Wayland Drew Led The Way Toward Our First Community Museum; What An Amazing Writer

What I learned from author-historian Wayland Drew

I believe it was the winter of 1978. The first meeting of the soon-to-be Bracebridge Historical Society, was unofficially held at the home of well known Canadian author Wayland Drew. It was a meeting between a citizen, this writer, who was interested in preserving an historic building in the Town of Bracebridge, (an octagonal home constructed in the 1880’s by former woolen mill owner Henry Bird)……and the second party, at the informal meeting, Mr. Drew, was in my mind, a writer-historian of considerable national reputation, (eg. the landmark text entitled, “Superior, The Haunted Shore.”) That’s correct. I’m so very proud to write that Wayland and I made up the first full planning meeting of the soon to be elected historical society. As an aspiring writer, I was in awe that he would give me a private audience to discuss the possibility of forming a local historical society, to implement a conservation strategy to save Woodchester Villa (the Bird House). I had been attempting to drum up support for a citizen-driven initiative to create a community museum, and Wayland must have thought I had at least a spark of credibility to follow through on the project. He called me over to his house for a discussion about all the possibilities of saving this particular Victorian era home. We worked well together and our plans merged to give rise to a new historical preservation group, and eventually, with a huge commitment of citizen involvement, a newly restored town museum would open on that pinnacle of land above the cataract of Bracebridge Falls. My first position was “Recording Secretary,” which I conducted poorly, but rebounded some years later as President and then site manager. Much of the credit goes to Wayland for negotiating so well for the Historical Society generally, and always being its ambassador.

This editorial segment is not a biographical study of my writer-associate, Wayland Drew, or a re-telling of the work of the Bracebridge Historical Society. There is a story about Wayland I have often repeated in environmental presentations ever since, about the importance of listening and learning from expertise. And while we might all believe we’re the best experts we’ve ever met, I was to learn up close and personal how little I knew about the bigger picture of conservation. This is a story that’s of great importance to this on-line inventory of blog editorials because it is at the root of every entry in one way or another.

Several years into the museum’s operation, a situation arose with the town about the necessity of removing numerous large trees lining the old laneway at the front of Woodchester. If memory serves, the problem was that if any emergency vehicle had required access to the building, via this riverside route, the narrow artery would not allow safe, unobstructed passage particularly for the larger fire-fighting equipment. It probably was the case as well that the large border trees would cause great difficulty for snow removal, important for emergency vehicle access as well. The town public works department had recommended the removal of those trees that limited the width of the driveway, and the recommendation did not sit well with Wayland and several others. At the time Wayland was no longer a director of the Historical Society, but was part of a delegation that attended to object to the cutting.

I sat as a voting director.

As I recall now, Wayland made a sensible, balanced, gentle argument to spare the trees by making accommodations with a rear parking area, offering adequate clearance for the larger emergency vehicles. I don’t remember all the details of that lengthy afternoon meeting, except that I acted as the part of “ass” very well. I shot down Wayland without mercy, suggesting that emergency services access to all corners of the site greatly outweighed the scenic splendor of a few large evergreens to be expended. He wasn’t against making provisions for emergency services in numerous other ways, including carving out some of the embankment, all alternatives being well thought out and workable I might add. He was adamant the trees, having been there for a good part of a century, and being an important part of the Woodchester and Muskoka ambience, deserved to be spared the teeth of the industrial strength chainsaw.

I have no idea now what really generated my opposition to alternatives that would spare the trees. I know it was largely a case of ignorance on my part, and a general immaturity, that I would ever have challenged someone who made such a sensible, researched, community minded presentation. I can still recall the shocked look on his face when I cast forward a resounding reprimand for even thinking about any compromise that would limit entrance to the property; and that afterall, “they’re just trees…..they’ll grow back.” I had shown great disrespect to a person who I had always admired in both historical preservation and conservation of the environment. I voted against the conservation of those trees but the good news is my position wasn’t on the winning side. I believe a compromise was reached and although some trees may have been removed, (I don’t remember exactly the reduced cull), Wayland’s argument made sense to the group at large. Although Wayland never said a word about my indifference to the matter of Woodchester’s natural heritage, he didn’t have to say anything at all. It was an awkwardness in our conservations from that point on but always the result of the unfortunate weight of my own conscience. I should have been wise enough to realize that if Wayland Drew had thought it important enough to interrupt his busy day to discuss several trees in peril, it must be a landmark situation deserving the most clear thinking appraisal in response.

A short time before Wayland passed away, after a lengthy illness, we found ourselves both sitting comfortably in the cool shade of a perfect summer day, during a writer’s gathering held ironically at Woodchester Villa. It was a modest, unplanned homecoming to Woodchester, dealing with writing this time, not history, with nary a chainsaw rattle within ear-shot. I took a turn at the podium to read one of my short stories and following the presentation, Wayland left his seat to congratulate me on the subject of my recitation, a fellow writer, (and student from Bracebridge High School) named Paul Rimstead, well known Toronto Sun columnist who had died a short while earlier. It seemed Wayland and I agreed upon the great talent of the “Rimmer,” and that the world would be disadvantaged without his daily barbs and insights.

