YOU CAN RETRIEVE AND RE-ASSEMBLE, THE MAJOR PIECES OF THE PUZZLE. EACH PRESENTS SPECIAL CHALLENGES AND WE LIKE THAT, BECAUSE SUZANNE AND I WERE BORN TO COMPETE. JUST GO AHEAD AND TELL US THERE'S SOMETHING WE CAN'T DO! WE MIGHT FAIL AT IT, BUT WE'VE FALLEN OFF THE PROVERBIAL HORSE MANY TIMES.

     JUST TO BE CLEAR, WE AREN'T RUNNING ANTIQUE APPRAISAL CLINICS, OR CHARGING A FEE FOR OUR SERVICES. IT'S SIMPLY BECAUSE WE'RE NOT EXPERTS OR QUALIFIED APRAISORS, SUCH THAT WE COULD PROVIDE VALUATIONS FOR INSURANCE PURPOSES. AS WE ARE ALWAYS LEARNING, MOSTLY BY IMMERSION, WE, ALMOST DAILY, COME FACE TO FACE WITH OUR LIMITATIONS. WE ADMIT TO OURSELVES OPENLY, AND WITHOUT RESERVATION, THAT WE HAVE SHORTFALLS. ADMITTING WE NEED TO FIND OUT MORE INFORMATION ABOUT SOMETHING, WE'RE HANDLING AT THE TIME, ISN'T A SIGN OF WEAKNESS. EVEN WHEN WE DO PURCHASE ARTICLES OVER THE COUNTER, WE ALWAYS INSIST ON TIME TO RESEARCH THE ITEM(S), BEFORE WE MAKE A DEAL. I'M CERTAINLY NOT A MIRROR OF PATIENCE, AS A CIVILIAN, YET IN THE ANTIQUE BUY AND SELL, IT'S AN ESSENTIAL PART OF THE JOB, TO BE PATIENT AND OBSESSIVE ABOUT PROVENANCE, QUALITY, AND CONDITION. BUT IF YOU WANT TO MAKE A GOOD DEAL, YOU HAVE TO POSSESS ALL THE PERTINENT INFORMATION. AS I'VE SAID BEFORE, THIS IS NOT A PROFESSION THAT HAS A LIMIT TO WHAT YOU CAN LEARN, TO BE A TRUE SCHOLAR OF ANTIQUITIES ETC.

    WE CAN DEFINITELY PROVIDE INFORMATION TO INFILL THE STORY, BUT ALAS, POSSIBLY NOT THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER. WE GIVE IT OUR BEST TRY. WE DO KNOW MUSKOKA COLLECTABLES BETTER THAN MOST, BUT LESS THAN SOME OF MY COLLECTOR FRIENDS, LIKE BOB BOOTH, WHO I CONSIDER A SORT OF PROFESSOR OF ALL THINGS MUSKOKA. FOR BOB, WHO IS AS MUCH AN HISTORIAN AS SOMEONE WITH A FRAMED DIPLOMA, AND UNIVERSITY CREDITS, HAS SUCH A DEEP AND PROFOUND LOVE AND RESPECT FOR REGIONAL AND CANADIAN HISTORY, THAT I CAN'T RESIST ENGAGING HIM IN HERITAGE DISCUSSIONS EVERY TIME WE MEET. SUZANNE SAID YESTERDAY, WHEN HE VISITED, THAT WE SHOULD REALLY TAPE RECORD OUR TALKS FOR THE POSTERITY OF FUTURE GENERATIONS OF HISTORICAL-TYPES. I'VE BEEN MARRIED TO THE WOMAN THIRTY-ONE YEARS, AND I STILL DON'T KNOW WHEN SHE'S MAKING FUN OF ME. I THINK SHE WAS SINCERE ABOUT THIS PART.

    ACTUALLY, I WORKED ON A PROJECT, FOR THE MUSKOKA BOARD OF EDUCATION, BACK IN 1978, WITH THE MANDATE OF RECORDING HERITAGE TALKS, WITH MUSKOKA'S SENIOR CITIZENS; THE IDEA WAS TO CREATE A HERITAGE RESOURCE KIT, FOR LOCAL STUDIES, AND I THINK IT'S STILL BEING USED BY THE TRILLIUM LAKELAND DISTRICT SHCOOL BOARD. SO I KIND OF AGREE, THAT ONE DAY, WE SHOULD JUST PLOP DOWN A MICROPHONE, AND START TRADING SOME COLLECTOR STORIES, LIKE WE DID FOR THREE HOURS YESTERDAY. DO YOU KNOW WHAT? NOT ONCE IN THE MARATHON CONVERSATION, DID WE BRING UP MONEY, OR APPRAISED VALUES. WE DISCUSSED THE HISTORICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF SOME OF OUR MOST MEMORABLE FINDS, NOT HOW MUCH WE COULD, OR HAD PROFITED FROM THEM, AT THE TIME OF SALE. MOST OF OUR CHERISHED PIECES, TRUTH BE KNOWN, ARE STILL IN OUR RESPECTIVE COLLECTIONS.

    I ALWAYS ATTACH MYSELF TO PEOPLE, LIKE BOB, WHO HAVE A SIMILAR AFFECTIONS FOR ARTIFACTS, OF ALL DESCRIPTIONS, AND THEIR PLACE IN OUR CHRONICLE. I HAD THESE SAME NO-HOLDS BARRED DISCUSSIONS WITH HISTORIANS LIKE DAVE BROWN, HUGH MACMILLAN, ED PHELPS AND WAYLAND DREW IN THE PAST, AND ALWAYS CAME OUT OF THEM, A LITTLE EXHAUSTED, BUT THOROUGHLY DELIGHTED WITH WHAT NEW INFORMATION I HAD ACQUIRED. TALKING ABOUT THE LEGACY OF BIRCH BARK CANOES, WITH EXPERT, RICK NASH, WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITE CASUAL TUTORIALS. WHAT A WEALTH OF KNOWLEDGE THIS MAN POSSESSES OF THOSE LEGENDARY WATERCRAFT, BUILT BY THE FIRST NATION PEOPLE, OF NORTH AMERICA. THERE'S A LOT TO BE SAID ABOUT LEARNING BY IMMERSION, AND EXPOSURE, TO WHAT WE WANT TO LEARN MORE ABOUT.

    I MAY NOT HAVE LIKED HIGH SCHOOL HISTORY, BUT EVERYTHING SINCE HAS BEEN A BLAST. I TELL THIS TO STARTING-OUT COLLECTORS, AND SOON-TO-BE DEALERS, WHENEVER I'M AFFORDED THE OPPORTUNITY. THIS KIND OF LEARNING IS OUTRAGEOUS FUN. SOMETIMES SO MUCH, THAT IT SEEMS FRIVOLOUS. NOT SO! AS A HALLMARK, IT IS HOWEVER, AS MUCH A MEANS OF STABILITY, IN A PROFESSION THAT CAN GO WONKY FAST, THRUSTING ONE DOWN INTO A DEEP PIT OF REGRET. WHEN MISTAKES, SOME MORE CAREER THREATENING THAN OTHERS, ARE MADE, KNOWLEDGE AND EXPERIENCE, CAN HELP FOSTER A SPEEDY, AND EFFECTIVE RECOVERY. AND BECAUSE KNOWLEDGE IS A LOAD-BEARING PILLAR OF ALL LEVELS OF COLLECTING, THROUGH WHAT COULD BE A LONG CAREER, ONGOING EDUCATION, IN ALL ITS FORMS, PROVIDES A RELIABLE PLATFORM ON WHICH TO BUILD. IT'S JUST PART OF THE OLD BALL GAME. ASK VETERAN DEALERS AND COLLECTORS IF THIS IS THE CASE. ASK THEM ABOUT THEIR MOST SERIOUS ERROR IN JUDGEMENT, AS COLLECTORS, AND THE TIMES THEY MISTAKENLY IDENTIFIED A PIECE, AND SOLD IT OFF FOR A FRACTION OF THE VALUE. WE'VE ALL DONE IT. SPENT TOO MUCH ON ACQUISITIONS, AND GOT TOO LITTLE RETURN ON OUR INVESTMENTS. IN EACH CASE, IT WAS THE RESULT OF NOT KNOWING AS MUCH AS WE SHOULD HAVE, TO MAKE INFORMED DECISIONS. I STILL WATCH DEALER ASSOCIATES TAKING BIG RISKS, ON CERTAIN ANTIQUE PIECES, THAT I WOULDN'T TOUCH, AS THEY SAY, "WITH A BARGE POLE." SOMETIMES I'M WRONG, AND THEY SELL THE ITEMS FOR A LARGE PROFIT. SOMETIMES, I FEEL VALIDATED, WHEN THEY COME TO ME, TO SEE IF I'LL BUY IT FROM THEM, FOR SALE IN MY SHOP. IT ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN.

    WITH OUR HISTORICAL BACKGROUND, AND RESEARCH SKILLS, WE CAN, IN MOST CASES, IDENTIFY ARTIFACTS AND ANTIQUES, TO A CERTAIN POINT OF CLARIFICATION. WHICH MEANS, SOME INFORMATION WILL NEVER BE KNOWN, BECAUSE A PREVIOUS OWNER TOOK THE STORY TO HIS OR HER GRAVE. IN SOME CASES, THIS MIGHT MEAN "MANY GRAVES" OVER THE GENERATIONS OF PAST OWNERS. WE DO WHAT WE CAN, AND FOR SOME OF THE MORE INTERESTING PIECES, WE ASK, AS PAYMENT, TO BE ABLE TO DO A STORY ON THE ARTICLE FOR THIS BLOG, OR PUBLICATIONS OF WHICH I AM AFFILIATED. CHANCES ARE, WHAT INTERESTS US, WILL BE OF GENERAL INTEREST TO OTHERS. WE LIKE SHARING THE EXPERIENCE OF BEING AROUND THESE HEIRLOOM PIECES. AND BY THE WAY, THE "HEIRLOOM" ASPECT IS USUALLY WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT, SUCH AS IN THE CASE OF THE CIVIL WAR ERA CEREMONIAL SWORD, PHOTOGRAPHED ABOVE. IT'S NOT FOR SALE BUT WE'RE SO GLAD WE HAD THE CHANCE TO EXPLORE ITS RICH LEGACY, WHICH GOES BACK TO THE PRESENTATION YEAR, 1862, AND THE MEDICAL CORP OF THE FEDERAL ARMY.

