THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE BUSINESS IS ABOUT PEOPLE, PLACES AND ADVENTURE - DROP ONE, AND IT'S A HOLLOW EXPERIENCE
WRITER ON HIATUS - TO GET ON WITH THE BUSINESS AND SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF CELEBRATING THE HARVEST
This is it! As the Maple Leaf forward, Tiger Williams used to say, "Done like dinner!" I'm finally going to take my fingers off this infernal keyboard, and immerse myself deeply, and hopefully, with some parallel profit, celebrate the antique culture I have so heartily hoped for, and anticipated, since the mid 1980's. In that time, I have been writing about it, and marginally participating in shop activities, but not by any means, fully immersed as I desire. Writing about the antique trade, and actually working in the profession, have a divide as wide as the English Channel. It's time to stop writing about it, and instead, living it for all the right reasons.
In late December, I decided to get-on-with writing a no frills (attempt) template, of a biography I had been playing around with for years; without actually succeeding at anything more than blogs here and there, without any real editorial consistency. The past two months and a bit, have worked rather well in this regard, and I have finally got something in text, that I can work with some time in the future, should I want to put an actual book together. I don't think it would be a best seller, that's for sure. I wanted Andrew and Robert to have something to remember me by, should I suddenly perish the result of spontaneous combustion, after, say, reading accounts of local council misadventures.
I wanted, you see, the bare bones of biography fastened together, however loosely, because it will, in later years, explain to our sons, and their significant others, why their parents did what they did; and how mom and pop's playing around at this collecting thing, for nine tenths of their lives, influenced the little fellows following behind; and what they have found themselves doing as adults themselves. Suzanne had a collecting interest before we got married, but I know how my influence peddling, has turned a meek, scholarly partner, into a competitive fiend in the antique trade. Some times I do wonder, if it was right and decent, to have imposed such values on innocent family members. I suppose, however, that if they are successful, and feel thusly, about present endeavours, it would be a sort of minor achievement for the Svengali, some see me as, in my most frightful vigor of competitive antique hunting.
I now feel it is the right time to take a break from daily blogging. Our ebay start-up will take both a lot of writing and co-ordinating, and besides, it's pretty obvious, I've become my own tribute writer; and frankly, that's the height of self indulgence. A lot of my work was repetitive to a fault, simply because I haven't got those accounts of scaling Everest, or riding the rails from the vantage point of a box car. I have led an interesting and mildly exciting life, but not even a quarter as much, as some of my friends and antique colleagues, who have been around the world and been holed-up in exotic places, participating in truly great adventures. I don't feel particularly envious, but it is part and parcel of being a writer, to have a copious number of accounts of unique experiences, and something that brushes on the barest classification of odyssey. I have been a journeyman writer for most of my career, and the only reason I feel bad now, is that I am less physically able to climb a hill let alone a mountain; and the only way I'm going to tour North America is in the bosom of comfort and luxury. I can't see myself sipping coffee out of a tin can, sitting on a stump in a hobo jungle, awaiting the next open boxcar, to get me a little further down the iron rails. I'm more of a resort lounger, and shuffle-board player, while enjoying the ocean-side atmosphere, watching the fishing boats pass north and south along the horizon. As I have always wanted to be a beach bum, as I was as a teenager, vacationing every February in Florida, it does cross my mind (as I now pull icicles from my beard), that Key West would be a decent place to recline, while Suzanne knits me a fine thong.
Don't get me wrong. We're not thinking of closing our Gravenhurst antique shop, or in any way, lightening our business footprint in Muskoka. Quite the opposite. And, I am not giving up writing altogether. There are a lot of writing projects I've been holding off for years, actually decades, that I might now play around with, if the mood prevails. The evasive novel, for example. I have beat my shoulders and arms to a pulp, as if I'd been playing hockey for all these years. I actually might have finished playing hockey with less injuries, than working, with crappy posture, to hold my arms up above the keyboard, which has compromised my neck for far too many years. As regular readers will know, for sure, I am a prolific writer, and the consequence, above all else, has been my premature aging, such that my parallel at fifty-nine, is that of a 105 year old Swede. Fortunately, my shuffleboard arm is still pretty good.
Suzanne and I are thinking about travelling in the next year, to destinations we have always denied ourselves, the result of raising a family, and helping our sons' set up their music business. Plus, we have always had a lot of pets, and couldn't leave them without strict supervision; or there would be no house left upon return. Things in this regard, are easing somewhat, and the boys are both pet lovers, and enjoy their recreation time spent with cats and little dog. We have enjoyed many, many stay-cations during our marriage, and we often spent our March breaks, hiking into the family cottage on Lake Rosseau, at Windermere, and savouring one of the most beautiful and inspiring vistas in the district. Suzanne and I would sit on the dock, with our backs up against the outside wall of the boathouse, and enjoy being drenched by the late season sunlight heating the wood siding. Andrew and Robert would be playing in the snow, with the trapped pools of melt water, creating little waterfalls with shovels and sticks, and it was always tough at the end of the day, to leave such a paradise. But we got to have a day vacation in Muskoka, and then come home to Muskoka, to lodge permanently. It has always been incredible, to live and enjoy recreational pursuits, all in the same district, with absolutely no compromise keeping it "local." But, there are times when you get that itch, and well, the only way to deal with it, as you've no doubt experienced many times, is to find something that offers relief. For Suzanne and I now, it means living the life of antique dealers, and ones who travel and explore alot. While we travel often through the region, and a tad beyond, responsibilities have always held us close to home. No serious complaints, but none the less, it's been far too limiting for our own good.