At the time Wayland knew his life was being seriously shortened, and as it turned out this was the last time I would talk to this amazing, talented gentleman. I can remember wanting so badly to offer a sincere, belated apology for the great tree-debate of once but foolish pride got in the path of an honest, heartfelt regret. I let him walk away without clearing my conscience about a ill-conceived, childish stubbornness that very nearly cost this beautiful tree-lined property even more of its historic, natural charm.

I have attempted many times since Wayland’s death to make amends with the issue, as if expended ink can make up for what I didn’t accomplish in person. Wayland’s passionate appeal for environmental conservation did however, over so many decades of re-consideration, generate within this writer the first and enduring interest to get involved, and speak out about the reckless destruction of forests, the infilling of wetlands, and the damning realities of urban sprawl across the entire Muskoka hinterland.

I wish I had listened more patiently to the sage advisories of the good Mr. Drew. He wasn’t wrong, and his concerns were just as valid then as today. I seldom if ever visit a Muskoka woodland for a hike, that I don’t tribute the experience and enjoyment, in some way, to the inspiration I received from a true friend of Muskoka. My only wish, as a writer, is that I could one day be as effective and enlightened an author, as the man who challenged me to take up the pen in the first place.

Thank you Wayland Drew. The experiences you shared have not been forgotten, the lessons you taught have not diminished; your passion to protect the environment, is the passion now carried forth by your students.

The book circa 1981 written by Wayland Drew from the movie's screenplay

Early 1900' s first edition biography of Ruebens

You can see the artistic signature of Franz Johnston who we believe was a member of The Group of Seven Artists

A GOOD BOOK? THE WORK OF A GOOD WRITER! IT'S WHAT MAKES IT TRULY COLLECTABLE, SIGNED OR NOT

CRAGGANMORE? "DRAGONSLAYER," THE BOOK -

     EVERY GENERATION HAS ITS HEROES. FOLKS WE BELIEVE TO BE MODELS OF CIVILITY, AND BEACONS OF INSPIRATION. EVERY PERSON, HAS, OVER A LIFE-TIME, LONG OR SHORT, FOUND SOMEONE TO LOOK UP TO, OUT OF RESPECT. I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE, TO HAVE ASKED OUT LOUD, AFTER A MENTOR'S DEATH, "WELL THEN, WHAT'S LIFE ALL ABOUT ANYWAY?" IS IT JUST ABOUT UNSPECIFIED GAINS AND LOSSES, SHORT FRIENDSHIPS AND INTIMATE RELATIONS, BUT MOSTLY A SUCCESSION OF FAREWELLS? AT TIMES, FOR ME RECENTLY, THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT MORE FAREWELLS THAN FOND GREETINGS. I SUPPOSED I'VE REACHED THAT PLATEAU IN LIFE, ON THE BRINK OF BEING CONSIDERED A SENIOR CITIZEN, WHEN THESE DEPARTURES ARE EXPECTED BE MORE FREQUENT; AT LEAST ACCORDING TO NATIONAL STATISTICS. AND WHILE I RESPECT, THAT NOT EVERY MENTOR WHO HAS EVER LIVED, DESERVES A STATUE IN THE PARK, FOR PIGEONS TO PERCH ON, OR A BRASS PLAQUE FASTENED TO A PARK BENCH, I GET FRUSTRATED THAT THE CONTRIBUTIONS MADE BY PAST CITIZENS, ARE SO QUICKLY AND EASILY FORGOTTEN. SOMETIMES SO FAST, IN FACT, YOU ASSESS OF YOUR OWN LIFE, THAT IT HAS ALL BEEN AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY. HAVE YOU EVER ASKED, IN THOUGHT IF NOT ALOUD, "WHO WILL REMEMBER ME?" "WHAT WILL THEY REMEMBER OF ME?" "HAVE I ACCOMPLISHED ANYTHING AT ALL, TO JUSTIFY MY EXISTENCE?" SOME OF US SEEK THESE ANSWERS MORE FREQUENTLY THAN OTHERS, AND WE DON'T LIKE THE ANSWERS. ESPECIALLY, WHEN SOME OF OUR MOST NOTABLE CITIZENS, CAN BE FORGOTTEN IN A HEARTBEAT, A FEW MINUTES AFTER THE HEARSE CARRIES THEIR MORTAL REMAINS, IN THE PROCESSION DOWN THE MAIN STREET, OF WHAT HAD BEEN THEIR HOMETOWN FOR DECADES. I'M TOLD IT IS HUMAN NATURE TO SURRENDER HEROS TO THE VERY NEXT MENTOR IN LINE; A SORT OF WAITING LIST, OF HEROES YET TO COME. I SPEND A LOT OF MY WRITING TIME, AS YOU KNOW ALL TOO WELL, CONTINUING TO HONOR AND RESPECT THOSE MENTORS WHO I BELIEVE DESERVE MORE RECOGNITION FOR WHAT THEY DID ACCOMPLISH, TO IMPROVE OUR HOMETOWNS AND OUR COUNTRY; TO IMPROVE OUR OWN LIVES.

