An Autumn Canoe Paddle To Algonquin and A Turkey Supper For Son Robert

Note: Sadly Ross Travis and Dave Bird, two of our group have since passed away. This is a tribute to both gentlemen who were great canoe buddies.

MISSING THE SOUND OF THE PADDLE

A CANOE TRIP WITH A LITTLE BIT MORE

     I DON'T BELIEVE, FOR ONE MINUTE, THAT I WAS THE FIRST, SECOND OR EVEN THIRD CHOICE, TO MAKE UP THE FOURTH PERSON IN A TWO CANOE ADVENTURE TO ALGONQUIN PARK…..THAT LONG AGO AUTUMN SEASON. I FOUND SLIDES FROM THE TRIP THE OTHER DAY, AND REMEMBERED I HADN'T GIVEN THEM BACK TO KEN SILCOX. OOPS. I'M KNOWN FOR DOING THIS KIND OF THING. I DON'T LOSE THE STUFF. I JUST NEVER GIVE IT BACK.

     EVEN AT SANDLOT BASEBALL, I EXPECTED TO BE ONE OF THE LAST KIDS PICKED TO JOIN ONE OF TWO TEAMS. IT WASN'T THAT I SUCKED AS AN ATHLETE. QUITE THE CONTRARY. I WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE PLAYER, BUT I WAS A CROSS BETWEEN A NERD AND "AN INDIVIDUAL," WHICH WAS PROBABLY WORSE. I WAS A CRAPPY TEAM PLAYER. I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, A CENTRE IN FOOTBALL, AND I PLAYED LEFT FIELD IN BASEBALL. THAT'S WHERE THE COLACH PUT THOSE WHO WERE ON THE TEAM, BUT DIDN'T QUITE FIT IN WITH THE CLUB'S BOISTROUS "KILL 'EM DEAD" PHILOSOPHY. AND YES, NOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING THIS, IT MEANT AN UNBELIEVABLE FREQUENCY OF UNDERWEAR STRETCHING, SOMETIMES WITH PLAYERS FRONT AND BACK. IF YOU DIDN'T MIX, YOU SUFFERED THE CONSEQUENCES. I HATED THE CLUB MENTALITY BUT I LIKED COMPETITION. SO HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A CANOE TRIP? WELL, I WAS THE LAST GUY THEY CALLED, AND I'M SURE THEY TALKED AMONGST THEMSELVES, "OF COURSE CURRIE WILL GO…..JUST TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS NOTEPAD AT HOME." I GOT THAT A LOT, AS A REPORTER, IN SOCIAL OCCASIONS. I WAS A TELL-ALL COLUMNIST, AND SOMETIMES I TOLD TOO MUCH. MORE THAN A FEW WIVES FOUND OUT THINGS ABOUT THEIR HUSBANDS, THEY DIDN'T KNOW, JUST BY READING MY WEEKLY COLUMN. OBVIOUSLY, MY FRIENDS LIED A LOT TO THEIR PARTNERS. THE WIVES CLUB LOVED ME. THE HUSBANDS? NOT SO MUCH!

HONORED TO BE ASKED NONE THE LESS

     When old friend Ken Silcox came to The Herald-Gazette one day, where I was managing editor, it's likely he started looking for paddle-worthy personnel on the bottom floor first, working his way through the building, before coming up to my second floor office. He probably even asked the receptionist if she was free that weekend. There he found me, bored out of my mind, doodling in my notebook. He stuck his head around the door, and yelled something like, '"I've got a canoe paddle with your name on it!" Geez, I was outfitted, with some fishing gear, and sleeping bag long before he officially asked if I wanted to go on a weekend adventure. I was a newlywed, and Suzanne and I needed a little "quiet" time from each other. Cripes, if she reads this I'm dead. Good thing she won't. I hadn't even given Silcox my answer yet, and I was phoning Suzanne to tell her I was going away for the weekend for some male bonding. "As long as it isn't one of those "Deliverance" bonding things, it's okay," (referring to the movie) I thought she'd say, with a little outdoor's sense of humor. Suzanne isn't known for her sense of humor, so it was more like, 'Well, if you feel it's necessary to leave me on my own, during our newlywed year, then go and have a good time." Which meant, "I won't forget this for the rest of our lives together…..and I will use it against you forever and ever." "Hey Ken, she said I could go," I answered my friend at the door, who was engaged with one of our other reporters, who was probably back-up in case I couldn't go. Geez I'd love to be first string just once in my life.