Suzanne and I, with the exception of many camping trips, with the boys, up to Algonquin Park, have only vacationed once out of the country, and that was during our Honeymoon to Virginia Beach in 1983. No kidding. We were going to go a second time, but we were thwarted by work commitments. Suzanne used to get the summer months off, from teaching, and for us at the newspaper, no one on staff could take time off in July and August, because it was our busiest time of year. Especially with production of the Muskoka Sun, our seasonal paper, that was huge in terms of pages, in those years of the 1980's. Then we opened our fist antique shop, as a couple, in our first house, on Ontario Street, in Bracebridge, and it has been part of the Currie lives and economy ever since. Of course, the summer season is still our bread and butter, and if we want to stay in business, it's the time of the year we have to be open, or at least be business-active, seven days a week. Seasonal business has been great for us from Easter until a few weeks after Thanksgiving. We happen to like the fall and lead-up to Christmas, so our holidays would more than likely be in January and February, which this year, were fundamentally write-offs, as I'm sure many local businesses experienced. The music component of the business is much more active at this same time of the year. Antiques, not so much. Which could be good for us, especially having a lot of banked vacation time yet to use up, from the previous decades of staying close to home.
In July of this year, it will mark two years since Suzanne's retirement from teaching. It has been more difficult for her running the shop, than tending the classroom. The difference is, of course, we have been working in the antique trade, as a duo, since the mid 1980's, and it's what we planned for our working-retirement. So far we're right on target. Not that it was a smooth transition, or without some obstacles to clear, especially working in small town Ontario with its seasonal quirks; yet by and large, she has had a pretty good couple of years, to become deeply embedded in the traditions of operating a main street antique business. It would still be nice to have the occasional vacation, even though, I know we'd be hunting antiques as much as reclining in ocean front chairs. It's just the way we relax, as I've written about many times in the past.
Suzanne has recently launched her facebook page, (Currie's Antiques), and she's already secured a pretty fair following, in only a short period. Turns out, she needs the laptop more than I do. I'm glad to relinquish my hold on this technology, and let the new writer in the house, take her turn at editorial composition.
I will, this week, have reached a milestone, of having had 270,000 views, since I began blogging daily, three and a half years ago. It's been a blast, and I appreciate everyone who has taken time out of their busy days, to join me for some opining and whining, amidst what I hope were a few interesting tales in the mix of self-absorption. These were personal blogs, for the most part, and it was pretty hard not to write them this way, being so close to the heart. I have enjoyed the feedback, and all the connections I've made with readers and historians in this time, and for years to come, I know some of my historical tomes will be archived by historians around the world, looking for information on our region. It's been happening all along, and it's great to be considered a reliable source, and mentor on heritage projects.
It's time to offer my heartfelt thanks, and to say, (in writing) with great sincerity, that I have enjoyed your friendly company, and it has imprinted whole-heartedly all this time. I won't forget you folks. One day, I may return with a new collection of stories, but then again, maybe you will find Suzanne and I one day, while on your travels, sipping rum from coconuts, while leaning up against the palm trees of Key West; watching the sun set on another glorious day of good living.
With kindest regards. Ted. Really, I mean this; THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES!!!!
THE SPRING THAW OF THAT DEAR OLD RAMBLE CREEK - THE RAFT THAT NEVER MADE IT TO THE OPEN LAKE
WHAT NEARLY KILLED ME - HAS BEEN MY NATURAL SPIRIT GUIDE EVER SINCE
"IF THE DAY AND THE NIGHT ARE SUCH THAT YOU GREET THEM WITH JOY, AND LIFE EMITS A FRAGRANCE LIKE FLOWERS AND SWEET SMELLING HERBS, IS MORE ELASTIC, MORE STARRY, MORE IMMORTAL, THAT IS YOUR SUCCESS."