    IT'S NOT NECESSARY TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT EVERY LOCAL HERO, AND EACH KIND CITIZEN, WHO HAS MADE OUR COMMUNITIES WONDERFUL PLACES TO CALL HOME. TRUTH IS, ALL CITIZENS MAKE A CONTRIBUTION, AND LIKE THE MORAL OF THE STORY, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE," THE WORLD WOULD INDEED, BE A DIFFERENT PLACE, WITHOUT OUR LIFE-LONG CONTRIBUTIONS. WE JUST CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD MEAN; UNLESS WE TAKE THE MOVIE AS A TEMPLATE. LIKE GEORGE BAILEY, OF BEDFORD FALLS; AND HOW THE COMMONPLACES WOULD HAVE CHANGED WITHOUT HIS CONTRIBUTION. WHAT WOULD MY HOMETOWN, OR YOUR HOMETOWN BE LIKE, IF WE HAD NEVER EXISTED? HAVE WE ALL MADE SUCH AN IMPRINT, WITH OUR WORK AND BENEVOLENCE, THAT THE VERY CHARACTER OF THE TOWNS WOULD BE ADVERSELY AFFECTED, IF WE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN? WELL, FOR SOME PEOPLE, WHO HAVE CONTRIBUTED MORE THAN OTHERS, YES INDEED; THOSE OLD HOMETOWNS WOULD BE VERY MUCH DEFICIENT IN THOSE AREAS. IT'S JUST HARD FOR US TO IMAGINE THAT PARTICULAR EVENTUALITY. WE DEAL WITH REAL LIFE SCENARIOS. BEDFORD FALLS AND GEORGE BAILEY WERE THE HANDIWORK OF A WRITER AND HOLLYWOOD MAGIC.

     I REMEMBER TALKING TO A COUPLE OF PROMINENT BRACEBRIDGE CITIZENS, A WHILE BACK, AND BEING STUNNED TO FIND OUT THEY HAD NEVER HEARD OF WAYLAND DREW. YET THEY HAD BEEN ACTIVE IN THE COMMUNITY, AT THE TIME, WAYLAND AND GWEN DREW, WERE WORKING EVERY WEEKEND, AND SPARE MOMENT, (WITH A LARGE COMPANY OF LOCAL CITIZENS) AS HISTORICAL SOCIETY VOLUNTEERS, IN ORDER TO GIVE BRACEBRIDGE ITS FIRST-EVER COMMUNITY MUSEUM. I BRING UP HIS NAME OFTEN, IN CONVERSATION, ABOUT MATTERS OF LOCAL HISTORY, AS MY OWN PERSONAL SURVEY, JUST TO SEE HOW MANY REMEMBER THIS TALENTED WRITER WHO HAD BEEN LIVING IN OUR MIDST. I CAN UNDERSTAND NEWER CITIZENS TO THE COMMUNITY BEING UNFAMILIAR WITH THE NAME. I CAN'T BE SO ACCOMMODATING, TO THOSE WHO LIVED IN THE COMMUNITY, DURING THOSE YEARS, WHO APPARENTLY MISSED SEVERAL DECADES OF HIS CONTRIBUTIONS. I WANT TO SAY, "SO WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING" AND "DIDN'T YOU EVER READ A NEWSPAPER IN THOSE YEARS?" OF COURSE THIS ISN'T FAIR OR NICE OF ME, TO INTRUDE WITH THIS QUESTIONING, SO MOST OF THE TIME, I JUST SWALLOW THE ANSWER I'M GIVEN, AND FEEL BAD THAT SUCH AN IMPORTANT NAME IN OUR PAST IS LOSING ITS RECOGNITION.

