TO KEEP THE ORIGINAL FINISH OR TO MAKE A PIECE LOOK FUNKY? IT IS UP TO THE OWNER!
STRIP, SAND DOWN, VARNISH, PAINT, OR DO YOU JUST LEAVE THE POOR OLD THING ALONE
I'm sorry. This was not a day to park oneself in a main street shop. It was a day to pack a wee lunch, and head out on the open road, to celebrate, oh yea, the end of this freaking winter. It's spring as far as I'm concerned. I just want to travel off to the horizon, and quest the holy grail, or whatever amazes us on the antique hunt and gather. The store is not a chore. On the right days of course. Saturdays were always our time of the week to travel as a family. Even though we've had the shop for three years, I still get the urge to "Easy Rider-it" out of here, come a sunny Saturday morning. I'm not sure I will ever change in this regard, and may try to slip my wheelchair out of the retirement home, to head out to the local antique auction, or flea market. I suppose it's a healthy urge to want to explore and engage adventure. Suzanne just calls it my mid-life crazy. Well, I must have had the earliest mid-life crazy ever, because this has been my reality since childhood. "Open the door and get out of my way!" Oh well, I had the opportunity to visit with a lot of friends and regular customers today, while sitting in the back room, working on today's blog. Talk about "actuality." Nothing like writing about antiques while sitting in the middle of them. I had to lodge in the back room today, which is no disadvantage of course, but I had to look after the shop puppy, Muffin, who was on a time-out for barking at customers who had particularly furry hats and coat collars; which you see, she assumes to be wildlife, and wishes to hunt them for sport.
I prefer original finishes on the furniture we have at Birch Hollow. Sometimes that finish is an original red, or aged cream, or even faded green. Bare wood is fine, just not with a high gloss finish. I got turned off varnishing to a brilliant sheen, early in my antiquing career. Here's how I learned that what is dull, is most often, much better.
One of my favorite refinishing stories, from my first full year as an antique dealer, involved a wonderful pine jam cupboard constructed on a pioneer farmstead in Muskoka, from the period of the 1870's. It was a honey finish to begin with, but at that time, I hated a satin finish. I don't know where I got it, that pine had to have a high gloss, to be attractive to the antique hunting crowd, but it was the mindset of the era. I was in company of hundreds of antique dealers, specializing in Canadiana, that in the 1970's, thought the end-all was a shimmering relic of national heritage. So when I put three coats of high gloss varnish on the jam cupboard, I was beside-myself, as they say, to stand back and admire the view. I could very nearly see my face in reflection. Gads, what a moron I was, to do something so stupid, to a really well finished piece to start with. I picked-up the jam cupboard at a Bracebridge auction for fifty bucks. I couldn't believe my good fortune, but it was one of those auction sales in the high heat of July, and the crowd was looking for Canadiana that day. I've never stopped looking for Canadiana. I was salivating from the moment I won the bid, how great it was going to look with that high gloss that would twinkle in the overhead lamplight of our Bracebridge antique shop.
Customers loved the style and color of the pine jam cupboard. It had that warm homestead look, and I set the price at two hundred dollars, allowing for the vast amount of varnish I'd used. Every single customer, who had an interest in the piece, said the same thing. "Too bad someone screwed up the original finish." "What do they know," I used to complain, to my mother, who was running our family shop at the time. "It's absolutely perfect," I would claim, running my hand over its top, enjoying the wonderful sensation of the really smooth, highly polished surface. "But people don't want a furniture-mirror," she claimed. And she actually called it a "furniture mirror." Something was wrong here, and I was anticipating that it was going to stay in the store, for some period of time, which sucks, as far as making rent, and getting a couple of bucks for living expenses. Well, this was the first inch of the life-long learning curve. I had put a finish on a piece that a majority of customers didn't appreciate; having no desire to use a jam cupboard as a horizontal mirror.