"IN ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO WELL CONTENT AS I AM THIS SPRING. LAST SUMMER I THOUGHT I WAS HAPPY; THE FALL GAVE ME A FINALITY OF SATISFACTION; THE WINTER IMPARTED PERSPECTIVE, BUT SPRING CONVEYS A WHOLLY NEW SENSE OF LIFE, A QUICKENING THE LIKE OF WHICH I NEVER BEFORE EXPERIENCED. IT SEEMS TO ME THAT EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD IS MORE INTERESTING, MORE VITAL, MORE SIGNIFICANT." ("ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT" PUBLISHED IN 1909, BY DAVID GRAYSON)
SUZANNE HAS NEVER ONCE, DURING OUR MARRIED LIFE, SUGGESTED THAT SHE FINDS ME "TENSE." BUT SHE DOES ADVISE, FREQUENTLY, THAT I AM QUITE "INTENSE." SHE POINTS OUT, THAT IF I WAS "TENSE," I WOULD KEEP IT TO MYSELF. THE REALITY, THAT I'M "INTENSE," MEANS I SHARE, WHAT IS BOTHERING ME AT THE TIME. THE FACT I'VE BEEN PROFOUNDLY PISSED-OFF ABOUT RUSSIA'S RECENT INVASION OF CRIMEA, HAS HERALDED A NEW ROUND OF "INTENSE" REACTION. INITIALLY I WAS ANGRY, IN PART, BECAUSE IT SENT MY MIND BACK TO THE DAYS OF THE COLD WAR, AND THE FEAR WE USED TO LIVE WITH, OF RUSSIANS. I WASN'T BROUGHT UP TO HATE RUSSIANS, BUT I WAS FEARFUL OF THEIR GOVERNMENT. IT WAS A FATHER / MOTHER INFLUENCE, AND I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO BE IN THEIR COMPANY. IT WASN'T A BAD PERIOD OF TIME, BUT AS MY FATHER HAD BEEN IN THE SECOND WORLD WAR, HE DID ANTICIPATE THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED. IT'S NOT FAIR TO SAY HE WATCHED THE SKY FOR MISSILES DIRECTED AT US, BUT HE DID CONSUME NEWS LIKE IT WAS BOOZE; AND HE DID THAT TOO. SO MY ESCAPE FROM MY FATHER'S INTENSITY, AND MY MOTHER'S CONCERN TO KEEP US ALL SAFE AND SOUND, WAS ON THOSE MANY INSPIRATIONAL MEANDERS INTO THE RAVINE OF RAMBLE CREEK. I LISTENED FOR PLANES, THAT'S FOR SURE, WHEN I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT SAILING AWAY ON ONE OF OUR HOME MADE RAFTS. I OFTEN OFFER A PREAMBLE APOLOGY TO SUZANNE, WHEN I'M ON THE BRINK OF INTENSITY, WHICH HAPPENS NOW AND AGAIN, WHEN I WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING THAT PERSONALLY FRIGHTENS ME. I DON'T LIKE THE TURN OF EVENTS IN THE UKRAINE. NO ONE IN THE FREE WORLD SHOULD EITHER. BUT IT'S STILL NOT GOING TO HELP THE CITIZENS THERE, BY ME TURNING TO STONE, OR TRYING TO CHANGE ATTITUDES AT THE KREMLIN BY MIND CONTROL, FROM HERE TO THERE. HERE I'M GETTING INTENSE AGAIN, BECAUSE SUZANNE JUST ARRIVED IN THE STUDIO, TO TELL ME, SHE CAN HEAR ME TAPPING VIOLENTLY AT THE KEYBOARD, FROM TWO ROOMS DOWN THE HALL.
I HAVE FAITH, BY THE WAY, THAT THE CITIZENS OF RUSSIA, WILL EVENTUALLY INSPIRE A CHANGE OF OPINION IN GOVERNMENT. I HAVE QUITE A FEW READERS IN RUSSIA, AT THIS TIME OF WRITING, (ACCORDING TO MY DAILY STATS) SO I WANT TO MAKE IT CLEAR, MY EDITORIAL POINT OF VIEW ISN'T ABOUT THE ATTITUDES OF THE CITIZENRY, OR THE COUNTRY ITSELF; BECAUSE IT IS WITH THE LEADERSHIP, WE HAVE OUR DIFFERENCES OF OPINION. IT IS SUCH A SHAME IN THIS NEW CENTURY, THAT WE HAVE BEEN FORCED BACK INTO THE DARK AND OMINOUS DAYS OF THE COLD WAR; WITH NEW POLITICAL WALLS RISING WHERE OLD ONES HAD BEEN CEREMONIALLY TORN DOWN; IN THOSE DAYS OF EXPANSIVE, EXCITING, LIBERTY FOR ALL. AT A TIME WHEN RUSSIA HAD CLEARLY BECOME A LEADER-NATION IN EUROPE, AND THE WORLD, IT IS HARD TO UNDERSTAND, HOW COLD WAR POLITICS JUMPED TO THE FOREFRONT, AS A MATTER OF ACCEPTED GOVERNMENT PROTOCOL. IT SEEMS THEY'VE LOST MORE THAN THEY'VE GAINED, IF OF COURSE, THEY CARE AT ALL ABOUT PUBLIC PERCEPTION. WE WANT TO HEAR FROM THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE. WE WANT TO KNOW HOW THEY FEEL ABOUT THEIR GOVERNMENT'S RECENT GAMBLE IN THE CRIMEA. WE WANT TO UNDERSTAND, FROM THEIR PERSPECTIVE, WHAT LIMITS THEY BELIEVE TO BE ACCEPTABLE FOR EXPANSION, AND WHETHER OR NOT THEY SUPPORTED THE INVASION OF THE CRIMEA. WILL THEY SUPPORT THEIR GOVERNMENT IF IT DECIDES TO INVADE THE GREATER UKRAINE?
