The Really Big Head Of "A Blogger"

THE REALLY BIG HEAD OF "A BLOGGER"

WRINKLES AND ALL, FRANK JOHNSTON PUT A FACE TO THE WORDS, AND ALL WAS REVEALED

     As an opener, and I know this may read as being "gross" and "we didn't need to know this kind of thing Ted," I felt it necessary, as awful as it is, to point out, that we're pretty tired of free-range pissers on the loose in this community. I suppose it's because there is a dead-end corridor, between our building and the neighbor's, that invites those with urinary discomfort, to let-it-loose on the side of one building or the other. I wasn't here for the spectacle, but Suzanne was, unfortunately, and happened to notice, while doing some accounting work, the shadow of someone walking between the buildings, visible through our side windows. It is an emergency exit, not a long garden-variety urinal, but apparently, a young man with a small bladder, decided all was fair in the urban jungle, even though he could have used the public washrooms at the Opera House across the road. When Suzanne confronted the man, post urination, his overview of the situation, to explain his trespassing, was, simply stated, "It's okay, I was just having a piss!" Not quite poetic but to the point. Suzanne thanked him for his honesty, and suggested it would be better to find a more suitable location the next time, especially should he have other bodily functions to tend to, and had found it otherwise, a rather hospitable location to do his business. I'd like to say this is a rare event. I really would. But even in broad daylight, in what is truly the centre of the business community, all the beautification in the world, isn't going to do much, to give a social conscience to a__ holes like this guy. While Gravenhurst Council binds itself into a strangle-hold, worrying about vacant lots on the main street, and directing the parking fuzz to issue parking violations to bad, bad motorists, possibly it could muster the votes needed, to post a few signs, pointing the way to public washrooms, for the benefit of citizens holding their own, but not for long.    
   