The very next week, a customer did make an offer on the jam cupboard but it hinged on whether or not I could remove, or dull down the finish. In fact, I wasn't going to lose a dime on my asking price, except for the sweat equity to spend an hour, or two, with steel wool, and the emotional resolve to diminish the furniture's reflective qualities, which I thought was spectacular. I hated myself at that moment, because it was the "bitter and sweet" of the antique profession, and as a cocky rookie, I had already committed my first in-shop mistake. The rule, from that point, was to allow customers to call the shots, in terms of refinishing desires. I'm sort of glad in retrospect, that this happened very early in my career, because it heralded a more insightful handling of antique pieces, having unique and important original finishes, dating back to rare and resourceful pioneer mixes, that were created from homestead resources; not purchased from the local general store. The customer in this case, was delighted with the low luster finish, and she would continue to be a good customer for years to come. I lost money on the type of varnish, being high gloss, and the expense of time, of lessening the sparkle, but overall, the varnish did act to conserve the piece, and could be removed entirely, without too much effort, whenever a further change was desired.
There are a lot of antique pieces that are in terrible condition, as far as surface finishing, always tempting the antique dealer who has the capability of stripping and re-finishing. These are occasions when there is no possibility of saving the original finish, and that being sold "as-is," denies a much more substantial profit potential. I used to be pretty reckless about what I'd buy to refinish, and often get myself into quite a mess, when it came down to stripping what initially looked like a small job; only to find out that Satan, the Dark One, had planned this one for me, as a test of my moral resolve. The last piece of antique furniture that I refinished, almost drove me to set it on fire in the driveway, where I had set up my work area. It was a beautiful Victorian hall tree, with mirror, seat, and lid-covered compartment for storage of hats and scarves. Nice oak with a dark stain, and a century's worth of touch-ups and varnish. It should have been a relatively easy task to remove the three or four coats of varnish, and the stained finish that had worn away in too many places to let stand, without at least minor restoration. While I have never been a heavy user of paint remover, because of the harsh chemical content, and the fact it's a miserable exercise even for a pay cheque, I decided to try a small amount, and use it very efficiently. It became obvious, after the first half day, that this was going to be one of those refinishing tasks that finally broke my spirit, to ever again attempt such utter nonsense. I couldn't believe how the varnish in this misadventure, wadded-up, and smeared into a peanut butter-like paste, that became harder to deal with when it would quickly dry, necessitating even more stripper, and more noxious fumes. My fingers were getting blistered from exposure, to the raw fluid, and all my scrapers were loaded with this gathered stain and old varnish. The damn thing took me one full week, to get it to a satisfactory base, on which to apply the new satin finish varnish. I had the brass coat hooks nicely cleaned up, but not to look new of course. The mirror had to be replaced, but I decided instead to get a little artistic, by screwing on a nice landscape painting, applied to a perfect sized masonite panel, which really gave it a super nice prominence in our shop. Gosh, I was delighted by the fact, it was purchased by a cottager, two days after I carted-it to the back room, where we keep our book collection. Of course I lost money on the deal. I was just glad to see the son-of-a-bitch go to someone else's abode. Every time I looked at it, I saw something else I'd missed, or a brush hair adhered to the surface. Don't you just hate that. If you leave it there, it drives you nuts, and if you pry it free, it leaves an ugly long depression.
Get this! The guy who had purchased the hall stand, approached me one afternoon in the shop, a couple of weeks later, to tell me how great the piece looked in his lakefront cottage, and I had one of those pleasant moments of "refinisher's satisfaction." It wasn't a long feeling however, as he proceeded to explain how he had stripped it to bare oak, and restored it to precisely the way it had been originally marketed for the period of the late 1890's. He even got a new mirror cut to fit where the painting had been inserted. It was one of the "I feel like such a tool" occasions, when you mutter something inaudible, and scamper off to hide until the pain goes away. Suzanne tried to make me feel better about the exercise, by saying "Oh well, the customer is always right!" I hate when she says that, especially when it relates to some bone-headed project I've messed up, because of my fundamental inability to, in this case, refinish a hall tree back to the 1890 standard. I will now purposely walk away from a refinishing project, unless it is one of those ridiculously low-priced jam cupboards that pulls at my antique-loving heartstrings. I do however, these days, feel so much more entitled, to refuse these fix-it projects because of my wonky hip, rickety knees, and stiff writer's neck. Suzanne doesn't want me stressing myself out about restorations anymore, which of course, has more to do with the quality of my work, and efficiencies, than my physical shortfalls.