I AM NEITHER A SCHOLAR NOR A MILITARY OR POLITICAL STRATEGIST. I DON'T ASPIRE TO BE EITHER ONE. I AM JUST AN AVERAGE CANADIAN JOE, WHO LIKES TO WRITE; A NAIVE BLOKE OF IRISH, ENGLISH, DUTCH AND GERMAN ANCESTRY, WISHING, OVER A LIFETIME, FOR WIDER WORLD HARMONY ONE DAY; FOR MY KIDS AND THEIR KIDS AND ON AND ON. I GREW UP IN A WORLD SERIOUSLY DIVIDED. A POST-WAR WORLD, THAT HAD A LOT OF DANGEROUS SHADOWS, OR AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT I PERCEIVED, FROM WHAT I WAS TOLD AT HOME, AND LEARNED AT SCHOOL. I SUPPOSE I HAVE NEVER REALLY LOST THAT CHILDISH EXPECTATION, THAT WE COULD ALL PLAY NICE TOGETHER, SHARE AND HELP ONE ANOTHER MAKE A BETTER WORLD. EVEN MY MOTHER USED TO CALL ME A FOOL FOR BELIEVING SUCH THINGS. SUZANNE JUST LISTENS AND OCCASIONALLY NODS APPROVAL, OR SAYS "YES" WHEN I ASK A QUESTION. I FIND IT HARD NOT TO BE INTENSE, UNDER PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES. HOW CAN YOU BE INDIFFERENT, WATCHING SUPER POWERS THUMP THEIR CHESTS, AND BANG HEADS. I HAVE, YOU SEE, A VIVID RECOLLECTION, WHAT IT WAS LIKE BEING A CANADIAN, AND FEARING THE SOVIET BEAR. IT DID CHANGE OUR LIVES, AND INFLUENCED THE WAY WE WORKED AND PLAYED. I WATCHED THE SKY FOR INCOMING MISSILES, AND MY PARENTS OFTEN TALKED ABOUT WHERE WE WOULD RETREAT, IF THERE WAS AN ATTACK. IS THIS WHAT WE'VE BECOME IN 2014; SLAVES OF FEAR? HOW CAN WE NOT BE? MY COPING MECHANISM? TO RETREAT TO A SOFTER, KINDER, MORE INSPIRING MEMORY OF THIS SAME PERIOD IN HISTORY. WITH THE POSSIBLY NAIVE HOPE, THE RUSSIAN POPULATION WILL FEEL THE SAME, AND OPT TO CHANGE DIRECTION, DESPITE THE ASPIRATIONS OF GOVERNMENT. TELL ME THERE'S STILL HOPE!
THE OAK TREE IN THE THROES OF SPRING DEATH AND RENEWAL
LIKE I DO EVERY MORNING THESE DAYS, I ARRIVE AT THE END OF OUR DRIVEWAY, BEFORE HEADING OFF TO WORK, AND I PAUSE MOMENTARILY, TO LOOK UP AT THE OLD OAK TREE, ACROSS THE ROAD, STILL SHEDDING ITS DRY, BROWN, RATTLING LEAVES, BORN TO FULL VIGOR LAST SPRING. ALL WINTER I'VE LISTENED TO THE BRUSH OF THESE DRY LEAVES, DANCING CLOSELY TOGETHER IN THE MORNING, AND EARLY EVENING BREEZE. THESE ARE THE TWO TIMES, ONE MIGHT FIND ME, STANDING AT THE END OF THE LANE, LOOKING OUT OVER THE HOLLOW OF THE BOG, WHERE THE OAK STANDS AS AN ENTRY-POINT MARKER. THESE BROWN LEAVES HAVE SURVIVED COUNTLESS ASSAULTS ON THEIR INTEGRITY, BY WINTER STORMS, AND FREEZING RAIN, TO ARRIVE AT THIS POINT OF RENEWAL. NOW THE FALLING AND DRIFTING LEAVES, IN THEIR WIND-DRIVEN SPIRALS TO EARTH, FLUTTER DOWN WITHOUT A SOUND, MANY SETTLING UPON EACH OTHER, IN THE DEEP FOOTPRINTS FROZEN IN TIME. THEY SURVIVED ON THAT VENERABLE TREE ALL WINTER, BUT NOW, AT THEIR OWN SENSE OF TRANSITION, KNOW ITS THEIR TIME TO DIE. I OFTEN PAUSE HERE, AND WONDER, MOMENTARILY, IF I WILL ALSO RECOGNIZE THIS JUMPING OFF POINT, WHEN I ARRIVE AT MY TIME OF RECKONING. WILL IT BE AS SUBTLE AND SILENT AS THESE LEAVES, HAVING ONE LAST DANCE WITH NATURE, BEFORE THEY ARE RETURNED BACK TO THE EARTH. IT IS ALL SO POETIC AS TO HAVE BEEN ARRANGED BY A GREAT BARD.
I'VE BEEN WRITING SOMETHING OR OTHER, SINCE I WAS IN GRADE SIX. I WANTED TO WRITE EVEN YEARS BEFORE THIS, BUT IT WAS ALL DONE IN MY IMAGINATION. OF COURSE, I ALSO WANTED TO BE A PIRATE, BUT I MISSED THAT PLACE IN HISTORY BY A COUPLE HUNDRED YEARS. WHEN MY MOTHER MERLE, LET ME OUT OF OUR BURLINGTON APARTMENT, ON A SATURDAY MORNING, IT WAS CUSTOMARY BACK THEN, TO WAIT FOR RAY AND HOLLY GREEN, MY CHILDHOOD MATES, WHO LIVED IN THE CREIGHTON APARTMENTS, BESIDE US. WE LIVED IN THE NAGY APARTMENT, THAT WAS LOCATED BETWEEN THE VICTORIAN FARM HOUSE OWNED BY MRS. WHITE, ON ONE SIDE, AND A NEW MULTI UNIT TOWNHOUSE, OWNED BY MRS. BELL, ON THE OTHER. WE WERE UP TORRANCE AVENUE, ON THE EMBANKMENT, CUL-DE-SAC KNOWN AS HARRIS CRESCENT; LESS THAN A BLOCK FROM LAKESHORE ROAD, AND ABOUT A HALF DOZEN CITY BLOCKS FROM BRANT STREET, THE MAIN BUSINESS CORRIDOR IN MY YOUTH.