     "Should I bring some booze," I asked, looking like a wide-eyed puppy, just offered a begging strip and a pat on the head. As for the booze part, it was still very much a part of my writing career, just as the tavern was a home away from home. This is before Suzanne sobered me up for good. In this instance, however, booze was what kept me from coming home early, on this autumn adventure deep into the Algonquin wilds. It was more medicinal than a couple of ounces for pleasure.

     My canoe partner was the good Mr. Silcox, a terrific paddler, and one of Muskoka's well known real estate agents. In the second canoe was teacher Dave Bird, and Ross Traviss of the local grocery industry, both with huge outdoor experience, and many miles traversed through Ontario's wilderness. Unfortunately, both Dave and Ross have since passed away, and the good old world lost two of its finest citizens. Ross died quite a while ago now, and Dave Bird was fatally injured during a logging mishap in the past year. I have wonderful memories of each gentleman, who made this weekend so memorable.

     It was a little later in the fall season and the weather was bloody cold, windy, overcast most of the time, and snowing when it wasn't raining. Hell I wasn't complaining. I was just excited about doing something with pals, that didn't involve a sticky bar-room table, a jug of skunky draft beer, and a stripper who may or may not have tossed me her boa…..into my beer. And the trip was going so well, even the long bumpy trip into Algonquin Park's Rain Lake. Outside of having to pee like two race horses, I was thrilled to arrive at that beautiful Algonquin oasis. "Currie, we take the canoes off the truck before we hit the washroom," was what I think they were yelling at me….but sorry, I've got a bladder the size of a thimble. The plan was to paddle and portage our way to Big Misty, but I think because of the adverse weather, we only made it to Little Misty.

     About two minutes of paddle, with the bow of our canoe (where I was) breaking through the waves coming right at us, I answered Ken's question, "how are you doing up there," with a simple response; "Isn't this the life?" The second I opened my mouth, it was like the devil himself, took a red hot six inch nail, from his forge, and pounded that sucker into the centre of my molar. The cold wind hitting me in the face triggered the most explosive toothache I've ever had, and it was as if my head was going to explode. My heart-beat was in my mouth. Every time I inhaled, the cold Algonquin air hit that tooth like its nerve on an anvil. Suzanne had saved the trip without knowing it. She had packed some aspirin, expecting that I would wake up with a hangover on at least one of the two mornings at the campsite. Bless her heart. But for that lengthy crossing of the lake, I cussed like a longshoreman. I said things that made my soul cringe. I would have bit the head of an Irishman, I was so mad that this was happening, on the first leg of our three day canoe trip. It wasn't fair, and I let God know as much. I think he may have retaliated, by making it just a little worse, and the wind a little stronger and colder.

     At the first portage, I put two tablets against the tooth…..one on the side, and one clenched between upper and lower teeth, that were all resonating like an Orangeman's bass drum on the 12th of July. The pain was so bad, at this point, my decision making capability had clearly been affected. I had hastily placed a plastic bag of chili Ross's wife had prepared for our lunch, on the end of a paddle, while Ken portaged the canoe. When we got to the next portage, and decided to have a lunch break, well, the chili was gone. So were the dozen buttered rolls in the same bag. It seems a rogue branch had relieved us of the chili and buns. I was still in so much pain at this point, the chili wouldn't have gone down well anyway. Good news though. On our return trip, we found the chili hanging from the same branch, and because it was cold enough outside, to keep it from spoiling, we had the lunch before we re-loaded the canoes on the trucks.