     IRONIC, THAT I HAVE JUST BEEN WRITING ABOUT A CIVIL WAR BOOK, I OWN, SIGNED BY A CONFEDERATE ARMY SOLDIER, AND WATCHING THE MOVIE "GETTYSBURG," STARRING (IN A MINOR CAPACITY OF SOLDIERING), OUR OLD FRIEND, TOM BROOKS, OF GRAVENHURST, RE-ENACTING THE EPIC BATTLE. KARMA? COINCIDENCE? WHEN OUR FAMILY FRIEND CAME INTO THE SHOP, WITH THE CIVIL WAR SWORD, TUCKED UNDER HIS ARM, AND THE BUTTONS OF THE DOCTOR'S FEDERAL UNIFORM, IN A NICE FRAME, GADS, WE WERE SPEECHLESS. FOR HOURS, THAT FIRST DAY, WE HANDED THE SWORD BACK AND FORTH AMONGST OUR FAMILY MEMBERS, AND HAD OUR RESPECTIVE POINTY NOSES, GLUED TO THE GLASS OF THE SHADOW BOX, TO EXAMINE WHAT A CIVIL WAR COAT BUTTON LOOKED LIKE. WHILE YOU CAN GET A LOT OF INFORMATION FROM MUSEUMS, BOOKS AND ONLINE SEARCHES, SOMETIMES, THE REAL TREAT FOR THE HISTORIAN, IS TO ACTUALLY HOLD THE ARTIFACT; IMAGINING ALL THE IMPORTANT PLACES, BATTLEFIELDS, AND HISTORIC MEETINGS, WITH SOME OF THE LEGENDARY LEADERS OF THE ARMY. WONDERING ALOUD, WHEE THIS SWORD, FOR EXAMPLE, WAS WORN, FOR THE DURATION OF THE CIVIL WAR, FROM THE DATE OF ITS PRESENTATION. YES, WE THINK THIS KIND OF ANTIQUE IS PRETTY NEAT. BUT LET ME TELL YOU, THERE'S AN UNMISTAKABLE VIBE ATTACHED TO THIS SMALL COLLECTION, AND FOR HISTORY LOVERS LIKE US, IT'S LIKE A DOOR OPENING TO THE PAST, JUST TO HOLD IT FOR A FEW MOMENTS. THE SADDEST PART IS GIVING IT BACK. ONE THING WE ALL AGREE, IS THAT WE'RE UNLIKELY TO EVER HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO HOLD A CIVIL WAR SWORD, IN OUR OUTSTRETCHED HANDS, EVER AGAIN. SO YES, "THE ONCE IN A LIFETIME" SITUATION IS ENTIRELY RELEVANT, AND WILL HELP US DEAL WITH AUTHENTICITY ISSUES, AND EVALUATIONS, LONG INTO THE FUTURE. ONE THING ABOUT IT, WE'D KNOW IF ANOTHER SWORD WAS THE REAL MCCOY OR A COPY, AFTER THIS RARE OPPORTUNITY, OF HOLDING, WHAT IS A TRUE AND GENUINE SURVIVOR OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR.

     WE HAVE BEEN KINDLY AFFORDED THIS OPPORTUNITY, TO SHOW THE MILITARY RELIC TO YOU KIND FOLKS.

I Should Write a Book About Those Great Natural Ice Arenas That Froze Us In Muskoka

FEET AND NOSE FROZEN - REMINDS ME OF MY YOUTH

Chilled to the core of my old creaking bones, I’ve just now arrived in the safe haven of a cheerfully bright and warm Birch Hollow.....and while the thermometer tells me with a wink of an oldtimer’s reflection, that it’s only minus fifteen, it has all of a sudden given me a flash of reminiscence. In my middle fifties now, I’m told by my senior cronies that it’s all right to have flashbacks and this teeter-totter of mid-life crazy.......and it’s not the preamble to a stroke or sudden senility. You tell me? If this blog reads a tad nuts, I’m okay; if it makes sense, geez maybe I am in trouble. I’ve often worked in opposites, or so I’m told by my editors over the decades.

It’s been almost a year since my father passed away. A year before he died I wrote a little tribute to Ed, about his unfailing determination to get me to my minor hockey games back in the early 1960's. It was a hit and miss situation from the get-go because nothing in my Burlington days, was within easy walking distance for an eight year old. And our car, a vintage “hit and mostly miss” Austin, was a lover of warm climes, and on so many occasions, wouldn’t start without a push or a boost. Our family didn’t have a lot of money, so paying for a tow-truck was out of the question, and most people we knew hated to see my dad coming through the snowflurries of a January morning......with that look in his eyes of anger, frustration and yet resignation the day wasn’t going to get much better. “Could you give me a boost Fred?” he’d ask. Fred was just one of a dozen names spoken on those occasions of battery failure.

When we did get going, it was usually to the outdoor Kiwanis Rink, and it was bloody cold out there at about 4:00 a.m., in mid-January, the only time our young team could get ice on weekends, in the crammed city league. Poor Ed was frozen and tired before he got to work that day....and all the other days he hauled his goaltender son to and from the rinks. When we moved to Bracebridge, in the winter of 1966, playing hockey was much different, as we had a marvelous old time arena and a modestly chilled playing surface. We also got to play, in what seemed to our family, as prime arena time, coming after eight in the morning on Saturdays. That was, of course, for the practices and the home games. Ed then had to deliver me, and a few team-mates to natural ice arenas, in Port Carling, Bala, MacTier and Baysville. It was a painfully cold experience as I remember, and a lot harsher than today’s minus fifteen.

The car heater seldom worked. Ed had to clean the windshield with a scraper every few miles, our feet would be frozen long before we made it to the rural arenas, and even then, with the exception of a heated lounge and dressing room, the dominating condition was cold and colder. I thought I was one of the first goaltenders ever to have my mask break a puck in two but I later found out this was pretty common on natural ice rinks. True enough. We had pucks break after that, just hitting the boards. I can remember being the back-up goalie on twenty below nights, and crying because of the pain in my toes. Of course, as the coach barked at me, “Currie, stop complaining,” and as I found out at intermission, warming frozen toes is twice as painful as having them nearly frozen. It was quite a scene at the end of the game, having won on the scoreboard but crying with pain in the dressing room, as the red hot stovepipe brought back circulation. Some kids actually burned themselves, putting their frozen toes right on the metal pipe, only to have part of their skin remain when yanked violently back when thawing commenced. Those old stove pipes branded a lot of hockey players back then, as the dressing rooms were not much more than bedroom size, for fifteen to eighteen kids and equipment.

The real crying came on the way home again, when frozen and thawed toes were frozen all over again, and by the time we hit the town limits, the heater had come on for a tad and provided a third thaw in the same night. My dad’s feet were frozen too, as he never seemed to have appropriately warm footwear even up to his last days. He was a tough guy but I know he suffered a lot, taking me to those games in colder than cold arenas. I never heard him complain about personal discomfort, just a few choice cusses when the car wouldn’t start, especially for the trip home. He hated to be late for work.

I don’t know whether he thought I had the right stuff to make the National Hockey League. My parents didn’t push me into hockey and I know they always had a hard time paying for the season’s registration in those days. They could get vocal and a tad critical of my play, especially if I let one of those long drifting slapshots in, that I should have stopped easily. By and large they weren’t crazy parent-fans, and they never approached the coach to beg more ice time for their special child. I appreciated that then, and now, because some parents made fools of themselves, and embarrassed the heck out of the kids, with their in-stand tirades. Ed just sipped at his hot coffee and talked with other fans about pro hockey, how he used to be a rink rat at Maple Leaf Gardens when Connie Smythe was the king of the city, and the big stars of the past he used to drink with at a local watering hole.

It’s funny how one moment, you’re shivering while the dog has its morning constitutional, and something strange, like a childhood recollection of frozen toes, will all of a sudden become the all encompassing state of the union. I could close my eyes and see it all, as if I was at that very moment getting ready to step onto the ice for a minor hockey game, in a tin ceiling arena, which was often said to be colder inside than out. While I didn’t haul a thermometer around with me, I’m pretty sure that analysis was true. God bless the fans who stood out along those rickety boards to support us. Ed watched from the crowded viewing area, in the lobby, having a cigarette or a dozen, running out to start the car every half hour or so, to get a head start on emergency planning before the final buzzer. We usually had two to four players in each car, and it added a more serious responsibility to the task. Ed and I had been stuck all over God’s half acre, and survived to tell the story. But he sure as heck didn’t want to have parents worrying at home, that there had been an accident on the highway. For all those years of minor hockey, Ed didn’t have much time to enjoy the game. I grew up knowing the importance of having plans “B” through “Z”, to employ when the first plan failed as we expected it to.....but never missing a beat to seek the alternative and the one after that. We had a lot of fun out there. But our cars sucked!

The saddest time for Ed was when our car wouldn’t start at home, in Burlington, and by time we called for another ride, everyone had already headed out. In this pre cell phone dark age, there was no other option, considering we didn’t have any loose coins for a taxi. He was always devastated when his backup plan failed. Trundling my equipment back up the stairs was far more of a let-down for him than me......I could stay home watching the Saturday morning funnies while he had to drive for an hour to work, thinking about the way he’d let his son down. I suppose in retrospect, I milked it a little, and on most occasions, he’d leave a few dollars behind so that I could at least buy some hockey cards at the variety store. What I didn’t realize was that he was giving up his lunch money but he didn’t want me to be totally disappointed with the day I’d looked forward to all week.

I have written a number of pieces about my old hockey days, and dear old dad, and it’s funny now to think back on those years, and ponder if he really did think I was N.H.L. bound. As a matter of some irony, many years later, my boss at the time, Roger Crozier, a great former netminder of the Detroit Red Wings.....working then for the American Bank, MBNA, told me that I was considered the next Bracebridge kid to get a shot at the big leagues. We’d been talking, during breakfast, one morning in Wilmington, Delaware, that one of the reasons I’d been given a free week at his Red Wing Hockey School, (late 1960's) in Bracebridge, was due to the reports from my coaches that my future looked pretty bright, if I could change some of my bad habits. I still have a few of those but I’m no longer a goaltender. I remember coming home to Muskoka, and meeting up with my dad, and being so happy to relay the news........that I had been actually considered professional material way back when. He just smiled and said, “Ted, a lot of people thought you had what it required to go on in hockey......coaches, managers, fans. There was only one who disagreed.” “Who was that, Ed,” miffed by anyone then, on this new information, who wouldn’t have seen all my prowess budding forth. “You,” he answered. “You decided to play hockey because you enjoyed it.....not because you had your heart set on a professional career. We wouldn’t have changed a thing. You loved hockey. Pushing would only have frustrated you.....and ruined the fun you were having otherwise.”

When I asked Roger, one day a few months later, whether he would like to be best recognized and remembered, in a biography I was working on, as either an all star hockey player, or as a banker, as he was in the period before his death in the mid-1990's, he responded without any hesitation..... “I’d like to be known as a banker, Ted!” I though this was pretty profound coming from a former professional hockey star, who had achieved acclaim at every level of his minor and junior hockey, up to and including milestones with the Red Wings, Buffalo Sabres and the Washington Capitals. “It was a job,” he said. He often said that he enjoyed the game when it was over, not during. For me then, I think I made the right decision. My first choice of professions was to join the media, of which I’m still a member, and as an antique collector /dealer, an adventure that has run parallel to writing for well more than thirty years.

I owe Ed a lot. He understood me even though I would have argued the opposite. While I think he might have liked to have a pro player as a son, he seemed to like telling folks his offspring was editor of the local newspaper. I hope this was the case. But regardless, I do very much credit his patience and determination with giving me a damn fine childhood.....even though frozen toes are the most poignant memories at this moment of thawing.