I suppose in a way, my refinishing woes, have made me far more astute to the value of original finishes, and the significance in conserving them as much as possible; without of course, having one's house look like the inside of a storage barn. At first, I suppose it would be true to say, I was looking for a short-cut to refinishing furniture, and found myself looking for like-minded customers, who would appreciate those early pioneer efforts to bring color to bare wood chairs, tables and cupboards. As I have always been attracted to primitive and homestead / country style antiques, especially Canadiana, original finishes obviously have far more importance as far as heritage goes, than say, factory produced pieces, with standard finishes and adornments, that look poorly, when in worn and generally rough condition. These are the toughest restorations for any refinisher. Today, at twenty five bucks an hour, or more, most of these pieces are just too expensive to fully restore to their original finishes. Unless you happen to be doing it for your own use. It's why a lot of re-purposing minded dealers, are opting instead to paint what was formerly stained and varnished. I don't do this, and there are probably only a couple of cases, in the past forty years, where I purposely painted a furniture piece; and that was always for home use, not for re-sale in our shop. I will never stray from the opinion, that once a customer makes a purchase of one of our furniture pieces, I no longer have a say in how bright and colorful it might become, at the discretion of a paint-happy new owner. If it was a primitive pine table, I would have a heart attack if I knew a new owner had painted over the beautiful wood, or the remnant of the original buttermilk paint. Suzanne tells me to relax about these eventualities, because there's no way of imposing our values on those who wish to acquire what we've been selling. For me, you see, it would be like taking a nice landscape art piece, and painting over it to suit some decorating scheme. Especially if one paid a lot of money for the painting, in the first place, and ruined a perfectly good and inspiring piece of creativity; to temporarily change the mood of a subject room. I remember a home decorator, telling me that the mint condition zither I had just packaged for her, was going to be custom painted "purple" to suit a similarly colored grand piano, in a Toronto condominium, she had been employed to decorate. I had the money, and the thrill of making rent that month, so what the hell could I say to her, at this point of transferred ownership. Not a darn thing! I had been thrilled, you see, to have owned such a beautiful vintage instrument, and could not have imagined anyone on this planet, buying it and destroying the near perfect original finish, just to achieve a decorating plan. But his is exactly what can happen, and it's the business part of staying in the antique profession; otherwise you are just a collector who keeps everything in as-found condition, fearing a compromise of integrity. We just rub our eyes a lot, and thump our heads on the sales desk, when these buyers leave the store, after letting us in on their plans, to reconstitute heirloom antiques and collectables. Yet we smile at the bank clerk, when, later the same day, make a husky deposit to offset our deficits.
BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES WAS A HAVEN FOR THE WEEKLY MEETINGS OF THE "LIARS CLUB."
I BORROWED THIS NAME FROM PAUL RIMSTEAD'S BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS"
MY SON ROBERT, ASKED ME A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT OUR FORMER ANTIQUE SHOP, WHICH WAS LOCATED IN THE UNFINISHED BASEMENT OF A MANITOBA STREET BUILDING, IN CENTRAL BRACEBRIDGE. I USED TO LOOK AFTER HIM AT THE STORE, IN THE YEARS BEFORE HE WAS ATTENDING SCHOOL FULL TIME. FOR AWHILE, I EVEN HAD OUR OTHER SON ANDREW IN THE SHOP FOR HALF THE DAY, WHEN HE WENT TO KINDERGARTEN. IT WAS LIKE HELL ON EARTH TO BE HONEST. WE HAD NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER. SHORTLY AFTER WE SIGNED THE LEASE AGREEMENT, OUR FLIGHTY PARTNERS DECIDED THEY DIDN'T WANT TO BE IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS ANY MORE, SO IN ORDER TO MAKE UP FOR THE STAFFING SHORTFALL, I HAD TO WORK FIVE DAYS A WEEK, AND SOMETIMES SIX IF SUZANNE HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO ON SATURDAYS.