     Once we arrived at our elevated campsite, overlooking the beautiful expanse of Algonquin lake, Ken knew I was suffering from something. "It's my tooth Ken," I answered with the garble of a man chewing aspirins, with a pounding ache in the jaw. "I can't stand the pain. How are you at pulling teeth," I asked. That's when the beautiful man handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps, from his backpack. "It's what we brush our teeth with out here, but it'll fix up a toothache." "Take a couple of shots, and then go and sit by the fire," he said. I may have taken a little bit more than I should have, because I was singing sea shanties at just over two ounces of the good stuff. I had the freshest breath that whole weekend. Actually, if it hadn't been for the schnapps, I would have had to leave, the pain was so severe. I thought about extracting the tooth myself, with any kind of primitive implement, but then I thought about the Bracebridge doctor, who bled to death, after removing his own tonsils. Historians know a lot of neat stuff like this.

      After a good portion of that bottle, I lost all feeling in that radioactive tooth, and in fact, I couldn't feel my face at all. The booze bought me some time that's for sure. I was able to enjoy three days in Algonquin because of schnapps, so let's give credit where it's due. I sang like a opera star all the way across Rain Lake. All I was missing were the viking horns on a tin helmet. No you're right. I shouldn't have been paddling under the influence. But honestly, I wouldn't have been paddling at all without that liquid courage. I really enjoyed the trip, and spent hours writing stories, sitting around the campfire, listening to the tall tales and Algonquin lore as told by Mr. Silcox, Mr. Bird and Mr. Traviss. I apparently learned to yodel during that trip but I don't know who taught me how.

     When it gets to this time of the year, I get a little toothy pang, to head into the Algonquin lakeland, for a little respite. I think about those guys and of course peppermint schnapps. But I also had a great opportunity to write about our amazing province, that has continued to influence me to this day. My notes were kind of hard to read but the inspiration was clear, even without words of explanation. I'm glad these buddies invited me on this autumn canoe trip. I'm really glad they brought the medication too…..because, as history reminds, it saved the entire trip. And I had a second trip to add on to the first.

     Ken Silcox recently sold his Bracebridge house, and took a chance on Western Canada, as a good place to invest for the future. Suzanne and I were sorry to see him go, because for many years, and many, many circumstances, our paths routinely crossed, and they were always remarkable, insightful meetings, of old friends, who could and would finish each other's sentences……but only if necessary.

     I never told Ken this story, so if he's checking the internet, he can read about it now. After he sold us our house on Golden Beach Road (the haunted one), in Bracebridge, he gave us a huge turkey he had raised on his rural property. How big was it? We had to take it to my parents' apartment, because we couldn't fit it into the one at our house. Suzanne was expecting son Robert to pop out any day, and the hustling residence to residence with the turkey in tow, back to our house, and then back for other supplies we forgot, got her so agitated…..thinking it wasn't going to be a perfect Thanksgiving spread in our new house, that she went into labour a short time later. I was eating leftover turkey for two weeks. So were my parents. I never properly thanked Ken for giving us this monster turkey, that may have induced labor, for son Robert……who by the way loves turkey.

Muskoka Archive Material and Local Nostalgia

WE'RE ALWAYS LOOKING FOR MUSKOKA ARCHIVE MATERIAL AND LOCAL NOSTALGIA - FOR REFERENCE AND EXHIBIT

DON'T TOSS THOSE OLD LETTERS, INVOICES, JOURNALS, PHOTOGRAPHS, RECIPES, COOKBOOKS AND DOCUMENTS IN THE TRASH - WE CAN GIVE THEM A GOOD HOME