Old Authors, Old Books, Old Book Seller

OLD AUTHORS, OLD BOOKS, OLD BOOK HUNTERS AND A PROFESSION FINALLY ATTAINED

THERE'S NOTHING SO PLEASING AS FINDING A RARE, SIGNIFICANT BOOK, OTHER THAN SELLING IT TO A HAPPY COLLECTOR

    Suzanne and I are both efficiency nuts. And yes, we drive each other nuts sticking to our agendas. The explanation below may seem puzzling, because at least half the population of the world, likes to adhere to schedules and life missions. Nothing special here! If we have any significant failing, other than being too attractive for our own good (just kidding[ have you seen my nose), it's that we both appear at times to have two left feet, and the kind of beatnik perspective, that permits us to wax poetic every now and again, disappearing off the radar, to well, find ourselves again. Yup, even though we've arrived at exactly the place we were supposed to, by golly, we have no idea how that came to fruition. I mean, who really cares, how we got to this point, or whether it was as silken as ballet appears, or as happenstance as a left fielder falling, while attempting to make a big catch, yet somehow finding the ball in the web of the mitt on the ground. Or the goalie who stumbles, and falls during a deke by a forward, and accidentally falls across the path of the puck, making the big save regardless.
     Suzanne and I have tried our best to follow a logical path, but when you're running a precarious business, akin to gambling every day that it's in operation, and raising a bunch of musicians in our small house, gads, we're feeling like we just won the Most Amazing Race, simply by getting to this point; and feeling we touched all the most important points we intended, when we started out as newlyweds, with a raging amount of ambition. We've even dealt with some of the daunting truths, connected to that famous Homer Simpson saying, that "life is one crushing defeat after another." We've never sailed on seas that weren't trying to swallow us whole, but somehow, we managed to cling-on and make it safely to the nearest shore to restore our ambitions. This is the way we feel today, embarking on a few new golden age projects we've been planning for a long time. Before we could start them, we wanted to be able to say, without the shadow of a fib, that we accomplished what we wanted to, as set down in the late 1980's; and there was no requirement to look pretty doing it, or arriving at the objective with all our hair in place. Some of it was ripped-out in the frustrating circumstances of the old "hit and miss" exercise. Of trying to do too much, and having to settle for a tad less than what we had hoped for! We could have just quit and found some tropical beach in a low budget locale of the world, and tanned our white hides for the rest of our lives; sipping semi exotic drinks and eating coconut; being scantily clad and loving it! But, that would be the easy way out, and we've never been able to live with ourselves, when we've been tempted to take short cuts, which by the way, has never worked out for us.
    If you don't know Suzanne and I intimately (we can fix this in the coming year), or the handiwork of our musical sons, Andrew and Robert, let me offer this overview. We are plodding, inch by inch, step by step builders, who never give the appearance of heading anywhere very quickly; yet we always arrive ahead of our own rigid schedule. It has taken our sons twelve years, from the time it was commenced, as a lesson studio, in the downstairs of our Gravenhurst house, to this point where it occupies half of our present Muskoka Road location, in the former Muskoka Theatre; where we amalgamated on the rest of the retail space to sell antiques and nostalgia. None of it has been done in less time than was absolutely necessary. Some people have critiqued us as having moved to slowly and too frugally, to ever be a going concern in the vintage music and antique trade. We have great interest in hearing the views of those having greater experience in our respective professions, for what they can teach us, that by the way, we really want to know; but not so much, from the experts without portfolio, who will never be satisfied with anything we can come up with regardless. We don't waste our time trying to please those who can never be satisfied by the run-of-the-mill retailers like us. Their loss, someone else's gain. And this is exactly how it works. And not just in our shop. We all have ways of dispatching critics who just like to hear themselves warble-out their insights, then lift their chins, turn toward the door, and leave much as they came in; sure they wouldn't like anything we stocked. The mumble about us being stupid and crazy for stocking old books and records, and look down the street for the next stop on their self-satisfying mission of critique pooping.
     The point of my writing this preamble, is to offer the simple explanation, that we have always had a model of operation, behind the leadership of a ruthless accountant, "mom", and never step beyond what is a known safe landing place. We don't make any attempt to over-step, and although at times, it even frustrates us to go so slow, we know that our success has hinged in the past, on being secure with our progress. We're not gamblers that's for sure. In the antique business, it's almost impossible to avoid serious risk taking, but we know how to mitigate this, by being exceptionally careful buyers. Cheapskates. Very experienced cheapskates, and it allows us to keep our prices low. It is our big advantage over our competitors.
     Everything we've accomplished since 1986, in the way of shaping a retirement business, for Suzanne and I, has occurred on schedule, and with only a few exceptions, without taking too much risk when we could least afford it. We did make a little "zig" when we probably should have "zagged" at the time we opened our storefront antique shop, in late 1989, in Bracebridge, at the start of the recession of that vintage, which of course, heralded a real estate collapse. We got lucky, because the rent was low and Suzanne had a teaching job for stability. Surprisingly, we navigated the antique business until the mid-1990's with considerable ease, and without economic calamity. A lot of retailers succumbed and had to close up shop. The only reason we closed it, in 1996, was that I got a good job with the Crozier Foundation. We moved the business home, and kept it operational with online sales, until four years ago, when we readied ourselves to open up an antique component under the umbrella of son Andrew's vintage music business.
     I wanted to continue writing for as long as I could before my eyes fell out, or arms broke off my shoulders, because of the wear and tear; which by the way, is horrible when the thawing comes out. Thawing comes when I sit out a couple of days, staying away from this infernal keyboard. But my plan, as all our plans have been designed since we opened our first shop, was to get to a level of acceptable inventory, and sales stats, in the shop, to justify downsizing a profession that has run parallel to antique dealing since 1977 - as a matter of irony, my first column, published weekly in the Bracebridge Examiner, was entitled "Antiques and Collectables." It has been partnered that way for all these years. Now, I'm streaming, you might say, into what is most important to me, on the cusp of what others tell me are the golden years. I am a passionate old book hunter and seller, who also happens to write stuff. Well, I'm going to be writing a lot less in the future, because it's now time to specialize and, as my accountant wife quips, "make money for gosh sakes." She's right of course. To this point, I've been part-time in most everything I've worked at, including picking for old books, and the demand now is much bigger than it has been in the past, warranting a lot more focus and time spent hustling-up the books we need to fill the shelves. I'm not disappointed in the least, and lessening my work at this laptop will hopefully benefit my neck and shoulders in the next month or so. Writing the way I do, with a horrible posture, has been hurting me for years, but Suzanne has given up trying to convince me to change my habits; and like a golfer who goes an entire career, winning enough to stay comfortable, without changing styles, I have been pretty superstitious about making too many alterations with what has always worked; I have only had a few short-lived periods of writer's block in the past four decades, which is a huge issue for those who play around this writing-thing, with an idea of becoming something other than a diary author.
     I was to semi-retire my pen back in July, but I wanted to take it to the New Year, and to this end, I've been true to my word. I've quit a few times during this period, simply because my body was betraying me, and my neck and shoulders were refusing to co-operate; not that I didn't have the will to carry-on a little longer. I love writing, but I love collecting books and stuff much, much more. As I get older, and my endurance in composition lags, I urgently need to save what's left of my upper body before I have to beg Suzanne to feed me, because my arms would lift past my chin. I have been brutal on my back as well, and it has given me a limp which I don't like. I can no longer catch up to fast women. I tell people who ask, that my wobble is actually an old hockey injury come back to haunt me, when in truth it is a writing injury. Now tell me, who would believe this, considering it's a non contact profession? Well, anyway, I have waited a long time to become a full time bookman, and it starts for me on the first of January, 2016, meaning there will be a lot fewer new blogs over the next twelve months, although my monthly column in "Curious; the Tourist Guide" will continue. I will also be writing antique and collectable related editorials for our business facebook page, so you can catch me there as well. I always reserve the right to change my mind, if for example, my body all of a sudden stops aching and I can enter the Boston Marathon.
     In the early 1990's, we had a rack of about a hundred record albums in our main street antique shop in Bracebridge. We sold some every week. And there wasn't a week that went by, that a customer didn't laugh at us, for being so foolish as to have invested in old vinyl. They'd wonder aloud, if we were so far "out of the loop," in the collectable industry, as to not know that records were gone the way of the dodo. I couldn't possibly tell you how many stories I heard about thousands upon thousands of records being thrown in the landfill site, because their era had passed. Everything was going compact, in the form of silver discs the size of a beer coaster, and that, old bulky record players were following the vintage vinyl into the garbage bins. Worthless. Never to be heard from again.
     In the antique profession we hear this frequently, from self professed experts, who think that if they exclaim something with the grit of conviction, it will become etched in stone. From my miles travelled in this profession, we don't listen to those people, other than to be polite and nod our heads. We gave up debating these issues a long time ago, when we were in our early years and full of flourishing youth. Today we're a little too cranky to make any attempt to correct the record-naysayer, who will say something similar to what we heard in the nineteen nineties. "No one wants those old records you have up front; just a waste of space, if you ask me." Well, we didn't ask for their critique of the business from these one-time-only customers, who need to validate themselves, by making statements all the live long day. Most of them being wrong.
     Vintage vinyl (records) and new vinyl, which is still being pressed by contemporary artists, (at considerable demand) for this growing niche market, are both our hottest sellers, just in case you were interested. It doesn't mean all vintage or new vinyl are best sellers, when we buy large collections; just the same as with old books, some being undesirable, and yes, only worth recycling. But every week, our records show strong sales, both new and used. A collectable item that was supposed to be worthless, according to some of our customers, has become rather significant over the past five years, showing considerable growth. When a customer tells me that we should just toss them in the garbage bin, because they're completely worthless, I love to enquire at this point, if they have any left at home. When they respond that they got rid of their collections years ago, I can't help slip a dig in, about, "well, then, that's too bad. They could have been worth two or three thousand dollars, especially if you tossed out some Beatles records."
     I've heard the same thing about books, for just as many years, and today, I just let them talk, sometimes while I'm selling books over the counter with a tell-tale grin on my mug. They were telling me this in the late 1980's when I first began to accumulate boxes of old books from auctions and garage sales. It's true that I made a lot of mistakes during this period as well, but show me a collector / dealer who hasn't made lots of errors in judgement, and I'll show you someone who is fibbing to the exponent of ten.
     The difference of book hunting, and selling today, is that I am no longer looking to amass a large collection to fill my shop bookshelves. I've done that, and I'm pretty comfortable that as a general antique dealer, I've probably got ten to twenty times more than most other vendors; but I am still under the volume carried by typical rare and antique book dealers. I know how to differentiate between selling old and out of print books; the differences between a second hand inventory, and an antiquarian book shop, is revealed when examining average age of books on the shelves, rarity, subject, and condition. Antiquarian book collectors and dealers usually feed off us, finding texts on our shelves deserving of finer company. I'm more of a bibliophile who has a pretty good eye for the old stuff, than a declared antiquarian book seller. Let's just say, for reasons of clarity, you spend a thousand dollars on books in my shop on one outing. You might just clear-out most of one whole book case and then some. In an antiquarian and rare book shop, you might be able to purchase four or five books, if you're lucky that day.
     What we have found in contemporary times, versus the market for old books in the 1990's, is that the customer appetite for non-fiction, particularly reference, has grown substantially from what I remember it to be, back twenty years or so. Books are now outselling many other types of collectables in our shop, and the most robust sales are the result of having many hundreds of vintage and out of print cookbooks, under the stewardship of my business partner Suzanne. We are now getting people from two to three hours distance from Gravenhurst, coming to town to sort through our cookbook collection. We began buying old cookbooks thirty years ago, but only decided to sell them in our Gravenhurst shop three years ago. With both used and old books, all in the non-fiction category, we can honestly say, our faith that "books" in general, would make a strong return to the market place, has paid off; which is a good thing, considering we have many thousands on shelves, and in storage ready to be priced.
     When I was working for the Bracebridge Examiner, in the early months of 1990, and most obviously frustrating some of the layout personnel, because I was late getting them editorial copy, a staff member turned to me, and asked in a loud voice, "Mr. Currie, what is it that you want to be; a writer or an antique dealer." I had no delay getting back to her with an equally loud retort, "I want to be an antique dealer; thanks for asking." This was not the answer she was looking for, and she mumbled that it was undoubtedly why I was always behind my time, getting her the copy she required to lay out that week's issue. Which was balderdash I might add, but who cares now. I have been both a writer and antique dealer for long and long, and now I'm going into my antique dealer mode, which is for keeps.
     It is an adventure-filled enterprise, and I'll have lots of stories down the pike, about big finds, and the "big ones that got away." I will share stories about the rarest of books, and the most interesting stories bound within. In the meantime, I'm going to be slowing down a tad in the writing department, not because I've lost my mojo, but really because this old mortal frame, has endured enough; like the football and hockey player finally have to realize that all the punishing blows have left a lasting legacy of pain and suffering. Some times, I can hardly walk up the hillside to Birch Hollow, because of a wonky hip, which is fine in structure, but compromised because of muscle spasms in my back. I never thought writing would be this tough on the body, but, turns out, it is, and unrelenting. So I really do have to pause awhile, and do one thing really well; and hopefully that will herald a final leg of my two professions, being the successful buying and selling of old books.
     I will keep this site running with archives copy for as long as possible with my vault of back copy. Please tune in to my facebook entries which will continue indefinitely.
     Thanks for all your support in the past. Drop in to see us sometime, and check out our great collection of old books.