     WAYLAND DREW WASN'T THE BEST WRITER IN CANADA. HE WASN'T THE MOST PROLIFIC EITHER. HE DIDN'T MAKE ANY CLAIM, TO MY KNOWLEDGE, THAT HE WAS EITHER, THE BEST OF THE WRITER-KIND, OR ABLE TO COMPOSE MORE COPY PER WEEK, THAN ANY OTHER AUTHOR. IN FACT, IT WAS HARD TO GET ANYTHING OUT OF WAYLAND, THAT WOULD BE EVEN MODESTLY PROMOTIONAL OF HIS OWN CAREER. I CAN'T EVEN GIVE ONE EXAMPLE, WHERE HE SOUNDED IN ANY WAY BOASTFUL ABOUT HIS ACCOMPLISHMENTS. YET, HIS LITERARY WORK, HAD MANY INFLUENCES, AND AMONGST HIS PEERS, HE WAS CONSIDERED AN OUTSTANDING WRITER, AND BRILLIANT TEACHER. MODESTY MAY HAVE BEEN WAYLAND'S DOWNFALL, AT LEAST WHEN WE LOOK AT THE WAY HIS NAME HAS FADED IN PROMINENCE, WITH THE ADVANCE OF TIME. WE ALL THINK ABOUT IMMORTALITY. WE WANT TO BELIEVE WE'LL BE REMEMBERED FOR A WEE BIT, AT LEAST. SO, I SUPPOSE I DO FEEL COMPELLED, BECAUSE OF PERSONAL BELIEFS, THAT WE NEED TO KEEP THESE NAMES IN THE CONTEMPORARY DOMAIN, BASED ON THEIR RELEVANCE TO OUR COMMUNITY HERITAGE GENERALLY. WAYLAND WROTE A LOT OF HIS PUBLISHED MATERIAL WHILE RESIDING IN THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. WHAT THAT MEANS TO ME, IS THAT HE WAS INSPIRED BY THE PLACE HE LIVED, BECAUSE WRITERS AND ARTISTS ARE FUNNY THIS WAY.....WE COUNT ON BEING MOTIVATED BY OUR SURROUNDINGS. I SUPPOSE YOU'RE THINKING I'M GOING TO LAUNCH A CAMPAIGN TO NAME A PARKETTE IN HIS HONOR, OR TO NAME AN INLET OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, AS "WAYLAND DREW BAY." I KNEW HIM WELL ENOUGH, TO APPRECIATE, THAT THIS WOULD NOT HAVE PLEASED HIM. WHAT WOULD HAVE MADE HIM FEEL A SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT, IN RETROSPECT, WOULD BE IF SOMEONE SOUGHT OUT HIS BOOKS TO READ, AND WHO WOULD THINK ENOUGH OF THEM, TO SUGGEST "HIS WORK" AS GOOD BOOKS TO OTHERS, AND SO FORTH, ONCE AGAIN. HE WAS A MODEST, GENTLE MAN, WHO SEEMED MOST CONTENT, WITH A PADDLE, CANOE, AND A PAINTED AUTUMN LAKE STRETCHING TO THE HORIZON'S TALL PINES. IT'S WHAT I REMEMBER OF HIM, AND THE STORIES HE TOLD AFTER RETURNING, ESPECIALLY THOSE PENNED INTO THE TEXT OF "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," NOW AN INGRAINED PART OF OUR CANADIAN CHRONICLE. SO IF I SEEM TO BE USING HIS NAME, AND THE NAMES OF OTHER MENTORS I HAVE KNOWN, TOO FREQUENTLY, I OFFER NO APOLOGY, AS THESE ARE IDENTITIES THAT NEED TO SURVIVE THE RIGORS OF TIME, AND THE OVERLAP OF NEWFOUND COMMUNITY HEROES AND MENTORS.

    

     "THE TOWER WAS SQUARE AND THICK. IT SQUATTED DEFIANTLY ON ITS HILLTOP, ITS NARROW WINDOWS AND ARROW-SLOTS FACING NORTH AND SOUTH, EAST AND WEST, LIKE ELONGATED AND BLINDED EYES. ONCE THE KEEP OF A PROUD FORTRESS, IT WAS SURROUNDED NOW BY RUBBLE AND BY RUINS, AND IN ITSELF WAS CRUMBLING INEXORABLY. CENTURIES OF RAIN AND FROST HAD NIBBLED ITS MASONRY. PARTS OF ITS ROOF HAD COLLAPSED. ITS SILLS AND TIMBERS WERE SOFT WITH ROT.

      "A WINDLESS BUSH SURROUNDED THE TOWER, AND FILLED THE VAST BOWL OF LAND AROUND ITS KNOLL. THE LAST SUNLIGHT LAY ON THE BROKEN ROOF, BUT THE VALLEY BELOW WAS BLANKETED BY HEAVY DUSK, AND THE QUICKSILVER RIVER HAD DARKENED AND VANISHED BEHIND ITS SCREEN OF TREES.

      "THE SUN SET RELUCTANTLY. IT TOUCHED THE HORIZON, BULGED, BEGAN TO MOVE BENEATH. IT WAS THE EVE OF THE SPRING EQUINOX; THE FOLLOWING DAY WOULD BE GIVEN HALF TO LIGHT AND HALF TO DARKNESS.

      "MOTIONLESS, CLINGING UPSIDE DOWN ON THE COARSE BARK OF AN OAK, A SMALL BROWN BAT WATCHED THE SETTING OF MANY SUNS. ALL WERE IN THE COMPOSITE EYE OF A FAT BEETLE, TWO INCHES AWAY. THE BEETLE WAS SMUG AND DROWSEY, WATCHING THE SUN; IT DID NOT KNOW IT WAS ABOUT TO DIE. IT HAD BEEN CARELESS. SO STILL HAD THE BAT BEEN, SO PERFECTLY DID THE BAT'S COLOR BLEND WITH THE BROWN AND MOSSY HUE OF THE BARK, THAT THE BEETLE HAD NOT SEEN IT.