     One of the most horrible statements any antiquarian can hear, is "I wish I'd talked to you first, before I threw all that stuff out." Or, in the same vein of thought, "If only I'd known, I would have kept the letters." You can substitute letters with photographs, historic documents, vintage invoices from area shops and industries, and just about anything else of a historic or antique value. A lady once enquired about some old invoices I was going through, at the sales desk in our former Bracebridge shop, wondering if they were of any value. I explained how important they are in the local historic sense, and for some, the significant monetary value if they involve railways, steamship lines, hotels and resorts, and possess names of customers who were of importance to Muskoka in any number of ways. She inhaled deeply, exhaled with a clear sigh, and then told me that she had helped dispose of old company invoices and related paper-work going back to the late 1800's when the local company had been founded, enough to fill to large dumpsters headed for the landfill site. She had come into the shop to sell me a few trinkets from the company office, which, I can tell you, were a lot less important than the huge loss of so much business history of a company most of us knew as locally iconic.
     There are details we look for, in this pursuit of ephemera, that we can't expect most people to fully appreciate, and what we find difficult to explain simply. We are always willing to take a peek, if you happen to have a few samples to show us, at our Muskoka Road shop. Or email us a few digital images and we'll get back to you. Obviously, there are some paper items that are worth considerable money, if they have the provenance of, for example, the Muskoka Navigation Company, or local historic resorts such as Windermere House, the Royal Muskoka Hotel, or Bigwin Inn to name a few. Old railway tickets and shipping papers are also of significance, as are old menus from major passenger ships, from Cunard and Star Lines. We do stretch outside the area, as antique dealers, when the materials are obviously of larger public interest. You'd be very surprised at what exists in private hands, in the way of ephemera, that owners don't recognize as having value. If it was a pine cupboard or painting, vintage china or cranberry glass, it would be obvious there was inherent value. Old paper is not seen as being worth much of anything, especially letters and vintage invoices etc. Thus, it is the first bundles into the dumpster, when estates are cleaned out by families wishing to get the task done quickly and efficiently, to settle affairs. But time and again, we find ourselves too late, to conserve these paper treasures, and a lot of other related collectables, that have value beyond the monetary return.
     Just about every week someone approaches us, at the shop, (in Gravenhurst) to ask whether or not we might be interested in a variety of estate items, mostly vintage paper known as ephemera, which they have been storing for many years in their homes. Some of those who ask, previously found it impossible, after the death of a relative, partner, parent, or grandparent, to part with personal letters and photographic collections, not to mention journals, diaries, and other documents, deemed sensitive at the time. What may have happened, to bring these folks to us, presently, is the sale of a family home, where the items had been previously stored. Now with a move, or down-sizing effort, they no longer can justify hanging on to these pieces, which more than anything else, have sentimental value. But, thankfully, they seek us out, as not only antique dealers, but as in-house regional historians, working every day of the week, here on the main street of Gravenhurst, in many different antiquarian capacities, and for a diverse range of heritage projects, mostly having something to do with the home town and home region.
    A lot of folks feel it's dangerous to allow strangers to peruse intimate, personal family documents, and correspondence, including having access to private diaries and journals. I completely understand this. However, I've made a life for myself, handling old stuff, and a lot of it is sensitive material, that has to be handled with extreme caution, for the contents within. But for gosh sakes, throwing our war letters, because of a small section where the writer has stated romantic intentions, or contrary information about love indiscretions, isn't what attracts an historian's attention, other than to put context and a character to both the letter writer and the recipient. The chance for us to have access to these personal thoughts about war and peace, and life beyond the years of crisis, means than we can parlay the essence of the story, to the readers of our historical essays, that we produce in the hundreds every year, for our online sites, and print publication we are editorially associated. The public benefits from the information about important times in history, because kind and considerate citizens have offered us an opportunity to draw from the rare content of personal correspondence. Previously unknown realities of these critical periods of our country, and world, can pop out in the strangest places, and circumstances, which is why we never discard source material that can, at some point, influence the way we present a story, or open the text of a book we may choose to write one day.