Remembering Roger Crozier Who Helped Me Overcome Fear Of Flying

MBNA Newsletter that I wrote for the September 1994 Issue regarding the hockey career of Roger Crozier

MY BIGGEST CIRCULATION AS A WRITER, WAS A ONE-TIME EVENT, A NEWSLETTER, I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IN ADVANCE

A HOCKEY FAN, A PROUD HOMETOWNER, AND A COLLECTOR OF ROGER CROZIER MEMORABILIA

     "A REVOLUTION OF THINKING WAS UNDER WAY. IT WAS FASHIONABLE TO BE A GOALIE PROBABLY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HOCKEY HISTORY. THAT WAS ROGER'S INFLUENCE HERE AT HOME. WE ALL WANTED TO PLAY GOAL."

     IT WAS THE FIRST THING I READ, WHEN I WAS HANDED THE MBNA NEWSLETTER, DATED SEPTEMBER 5-11, 1994. I THOUGHT IT WAS A PRETTY GOOD QUOTE, AS A GENERAL EXPRESSION, OF HOW THE KIDS OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, ESPECIALLY, CIRCA 1966, FELT ABOUT THEIR HOMETOWN HERO, ROGER CROZIER, OF THE DETROIT RED WINGS, OF THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE. WELL FOLKS, I WRITE (AND WROTE) SO MUCH, (ESPECIALLY SO BACK IN 1994), THAT I COMPLETELY FORGOT THAT I WAS THE ONE BEING QUOTED, IN A WIDELY DISTRIBUTED COPY OF "MBNA THIS WEEK," THE AMERICAN BANK, WHERE ROGER HAD BECOME, AFTER RETIREMENT FROM HOCKEY, AN EXECUTIVE MANAGER, IN NEWARK, DELAWARE. I WAS THINKING INITIALLY THAT THE GUY WHO WROTE THIS WAS SPOT-ON DESCRIBING HOW WE LOOKED-UP TO THE ROOKIE NETMINDER ON THE SAME TEAM AS GORDIE HOW. I JUST GOT CAUGHT OFF GUARD, AND DIDN'T REMEMBER THAT I HAD WRITTEN THE DESCRIPTION, FOR AN EARLIER PUBLICATION, BACK IN JULY OF THE SAME YEAR.

     AFTER THAT, I COULDN'T WAIT TO UNFOLD THE MBNA NEWSLETTER, AND LOW AND BEHOLD, I HAD WRITTEN ALMOST THE ENTIRE TWO SIDED IN-HOUSE PUBLICATION, WHICH CIRCULATED TO THE STAFF OF THEIR HUGE BANKING NETWORK, EVEN TO OVERSEAS OFFICES IN ENGLAND. FROM SEPTEMBER 5TH, TO THE 11TH, PROBABLY EVERY EMPLOYEE AT MBNA KNEW SOMETHING ABOUT A WRITER IN CANADA NAMED CURRIE, AND OF COURSE, THEY LEARNED A LOT MORE ABOUT ONE OF THEIR CORPORATE EXECUTIVES, NAMED ROGER CROZIER. WELL SIR, I WAS FLABBERGASTED. IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I HAD EVER ACHIEVED SUCH A HUGE CIRCULATION (WHICH IS THE MEASURE OF ANY WRITER'S SUCCESS), VIA ANY PUBLICATION I'VE WRITTEN FOR, UP TO 1994, AND ON TO THE PRESENT. I WAS BEING INTRODUCED TO SOME VERY SPECIAL GUESTS, DURING A MAGNIFICENTLY APPOINTED SOCIAL EVENT, HELD AT LONGWOOD GARDENS, IN PENNSYLVANIA, IN ROGER'S HONOR, AS THE CANADIAN FELLOW WHO WROTE SUCH NICE THINGS ABOUT THEIR MBNA COLLEAGUE. I AM TERRIBLE IN CIRCUMSTANCES LIKE THIS, BECAUSE I EMBARRASS VERY EASILY. YOU MAY NOT BELIEVE THAT I COULD EVER BE CONSIDERED MODEST, BUT IN PERSON, I ALWAYS SHY AWAY FROM RECOGNITION. I REFUSED TO ALLOW MY MOTHER TO GIVE ME BIRTHDAY PARTIES, BECAUSE I WOULD ALWAYS SLINK UNDER THE TABLE, WHEN GUESTS WOULD SING "HAPPY BIRTHDAY." I WAS A SHY KID, SHY STUDENT, SHY WHEN IT CAME TO ASKING A GIRL OUT. I WAS DELIGHTED WHEN LINDA DAWSON ASKED ME TO GO AS HER DATE, TO THE ANNUAL HIGH SCHOOL, SADIE HAWKINS DANCE, AT HALLOWE'EN; WHEN CUSTOM THEN DICTATED IT WAS UP TO THE GIRL TO DO "THE ASKING." I GOT BETTER AT ASKING GIRLS OUT, FOLLOWING THIS INTERACTION. I ACCEPTED THE INVITATION, BY THE WAY, AND HAD A GREAT TIME; AND ENJOYED HER COMPANY FOR MANY MONTHS FOLLOWING. AS FOR RESPECTFUL THANKS, HONESTLY, I'D RATHER BE SENT AN EMAIL, CARD OR LETTER, IN RECOGNITION, THAN TO RECEIVE IT IN PERSON. IT'S JUST ONE OF MY MANY QUIRKS THAT DRIVES SUZANNE NUTS. "HOW CAN YOU BE IN THE PUBLIC EYE, THE WAY YOU ARE WITH WRITING AND HISTORY, AND BE SHY OF INTERACTION," SHE ASKS. "THINK ABOUT HOW MANY LECTURES YOU'VE GIVEN AT MUSEUMS, AND A SPECIAL EVENTS. HOW DO YOU DO THOSE WITHOUT MELTING INTO A POOL?" WELL, IT WAS JUST LIKE THE DAY, WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING, THAT I BOARDED A CORPORATE JET, FOR A TRIP TO DELAWARE, CERTAIN I WAS GOING TO BE IN A NEWSPAPER FRONT-PAGER. "LOCAL WRITER PERISHES IN PLANE CRASH JUST LIKE THE BIG BOPPER!" TALK ABOUT DRAMA. I WAS FULL OF IT!

    PUBLICITY IN ALL ITS FORMS, WASN'T NEW FOR ROGER, BECAUSE HIS HOCKEY CAREER HAD EARNED HIM A HUGE MEDIA FOLLOWING, AND EVEN WITH MBNA, HE WAS A PARTICULARLY POPULAR MEMBER OF THE CORPORATE OPERATION. THE HOMETOWNERS, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, CANADA, WERE ALSO PROUD OF WHAT THIS LAD, FROM A FAMILY OF FOURTEEN, HAD DONE WITH HIS LIFE IN BOTH HOCKEY, AND IN THE BANKING PROFESSION. BUT TO FOOTNOTE THIS, THE PREAMBLE TO THE NEWSLETTER, CAME A MONTH OR SO EARLIER THAT SUMMER SEASON. IT CAME AFTER I HAD RESEARCHED AND WROTE, A SHORT SPORT'S BIOGRAPHY, (WITH THE BACKING OF MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS, INCLUDING THE HERALD-GAZETTE), AS A MULTI PAGE INSERT PUBLICATION, TO HONOR ROGER, WHO WAS THEN IN THE PROCESS OF CREATING THE FUTURE "CROZIER FOUNDATION," FOR MUSKOKA YOUTH.

  A FEW YEARS EARLIER, YOU SEE, I HAD BEEN DISAPPOINTED TO FIND LITTLE IF ANY RECOGNITION, OF ROGER'S HOCKEY CAREER, ON DISPLAY AT THE BRACEBRIDGE MEMORIAL COMMUNITY CENTRE, WHICH, QUITE HONESTLY, WAS BOTH INFURIATING AND INSULTING. NOT ONLY HAD ROGER PLAYED HIS MINOR HOCKEY IN THE SAME BUILDING, BUT THE TOWN HAD ACTUALLY HAD THROWN HIM, "ROGER CROZIER DAY," WITH A DOWNTOWN PARADE, AFTER WINNING THE CONN SMYTHE TROPHY, IN THAT YEAR'S STANLEY CUP PLAYOFFS. SO I SET ABOUT TO MAKE A CORRECTION. AND IT WASN'T WITHOUT OPPOSITION, THAT I FOUND EQUALLY UNSETTLING. THERE WERE A FEW LOCALS, (A VERY FEW) WHO FELT THAT I WOULD THEN HAVE TO HONOR, ALL THE OTHER ACCOMPLISHED SPORTS STARS, WHO HAD BEEN BORN IN BRACEBRIDGE, IF I WAS TO SINGLE OUT ROGER FOR RECOGNITION. I BLEW THEM ALL OFF, AND CARRIED ON WITH THE PROJECT AS I HAD INTENDED. I HAVE ALSO, OVER TIME, GIVEN THESE ATHLETES RECOGNITION IN PRINT, TO SATISFY THE CRITICS. THERE WERE ALSO A FEW PEOPLE WHO WEREN'T THRILLED ABOUT A RE-DEDICATION OF ARENA DISPLAY SPACE, TO HONOR A HOMETOWN HERO. BUT I AM A PERSISTENT BUGGER, AND THE HAPPY RESOLUTION, IS THAT NOT ONLY DID WE GET A NEW DISPLAY SPACE, ALLOCATED TO ROGER, BUT RELEASED THE SMALL PUBLICATION, VIA THE COMMUNITY PRESS, DETAILING A SMALL BUT SIGNIFICANT PORTION OF HIS TRULY INTERESTING BIOGRAPHY.

     TO ADORN THE FRONT COVER OF THIS HOME INSPIRED PUBLICATION, BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES, MY COMPANY, COMMISSIONED A PORTRAIT OF ROGER, MAKING A SAVE, DURING A GAME WITH MONTREAL. THE ARTIST WAS MARY THRANE AND IT WAS A BIG HIT. IT WOULD BECOME A CENTER-PIECE OF A MUCH LARGER HALL OF FAME DISPLAY CASE, FINANCED BY MBNA, FOLLOWING ROGER'S DEATH, JUST OVER A YEAR AFTER THIS NEWSLETTER CAME OFF THE PRESS. IT MADE A SUITABLE FRONT COVER, AND ALL OF THE FIVE THOUSAND PLUS INSERTS, WERE SENT OUT TO THE BRACEBRIDGE SUBSCRIBERS, AND LOCAL NEWSTANDS. I THINK I ONLY HAVE TWO OR THREE LEFT IN MY OWN ARCHIVES. IT WAS TIMED, FOR RELEASE, WHEN ROGER WAS HOSTING A CELEBRITY GOLF TOURNAMENT, AT SOUTH MUSKOKA CURLING AND GOLF CLUB. AND WE ADDED TO IT, WHEN CLUB PROFESSIONAL ROB WEBB, ASKED IF SUZANNE AND I COULD SET UP A SMALL DISPLAY OF CROZIER MEMORABILIA, AND THE PORTRAIT OF ROGER, IN THE CLUBHOUSE FOR GUESTS TO ENJOY. AS WE HAD BUILT UP QUITE A COLLECTION TO THAT POINT, (SUMMER OF 1994), WE AGREED, AND CREATED AN EXHIBIT OF ABOUT THIRTY OF THE BEST ITEMS GATHERED OVER ABOUT TWO YEARS. WHEN THE TOURNAMENT WAS OVER, WE REMOVED THE COLLECTABLES, WHICH HAD ALSO BEEN USED, A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, WHEN WE HAD A LOBBY DISPLAY AT THE ARENA, FOR THE THREE DAYS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE ANTIQUE SHOW. WHEN I'VE WRITTEN BEFORE, THAT SUZANNE AND I, AND THE BOYS, HAVE ENJOYED OUR MUSEUM EXHIBITION DAYS, THIS WAS JUST ONE OF THE EXAMPLES OF HOW WE COULD REALLY GET INTO THE SUBJECT, WE WERE RESEARCHING AND PROMOTING. AT THIS TIME IN HISTORY, WE HAD OUR FOCUS ON ROGER CROZIER, AND THAT MEANT DELVING DEEPLY INTO HIS HOCKEY BIOGRAPHY, WHICH INCLUDED ASKING ASSISTANCE FROM THE RED WINGS, THE BUFFALO SABRES AND THE WASHINGTON CAPITALS, WHERE HE EVEN TOOK A TURN A MANAGEMENT, AFTER HE HUNG UP HIS GOAL SKATES.