     "BOTH HUNG MOTIONLESS, INSECT AND PREDATOR. THEN, AS THE SUN SHRANK FINALLY TO A MERE BEAD, THE BAT'S LEFT WING UNFOLDED WITH ONLY THE SLIGHTEST SILKEN WHISPER, MOVED OVER THE DROWSING BEETLE, ENFOLDED IT. THE INSECT SCREAMED, A SOUND HEARD ONLY BY THE BAT. IT STRUGGLED BRIEFLY UNDER THE MEMBRANE, BEFORE IT WAS CRUSHED AGAINST THE BARK. WHEN THE BAT'S KEEN MANDIBLES CLOSED UPON IT, IT WAS STILL TWITCHING, ALTHOUGH IT WAS QUITE DEAD. THE BAT WAS RAVENOUS. IT HAD EATEN NOTHING FOR TWO DAYS AND TWO NIGHTS. DURING THE DAYS IT HAD SLEPT EXHAUSTED, BUT DURING THE NIGHTS IT HAD TRAVELLED, LAUNCHED ON A LONG FLIGHT ACROSS THE DARKENED LAND.

     "IT DID NOT KNOW WHY IT HAD LEFT HOME. NOR HAD IT ANY REASON TO RECALL WHAT IT HAD SEEN ON ITS LONG FLIGHT. BUT SOME THINGS IT DID RECALL. THE TINY DOTS OF SUN IN THE EYE OF THE UNFORTUNATE BEETLE, FOR EXAMPLE, HAD RECALLED OTHER DOTS - THE FIRES OF LONELY VILLAGES AND ENCAMPMENTS FLICKERING IN THE VAST DARKNESS OF THE UNDULATING LAND. SOME HAD BEEN LARGER THAN OTHERS, VILLAGES AFLAME. AND THE BEETLE'S DYING SCREAM HAD RECALLED OTHER SOUNDS, AS WELL, THE SCREAMS OF TORN ANIMALS, AND MEN'S CRIES FOR HELP FROM THE BORDERS OF RANDOM FIELDS, AND SOMETIMES THE SHRIEKS OF WOMEN. AND THE MANGLED CORPSE HAD RECALLED OTHER CORPSES, BOTH FRESH AND BLACKENED, LITTERING THE BATTLEFIELDS OVER WHICH THE BAT'S SILENT AND INQUISITIVE WINGS HAD BORNE IT. LOOKING DOWN NOW THROUGH THE DEEPENING DUSK AT A SILVER BAND OF RIVER, THE BAT RECALLED OTHER RIVERS, SOME WITH WEIRD SHAPES MOVING ON AND IN THEM; SOME QUITE EMPTY. THE EDGE OF ITS HUNGER BLUNTED, THE BAT UTTERED CRIES, THE PLAINTIVE CRIES OF A CREATURE SEARCHING FOR ANOTHER OF ITS KIND."

     I OWN A SOFTCOVER FIRST EDITION, OF THE JUNE 1981 RELEASE OF THE BOOK, "DRAGONSLAYER," A BOOK BASED ON A MOVIE SCRIPT, WRITTEN BY FORMER MUSKOKA AUTHOR, WAYLAND "BUSTER" DREW. THE BOOK WAS BASED ON THE SCREENPLAY WRITTEN BY HAL BARWOOD AND MATTHEW ROBBINS, AND WAS PUBLISHED BY BALLANTINE BOOKS. WAYLAND WROTE MANY BOOKS, SEVERAL FROM SCREENPLAYS INCLUDING "CORVETTE SUMMER," WHICH I BELIEVE WAS A RON HOWARD FILM, AND THEN "WILLOW," A GEORGE LUCAS FILM. HE OF COURSE WROTE THE WELL RESPECTED BOOKS, "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," WITH PHOTOGRAPHER BRUCE LITTELJOHN; AND "A SEA WITHIN: THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE," TWO EXCEPTIONAL PIECES OF CANADIANA.     WAYLAND TAUGHT NATIVE STUDIES, AMONGST OTHER ENGLISH COURSES, AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL. I WORKED WITH WAYLAND IN THE LATE 1970'S, TO FORM THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND THE EVENTUAL FOUNDING OF WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM. AND WHENEVER I COULD, I WOULD IMPOSE UPON HIM, TO TALK ABOUT WRITING AND SOME OF HIS ACHIEVEMENTS. I SURPRISED HIM ONCE, BY TELLING HIM THAT OF ALL THE BOOKS HE HAD WRITTEN, IT WAS "BROWN'S WEIR," THAT I FELT WAS HIS BEST OVERALL COMPOSITION. THE CANADIAN EAST COAST FISHERY STORY, OF A FISHER FAMILY, PROFILING IN AMAZING, WARM DETAIL, THE HISTORIC / TRADITIONAL USE OF "WEIR" NETTING (NETS MOUNTED ON POSTS, PLACED IN A CIRCLE IN THE WATER). HE HAD CO-WRITTEN THE BOOK WITH WIFE GWEN, AND I REMEMBER HER SMILING BACK, WHEN I MET HER IN BRACEBRIDGE, SHORTLY AFTER WAYLAND'S FUNERAL, AFTER I COMMENTED THE BOOK WAS MY FAVORITE. SHE AGREED. BUT UPON RE-READING THE OPENING PASSAGES OF "DRAGONSLAYER," I'VE GOT TO ADMIT, HE WAS ONE HELL OF A WORDSMITH, WITH ANY EDITORIAL PROJECT HE UNDERTOOK.