     I had the rare and wonderful opportunity, of a mild apprenticeship with one of Canada's most storied freelance archivists, Hugh MacMillan, who worked for many years with, and for the Ontario Archives, and amassed and conserved a large collection of documents and personal letters, of well known history-makers in this country, because he wouldn't take no for an answer; and was stalwart about his pursuit of raw history, that would have otherwise fallen into the dumpster for disposal, or be sold off indiscriminately to collectors, who probably would have added a major acquisition to their archive collection, but not shared it with the public as would a provincial or national archives. While Suzanne and I don't have the resources of a public library or archives, we do our best, to highlight, and publish any historical material, that we believe the public should know about, or get a chance to see up close, without having to pay an admission at the door. We have a good working relationship with the local archives for the Town of Gravenhurst, and will always pass along particularly important heritage material to support its mission statement to preserve and promote local history. On a tight annual budget but with a lot of enthusiasm, we will go above and beyond to represent the history we have been granted, either as a donation, gift, or as chosen go-betweens, to get the material to the best location for conservation, and presentation, to maximize the information contained within. It is of great joy to be able to pass these historical documents and ephemera generally, to other museums and heritage archives, because they contain information relevant to their communities and regions of Ontario and Canada.
     Although we can't out-perform larger public archives, and we have no extra funding to do so, we can't turn our backs on local heritage issues, when they happen to pass before our eyes; which bulge at the amazing information contained in personal family materials, that were on their way to the dump, and we happened to be the last stop before the final tossing-out of handwritten heirlooms. We don't have a lot of money to spend on acquisitions, if they can't be sold in some measure to offset costs, but we do have the room here, at our Gravenhurst store-front, to house a large quantity of vintage paper, and photographs, obtained as donations. We rotate displays regularly, and love the opportunity to showcase our latest finds, and gifts, sharing whatever information we can, with those of our visitors who have the same passions for history; you wouldn't believe the Muskoka talks we have here every week, related to our own interest in collecting district memorabilia as well, especially locally written books on heritage subjects.
     As we have asked readers previously, if you have historical artifacts, (actually ranging from vintage team sweaters used in the past by town or district sports teams, to golf clubs with a storied past), with local provenance, and boxes of vintage ephemera, you think best thrown out, please consider dropping them off here instead. It makes me cringe to think how many tons of important archive material, has been destroyed because of the misconception, it is all too sensitive to maintain, and would be better for the family to have destroyed in entirety. If this is the case, it is perfectly acceptable to indicate to us, what materials are never to be published or put on display because of their sensitive nature. There are times obviously, when content is by far more important for us to know as historians, than the benefit of publishing them verbatim. I want to know uncut versions of history, but we've been working in this profession long enough, to know, that there are certain realities expressed in private letters, that have no business in the public domain. We have an excellent track record in this regard.
     Please, before you unload antique and vintage ephemera in recycling or the garbage bins, check with us first. Maybe we can find some redeeming quality of the material, to save you a trip to the landfill site. It may not be the case, the material is worth a lot of money, but what they possess in archive value, will remain a huge credit to all those families who have helped us, conserve our heritage, one letter, one photograph, one document at a time. If you're unsure, we're here to help.
     We value Muskoka and Gravenhurst history not only as antique dealers, which afterall is our specialty, but as historians who have been promoting local heritage in one way or another, since 1977 with some pretty fair results. We are most pleased, when the public lets us know we've done a good job conserving local heritage. Ultimately, this is what it's all about.