THE PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

     As you know, if you have read my blogs for any length of time, over the past few months at least, you would recognize the name of Frank Johnston, as having been, one of Muskoka's best known artist / print makers. His amazing watercolors, of heritage scenes of steamboats and trains, at the old Muskoka wharf, used to hang in Sloan's Restaurant, here on Muskoka Road; the must-visit place for vacationers, for decades, to buy the best tasting blueberry pies in the whole wide world. Even before we moved south to Gravenhurst, from Bracebridge, we would take regular Sunday drives to Gull Lake Park, and then make a stop at Sloan's for a plate of french fries and a milkshake; but mostly, to sit beneath the amazing original watercolors, Johnston had painted at his studio on Hughson Street, a few blocks south of the restaurant. I am so pleased in this regard, that my old writing colleague, and publisher, Hugh Clairmont conned his buddy, Frank Johnston, to create pen sketches of each of his new columnists, for the newly launched twice-monthly feature publication, known as "Muskoka Today." I just found the sketch he did for my column, the other night, quite by accident, and I asked Suzanne, my technical nerd, if she could "blow up my head," on her glowing tablet that seems to be glued to her hand, for use on my Thursday blog. Last night, if you tuned in instead of watching Letterman, you'll know I used a smaller version of the portrait, tucked into a press review of Ross Brewitt's book, from a few years back, that he had used for his media kits, he toted around to book signing events. So what do you think of this big, beautiful, artist rendered head? Keeping in mind I was younger, still had more than a fringe of hair, and a lot fewer wrinkles, furrowed on my brow from my constant disagreements with local town council. Other than that, it looks like I'd be able to walk right off the flickering white page, of this online site, and sit down on your sofa with you. Of course, I'd just be a head bouncing along, but what the hell. I could still eat popcorn if you fed it to me.
     I've been thinking a lot, over the past few weeks, about what I considered the good old days of local journalism. I'm now on the proverbial hair's breadth of sixty years of age, which is quite a surprise for two reasons. I thought I was turning fifty-six, so I feel cheated out of four good years. Secondly, I didn't think I'd make it to thirty let alone sixty, and this would have been agreed upon by four ex-girlfriends, who thought my wild lifestyle was burning the candle, so to speak, at both ends and through the middle. My mother issued me with a thousand warnings, from infancy, that I would perish before my time, if for example, I didn't wear a hat when it was cold, brush my teeth twelve times a day, didn't eat apples daily, and drink gallons of milk. I would also surely die if I didn't change my socks and underwear daily, and continued to listen to rock 'n roll, that apparently was going to rot my soul from the inside out. My mother was fiercely superstitious, so if she saw me step on a crack on the sidewalk, she accused me of wishing her dead. I tried not to violate her in this way, and live past thirty, by adopting at least half of her beliefs, because they made perfect sense. I've been eating fresh vegetables and fruit for years, and to make everyone happy around me, I swore-off swinging on chandeliers, the result of too much booze. Merle hated that I drank, with the press corp, and Suzanne was thrilled about it either, leaving me many times in the tavern with my drunken cronies, so for peace in the family, I stopped. Then, I gained a huge amount of weight, from drinking fruit juices and diet cola. Hey, point is, I've made it this far, defying Nick the Greek's odds, which placed me at 100 to 1 longshot, that I would ever achieve elder statesman status. For those who placed money on the safe side of this bet, by golly, it looks like I'm going to hit sixty with jingle bells on; versus what some believed, would instead, involve me, in the spiritual sense, pushing up daisies in some potter's field. I'll be writing this blog until I die, or so I say! The image of me, sketched by Frank Johnston, puts me in the same sort of enchanted frame, I suppose, as the main character of the classic movie, "Dorion Gray," such that I will never age beyond my portrait's true exhibition, straight from the artist's hand, which I have with considerable affection, entitled, "Old Teddy's still in the prime of his life; ready for the next century's wine, women and song!"
     I think Suzanne wishes I hadn't found this portrait by Johnston, that I had stored away in a mountain of archive letters and documents, in a dusty alcove at Birch Hollow. She knows I had a lot of fun back then, working with some great characters in the Muskoka media, and wonders if this glimpse of youth will influence me to get all crazy again, and try to rejoin the press corp, or the French Foreign Legion, if that still exists. Ah, heck, that's all behind me, as I become a responsible adult, and come closer to senior citizen status, and all the discounts maturity warrants. I do however, still live vicariously through this image of a former columnist, who was hanging around with hockey stars, leading sports writers, high flying business types, community movers and shakers, and rising political stars, who, well, used to buy me drinks. A lot of drinks. As if I could be bought! For food, yes! I was a sell-out for a good burger. Yup, I guess Frank was being generous to me, by smoothing quite a few of the wrinkles, that came along, the result of unspecified hard living, and harder reporting, on those stories I thought were big and dangerous, but great for career enhancement. Instead, I look at my portrait as being the face of innocence, about what trials and tribulations lurked in the bushes ahead. Suzanne reminded me about what Charles Dickens wrote, about his characterization of "Ebeneezer Scrooge," in his book, "A Christmas Carol," being the wretched face of "covetous old sinner." I argued back that I am in no way "covetous." I can live with the "sinner," reference. Hey, it's just nice to have such a youthful, vibrant-looking reminder, of what a talented artist saw in me, wild-eyed as I was, in those early days as a starving artist; a writer with a lot of unexplored opportunities laying ahead, a few dead soldiers (empty bottles) still taking up space in the cupboard; as compared to the jaded old bastard, I see today, when I look in the mirror, to see if I have aged since Frank popularized me for readers. Which by the way, was back in the mid 1990's.
     I have very few early records of my columns, and feature articles, dating back to my first column in the Bracebridge Examiner, on antiques and collectables, published in 1978, especially, because I got into a wicked-mood a few years back, (the "I hate" being a writer jag, which happens on the occasion of every fourth-north-moon) and began recycling the mountain of back copies, I had been keeping for unspecified posterity. Suzanne wanted me to clip out the articles I wanted, instead of keeping the newspapers intact; which I had originally thought was good idea, until my shed filled to the rafters, and the mice were building palaces out of the shredded newsprint from a thousand back copies. I have only had one other column-head, from a former issue of Muskoka Today, and Suzanne accidentally threw it out with a lot of my other alleged paper junk, which included many personal notes, and phone numbers I really, really needed. It might not seem a big deal, to find this portrait, (not to mention how it probably illustrates me as an ego-maniac to re-run it here) stashed away in a pile Suzanne hadn't previously raided, in the cause of good housekeeping, but to me, it will bring back memories of what artist Frank Johnston meant to this little town; and to all of us art and history loving citizens, who he made very happy, for so many years. Our family dined at Sloan's Restaurant for three reasons back in those halcyon days. We loved Frank Johnston's art work for one. Secondly, it's where we would meet up with Civil War historian, Tom Brooks, and thirdly, well, it was always great to connect with resident diner, Hugh Clairmont, holding court in the restaurant's fine dining room, known as the "Inner Sanctum."  The food? Of course. But there was a culture to consider, and these folks inspired it for me; and it's how I learned my history lessons about our new hometown.
     Suzanne tolerates me looking at myself in this vain fashion, but only for so long. I think I've crested in this regard, so take one last look, at the young Ted Currie, who despite the magic of a great artist, can't really defy aging by wishful thinking.
     Thanks for taking the time to visit. Please check out "Currie's Antiques," on Facebook, for another Muskoka Graffiti chapter, about the Bracebridge I used to know.