     IN A NOTE, FROM JOHN ROBERT COLOMBO, ONE DAY, QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO, HE CRITIQUED ONE OF MY GHOST STORY COLUMNS, FROM THE MUSKOKA SUN, AS BEING VERY SIMILAR TO THE WORK OF WAYLAND DREW. HE HAD NO IDEA, WAYLAND WAS ALSO ONE OF MY FRIENDS IN LOCAL HISTORY, AND A WELCOME CRITIC OF MY OWN WRITING. I REMEMBER PAUSING, WITH NOTE IN HAND, THINKING AT THAT MOMENT, THERE COULD BE NO GREATER COMPLIMENT FOR A STRUGGLING, STARVING WRITER, THAN TO BE PARALLELED TO THE WORK OF SUCH A TALENTED CANADIAN AUTHOR. I FEEL THE SAME TODAY, AND IT WAS A HIGHLIGHT OF MY WRITING YEARS. ACTUALLY, I WOULD HAVE BEEN THRILLED TO BE CONSIDERED EVEN HALF AS COMPETENT. THE SAD THING ABOUT IT ALL, WAS THAT VERY FEW PEOPLE IN BRACEBRIDGE, AT THE TIME WAYAND LIVED IN THE COMMUNITY, KNEW JUST HOW ACCOMPLISHED HE WAS AS AN AUTHOR. HE WAS A LOW KEYED INDIVIDUAL AND CERTAINLY DIDN'T HAVE A SWAGGER BECAUSE OF HIS PAST CREDITS. BUT WE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN HIM BETTER.

     "WHAT SOLACE? THE BLEAK COMFORT THAT THE WORLD WAS NOT AS MAN PERCEIVED IT TO BE, BUT THAT IT WAS STILL, AFTER THE LONG AND LONELY DECADES OF INQUIRY, AN UTTER MYSTERY." (WAYLAND DREW; DRAGONSLAYER)

WHAT YOU CAN FIND OUT THERE, IF YOU ARE A PATIENT ANGLER

     THE 1905 FIRST EDITION, OF THE BIOGRAPHY AND STUDY, OF THE PAINTINGS BY "RUBENS" (PICTURED ABOVE), WRITTEN BY ADOLF ROSENBERG, IS WORTH FROM BETWEEN $75 TO $100 BASED ON CONDITION. THIS COPY WOULD PROBABLY FIT SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN. THE FASCINATION WITH THIS LOCALLY FOUND BOOK, OF COURSE, IS THAT IT IS ELABORATELY SIGNED ON THE INSIDE COVER PAGE, AS HAVING FORMERLY BELONGED TO "FRANZ JOHNSTON," WHICH PRESUMABLY, OR AT LEAST AS FAR AS WE HAVE BEEN ABLE TO RESEARCH, WAS THE CANADIAN GROUP OF SEVEN ARTIST. WE BELIEVE THE BOOK WAS DONATED IN MEMORY OF THE INDIVIDUAL ABOVE JOHNSTON'S NAME, DATED ON THE 4TH OF AUGUST 1943. ACCORDING TO A BOOK WRITTEN ABOUT FRANZ JOHNSTON, AND HIS FAMILY, THE ARTIST AND HIS SON, PAUL RODERICK, OPERATED A SMALL ART SCHOOL WITH REFERENCE BOOKS, IN THE AREA OF WYEVILLE, ALTHOUGH IT MAY HAVE BEEN CLOSER TO GEORGIAN BAY. THE THUNDER BEACH AREA COMES TO MIND.

    I'M A POOR EXAMPLE OF AN HISTORIAN, BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE THE JOHNSTON BIOGRAPHY IN FRONT OF ME. THE RUBENS BOOK MAY HAVE BEEN DONATED, FOR THAT VERY PURPOSE OF ART REFERENCE. THE TEXT HOWEVER, IS IN GERMAN. WE HAVE CROSS REFERENCED THE ARTFUL SIGNATURE, WITH EXAMPLES OF HIS SIGNATURE SHOWN IN THE BIOGRAPHY. IT WAS PURCHASED FROM A SECOND HAND SHOP, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHERE MEMBERS OF THE JOHNSTON FAMILY HAD LIVED FOR MANY YEARS. WHILE IT'S ALWAYS NICE TO HAVE AN EXPERT OPINION, ON WHETHER OR NOT IT IS A GENUINE FRANZ JOHNSTON SIGNATURE, VALIDATION OFTEN COMES SLOWLY IN THESE IDENTIFICATION MATTERS, IN PART, BECAUSE IT DOES COST FOR APPRAISAL SERVICES. IT'S ALWAYS BETTER IF WE CAN PROVE IT OURSELVES, AND IN NINETY OUT OF EVERY HUNDRED SIMILAR SITUATIONS, OF HAVING TO VARIFY AN AUTOGRAPH, WE ARE ABLE TO PROVE, BEYOND DOUBT, THE AUTHENTICITY OF A SIGNATURE. THIS IS ONE OF THE EASIEST TO IDENTIFY, BECAUSE THIS PORTION OF THE INSCRIPTION IS CLEAR, AND THE LINES OF THE LETTERING CAN BE EASILY CROSS REFERENCED WITH OTHER SIMILAR SIGNATURES PENNED BY JOHNSTON. IF, ON THE OTHER HAND, WE WERE ONLY DEALING WITH THE SIGNATURE AT THE TOP OF THE SAME PAGE, IT WOULD BE MUCH MORE TIME CONSUMING, AND FRUSTRATING. THERE ARE TRICKS OF THE TRADE, TO EMPLOY, IN SUCH CASES. SOME SIGNATURES ARE NEVER PROPERLY IDENTIFIED, WHICH IS, AS THEY SAY, "THE WAY THE COOKIE CRUMBLES."