     WHEN I GOT A LETTER FROM ONE OF ROGER'S ASSISTANTS, AT MBNA, A FEW MONTHS LATER, ASKING IF I WOULD LIKE TO COME TO A SPECIAL EVENT, FOR ROGER, BEING HELD LATER IN SEPTEMBER, THAT SAME YEAR, I WAS AGHAST. I WANTED TO GO, OF COURSE, BUT YOU SEE, I AM DEATHLY FRIGHTENED OF FLYING. EVEN THOUGH I HAVE FLOWN MANY TIMES BEFORE, EVEN TO ENGLAND, I HAVE HATED EVERY MINUTE OF THE IN-AIR EXPERIENCE. WHEN I SHOWED SUZANNE THE INVITATION, TO FLY DOWN TO THE MBNA HEADQUARTERS IN DELAWARE, VIA A CORPORATE JET, SHE TURNED TO ME, AND WITH A STERN CLENCH OF HER JAW, "DON'T YOU DARE PULL THAT, 'I'M SCARED OF FLYING THING, THIS TIME'." I HAD USED IT BEFORE TO DUCK OUT OF OTHER FLIGHTS OF FANCY. THEY HAD GIVEN ME A COUPLE OF DAYS TO CONFIRM, AND IT WAS THE MOST DIFFICULT TWO DAYS EVER. IF YOU HAVE PHOBIAS, OF ANYTHING, YOU'LL APPRECIATE THIS TROUBLING DELAY, ARRIVING AT A DECISION. ON ONE HAND, I WAS GOING TO GIVE MY WIFE A GOOD REASON TO DIVORCE ME, AND SECONDLY, I WAS GOING TO LOOK REALLY STUPID IN DELAWARE, WHEN ROGER FOUND OUT I WOULDN'T ATTEND, BECAUSE OF FEAR I MIGHT DIE IN A PLANE CRASH. BY THE WAY, ROGER WAS NOT A FAN OF FLYING DURING HIS EARLY DAYS PLAYING IN THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE. SO I THOUGHT HE, OF ALL PEOPLE, WOULD UNDERSTAND THIS APPREHENSION, ON MY PART. HE SAID TO ME LATER ON, THAT ONE OF THE GREATEST FEARS HE HAD, WASN'T ABOUT PLANES, BUT STEPPING INTO THAT GOAL CREASE, AND SEEING BOBBY HULL OR FRANK MAHOVOLICH COMING DOWN THE WING, PREPARING FOR A SLAPSHOT; MANY TAKEN TO EITHER THE FACE, OR ANOTHER PART OF THE BODY, A LITTLE LACKING IN PROTECTIVE PADDING. SO IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU CAN MUSTER THE COURAGE TO BE A GOALIE, OF WHICH I HAD BEEN FOR MANY YEARS MYSELF, THEN GETTING ON A PLANE WASN'T MUCH OF A CHALLENGE. EVERYBODY TELLS ME THE ODDS ARE STACKED IN MY FAVOR. SURVIVING THAT IS! I'VE NEVER HAD MUCH USE FOR STATISTICS I DIDN'T GATHER MYSELF.

     SUZANNE MADE IT CLEAR, I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO ATTEND THE SPECIAL EVENT, AS IT WOULD BE THE FIRST CHANCE, AT LEAST AS AN ADULT, WHERE I COULD HAVE A FACE TO FACE, WITH THE GOALTENDER, I HAD IDOLIZED SINCE CHILDHOOD. WHEN ROGER AND RON INGRAM USED TO RUN THE RED WING HOCKEY SCHOOL, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, IN THE 1960'S, I WAS GIVEN A ONE WEEK OPPORTUNITY TO JOIN THE PROGRAM, WITH A FEW OTHER KIDS, WHO SHOWED SOME PROMISE, BUT NEEDED POLISH. MY PARENTS COULD NEVER HAVE AFFORDED TO SEND ME TO THE CAMP, SO IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR ROGER'S KINDNESS, I WOULD HAVE BEEN WANDERING AROUND TOWN, PLAYING PICK-UP BALL, AND BEING BORED IN THE SUMMER HEAT. THAT WEEK AT CAMP WAS AMAZING, AND NOT JUST BECAUSE OF WHAT I LEARNED FROM ROGER HIMSELF, ABOUT TENDING THE PIPES (NET). IT WAS THE TIME OF THE DETROIT RACE RIOTS, AND WE HAD A LOT OF INNER CITY KIDS FROM DETROIT, AND ROGER AND RON INGRAM, MADE THE KIDS STAY EXTRA TIME AT THE CAMP, INSTEAD OF BEING SENT BACK HOME TO THE CHAOS IN THE STREETS. QUITE A FEW OF THE PLAYERS WERE AFRICAN-AMERICAN, AND IT SEEMED TO ME, EVEN AT THE TIME, EXTRAORDINARY, THAT THE KIDS WERE SHOWN THAT KIND OF COMPASSION, DURING THIS TIME OF CRISIS. THESE RIOTS OCCURRED IN JULY 1967. EVEN THOUGH I WAS PROFOUNDLY IMPRESSED BY ROGER, AS AN ALL-STAR GOALIE, I WAS POSITIVELY IMPACTED BY THE WAY HE TREATED ALL OF US YOUNGSTERS, REGARDLESS WHERE WE WERE FROM, OR OUR CIRCUMSTANCES; EVERY ONE OF US WAS TREATED LIKE A VIP. THIS WAS EXACTLY HOW THE CROZIER FOUNDATION WOULD TREAT MUSKOKA YOUNGSTERS, IN THE LATER 1990'S, AND EARLY YEARS OF 2000, WHEN WE OPERATED THE ANNUAL SUMMER SKATE CAMP, IN JULY, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA. IT WAS A SORT OF COMMEMORATION OF THOSE POPULAR RED WING HOCKEY SCHOOLS, OF THE 1960'S, AND ALL OUR FAMILY WAS INVOLVED FOR A DECADE, FOLLOWING ROGER'S DEATH, IN JANUARY 1996.

     WHEN I DID CLIMB ABOARD THAT JET, AT THE MUSKOKA AIRPORT, WITH ROGER'S MOTHER, MILDRED, AND HIS LONG TIME FRIEND AND LAWYER, JACK HUCKLE, IT WAS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT OF MIND OVER MATTER. I WEIGHED THAT THE SENSE OF LOSS, I WOULD EXPERIENCE, WOULD BE GREATER, THAN THE SHORT-TERM FEAR I WOULD HAVE, AS A PASSENGER FROM BRACEBRIDGE TO WILMINGTON. IF SUZANNE HADN'T BEEN TOUGH ON ME, THAT DAY, I PROBABLY WOULD HAVE FOUND A WAY TO TURN DOWN THE INVITATION. WHAT A MISTAKE THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN, AND NOT JUST FOR ME. AS OUR FAMILY GREATLY BENEFITTED FROM ROGER'S GENEROSITY, AND THEN THE CROZIER FOUNDATION'S SUPPORT FOR THE NEXT TWELVE YEARS, THE LOSS WOULD HAVE BEEN PROFOUND, AND LIFE-ALTERING. I HAD OPPORTUNITIES AFFORDED ME, OUR REGION COULDN'T OFFER, PLUS A CHANCE TO PARTICIPATE IN A PROGRAM TO HELP KIDS ACHIEVE THEIR GOALS, BY REMOVING FINANCIAL BARRIERS. I CAN REMEMBER THE THRILL OF PRESENTING CHEQUES TO THE FAMILIES OF YOUNGSTERS, FACING EXPENSIVE MEDICAL TREATMENTS, AND ASSOCIATED EQUIPMENT-NEEDS OBLIGATIONS. IT WAS ALWAYS A GOOD FEELING, TO HAND OVER LARGE AMOUNTS OF MONEY, EACH YEAR, TO MUSKOKA CHILDREN'S SERVICES, TO HELP FUND REGISTRATION FOR FIGURE SKATING, SOCCER, BASEBALL AND HOCKEY, FOR KIDS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO JOIN OTHERWISE. IT AGAIN TOOK ME BACK TO MY OWN OPPORTUNITY TO ATTEND HOCKEY CAMP, COURTESY ROGER AND RON INGRAM. THE "FREE" PART WAS WHAT ALLOWED ME TO GO. SO I HAD INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE, OF WHAT IMPACT, SUCH AN ACT OF KINDNESS WOULD GENERATE, WITH THESE YOUNGSTERS.

     WHEN WE RAN THE CROZIER FOUNDATION SKATE CAMP (WHICH INCLUDED A HOCKY COMPONENT), OUR FAMILY (AS I'VE NOTED IN PREVIOUS BLOGS) RAN THE SNACKBAR DURING THE FIVE DAY PROGRAM. WE SERVED A DIFFERENT MENU EVERY DAY, AND WE WERE SHOCKED BY THE EXPENSE THE FOUNDATION WAS WILLING TO GO TO, IN ORDER TO GIVE THE CAMPERS A GREAT WEEK OF SKATING, RECREATION, AND CRAFT-MAKING. WHEN WE SAW THOSE LITTLE FACES IN FRONT, TRYING TO LOOK OVER THE SNACKBAR COUNTER, SOME WHO WE KNEW FROM PREVIOUS YEARS, WE FELT GREAT ABOUT BEING A PART OF THIS BENEVOLENT PROJECT, ORGANIZED BY ROGER BEFORE HIS PASSING. ROGER NEVER GOT TO SEE THESE MODERN VERSIONS OF THE FORMER RED WING HOCKEY SCHOOL BACK IN OPERATION.