SO WHEN ROBERT ASKED ME WHAT I REMEMBERED OF THE STORE EXPERIENCE, BACK IN THE EARLY 1990'S, I MADE A GROAN, WINCED A LITTLE, HAD A WILD LOOK IN MY EYES, AND ANSWERED, "IT WAS GREAT……WHEN YOU AND ANDREW WENT TO SCHOOL;" MEANING THINGS GOT BETTER FOR THE WHIPPED ANTIQUE SHOP CLERK, WHEN HE DIDN'T HAVE TO CHASE KIDS THROUGH THE AISLES OF GLASS AND POTTERY. A YEAR AGO, ON HIS URGING, BASED ON THE FACT HE WAS PRETTY YOUNG AT THE TIME WE HAD THE SHOP, AND HAS FORGOTTEN SOME OF THE EVENTS THAT WENT ON THERE, I STARTED WRITING SOME TELL-ALL BLOGS LAST JANUARY AND FEBRUARY; AND WE ALL GOT QUITE A LAUGH AT SOME OF THE GENERAL MISADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED FROM 1990 TO ABOUT 1995 OR SO. WE CLOSED THE SHOP FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS, THAT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH FINANCIAL SUCCESS, BECAUSE IN FACT, WE HAD MANAGED TO SURVIVE A HUGE RECESSION, AND REAL ESTATE CRASH, WITH STILL A FEW COINS TO JINGLE IN OUR RESPECTIVE TROUSERS. I WAS OFFERED A POSITION AS PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR WITH THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, CREATED BY FORMER DETROIT RED WING GOALIE, ROGER CROZIER, (A NATIVE OF BRACEBRIDGE), AND SUZANNE WAS GIVEN AN OPPORTUNITY TO TRANSFER FROM BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL TO GRAVENHURST, WHICH IS WHERE WE LIVE. SHE IS A TEACHER LIBRARIAN AND WE WON'T GET INTO THAT WORK TO RULE THING, GOING ON HERE IN ONTARIO, WITH THE CURRENT DISPUTE BETWEEN TEACHERS AND THE PROVINCE.
ROB WAS MOST INTERESTED IN HAVING SOME OF MY IMPRESSIONS OF THAT TIME, AND THE BUSINESS CLIMATE IN BRACEBRIDGE FOR ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES. HE'S PARTICULARLY INTRIGUED BECAUSE HE AND HIS BROTHER ARE NOW IN THE 7TH YEAR OF THEIR OWN VINTAGE MUSIC BUSINESS, HERE IN GRAVENHURST; AND WE HAVE JOINED THEM THIS PAST YEAR, TO OPEN UP TWO ROOMS OF ANTIQUES AT THE REAR OF THE BUILDING. WE WORK UNDER ROBERT AND ANDREW NOW, AS ONCE MY WIFE RETIRES FROM TEACHING THIS JUNE, WE WANT TO SPEND A LOT MORE TIME TRAVELLING AND PICKING……INSTEAD OF JUST HANGING OUT BEHIND A COUNTER. OF COURSE, LAST YEAR, IT GOT SO BUSY WE COULDN'T LEAVE THE BOYS TO HANDLE THEIR SHOP AND THE EXTENSION AS WELL.
BUT GETTING BACK TO THE QUESTION ROBERT HAD ASKED ME, I IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT ABOUT PAUL RIMSTEAD'S COLUMN, WRITTEN IN MEXICO IN THE EARLY 1970'S, AS HE WAS PURSUING A NEWSPAPER HIATUS, TO TRY HIS HAND AT CREATIVE WRITING……AS WELL AS DOING REGULAR COLUMNS FOR THE TORONTO SUN. HE WANTED TO SEE IF HE HAD THE SAME STUFF AS ALL THE GREAT NOVELISTS, WHO FOUND THEIR INSPIRATION IN EXOTIC, TROPICAL LANDS. HIS CHOICE WAS MEXICO. THE REASON ROBERT'S QUESTION STRUCK A CHORD, IS THAT I HAD BEEN THINKING, OVER CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR, ABOUT THE INTERESTING GATHERINGS WE USED TO HAVE AT THE SALES DESK IN OUR LITTLE ANTIQUE SHOP. I DIDN'T MAKE MUCH MONEY OFF THESE WEEKLY GUESTS, BUT WHAT