    TODAY, ONLINE SEARCHES, AND CONSULTING POSTED IMAGES OF ART WORK AND SIGNATURES, HAS CUT OUR RESEARCH TIME BY TWO THIRDS, AND THIS IS ONE OF THE BIGGEST CHANGES IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS FOR US COLLECTOR-TYPES. IN MANY CASES TODAY, WITH A CELL PHONE CAPABILITY, WE CAN DO ALL THE RESEARCH ON AN ARTICLE, PIECE OF ART, BOOK, OR DOCUMENTS, BEFORE WE MAKE THE PURCHASE. THIS SAVES A LOT OF MONEY AND TIME, BECAUSE YES INDEED, WE HAVE MADE MISTAKES AND PURCHASED BOOKS THAT WERE SIGNED; BUT NOT BY THE AUTHOR. MANY BOOK OWNERS, WOULD APPLY THEIR HARD-TO-READ SIGNATURES, TO THE TITLE PAGES OF BOOKS, AND SOMETIMES, THEY'D LOOK REMARKABLY SIMILAR TO THE AUTHOR'S NAME. THERE ARE STILL MANY OCCASIONS, WHEN THERE IS NO COMPARABLE EXAMPLE ONLINE, TO CROSS REFERENCE SIGNATURES. SO BY TRIAL AND ERROR, AND CONSIDERABLE CAUTION, WE VALIDATE MOST SIGNATURES NOW, BEFORE WE MAKE THE PURCHASE. WHAT A GREAT SAFEGUARD, TO MAKE AN EDUCATED PURCHASE, WITH MITIGATED RISK. IDENTIFICATION IS STILL AN ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE DEALER'S BIGGEST HURDLE, EVEN FOR THE MOST LEARNED OF COLLECTORS.

     ALTHOUGH THIS BOOK IS FROM OUR PRIVATE STOCK, IN COMPANY OF OUR OTHER CANADIAN-ART RELATED AUTOGRAPHS, IF IT WAS PLACED FOR SALE, WITH A SIGNED DECLARATION FROM AN AUCTION HOUSE, OR ART EXPERT, THAT IT IS A DEFINITELY A "FRANZ JOHNSTON" SIGNATURE, THE EIGHTY DOLLAR FIRST EDITION, WOULD PROBABLY THEN SELL FOR THREE TO FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS, BASED ON THE ARTISTIC WAY THE NAME WAS PRINTED; VERSUS A NORMAL SIGNATURE. I HAVE SOLD NUMEROUS "A.Y. JACKSON" SIGNATURES ON BOOKS, AND IN GALLERY PUBLICATIONS, AND THE HIGHEST AMOUNT TO DATE, WAS SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS. THIS DATES BACK FIVE YEARS, SO I EXPECT THE SELLING PRICE WOULD BE MORE TODAY. I HAVE ANOTHER BOOK SIGNED BY CHARLES COMFORT, ANOTHER WELL KNOWN CANADIAN ARTIST, THAT I EXPECT WOULD SELL FOR TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS IF PUT FOR SALE IN OUR SHOP. ALL OUR AUTOGRAPHED CANADIANA IS KEPT UNDER LOCK, KEY AND ALARM AT SECURE LOCATION.

One Year Later - A Retrospective About Getting Hooked On Cooking

"I can remember as a rookie reporter, suffering dearly for my craft back in the late 1970's, driving hundreds of miles on assignments in the West Muskoka area for our newspaper, The Georgian Bay-Muskoka Lakes Beacon, in MacTier. In the winter, while it was as picturesque as any place on earth, with an illuminated mantle of snow on the evergreen woodlands, the demands of driving were extreme. The conditions often times more than just a tad dangerous. Even though I was a pretty experienced driver, some of the conditions warranted turning back and waiting for the snowplow to clear the way first," Ted Currie wrote in a recent journal about his memories of being a cub reporter for the lolocal press. "The editor had a deadline to meet so there wasn’t a lot of flexibility. I got stuck a lot!