ONCE WE HOOKED-UP, US NEIGHBORHOOD RAPSCALIONS, WHICH MY MOTHER THOUGHT WAS IN OUR BEST INTEREST, IN CASE ONE OF US FELL INTO THE CREEK, (NEEDING RESCUE), WE WOULD RACE DOWN THE HILLSIDE LANE, BETWEEN MRS. BELL'S PLACE, AND THE FIRST OF TWO CREIGHTON OWNED BUILDINGS. DAVE CREIGHTON, THE SON OF THE OWNER, USED TO PLAY FOR THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS; SO WE LIKED IT WHEN HE'D TALK TO US KIDS ABOUT HOCKEY. ONCE DOWN AT THE CREEK, ESPECIALLY AT THIS TIME OF YEAR, WE WOULD START BREAKING THE ICE ON THE EMBANKMENT, AND WHAT WAS STILL COVERING THE SHALLOW POOLS, WHERE IN ONLY A FEW WEEKS, THE SMELTS WOULD BE RUNNING. WE GOT SOAKERS EVERY DAY OF THE GREAT SMELT RUN, AND WE SMELLED LIKE FISH FOR WEEKS AFTER IT ENDED.
FIRST OF ALL, AS A WRITER-IN-WAITING, RAMBLE CREEK BECAME OF IMMENSE IMPORTANCE TO ME, BECAUSE FIRST OF ALL, I WAS FASCINATED BY THE FLOW OF WATER. I STILL CAN MESMERIZE MYSELF WATCHING A RAPIDS OR CATARACT. SO THE RIVER BECAME SYMBOLIC TO ME AS AN UNSPECIFIED ROUTE TO FREEDOM. MY MOTHER PRETTY MUCH SET THE TONE OF THIS, BY INSISTING THAT I NEVER PASS UNDER LAKESHORE ROAD, VIA THE CONCRETE TUNNEL, WHERE RAMBLE CREEK EMPTIED INTO LAKE ONTARIO. I WALKED OVER THE BRIDGE MANY TIMES TO VISIT MY BUDDIES, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CREEK, BUT I WAS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, FROM PASSING BENEATH, BECAUSE THE WATER BECAME STEADILY DEEPER AND WITH A HEAVIER CURRENT. WHAT I SAW, FROM MY SIDE OF THE TINY TUNNEL, WAS A WIDE OPEN OPPORTUNITY TO ESCAPE. I WASN'T ESCAPING PHYSICALLY, AS MUCH AS EMOTIONALLY, AND TO DO THAT, I BUILT RAFTS EACH SPRING, TO COINCIDE WITH THE FREEING OF RAMBLE CREEK FROM ITS ICE COVER. I DON'T THINK I WAS A PARTICULARLY ASTUTE KID, AND THIS COLLABORATES WITH WHAT MY TEACHERS HAD WRITTEN ONTO MY REPORT CARDS. "TEDDY DOESN'T PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS," AND "TEDDY SPENDS HIS TIME STARING OUT THE WINDOW OF THE CLASS, DAYDREAMING." MY MOTHER INFORMED ALL MY TEACHERS THAT IT WAS NO GREAT SIN TO DAYDREAM. I WAS ALWAYS PROUD OF HER DEFENDING ME IN THIS WAY. EVEN MY PROFESSORS IN UNIVERSITY, FELT THE SAME WAY, BUT MADE THE COMPLAINT ORALLY, INSTEAD OF INKING IT ONTO MY REPORTS. I'VE BEEN A DAYDREAMER AND VOYEUR MY WHOLE LIFE, AND I HAVE NEVER ONCE FELT DISADVANTAGED AS A RESULT. BUT THIS TINY RIVER "HAS RUN THROUGH IT," FROM THE FIRST DAY I SAW IT; THE OCCASION ONE WINTER, WHEN MERLE PUSHED ME, WITH BOTH ARMS, ONTO ONE OF THOSE BLACK ICE-POCKETS, ON RAMBLE CREEK, GLIDING ON MY NEW BOBB-SKATES, FASTENED LOOSELY TO MY BOOTS. IT HAS BEEN WITH ME, AS A CALMING, INSPIRATIONAL PLACE TO RECALL, WHENEVER I FIND MYSELF IN A QUANDREY ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE. LATELY IT'S LIKE I'VE BEEN LIVING THERE AGAIN, AND I'M GOOD WITH THAT!
I SPENT PART OF THE COLD WAR YEARS, IN THE EARLY 1960'S, HOLED-UP IN THIS DEPRESSION OF LAND, THE NEIGHBORS REFERRED TO AS "THE RAVINE." "OH MERLE, IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR TEDDY, HE'S WITH RAY GREEN DOWN IN THE RAVINE." OR, "I SAW TEDDY COVERED IN MUD, MRS. CURRIE, AND I THINK HE WAS DOWN AT THE LAKESHORE." THE LAST STATEMENT WOULD BE MADE BY MY BEST FRIEND RAY GREEN, IF HE HAD JUST BEEN IN A FIGHT, OVER A SPECIAL STICK, OR SHINY BIT OF FOOL'S GOLD. RAY WOULD SNITCH ME OUT IN A HEARTBEAT. AND WE HAD LOTS OF FIGHTS RIGHT UP INTO ADULT-HOOD. RAY AND I WERE BANDITS, AND TROUBLE-MAKERS, AND HOLLY, HIS SISTER, WAS AN ANGEL, WHO SOMETIMES GOT CAUGHT IN THE CROSS-FIRE OF HURLED MUD, STICKS AND ROCKS.