FRIENDSHIPS WE HAD……AND WHAT AMAZING DISCUSSIONS WE HAD ABOUT EVERYTHING ON EARTH, IN HISTORY, THE FUTURE, AND A LOT OF OTHER WORLDLY STUFF TOO. WHEN RIMSTEAD ARRIVED IN MEXICO WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER, EAGER TO TROMP DOWN HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, TO MAKE IT MORE COMFORTABLE, LIKE A DOG CIRCLING ON A BLANKET, HE FOUND A BAR…..AND IN THAT BAR, HE FOUND SOME MATES. IT WASN'T LONG BEFORE THEY WERE HIS BEST FRIENDS. THAT BY THE WAY, WAS THE RIMSTEAD MAGIC. HE COULD MAKE FRIENDS FAST WHO WOULD BE HIS BUDDIES TO THE END. THE STORY HE WROTE ABOUT THIS, WAS THE WAY I THOUGHT ABOUT MY GOOD FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, WHO ARRIVED AT MY COUNTER WITH COFFEES AND BOWLS OF SOUP TO SHARE,……WINTER COATS AND GLOVES TO GIVE MY KIDS (THAT HAD BELONGED TO THEIR YOUNGSTERS)…..AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE ASSOCIATES MIGHT FEEL COMFORTABLE SHARING WITHIN THE GROUP. WHILE CLOSING THE SHOP WAS DIFFICULT, EMOTIONALLY, IT WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO HAVING TO SAY GOODBYE TO THESE WONDERFUL HANGERS-ON, WHO I SO ENJOYED, WHEN THEY BOUNCED DOWN THOSE STAIRS, YELLING AT ME BEFORE THEY HIT THE BOTTOM STEP. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING CURRIE? WHAT HAVE YOU SOLD TODAY?" IN THE WINTER, THE ANSWER WAS PRETTY MUCH THE SAME FROM DAY TO DAY. ""NOT A BLOODY THING……SO PLEASE MAKE MY DAY……BUY SOMETHING!" "I'M BROKE…..HAVE A COFFEE," MY SHOP GUEST WOULD CHORTLE, WITH VIBRANT HONESTY, DUSTING OFF THE SNOW SO THAT IT GOT ALL OVER MY BOOKS ON THE COUNTER.
"THANKS FOR RUINING MY BOOKS," I'D CHASTISE, WHILE BRUSHING OFF THE WATER DROPLETS. "YOU'RE SUCH A COMPLAINER. DO YOU WANT SOME CHEESE TO GO WITH THAT WHINE?" WELL YOU GET THE IDEA.
SOME OF MY REGULARS INCLUDED BILL PORTER, TOM MACFARLANE, HARRY RANGER, ASGAR THRANE, JACK KIERNAN, DICK IVEY, KEVIN PEAKE, AND AUDREY JUDD……OF THE WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA FAMILY WHO OPERATED JUDDHAVEN RESORT, ON LAKE ROSSEAU. THERE WERE MORE CUSTOMERS AND ANTIQUE COLLEAGUES WHO JOINED FROM TIME TO TIME, LIKE AUCTIONEER ART CAMPBELL, MIKE BEASLEY, WENDY SMID, RICK KRIST, SHARON AND BRIAN MILNE. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER THEY ENJOYED MY COMPANY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO THEIR VISITS. BUT I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING, WE TRIED TO SOLVE ALL THE PROBLEMS OF THE WORLD, BUT SETTLED INSTEAD FOR SOUND-GOOD RECREATIONAL DEBATING INSTEAD. WE'D GET SO EMBROILED IN ANTIQUE TALKS, THAT I'D FORGET ABOUT PICKING UP THE LADS FROM BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, ON THE NEXT BLOCK. I USED TO TRUST THESE FOLKS WITH THE STORE ROUTINELY, AND SOMETIMES BRIAN MILNE WOULD SUBSTITUTE, AND HEAD OVER TO THE SCHOOL AS AN ALTERNATE DAD. YOU KNOW, I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THIS ALOT…..BUT I DON'T THINK I THANKED THESE FOLKS FOR MAKING MY DAYS SO INTERESTING AND EDUCATIONAL, BECAUSE