"Traveling the country lanes of Muskoka, particularly in the early evening, just as the moonlight had begun its winter haunting over the old farmhouses, I used to occupy myself by imagining what was going on in these rural kitchens that I, a hungry reporter, might sincerely enjoy if by chance, invited to stop over. I still do this today when Suzanne and I are out on an antiquing adventure. It’s the dinner hour that always fascinates me. Just as it did when I was a lonely single, working through dinner, and driving past these historic, friendly looking abodes with their twinkling lights, visible candles and oil lamps engaged on the tables. I imagined the wonderful cuisine being prepared in that farm kitchen, and I suppose it was, as a writer, the catalyst for many kitchen related feature articles from that point.....and from that perspective; the passerby looking in and wishing that instead of driving past, I might instead, and as a real treat, be invited to partake of the evening’s cuisine.

"While putting most concentration on the state of the open road, I kept myself awake with this kitchen fare curiosity. I could so vividly imagine grand harvest tables with a crispy, brown, sage covered old Tom Turkey sitting there all hot and buttered, awaiting the carver’s first cut. I could visualize the sideboard loaded with pickles and sweet relishes, a bowl of steaming dressing, and big vessels of squash or turnip. It was a case when imagination was my best advantage, as in a lot of these motor trips, I was pretty much broke and heading home to a somewhat empty cupboard. It was the way many reporters operated in my day, the printed word being far more important than contented tummies. We sacrificed for our craft. I wasn’t much of a cook anyway. But imagining such wonderful fare was within my creative licence anyway, and it didn’t cost me a cent.

"There were times however, that I arrived to do a story on an anniversary couple, for example, in time for tea and treats. The kind folks of West Muskoka always fed the hungry reporter. I was fed at many events I covered, and for a hungry, lonely guy, many of these get-togethers were more fun than work. I’d get the story, the photograph, and a plate of roast beef courtesy the local Lions Club or a recreation group hosting a fundraiser. I was food-conscious as a writer and I guess it was a natural progression then to wrap-up my years in journalism, composing websites about recipes and dining traditions here in Muskoka.

"Imagining what was going on in these farm kitchens wasn’t too much of a stretch for me, as I visited many houses of friends with my parents, during my formative years, and watched as hosts of events prepared their food. I wasn’t satisfied with just eating the local fare but I wanted to see how it came about. I can remember looking in the kitchens and seeing the chaos of preparation, and saw clear evidence of handwritten recipes strewn on the counter-tops, as if they had been both the first and last defense of a really good dinner party. I loved all the hub-bub associated with kitchens......a fetish? I don’t think so but it has been a pretty powerful and life-long addiction to the culture of the kitchen.

The author in me was fascinated by both what I could see, and could not (and had to imagine instead), in these warm kitchen windows, in the farmhouses and neat little homesteads and cottages, I passed quickly by on my reporting jags through the Ontario hinterland. I would love to have visited each one, and experienced not only the food but the family aura that made the kitchens such fabulous places to hole-up; especially when all else in the daily routine became tiresome and oppressive. I felt like that a lot. Alas, when I got home, well, there was just something missing. A partner for one. I had just recently been dumped by a long time girlfriend, and admittedly I was a wee bit despondent about this sudden change of life. As part of the settlement of the relationship, she got the friends, and kitchen gatherings of old mates became pretty thin after this. It was pretty much my cat "Animal," a few hockey mates who dropped over for beer when they heard I had a few, and small social events that were not quite culinary extravaganzas. I did give it the old college try but there always seemed to be something missing. I knew I had to make some changes because this wasn’t my concept of a good life. A good life was having a home where people wanted to visit; and an abode that had the kind of kitchen that would attract a country fiddler at the same time as comforting a poet philosopher, a political wannabe, an out of work store clerk, a maiden in distress, a bartender with a night off, or a flutist looking to entertain. I wanted my place to be a safe haven, where over a good feast the problems of the world would be debated and resolved.

"It is wrong and sexist for me to say it was my partner Suzanne who made all the difference. As a home economist by profession, it’s true, she made me cease eating potato chip and oyster sauce sandwiches, (a lowly reporter’s quick fix before another meeting) and turned me against processed food in return for lemon chicken, casseroles to die for, roast beef that melted in my mouth.....and desserts that were heavenly. Suzanne helped me refine my kitchen fantasies. I begged her to allow me to participate in food preparation......even if that meant being offered a seat to watch. I am a pretty fair cook of basic foods now, thanks to her tutorship for all these years. And it brought to our combined home, here at Birch Hollow, a true joy for time spent in preparation of food, as much as in its ceremonial consumption as the glorious end to the cooking adventure.

When I’m out on a winter junket now, I still can’t help looking longingly into the distant windows of old cheerfully appointed farmhouses, and those neat little bungalows tucked into the snowy landscape, bathed with the moonlight’s milky glow, and wonder about the respective dinner fare being served to the eager inhabitants tonight. What time tested recipes might have been employed to make these hot dishes, and the cake under glass on the oak sideboard? An idealist? A Rockwelian hold-out? A spirit encased in sentiment? You bet! When I come upon these handwritten recipes, some more than a century old, well folks, I just can’t help myself....I just get lost in time and tradition but I always return in time for dinner."