THE SYMBOLIC RAFTS WE USED TO BUILD
Ray was my raft-building partner. Holly would seek out lengths of timber, that had fallen in the small woodlands of the ravine, so that we could line them up on a flat area of embankment to lash together. I was building the raft in order to escape to the lake, which to me, was a direct link to the ocean and my pirate future. Staying in the hollow of Ramble Creek, I had to settle for being Tom Sawyer, and Ray, as Huck Finn. If and when we would hit the lake with that particular spring's newly constructed raft, we could drop the Sawyer-Finn thing, and become a couple of Long John Silvers, or Blackbeards. But here's the weird thing. Every spring, we would joyously build a raft with the best intentions. Some years, the raft would actually be seaworthy for a couple of moments. Every year, Holly Green would stand there, and give Ray and I the bad news. "It won't make it to the lake 'cause it's two wide." Every year we'd stand boldly, with arms on hips, and proclaim her a heretic, and get on with the work of lashing the found logs together. When it was finally fit to sail, in our estimation, Ray and I would carefully haul it to the water's edge, and take the greatest joy, to stand on it momentarily, until one of us lost our balance, and fell into the icy cold water. Each time, we got the satisfaction of knowing, it would actually float, and sometimes, even support our weight, however short that period of time. Ray and I would just stand there, captains of our ship, and listen to Holly reiterate, "But it's too wide to sail down the creek." What she didn't know was that we were just as happy to sail that awkwardly constructed raft to the lake, in our respective imaginations. And we did. It was great. The absurdity that we had built-it too wide to get down the creek, became irrelevant, because it became a symbol of a life and times, well beyond the basin of this rambling, shady, babbling old brook. It took us away from our parental digs, and set us free, at a time when we needed it most. I don't know about Ray, because we did grow apart in later years, but I'm still building those over-sized rafts, and sailing in my mind, to destinations undeclared.
I have written about this in the past, but it fits today's recollection, of my strange relationship to what I knew, back then, as my own sacred place. It happened at about this time of year. There was still pockets of solid ice, over the deeper pools of water, and the water flow had increased due to the melt. All the parents in the neighborhood, who had lived on the block for even a few years, knew that for a week or so every spring, the creek would become a torrent due to the increased run-off from the melt. So we got used to the regular warnings, about staying well back from the creek, when it was at its spring peak.
On this particular Sunday afternoon, Ray and I, and another cronnie from the block, went down to the creek to see the state of its nature. The water flow had definitely increased but it wasn't enough to take out all the sections of ice. We knew the creek so well, that we could tell it was in the midst of change; the ice would soon be gone because of the increasing current with more melt water. After considerable time watching, and listening to the water flow beneath the ice sheets, connecting to shore and flat rocks we used as bridging, we decided it was safe enough to step on one of these black, reflective pads, for some sliding with our boots.
We had been on the ice for about five minutes, playing boot hockey with a chunk of ice; when all of a sudden, the group, and I'm not sure who started it off, decided, to try and crack the ice instead. So we all got into the competition to smash the surface. I found myself in the middle of the others, and my jumping up and down was the first to create a fracture. Ray was first to point it out, and I remember him warming me, that I should get off the ice. I did. Sort of. Before I could turn around to see him, the ice gave-way, and I was violently dropped into the frigid and quickly moving water. I was in the water up to my chest. The biggest threat I had, at that point, was the weight of my snowsuit. It filled with water, and with my boots on, I was the weight of an ocean liner's anchor. I couldn't get out by myself, as the ice kept breaking, and it was impossible to lessen the drag on my body, and inflated suit, in regards to the substantial current. Ray ran to get my mother, crying all the way. He knew he was in a lot of trouble as well, because we weren't supposed to be there in the first place.
The cold was starting to get to me, and I clearly recall looking at the ice between me, and the way I was being pulled toward the lake. I was scared that if I lost my footing, I would fall into the water and be trapped under the ice. The edge of ice was between me and the route downstream. It was pressing heavily into my chest like a long knife edge, and my legs were buckling from the force of the water. As I've noted previously in these blogs, I had my guardian angel on spiritual speed-dial, and had many near-death experiences in my childhood. Still, even being cold, and fearing getting trapped under the ice, my biggest angst was seeing my mother's angry eyes, when she would come running over the far hillside. Well sir, I had every reason to fear that woman, who came down the lane between the residences, like a raging bull, and screaming at me all the way. "Teddy Currie, you're in so much trouble. When I get my hands on you!" So she was going to rescue me but I'd long remember the day she did! With superhuman strength (otherwise the effort of a frightened mother), she grabbed me by the hood of my jacket, and with a two armed-yank that pulled me out of my boots, I flew from that hole, face first onto the ice, in one wild flight of youth. Like I suddenly had wings. She didn't hug me, pat me on the head, or even smile at my wet self. She started swacking at my behind, all the way up that hillside, with me in soaking wet socks. Ray's mother came down to get him, and he was crying long before she got to the crest of the hill. His strategy, I think, was to show his mother that he had punished himself in thought, adequately, and it wasn't necessary for corporal punishment on top.