A Couple of Old Ford Trucks and Time On My Hands Growing Up in Bracebridge

I LEARNED TO DRIVE IN A BROKEN-DOWN FORD DUMP TRUCK THAT WAS MORE GARDEN THAN MOTOR VEHICLE

GROWING UP WAS A LOT OF FUN, IF YOU DIDN'T THINK ABOUT WHAT COULD KILL YOU, EVEN IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD

     Wayne Weber and his father, owned a construction company in Bracebridge, back in the 1960's and early 1970's. They were also the landlords of the three story apartment our family lived in, up on Hunts Hill's Alice Street; the blue collar neighborhood where money was tight, and most of the working stiffs got that way later on pay day. Wayne and my father often drank together, even out on the lawn of the apartment, on warm autumn nights like this. The neighborhood was a safe one, and everyone knew each other, and their business, which is what you expect of a small town. It was by standards of other town neighborhoods, a cluster of average homes, of residents with average jobs, making average wages. Rich folks lived elsewhere. We didn't mind this, and never felt lesser citizens because we didn't have two cars in our driveways, and a summer place on the lake.
     At the rear of the apartment, behind the adjacent house where Wayne lived with his wife Hilda, there was a cinder block warehouse, jammed to the rafters with construction equipment and building materials. There were all kinds of lumber and empty 45 gallon drums stored behind the shed, with some old cement mixers rusting into the sandy soil. To the right, where another apartment stands today, was a sand pit that the Webers drew upon for their cement-mixing requirements. We got to use it when they stopped their construction work, and it was a great place to play, and well away from the kind of things, like parked cars below, that might be damaged by our rock throwing, and baseball hitting. We were insulated by the nature of the landscape. I was most enthused about the modest isolation in the fall of the year, when the hillside grasses made perfect hiding places, from our peers demanding our presence.
     Outside of being prohibited from digging caves in the sand wall of the pit, after two of our school mates were killed during a cave-in, at another location, my mother Merle was ademant, I had to stay away from two derelict trucks in the yard behind the storage building. There was, if memory serves, a Ford dump truck and a Ford pick-up, that must have been from the late 1940's, to have been in such bad shape by 1966-67. For us neighborhood kids, being told to stay out of the trucks, was as much, an invitation to jump inside, and take an innocent joy ride to nowhere in particular. The danger, according to my mother, was that we could be crushed by the "dump" part of the vehicle, if somehow, with our magic fingers, we could engage it back to life, and then be accidentally snuffed-out, when it would come crashing back to the main frame. It was impossible of course. There was nothing left of these vehicles except the barest look of having been mobile at one time. If you have ever caught a whiff of an old, rotting automobile, or in this case a truck, you would know exactly what I mean, when referencing the horrible, musty, metal smell of a soon-to-be soil vehicle. We could only stay in the trucks for a limited time, because we'd be overcome by the aroma, which I assume, included the feces and urine of all the woodland critters, that called these relics home.
     If I was bored, and on my own for a few hours, at this time of year, I would sneak back to where the trucks were stored, so as not to attract my mother's attention; and I would park myself in the driver's seat, of that day's vehicle of choice. Once comfortably situated, with a clear view out of the cracked windshield, I would go through the motions of driving to the destination of choice that particular hour. I loved these trouble-free motoring adventures, that never once caused, (or was involved in), a single accident, except when I caught my finger in the door once, when I was preoccupied with something going on in the building in front. If Wayne or Hilda had caught any of us neighborhood kids in either vehicle, we would have been chased clear, with a loud roar of reprimand chasing-up behind us, like a dark, dancing tornado. The allure of the driver's seat was stronger than the consequence of getting caught in the wrong place at the critically wrong time. As I wasn't very big, when these adventures were at their peak of recreation, I was able to slip down in the seat, such that only the tip of my head was visible, if someone was right up to the driver's door. A voyeur might have thought, on seeing a moving clump of hair, that a bear had somehow got inside, and to disturb it, would be periless. I had hundreds of near misses for the close to ten years our family lived in the Weber apartments. I was probably only caught red-handed, as they say, twice, and was hauled by the Webers, up to see my mother, in her third floor apartment. As the Webers and my family were close friends, the penalty for trespassing was never more than a warning. They meant well. Merle felt more embarrassed than anything else, that the landlords had to discipline her kid. She probably clipped me in the ear for bringing shame to the family. She used to tell me over and over again, "Remember your family name Teddy. Don't forget how important it is to have a good name." That was a warning I never fully understood; at least not until much later in life when I used to drink heavily, and forget where I lived.
     Sitting in the driver's seat, in either one of those old trucks, was both invigorating, for a young mind, and a respite for the over-active soul. I have always needed my periods of solitude, even today, which now is mostly found, in walks out into the Bog, in our neighborhood. There were a lot of times I sought refuge in these decaying hulks, when there was other turmoil in the neighborhood, and even at school. It was a place to hide from my adversaries, and believe me, as a mouthy kid, I had an army chasing me after school. In the cockpits of these once mighty trucks, I felt that nothing could hurt me. None of the bullies I had interaction with, on a daily basis, growing up in Bracebridge, knew where to look for me, when I got up safely into the known-wilds of my stomping ground. I hid from my parents and from all adult authority, so it wasn't too hard to give the jerks who found sport chasing me, the slip, by slouching in one of the trucks. In the meantime, I drove those trucks all over North America in my over-active imagination, that was of course, amazingly fuel efficient. I think I may have actually learned the basics of motor vehicle operation, in the years I used the trucks as convenient sanctuaries.
     It was the fall of the year, me thinks now, that the trucks were most used by this junior driver in training. It's another reason, I suppose, why I wax nostalgic so often. I grew up with the influences of old Ford trucks, that were more gardens in those days, than vehicles. I was mesmerized by their appearance, inside and out, and intimately understood the differences between old and new technologies even in the 1960's. I felt sorry for the wrecks, because they had so darn much character to go along with the pungent aroma. They deserved a lot of credit, for nurturing my wanderlust, such that I never felt the need to escape by any other means, and believe me, all the Hunt's Hill lads I knew, fantacised about jumping a box car at the train station, to head off to our dream destinations. I'd finish a stint behind the wheel, and I was good for another couple of days. The experience afforded by those old trucks, was exactly what a wild kid like me needed; for one thing, to keep me occupied, and not destroying public property of which I was inclined to do. On the day we moved, I made one final retreat to the back of the Weber's shed. Yup, I took one last drive in both vehicles, which by this time, were minus their floors, which had rotted out, and grass was growing up into the cab. Some of the graffiti I had scratched into the metal dashboard, reminded me of the many occasions, when I escaped the neighborhood stresses, driving off into the beckoning horizon, looking for my place in the adult world. It was innocent fun, and inexpensive recreation, and this was good for all concerned. Our family didn't have much money after food and rent, so I didn't ask for allowance money. I didn't need it, with all the natural resources open to me, and these two accommodating trucks that survived just long enough to keep me entertained. I feel I owe them this latent tribute, especially at a time of year, I most frequently sought them out as refuge, up to the time of the first major snowfall, which in my youth, often arrived in early December.
     Thanks for joining me for a whacky trip down memory lane.