     AT THE TIME OF ITS OPERATION (THE FOUNDATION WAS CLOSED IN CANADA SOME YEARS AGO), WE WEREN'T PERMITTED TO DISCUSS WHAT WE DID AT THE CAMP. OBVIOUSLY, WE COULDN'T REVEAL THE NAMES OF CAMPERS, AND WE WERE THE ONLY ONES ABLE TO TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS DURING THE WEEK, WHICH WAS FOR IN-HOUSE USE. BUT THERE WAS SUCH A NICE FEELING WE ALL HAD, DURING THOSE LONG DAYS OF TENDING FOOD SERVICES, AND WITHOUT QUESTION, IT HAS INFLUENCED US TO THIS DAY. MOST PATRONS DON'T KNOW OUR BACKGROUND IN THIS REGARD. BUT LET ME TELL YOU, WHEN YOU VOLUNTEERED TO WORK FOR THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, EVERYTHING WAS EXPECTED TO BE AS PERFECT AS IT COULD POSSIBLY BE; NOT EXCEPTIONS AND NO EXCUSES. AND WE TOOK PRIDE IN THIS REALITY OF OPERATION, FROM THE SMALLEST DETAIL TO THE MOST PRONOUNCED. WHAT ROGER HAD DONE DURING HIS YEARS AT MBNA, INSTILLING A POSITIVE, STALWART, NEVER-SAY-NEVER WORK ETHIC, NO MATTER WHAT THE PROJECT, WAS BEING CARRIED ON, FOLLOWING HIS DEATH, BY SOME OF HIS FORMER COLLEAGUES; AND HIS MUSKOKA FRIENDS, WHO STAFFED THE SUMMER CAMP (ON THEIR PERSONAL VACATION TIME), WITH ONE RESOLVE. MAKE THIS A MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE FOR THE KIDS.

The Sinking Of the S.S. Caribou By Enemy Torpedo

Photographs of crew members from the S.S Caribou sunk by a torpedo in October 1942 in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

THE RARE BOOKS THAT EVADE US, FOREVER! OR UNTIL A GARAGE SALE OR FLEA MARKET BRINGS US TOGETHER

THE TRAGIC SINKING OF THE PASSENGER SHIP, S.S. CARIBOU, THE RESULT OF U-BOAT TORPEDO

     (IF YOU MISSED THE FIRST COLUMN REGARDING THE TRAGIC SINKING OF THE EAST COAST PASSENGER SHIP, S.S. CARIBOU, IN OCTOBER, 1942, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO YESTERDAY'S FEATURE BLOG)

A LITTLE TOUR ALONG THE RIVER AND AROUND THE BRACEBRIDGE FALLS

     SUZANNE AND I TOOK A SHORT GAD-ABOUT, AROUND SOUTH MUSKOKA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF GOOD FRIDAY, TO SEE FOR OURSELVES THE EXTENT OF RECENT FLOODING; AND CERTAINLY ON THE NORTH AND SOUTH BRANCH OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, IT WAS GOOD TO NOTE THE HIGH WATER WAS NOT SEVERE BY ANY MEANS. HIGH BUT NOT OVER THE BANKS, EXCEPT AT BRACEBRIDGE BAY PARK, WHERE IT HAD CREEPED OVER THE BEACH. IT IS QUITE A SIGHT, TO SEE THE WATER CRASHING DOWN THE FALLS, AND TUMBLING OVER THE BREAK WALL. AS KIDS IT WAS AWFULLY TEMPTING TO GO OUT ON THIS, LENGTH OF CONCRETE, WHERE WE USED TO FISH ON MISTY SPRING MORNINGS, WHEN ALL WAS CALM. IT WOULD HAVE FREAKED MY MOTHER OUT (AND A LOT OF OTHER PARENTS) TO KNOW JUST HOW MANY TIMES, WE STOOD THERE BELOW THE POWERFUL CATARACT, GETTING SOAKED BY THE WHITECAPS THAT WHIPPED OVER THE ABUTMENT. BUT MANY OF US KIDS, FELT IT WAS A TEST OF COURAGE, WE HAD TO TAKE, CHALLENGING MOTHER NATURE'S FURY. A FEW DIED THIS WAY, GETTING SWEPT OFF THE END OF THE PIER, WITHOUT WARNING, BY SUDDEN POWERFUL WAVES. AS THE UNDERTOW, TWISTING BENEATH THE SURFACE, CAN KEEP A VICTIM UNDERWATER LONG ENOUGH TO DRAIN LIFE, THERE'S NOT MUCH A RESCUER COULD DO ANYWAY. AT ITS PEAK OF FLOW, OVER THE FALLS, IT WOULD BE EXTREMELY DIFFICULT TO MOUNT A RESCUE IN TIME, AS ANY SMALL BOAT WOULD PROBABLY BE OVERTURNED IN THE CHURNING WATER OF THE BAY. EVEN WHEN THE WATERFLOW LESSENS, THERE IS STILL A SIGNIFICANT UNDERTOW, THAT CAN PULL DOWN EVEN A STRONG SWIMMER.

     IN THE EARLY 1980'S, A FRIEND OF MINE, RICHARD GREEN, A WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA SCULPTOR, CREATED A BRONZE SCULPTURE KNOWN AS "THE DIVER." HE OFFERED IT TO THE TOWN, TO BE POSITIONED ON A ROCK, DIRECTLY BELOW THE CATARACT. WE FOLLOWED THE STORY FROM THE BEGINNING, AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND I WROTE AT LEAST HALF THE STORIES LEADING UP TO IS COMPLETION AND INSTALLATION. SEEING AS IT WAS PROBABLY GOING TO BE IN PLACE FOR THE COMING CENTURY, WE TREATED IT AS AN HISTORIC EVENT BY A CANADIAN ARTIST, ON A CHARMING LITTLE RIVERSIDE COMMUNITY. IT WAS QUITE AN IMPRESSIVE PIECE, TO HIGHLIGH THE TOWN'S RECREATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES; AND WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MOUNTED HIGH ENOUGH, THAT IT WOULDN'T BE AFFECTED BY THE WATER POUNDING DOWN OVER THE ROCKS. BUT IF YOU PUT ANYTHING BELOW THE FALLS, IT STANDS TO REASON, IT'S GOING TO GET WATER ON IT MOST TIMES OF THE YEAR. EVEN AS SPLASHES AND MIST. DESPITE QUITE A FEW ADVISORIES, FROM SOME OF THE TOWN'S SENIOR CITIZENS, WHO HAD WITNESSED THIS RIVER'S MOODS FOR DECADES, THE TOWN WENT AHEAD WITH THE PROJECT, ANCHORING THE FINISHED SCULPTURE, SITUATED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FALLS. WITHOUT QUESTION, IT LOOKED SPECTACULAR. BRACEBRIDGE WAS PROUD TO HIGHLIGHT RICHARD'S EXCEPTIONAL ART WORK, AND DURING THE TIME BEFORE WINTER, IT WAS PHOTOGRAPHED THOUSANDS OF TIMES WITH THE BEAUTIFUL FALLS IN THE BACKGROUND. WHEN WINTER THRUST ITS FURY UPON THE EARTH AND RIVER, THE OLDTIMERS' WARNINGS CAME TO PASS. OVER TIME, THE MIST OF THE WATERFALL, AS FROST, THEN THICK ICE, BUILT-UP ON THE BRONZE SCULPTURE, WEIGHING IT HEAVILY ON THE FALLS' SIDE. SO THE WEIGHT OF ACCUMULATED ICE, BEGAN PUSHING, TIPPING AND BENDING THE SCULPTURE DOWN TOWARD THE BAY, EVER SO SLOWLY, AND THE ROCK IT WAS MOUNTED UPON, BECAME AN IMPRESSIVE ICE SCULPTURE. INSTEAD OF "THE DIVER," THE NEWSPAPER CAPTION (FOR THESE PHOTOS) READ, "MAN OVER BOARD - DIVER COLLAPSES UNDER THE WEIGHT OF RIVER ICE." THE REAL CONCERN, WAS THAT IT WOULD SNAP FREE OF THE METAL POST, TEARING AWAY FROM THE ROCK BASE, AND THEN, UN-POETICALLY, FALLING INTO THE CHURNING POOL BENEATH; AND POTENTIALLY BEING LOST FOREVER. IT WAS RESCUED, AND RE-POSITIONED, OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE FALLS, ALTHOUGH I'M NOT SURE HOW MANY TIMES IT HAD TO BE MOVED, FOR ITS OWN PROTECTION FROM ICE-BUILD-UP. I STOPPED YESTERDAY, TO HAVE A LITTLE LOOK, AND WHILE A LITTLE SHORTER THAN I REMEMBER, FROM THE DAY RICHARD AND THE TOWN CREW FINISHED INSTALLATION, IT IS STILL A UNIQUE WATERFRONT SCULPTURE, WITH A WONDERFUL PATINA GIVEN TO IT BY THE FOUR SEASONS.

       IT WAS MENACING, AS IT ALWAYS IS, WHEN IT GETS THAT HIGH, BUT IF THE RAIN HOLDS OFF FOR THE NEXT WEEK OR SO, IT MIGHT BE A LESSER EVIL THAN ANTICIPATED. COLD NIGHTS CERTAINLY HELP. ONE OF THE SIGNS OF IMMINENT DANGER, AS IT WAS DURING MY CHILDHOOD, WAS WHEN THE WATER WOULD BEGIN TO FLOOD OVER RIVER ROAD, NEAR WHERE THE HART FAMILY USED TO HAVE THEIR GREENHOUSES, A STONE'S THROW FROM THE HUNT'S HILL BRIDGE, AND THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING CLOCK TOWER.  YESTERDAY, IT WAS JUST AT THE BRINK OF FLOODING OVER, AND I'M PRETTY SURE BY NOW, IT'S PROBABLY A HAIR AWAY FROM PASSING ACROSS THE ASPHALT. THIS ISN'T ALL THAT UNUSUAL, AND WE USED TO WATCH THIS HAPPEN BACK IN THE LATE 1960'S, WITHOUT TOO MUCH COLLATERAL DAMAGE. THE HART'S USED TO GET WATER IN THEIR YARD, AND AROUND THE GREENHOUSES, BUT NOTHING WAS EVER SWEPT AWAY AS A RESULT. MY PARENTS USED TO LIVE FURTHER DOWN THE ROAD, AT THE BASS ROCK APARTMENTS, AND I NEVER REMEMBER A TIME, THAT THE WATER SWEPT ONTO THIS PROPERTY. LAST YEAR, IT WAS DIFFERENT, AND DID BREACH THE EMBANKMENT. THIS WAS THE RESULT OF HEAVY RAINS THROUGH MUCH OF APRIL, CAUSING THESE MAY FLOODS.

     WE DROVE ALONG SANTA'S VILLAGE ROAD, WHERE WE USED TO LIVE, CLOSE TO THE INTERSECTION OF BOWYER'S BEACH ROAD, AND GOLDEN BEACH ROAD, NOTICING THE DEEP SNOW STILL IN THE BUSH, AND THE HIGH WATER IN THE SWAMPS AND LOWLANDS. THE RIVER, ON SANTA'S VILLAGE ROAD, WAS HIGH BUT NOT OVERFLOWING ANYWHERE WE COULD SEE. AGAIN, THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST FREQUENTLY PRONE ROADS, IN THOSE SECTIONS WHERE THE ROAD SURFACE IS ONLY A FEW METRES ABOVE THE WATERWAY. THERE IS A LOT OF SURFACE WATER VISIBLE, IN THE LOWLAND AREAS, ADJACENT TO THE RIVER AND LAKE, WHICH MEANS THAT EVENTUALLY, IT WILL DRAIN AS WELL, DOWN INTO THE WATERSHED. IT'S JUST THE PREAMBLE PERIOD OF HIGH WATER, WHICH I THINK COULD LAST A FEW WEEKS, AS THERE IS STILL QUITE A VOLUME OF SNOW DEEP IN THE BUSH, (AND ON OUR FRONT LAWN). DRY WEATHER IS GOOD. RAIN, NOT SO MUCH. I HOPE IT WILL BE A MODERATE FLOODING SITUATION THIS SPRING. BUT IT WILL FLOOD, THAT'S FOR CERTAIN. THE MOST IMPORTANT DETAIL, IS TO STAY AWAY FROM THESE FAST MOVING, UNPREDICTABLE WATERWAYS. I'VE KNOWN OF MANY TRAGEDIES THAT HAVE OCCURRED ON THESE WATERWAYS IN THE PAST, BY SIMPLY BEING TOO TRUSTING, THAT WHAT SPARKLES ON THE SURFACE, AND SEEMS SO ETHEREAL, CAN HAVE SERPENT CURRENTS, POWERFULLY COILING BENEATH.