For most of the past hour, that I have spent writing today's blog, son Robert has been keeping me company in the studio, playing the song, "Wildwood Flower," on his guitar; a well known song written and performed by Mother Maybelle Carter. Over and over. He does this for relaxation. So for every word, in every paragraph, written in this room today, my recollections, and a few liberties taken, have by happenstance of exposure, been under the influence of this wonderfully sentimental piece of music. I have, as a minor rule of writing, refused to compose anything, even writing a personal note, in the vicinity of music playing; because I wind-up infusing it, without intending to, into the copy. Robert knows this but today, I just found "Wildwood Flower," suited the story-line. I think my mother would have approved the choice of background music. She sure as hell didn't call me her wildwood flower. For years I thought my middle name was either "Y-U" or better stated, "why you," because she used it so often, when pulling me out of the very next mess I found myself immersed. Like the time she tugged me by the ear, up two flights to our apartment, shortly after I had convinced Ray to look up a vent pipe, outside the Nagy Apartment. When he did, because I think I told him you could see the devil's face in the shadow, I also took the occasion to smash a metal bar on the shaft of the pipe. I never saw anything like it before in my life. Ray had so many hornets on him, he probably could have taken flight. Everyone heard him screaming. Including my mother and Mrs. Green. It took Ray a long time to blame me, because his lips were so swollen he could hardly talk. Admittedly, I wasn't an angel.
So this was one of the ways I bided my time, in Burlington, during the Cold War of the 1960's. There have been a few days recently, that I would have ambled down the hillside, and considered myself in heaven, to be able to look down the winding, shady path of that old Ramble Creek. Thanks for joining me today. I always enjoy your company.
I'm sure you remember some great old haunts, from your own childhood, where you could hide-out and be a kid to the full extent of the law.
IN THE YEAR 1868 CHARLES DICKENS, ON A VOYAGE TO AMERICA, SAW EMIGRANTS IN THE ROUGHEST OF CONDITIONS
SOME WERE PROBABLY HEADED TO THE FREE LAND GRANT DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA
UPON LANDING BY BOAT IN QUEBEC, AFTER A ROUGH CROSS-ATLANTIC VOYAGE, INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED AUTHOR, CHARLES DICKENS, MADE A NUMBER OF IMPORTANT OBSERVATIONS ABOUT THE STEERAGE CLASS PASSENGERS, SOME, WHO WOULD ONE DAY SOON, BE LABORING ON THE NEWLY OPENED LAND GRANTS IN REGIONS LIKE MUSKOKA AND PARRY SOUND. HIS VANTAGE POINT, OF COURSE, WAS AS A FIRST CLASS PASSENGER, OF CONSIDERABLE PRIVILEGE. HE WRITES AS FOLLOWS:
"IN THE SPRING OF THE YEAR, VAST NUMBERS OF EMIGRANTS WHO HAVE NEWLY ARRIVED FROM ENGLAND OR IRELAND, PASS BETWEEN QUEBEC AND MONTREAL ON THEIR WAY TO THE BACKWOODS AND NEW SETTLEMENTS OF CANADA. IF IT BE AN ENTERTAINING LOUNGE (AS I OFTEN FOUND IT) TO TAKE A MORNING STROLL UPON THE QUAY OF MONTREAL, AND SEE THEM GROUPED IN HUNDREDS ON THE PUBLIC WHARF ABOUT THEIR CHESTS AND BOXES, IT IS MATTER OF DEEP INTEREST TO BE THEIR FELLOW-PASSENGER ON ONE OF THESE STEAMBOATS, AND MINGLING WITH THE CONCOURSE, SEE AND HEAR THEM UNOBSERVED.
"THE VESSEL IN WHICH WE RETURNED FROM QUEBEC TO MONTREAL, WAS CROWDED WITH THEM, AND AT NIGHT THEY SPREAD THEIR BEDS BETWEEN DECKS (THOSE WHO HAD BEDS, AT LEAST), AND SLEPT SO CLOSE AND THICK ABOUT OUR CABIN DOOR, THAT THE PASSAGE TO AND FRO WAS QUITE BLOCKED UP. THEY WERE NEARLY ALL ENGLISH; FROM GLOUCESTERSHIRE THE GREATER PART; AND HAD HAD A LONG WINTER-PASSAGE OUT; BUT IT WAS WONDERFUL TO SEE HOW CLEAN THE CHILDREN HAD BEEN KEPT, AND HOW UNTIRING IN THEIR LOVE AND SELF-DENIAL ALL THE POOR PARENTS WERE."
THE WRITER LOOKING AT DEGREES OF POVERTY, OF THESE NEW CANADIANS
Dickens goes on to observe, "Can't as we may, and as we shall to the end of all things, it is very much harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is for the rich; and the good that is in them, shines the brighter for it. In many a noble mansion lives a man, the best of husbands and of fathers, whose privateer worth in both capacities is justly lauded to the skies. But bring him here, upon this crowded deck. Strip from his fair young wife her silken dress and jewels, unbind her braided hair, stamp early wrinkles on her brow, pinch her pale cheeks with care and much privation, array her faded form in coarsely patched attire, let there be nothing but his love to set her forth, or deck her out, and you shall put it to the proof indeed. So change his station in the world, that he shall see in those young things who climb about his knee; not records of his wealth and named; but little wrestlers with him for his daily bread; so many poachers on his scanty meal; so many units to divide his every sum of comfort, and further to reduce its small amount. In lieu of the endearments of childhood in its sweetest capacity, heap upon him all its pains and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its fretfulness, caprice and querulous endurance; let its prattle be, not of engaging infants, but of cold, and thirst, and hunger; and if his fatherly affection outlive all this, and he be patient, watchful, tender; careful of his children's lives, and mindful always of their joys and sorrows, then send him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and to Quarter Sessions, and when he hears fine talk of depravity of those who live from hand to mouth, and labour hard to do it, let him speak up, as one who knows, and tell those holders forth, that they, by parallel with such a class, should be High Angles in their daily lives, and lay but humble siege to Heaven at last."