AMONGST THIS GROUP WERE SOME SAVVY COLLECTORS AND DEALERS, WITH A WEALTH OF INFORMATION AND EXPERIENCE TO SHARE. IN OUR PRESENT SHOP, I'M IN A KIND OF PERPETUAL TIME WARP, BECAUSE SOME OF MY MUCH OLDER CRONIES HAVE RETURNED, AFTER CLOSE TO EIGHTEEN YEARS ABSENCE FROM MAIN STREET RETAILING. IT'S QUITE A SHOCK TO LOOK UP OVER THE COUNTER, AND SEE SOME OF THOSE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I USED TO DEPEND ON……TO LIGHTEN THE BURDEN OF SO MANY SLOW DAYS IN THE OFF-SEASON. I LOOKED UP ONE DAY, JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR, AND THE OUTSTRETCHED HAND OF ROB BOUND, OF BRACEBRIDGE, COMMANDED A HANDSHAKE FOR OLD TIMES SAKE. I SPENT A LOT OF TIME TALKING ABOUT LOCAL POLITICS WITH ROB, AND I USED TO SELL HIS NEAT OLD WINDOW FRAMES HE HAD REFASHIONED, INTO STYLISH DECORATOR MIRRORS. I USED TO APOLOGIZE TO ROB FREQUENTLY, AS WITH MANY CONSIGNORS, BECAUSE IN THOSE YEARS OF THE RECESSION, ALL MAIN STREET ENTERPRISES WERE STRUGGLING TO HANG ONTO THEIR BUSINESSES. SO WE UNFORTUNATELY DIDN'T SELL A LOT FOR THEM. I ALWAYS FELT BAD ABOUT THIS FAILURE TO DEPLOY. I GOT SKUNKED SO MANY DAYS IN A ROW, I STARTED TO LEAVE MY METAL CASH BOX AT HOME IN THE MORNING.
WHEN I REFER TO THE "LIAR'S CLUB," AS RIMSTEAD USED TO CALL THE COLLECTIVE OF BLOKES HE MET AT THE BAR, IT WAS IN NO WAY MEANT TO BE DEROGATORY IN REFERENCE. QUITE THE OPPOSITE. IT WAS JUST KIND OF AN INFORMAL DEBATING SOCIETY, WHERE THE TRUTH WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO SPOIL AN OTHERWISE GOOD STORY. SO WHEN I CALL MY FRIENDS THE BIRCH HOLLOW LIAR'S CLUB, IT IS WITH ONLY THE GREATEST REVERENCE AND FRIENDSHIP…..BECAUSE THEY KEPT THIS ANTIQUE DEALER FROM GOING BONKERS……TRYING TO KILL TIME, AND FIGURE OUT NEW WAYS OF MAKING MONEY. ADMITTEDLY, THIS PERIOD WAS A BALL BREAKER FOR ANTIQUE DEALERS. BUT WE SURVIVED. IN PART, BECAUSE THEY WOULDN'T LET ME QUIT.
NOW HERE IN THE WORDS OF PAUL RIMSTEAD, FROM THE BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS," PRENTICE-HALL CANADA, 1980.
THE WRITER'S LIFE AMONGST FRIENDS…..AT A BAR……IN MEXICO…..WITH NARY A CARE
"On New Year's Day, 1972, we crossed into Mexico at Laredo, and as we cruised through Neuva Laredo, on the Mexican side, there was a sudden explosion. Someone had thrown a rock at the van and hit the window on the passenger's side, knocking off the Missus's glasses. Welcome to Mexico! Three days later we pulled into the picture-book town of San Miguel de Allende, with its church spires and cobblestone streets, and peddlers selling their wares from the backs of their donkeys. As we turned off from the main plaza and went down to our rented house, neither of us noticed the two little swinging doors that would change our lives. We lived on a street called Zacateros. This was where my book would be written, up in that studio on the roof. Conditions were absolutely ideal. It was everything that I had read in Writer's Yearbook,' wrote Paul Rimstead, eager to get cracking on the next bestselling novel.