PART TWO: THE SINKING OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, AFTER TORPEDO ATTACK IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE

     THE TATTERED LITTLE BOOKLET, ENTITLED "IT HAPPENED IN OCTOBER - THE TRAGIC SINKING OF THE S.S. CARIBOU," BY H. THORNHILL, IS ONE OF VERY FEW, OF THE ORIGINAL AND LIMITED, 1945 PRINTING, STILL ON THE MARKET. OTHERS ARE PART OF MUSEUM ARCHIVE COLLECTIONS. THIS IMPORTANT RELIC OF WAR-TIME CANADIANA, WAS FOUND IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. IT IS ONE OF THE REASONS, US BIBLIOPHILES, AND COLLECTORS GENERALLY, REFUSE TO BUY INTO THE IDEA, THAT THERE ARE NO GOOD FINDS LEFT IN THE REGION. WE KNOW BETTER, AND HAVE PROOF TO BACK UP OUR CLAIMS. "THERE'S LOTS OF TREASURE OUT THERE TO QUEST FOR, ME MATIES!"

     WHILE THE VALUE OF THE BOOK, IS BASED ON THE STORY AND THE BOOKS AVAILABILITY, ITS CONDITION, IN THIS CASE, DOES TAKE AWAY FROM ITS RARE BOOK VALUE. BUT TO ME, AND POSSIBLY TO YOU, THE STORY IS WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT AFTERALL; AND THIS IS A PART OF CANADIAN HERITAGE WE SHOULD ALL BE REVERENT ABOUT, APPRECIATING THE GRIM REALITIES OF WAR, EVEN AS IT WAS AT THE TIME, A HALF WORLD AWAY. THE SMALL, MODESTLY APPOINTED BOOKLET, WAS A FITTING MEMORIAL, FOR THOSE WHO WERE LOST AND SERIOUSLY INJURED, WHEN THE SHIP WAS HIT BY A TORPEDO, AT AROUND 3:5O A.M., ON OCTOBER 14. 1942. PASSENGERS AND MOST OF THE CREW WERE SOUND ASLEEP, WHEN THE EXPLOSION OCCURRED, RIPPING A HOLE IN THE HULL, AND ALLOWING THE COLD WATER TO POUR INTO THE SHIP. THE LIGHTS WERE IMMEDIATELY LOST, AND ALL OF THOSE ONBOARD, HAD TO NAVIGATE TO FREEDOM, IN THE BLACKNESS OF THE SHIP AND THE NIGHT ITSELF. MANY HAD BEEN KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS BY THE IMPACT OF THE EXPLOSION, AND MAY HAVE DIED AS A RESULT. PARTICULARLY IF THEY HAD THEN BEEN DUMPED INTO THE FRIGID WATER WITHOUT REGAINING AWARENESS, WHAT HAD JUST OCCURRED TO THEIR VESSEL.

     UNDER THE HEADING, "THE TRYING EXPERIENCES OF HAROLD WANE JANES, CHIEF COOK OF THE CARIBOU," THE FOLLOWING TESTIMONY FROM MR. JANES IS PRINTED, ON PAGE 36, OF THE EIGHTY-PLUS PAGE BOOKLET. IT READS AS FOLLOWS:

     "WE WERE 25 MILES SOUTHWEST OF CAPE RAY LIGHT, WHEN WE WERE TORPEDOED, ABOUT MIDWAYS ON THE STARBOARD SIDE. IT WAS ABOUT 3:50 A.M., AND I WAS LYING IN BED WHEN THERE WAS A TERRIBLE CRASH, WHICH THREW ME OUT OF MY BERTH ACROSS TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM, SEVERELY SHAKING ME, AND FRACTURING MY HIP AND SHOULDERS. HAVING PRESENCE OF MIND, I TOOK MY LIFE JACKET, FOR I KNEW WE WERE TORPEDOED, AND SINCE THE EXPLOSION WAS ABOUT TEN FEET AHEAD OF MY ROOM, WATER CAME RUSHING THROUGH THE BULKHEAD, STRIKING THE SECOND COOK IN THE FACE. I HAD ABOUT THIRTY-FIVE FEET OF AN ALLEY-WAY TO RUN THROUGH, THEN ACROSS MAYBE ANOTHER TEN FEET, OR MORE, AND UP A FLIGHT OF STAIRS. I WAS BARE FOOTED AND LIGHTLY RIGGED IN WHITE PANTS AND SHIRT, AS SOMEHOW THERE WAS THAT FEELING THAT WE WERE LIKELY TO BE TORPEDOED. I SLEPT IN THESE SO IF ANYTHING HAPPENED, I WOULD HAVE LITTLE BOTHER IN DRESSING. I REACHED THE DECK AND CROSSED THE AFTER-HATCH WHERE I TOOK MY STATION IN THE LIFE BOAT, WHICH WAS NUMBER 5. I SAW SEVERAL RAFTS FLOATING ALONG SIDE, ONTO WHICH I MIGHT HAVE GOTTEN, BUT I THOUGHT OF MY STATION AT THE LIFE BOAT FIRST, AND FELT IT MY DUTY TO STAND BY WHATEVER THE OUTCOME.

     "ON ARRIVING AT THE LIFE BOAT, I CARRIED OUT MY INSTRUCTIONS. THE CHIEF STEWARD, HARRY HANN, WAS ALSO THERE AT HIS POST AND THE SALOON STEWARD, WILLIAM CURRIE. WITH OTHER HELP, OUR BOAT WAS ALREADY TO SWING. OF COURSE, WE, AT A TIME LIKE THIS, HAD MUCH TO CONTEND WITH, AS EXCITED PASSENGERS CAME THRONGING TO THE BOAT, AND CROWDED HER TO CAPACITY. THEY WERE TOO EXCITED TO EVEN HELP WHEN ASKED TO GET OUT AND HELP SWING THE BOAT CLEAR OF ITS DAVITS, SO WE JUST HAD TO STAND CLEAR AND TAKE WHAT WAS COMING. THE CHIEF STEWARD, HARRY HANN, SAID TO ME, 'WHAT SHALL WE DO NOW?' I ANSWERED, 'EVERYBODY FOR HIMSELF, AND GOD FOR US ALL.' THEN THE SALOON STEWARD, WILLIAM CURRIE, SAID, 'WELL, I AM GOING TO JUMP,' WHICH HE DID. WHEN I LOOKED AROUND AGAIN, FOR HARRY HANN, THE CHIEF STEWARD, HE WAS GONE. I SUPPOSE HE MUST HAVE JUMPED INTO THE WATER FOR I NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN. I WAS DEPRIVED OF MY LAST TWO SHIPMATES; THEY HAD TRIED THEIR LUCK ON A CHANCE OF SOME WAY OF ESCAPE."

     MR. JANES REPORTS OF THE CRISIS ONBOARD, THAT, "AS FOR ME, I WAS STILL CLINGING TO THE OLD SHIP. I WENDED MY WAY AFT OF THE SHIP, AND SAT ON THE RAIL. AS FAR AS I KNOW, I WAS ABOUT THE LAST MAN TO LEAVE THE SHIP WHICH WAS SINKING FAST AND CARRYING ME WITH HER. I SAT ON THE RAIL WITH THE THOUGHT IN MIND, TO JUMP AND TAKE MY CHANCE, AS MY OTHER TWO PALS HAD DONE; BUT BY THIS TIME, THE SHIP'S STERN WAS HIGH OUT OF THE WATER, AND THE SHIP WAS NEARLY PERPENDICULAR, FAST SINKING BY THE HEAD. IN JUMPING, I MIGHT CONTACT THE PROPELLOR; AND CREW WERE RENDERED HELPLESS AND DROWNED. SO I DECIDED TO WAIT UNTIL THE WATER TOUCHED MY FEET, INTENDING TO MAKE A DASH FOR MY LIFE IN A QUICK SWIMMING STROKE, AS I WAS ABLE TO DO MY SHARE OF SWIMMING, THEN WAIT FOR RESCUE IF PER CHANCE SOME KIND WOULD COME. I HAD NO MORE TIME FOR THINKING UP A WAY OUT OF SUCH A PREDICAMENT, FOR AS I MADE A DASH IN THE WATER, I WAS SUDDENLY CAUGHT IN THE SUCTION OF THE SHIP AND TUGGED UNDER THE WATER. I MADE EVERY EFFORT TO SWIM CLEAR, BUT DESPITE ALL MY SWIMMING POWER, I WAS NOT ABLE TO DO SO, AND WAS SWIFTLY CARRIED DOWNWARD WITH THE SHIP. WHILE UNDER THE WATER, I COULD HOLD MY BREATH NO LONGER, AND WHILE BREATHING I TOOK IN WATER. SUDDENLY I THOUGHT OF SWIMMING UP AND AS I DID SO, TO MY SURPRISE, I BROKE CLEAR OF THE SHIP'S GRIP, AND PULLED MYSELF FROM A WATERY GRAVE. AFTER A FEW GOOD STROKES, I IMMEDIATELY CAME TO THE SURFACE, FEELING SICK AND EXHAUSTED. BY GOOD FORTUNE, THERE WAS FLOATING NEAR TO ME, TWO MORE LIFE BELTS WHICH I GLADLY WELCOMED AT A TIME LIKE THIS. ON THESE I RESTED FOR AWHILE TO CATCH MY BREATH, AND THINK OF A WAY TO GET TO A BOAT OR RAFT."

     ACCORDING TO TESTIMONY, BY THE CHIEF COOK, "AFTER RESTING FOR QUITE A WHILE, I BEGAN TO MAKE ANOTHER EFFORT TO SAVE MYSELF. DARKNESS WAS ALL AROUND ME AND I COULD STILL HEAR THE CRIES OF MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN. I THINK THAT I SHALL ALWAYS HERE THOSE SCREAMS OF DROWNING PEOPLE, CALLING FOR HELP. LO, THE HORRORS OF A CRUEL WAR, AND WHAT SORROW AND REMORSE IT LEAVES IN ITS WAKE. ONLY THOSE THAT PASS SUCH EXPERIENCES AS THESE, CAN BEST UNDERSTAND ITS MEANING. I SAID TO MYSELF AS I RESTED ON THE LIFE BELTS, SWINGING TO AND FRO UPON THE OCEAN SWELL, 'IT'S NO GOOD TO SCREAM. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS SOMEHOW.' IT WAS VERY DANGEROUS AS THE WATER AROUND ME WAS FULL OF DEBRIS, AND BROKEN PARTS OF THE SHIP, WHICH WERE BOBBING UP EVERYWHERE WITH THE SWELL AND LOP OF THE SEA. I SEEMED TO BE OUT OF THE AID OF ALL HUMAN HELP, BUT THERE IS ONE WHOM WE ALL TURN TO IN TIMES OF DANGER, AND I FULLY REALIZED THAT HE WHO CONTROLS THE RAGING SEAS, WAS MY ONLY HELPER NOW. WE MAY FEEL SELF-WILLED AND SELF-CONFIDENT, BUT IN TIMES WHEN DEATH IS BIDDING FOR ONE'S LIFE, THE TABLES ARE TURNED, AND WE HAVE TO BEND OUR STIFF NECKS AND SEE HIS FAVOUR.