The legendary author pens, in his observations on board the ship, that "Which of us shall say what we would be, if such realities, with small relief to change all through his days, were his! Looking round upon these people; for from home, houseless, indigent, wandering, weary with travel and hard living; and seeing how patiently they nursed and tended their young children; how they consulted ever their wants first, then half supplied their own; what gentle ministers of hope and faith the women were; how the men profited by their example; and how very, very seldom even a moment's petulance or harsh complaint broke out among them; I felt a stronger love and honor of my kind come glowing on my heart, and wished to God these had been many Atheists in the better part of human nature there, to read this simple lesson in the book of life."
Charles Dickens, famous for his portrayals of the slums and the dark side of England, saw the plight of those hopeful but destitute emigrants, who were confined to the steerage class, in passage across the Atlantic. They were the poorest of the poor, and they came to Canada specifically, to take advantage of the newly created Free Land Grants, of a hundred plus acres. The Government of Canada, wanted to occupy the unoccupied lands to the west. They wanted to be able to justify the creation of a transcontinental railway, linking the country sea to sea. The people stuffed, often mercilessly into steerage class, represented the hope and aspirations of the nation builders. They sent government land agents to preach the good graces of arable farm land, and employment opportunities in many new and thriving industries, operating in the cities of the new Dominion. The steamship agents pushed the same agenda, and were credited for emigrants they signed up, to travel to a wild frontier an ocean-away. Even those who wrote and sold settler's guide books, portrayed the regions of settlement, as places of great opportunity, and potential for future wealth. There were very few trying to discourage these gullible homesteaders, so impoverished and beaten down by the stresses of urban living in Europe, it was an obvious outcome, that millions wanted to believe the promises of new and prosperous lives……and boarded those steam vessels with their families, with only meagre provisions and very little money to acquire what they needed, heading out to some of the roughest terrain in the country.
These are the same folks who cleared our forests for pioneer farmsteads. They built the roads and the bridges, and supplied the lumber camps and general stores, and tourist accommodations with their produce……at least what they had to spare. Some failed. Many moved on, before they had cleared half the acreage they were contracted to cut; others lived miserable lives, in the harshest of conditions, and perished the direct result of homestead hardships. There were thousands of others, who persevered and never gave up on the task of community building. They never got rich, but they survived, generation after generation, to work the land, and man the industries……and be the customer base, for the businesses that depended on them. There families came here in the most adverse, terrible circumstances, and they are buried in our pioneer settlements, without glowing testimonials, about how their struggles, with only minimal resources, gave us today's communities. The poorest and most inadequately suited homesteaders, carved out our futures. Believe it our not.
When we look at Muskoka's relationship with poverty today, and diminishing employment opportunities, it is one of those unfortunate traditions, we feel reluctant to embrace as legend……because we expect what is legendary should also be positive and of considerable and noble stature……as roll models of our past. Their determination, and stalwart pride in those early, humble homesteads, created a survival mentality here……and a neighborliness that goes back to those first isolated pioneer cabins, where those with more, shared more often. Historically, I look upon this early relationship with poverty, as an important marker, of the cultural identity of what it means to be called a Muskokan……that we have learned to live with a great respect for the values of resourcefulness and resilience, because it's the way it all began. It initiated as a struggle, to live and work here, and it is no different today in many regards.
"All this I see as I sit in the little stern-gallery mentioned just now. Evening slowly steals upon the landscape and changes it before me, when we stop to set some emigrants ashore," writes the good Mr. Dickens, from the ship. "Five men, as many women, and a little girl. All their worldly goods are a bag, a large chest, and an old chair; one, old high-backed, rush-bottomed chair; a solitary settler in itself. They are rowed ashore in the boat, while the vessel stands a little off awaiting its return, the water being shallow. They are landed at the foot of a high bank, on the summit of which are a few log cabins, attainable only by a long winding path. It is growing dusk; but the sun is very red, and shines in the water and on some of the tree-tops, like fire. The men get out of the boat first; help out the women; take out the bag, the chest, the chair; bid the rowers good bye, and shove the boat off for them. At the first splash of oars in the water, the oldest woman of the party, sits down in the old chair, close to the water's edge, without speaking a word. None of the others sit down, though the chest is large enough for many seats. They all stand where they landed, as if stricken into stone; and look after the boat. So they remain, quite still and silent; the old woman and her old chair, in the centre; the bag and chest upon the shore, without anybody heeding them; all eyes fixed upon the boat. It comes alongside, is made fast, the men jump on board, the engine is put in motion, and we go hoarsely on again. There they stand yet, without the motion of a hand. I can see them through my glass, when in the distance, and increasing darkness, they are mere specks to the eye; lingering there still; the old woman in the old chair, and all the rest about her; not stirring in the least degree. And then I slowly lose them."
They are home. But it takes time, to fulfill the enthusiasm they had, when signing onto the adventure of homesteading in a new land. For many, the enthusiasm became a horror. Imagine the feeling of panic, seeing that ship pass along, as they sat in the darkening environs, having no assistance from anyone, to help them on their way. Possibly, these emigrants, were coming to Muskoka.
No comments:
Post a Comment