"We bought our food in the outdoor market and even had a maid. The Senora, a wonderful lady who spoke no English but who remains a friend today. She lives in what is little more than a mud hut and, by herself, raised a large family, including a twenty-year old son named Elauterio who found the house for us and became my most valuable contact in the Mexican community. The Missus, who was quite a good equestrian, began working as an instructor each morning at the Escuela Ecuestre, an internationally known riding academy, operated by an American named Harold Black. Our daughter Tracy was enrolled in John F. Kennedy School in Queretaro, 45 kilometers south, where subjects were taught in English in the mornings and Spanish in the afternoons. I would walk her up to the plaza very early each morning to catch her school bus and, on the way back to the house, stop for a cup of coffee with sculptor Ronn Crabbe, who would already be working in his studio. The Senora would have prepared a breakfast of fresh fruit - papaya, grapefruit, oranges, pineapple - and, after eating, The Missus would drive up the mountain to the riding academy, and I would go up to my studio to write. I had brought paper, typewriter, ribbons, carbon, three ring binders, and even a three-hole punch," he wrote. "Life should have been perfect. It wasn't. Remember those swinging doors I mentioned earlier? I went through them one day and discovered the greatest little bar in the world. It was called 'La Cucaracha (The Cockroach) and was known plainly as 'The Cue' (Kook). In not time at all, I was accepted by the inner circle and became a regular. I called it the 'Literary, Intellectual, Artistic, Reading Society' which, when shortened, was the 'LIARS' CLUB '."
Rimmer writes, "Club members were people like 'The Judge,' 'Tony the Painter,' 'Deathmarch Hal,' 'The Midnight Cowboy,' 'Torpedo Sam,' 'Nursey,' 'Racetrack Sandy,' - characters who were known by the uppity Americans and Canadians on the hill, as 'those horrid people at the Cucaracha'. But, they were the best conversationalists and most intriguing circle of friends I ever had. The bar was a tiny place with just a few wooden tables and chairs in the front room, and a standup bar in the back, where the Mexicans drank. Drinks were cheap and Chucho, the proprietor, was the guardian angel of the gringos, running bar tables until the money came from home. San Miguel was considered to be an artist's colony but rather, it was a home for lost souls, widows, divorcees, and people who were trying to survive on small pensions. They pretended they were writing, pretended they were painting. They were drinking and laughing. Drinking and talking. The bar was famous enough to have been written about in feature stories in major magazines, including a long piece in Esquire. Norman Mailer drank there, so did the guy who wrote 'The Hustler.' Nobody got to know it better than me. I was a regular, arriving at noon each day, drinking until two or three in the afternoon or until The Missus came in, leading Miss Wigglebum (their dog) on a leash, and firing me one of her patented looks."
He concludes, "I suppose, in agreeing to go to Mexico, The Missus thought things would be better down there. At least we would be together. But, when we were together all the time, she discovered she didn't really like me at all. We had been in San Miguel three months when she decided that she had enough. She took Tracey and left me." Rimstead wrote, "After she left, I threw myself into single life with a vengeance and several bottles of tequila. I closed the three-ring binder forever, kept writing my columns, and took up permanent residence at the Cucharacha. When I heard, in 1979, that the Cue had been sold and closed, It was as if I had lost a good friend."
Well, the LIARS' Club of the former Birch Hollow Antiques was a sober bunch. We never shared anything more than good conversation, some cough lozenges when we had colds, and a few "looks," when spouses had to come downstairs to break up the meeting, in order to get home for dinner. Rimstead's "LIARS Club," was admittedly hard core to our much softer approach to togetherness…..and for professional purposes as well. But I know what Rimmer meant about the gathering of kindred spirits. We were all a little bored back then, and we found that discussing antiques and collectibles passed the time rather nicely. I will always think fondly of that group of conversationalists. And by the way, during this time, in between customers and the LIARS' Club get-togethers, I wrote four manuscripts, and handled two other freelance writing jobs……while having a regular newspaper column in the Muskoka Advance, and feature articles in The Muskoka Sun. Of course, I waited to get home to have a wee pint of ale. That pleased my Missus.
I don't know if another "LIARS' Club,' will form in our new location. I'm certainly open to the idea. I'm just not sure my conversation is as sensible as it was back in my youth. I find myself repeating stories so often, Suzanne calls me her "broken record," companion. I suppose I should be concerned she thinks I'm losing my marbles, but hey, I get away with a lot of stuff these days because of it. Like, "I'm sorry dear. I forgot what you told me to do!" It works for me.
Thanks for visiting today. I appreciate you dropping by for a visit and a read through the latest blog. I'm antique hunting tomorrow with our family, and I always look forward to hitting that open road…….and seeing this great province of ours……laden in snow is nice too. See you again soon. Drive carefully out there.
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