     "AND THEN I STARTED TO SWIM OFF BEFORE THE WIND AND SEA. I FELT SOMEWHAT LIGHT AT HEART, AND REFRESHED IN MIND, A MIND THAT HAD TURNED TO THE ONE GREAT HELPER. AS I SWAM, IT SEEMED TO BE WITH CONFIDENCE, THAT I WAS GOING TO BE RESCUED, SOME WAY OR ANOTHER. I HAD NOT GONE FAR WHEN SUDDENLY, THROUGH THE DARKNESS, THERE SEEMED TO LOOM UP BEFORE ME, A DARK OBJECT ABOUT THIRTY YARDS AWAY. I ENCOURAGED MYSELF WITH THE THOUGHT, THAT IT MIGHT BE A RAFT AND THANK GOD IT WAS. I SWAM AND SUCCEEDED IN REACHING IT AFTER A LONG AND DESPERATE EFFORT. WHEN I REACHED THE RAFT, I COULD SEE THREE MEN ON IT. I CAUGHT HOLD OF THE ROPE, FLOATING FROM IT, AND CRIED OUT FOR HELP. THE MEN REACHED OUT AND PULLED ME ON IT. BY THE TIME, THERE WAS QUITE A NUMBER OF PEOPLE, WHO HAD SWAM IN THE SAME DIRECTION, AND HAD SUCCEEDED IN REACHING THE SAME RAFT, AND IN A VERY SHORT TIME, THERE WAS ABOUT TWENTY MEN EITHER ON THE RAFT OR HANGING ON TO THE ROPES. HOW GOOD A ROPE LOOKS, EVEN IF IT IS SWINGING FROM A RAFT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN, WHEN LIFE IS IN THE BALANCE.

     "IT IS SAID THAT A DROWNING MAN WILL GRASP AFTER A STRAW. I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THE STRAW, BUT FOR SURE HE WILL, IF CONSCIOUS, GRASP AFTER ANYTHING HE THINKS WILL HELP HIM, AND KEEP HIS HEAD ABOVE WATER. WE PULLED AS MANY AS WE COULD ON BOARD THE RAFT, ALL BUT THREE, AND THESE WE ENCOURAGED TO HOLD ON TO THE ROPES, AS WE HAD SIGHTED ANOTHER RAFT JUST TO THE WINDWARD OF US. WE SHOUTED TO THEM TO TRY AND TAKE SOME OF THESE MEN, AS THEY WERE NOT AS CROWDED AS WE WERE. THIS RAFT HAD THREE OARS OUT, KEEPING THEIR RAFT UP TO THE WIND, AND TRYING TO KEEP THEMSELVES WARM. AFTER A LITTLE WHILE, THEY MANAGED TO GET ALONG SIDE OF US. WE TOOK THE THREE MEN OUT OF THE WATER, AND PUT THEM ON THE RAFT. WE ALSO HAD THREE WOMEN ON OUR RAFT, AND A LITTLE BABY. SEEING THAT OUR RAFT WAS OVERLOADED, WE TRANSFERRED THE BABY TO THE LIGHTER RAFT, BUT IT DIED A FEW HOURS LATER, FROM COLD AND EXPOSURE. IT WAS VERY COLD AT THAT HOUR IN THE MORNING, AND SINCE WE WERE THINLY CLAD, WE HUDDLED OURSELVES TOGETHER TO TRY AND KEEP WARM. I THEN SUGGESTED TO THOSE ON THE RAFT, THAT IT WOULD BE RIGHT TO GIVE THANKS TO GOD, FOR HIS DIVINE PROTECTION. SO WE BOWED OUR HEADS IN THANKFUL PRAISE, FOR HIS HELP AND GUIDANCE, AND AS I LED IN THE LORD'S PRAYER, THE REST REPEATED AFTER ME. THE CONFIDENCE WE HAD THAT HIS WILL BE DONE, GAVE US HOPE; WE FELT SAFE, AS WE BEGAN TO SING HYMN AFTER HYMN."

     MR. JANES CONTINUES, "AS WE SANG FROM THE ABUNDANCE OF OUR HEARTS, WE FELT REFRESHED IN BOTH MIND AND BODY, AND FELT SOMEWHAT STRENGTHENED TO FACE WHATEVER WAS IN STORE. FOR FIVE AND ONE-HALF HOURS, WE SAT WITH OUR LEGS IN THE WATER, AND MANY TIMES SITTING IN THE WATER ITSELF, DUE TO THE RAFT BEING SO CROWDED. THE SEAS, WHICH WERE BREAKING OVER US, WERE NONE TOO WARM AFTER BEING BLASTED FROM A COSY BERTH AT THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. MANY TIMES WE WISHED FOR THE BREAK OF DAY, AS THAT WOULD GIVE US A BETTER CHANCE OF BEING PICKED UP. AT LAST CAME THE TWILIGHT, BREAKING ACROSS THE EASTERN SKIES, AS IF TO THROW A RAY OF HOPE ACROSS OUR OVERLOADED RAFT. SLOWLY BUT SURELY, THE LIGHT OF DAY CREPT IN UPON US. EYES WERE STRAINED FROM WATCHING, THE LARGE SPAN OF WATER, UNTIL WE CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE ESCORT VESSEL BEARING DOWN UPON US. IT SEEMED THAT ALL COLD AND CHILLS DISAPPEARED, AND OUR HEARTS BEGAN TO THUMP WITH VIGOR AND ENTHUSIASM, AT THE THOUGHT OF BEING RESCUED FROM THE PERILS OF THE SEA. WE THANKED GOD FOR HIS UNFAILING HELP IN TIME OF NEED, THUS SAVING US FROM A WATERY GRAVE. AS THE ESCORT SHIP PULLED UP ALONG SIDE, THREE RAFTS OF SURVIVORS WERE TAKEN ON BOARD. OUR NEEDS WERE MINISTERED TO, AND EVERYTHING WAS DONE TO MAKE US COMFORTABLE; BUT OUR HEARTS AND MINDS WERE WITH THOSE WHO WOULD NEVER BE PICKED UP, OUR FRIENDS AND SHIPMATES WHO HAD MET A WATERY GRAVE. OUR THOUGHTS THEN WANDERED TO OUR LOVED ONES AT HOME, ANXIOUSLY WAITING FOR NEWS OF OUR SAFETY, HOPING AND PRAYING THAT WE WOULD BE SAVED. WHEN THE NEWS OF THE SINKING REACHED CHANNEL AND PORT AUX-BASQUES, TERROR STRUCK THE HEARTS OF WIVES, MOTHERS, SWEETHEARTS AND CHILDREN, AND BROUGHT A VEIL OF MOURNING OVER THE WHOLE COMMUNITY, THAT WILL NEVER BE REMOVED FROM MANY HEARTS.

     "WE WERE TAKEN TO NORTH SYDNEY, WHERE ARRANGEMENTS WERE MADE TO TRANSPORT US HOME. WHEN WE ARRIVED IN PORT-AUX-BASQUES, ON SUNDAY MORNING, THE TOWN WAS IN MOURNING AND WE WITNESSED ONE OF THE LARGEST FUNERALS, WHEN SIX OF OUR SHIPMATES WERE LAID TO REST. AMONG THESE WAS THE LATE CAPTAIN AND HIS TWO SONS, STANLEY AND HAROLD. THOUGH THE SEVERE SHOCK OF HAVING MY SHOULDER FRACTURED, I WAS UNABLE TO ATTEND THE FUNERAL OF MY SHIPMATES. ALL I COULD DO WAS SIT IN MY WINDOW, AND LOOK UPON THE SADDEST SIGHT I HAD EVER SEEN, WHEN SIX OF THE MEN THAT A FEW DAYS AGO WERE WELL AND ROBUST, WERE LAID TO REST IN THE CEMETERY. I HOPE THAT MY SIMPLE BUT TRUE STORY WILL HAVE ITS EFFECT UPON THE READER."

     SIXTY-ONE PEOPLE DIED THAT NIGHT, EITHER BY THE IMPACT OF THE EXPLOSION, FROM THE GERMAN U-BOAT TORPEDO, FROM EXPOSURE TO THE ELEMENTS, OR BY DROWNING. FIVE OF THESE PEOPLE WERE NEVER IDENTIFIED. ON TOP OF THIS, THERE WERE THIRTY-ONE CREW MEMBERS, ALSO HAVING PERISHED AS A RESULT OF THE SHIP'S SINKING. THIRTY NINE PEOPLE SURVIVED.

     THANKS TO MR. H. THORNHILL, THIS IMPORTANT BOOK WAS IMPRINTED INTO THE CHRONICLE OF EAST COAST MARITIME HISTORY, AND MOST IMPORTANT, IN THE PAGES OF CANADIAN HISTORY. BUT IT'S THE BOOK ITSELF, THAT POSSESSES A SPIRIT OF RECLAMATION; THAT WE SHOULD REMEMBER AGAIN, AND FAMILIARIZE OURSELVES, WHEN WE GET COMPLACENT IN OUR MODERN SOCIETY, ABOUT JUST HOW FAR REACHING A WAR IN EUROPE CAN BE, TO THE COMFORTS, SAFETY AND DEMOCRACY, WE HAVE IN THIS COUNTRY. IT REMINDS US ABOUT THE EVIL OF WAR, WHEREVER, AND WHENEVER, IT HAS ITS TURN, DAMNING MANKIND.

     THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN, FOR TAKING TIME OUT OF YOUR BUSY SCHEDULE, TO SPEND A FEW MINUTES READING THIS DAILY BLOG, FROM GRAVENHURST, ONTARIO.

     NOTE: SON ANDREW, HAS JUST IRONED OUT THE FINAL DETAILS, OF HIS RE-VAMPED AND RE-LOCATED "SESSION'S SERIES OF CONCERTS," THAT WE HAD BEEN ORIGINALLY HOSTING, IN THE BACK STUDIO OF OUR GRAVENHURST STORE-FRONT. FIRE REGULATIONS PROHIBITED US FROM GOING OVER THIRTY GUESTS, AND IT WAS GOING TO COST A FORTUNE TO FACILITATE THE ROOM FOR A LARGE CROWED; AND STILL MEET FIRE CODE REGULATIONS. SO WE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO SUSPEND THE CONCERTS UNTIL WE COULD FIND A NEW LOCATION. WE HAD, AT FIRST, WISHED TO RENT THE GRAVENHURST OPERA HOUSE, WHERE WE HAD HOSTED MANY FUNDRAISING CONCERTS IN THE PAST; BUT KNOWING THE EXPENSE AND STRUGGLE TO INK A DEAL, (EXPERIENCED BY MANY POTENTIAL USERS), WE JUST GAVE UP BEFORE GETTING ENTANGLED IN BUREAUCRACY, AND LOOKED FOR A MORE ACCOMMODATING VENUE.

     SO IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE, THAT ANDREW AND ROBERT ANNOUNCE, THAT THE BOARD OF THE HISTORIC, ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, HAS CONSENTED TO RENT US SPACE, ON AN ONGOING BASIS, TO HOLD THE POPULAR EVENING CONCERT SERIES, WHICH HOPEFULLY WILL BE OFFERED TO THE PUBLIC, AT LEAST MONTHLY (OR MORE) THROUGHOUT THE YEAR; THE FIRST OF THE SESSIONS TO BE HELD, ON  FRIDAY, MAY 23RD, FEATURING TWO TALENTED PERFORMERS, ON ACOUSTIC GUITAR, WHO HAVE ENTERTAINED OUR PATRONS PREVIOUSLY; GRAYDON JAMES AND GABRIELLE PAPILLON. TICKETS WILL BE AVAILABLE SOON, AT ANDREWS MUSIC AND COLLECTABLES, AND "TYPE SALON AND BARBER," ON MUSKOKA ROAD. MORE INFORMATION WILL BE MADE AVAILABLE IN THE NEAR FUTURE.