The Legend of Muskoka's Skeleton Lake

THE LEGEND OF SKELETON LAKE, FACT OR FICTION; BUT A GREAT FOLK TALE FROM PIONEER TIMES

CREATED BY METEOR IMPACT? THIS BEAUTIFUL MUSKOKA LAKE HAS ITS MYSTERIES

    IT'S HUMID OUT. I'VE BEEN WORKING AROUND THE YARD, EARLY THIS EVENING, TO PREPARE FOR THE COMING RAIN WE'RE SUPPOSED TO GET SOMETIME BEFORE THE MORNING. IT WAS SO NICE TO HEAR THE YOUNGSTERS OUT PLAYING, ON PROPERTIES BORDERING THE BOG.....AND IT REALLY IS NEAT TO HEAR THEIR LAUGHTER, MIXED SO SENTIMENTALLY, WITH THE SOUND OF THE LEAVES FALLING, HITTING THE GARDENS AROUND OUR HOUSE. IN THE PAST SEVERAL HOURS, IT HAS GONE FROM A PLEASANTLY COOL DAY, TO BEING ONE QUITE HOT, AND HUMID, ESPECIALLY IN HERE RIGHT NOW. I WISH I HAD WRITTEN THIS SOONER TODAY, BUT WE WERE OUT TRAVELING THIS AFTERNOON, TAKING IN THE AUTUMN SIGHTS AND OF COURSE, STOPPING IN AT ALL OUR FAVORITE ANTIQUE VENUES. IT WAS JUST A NICE SUNDAY, MIXING A LITTLE HOME IMPROVEMENT WITH RECREATION....AND WITH OF COURSE A LITTLE BUSINESS THROWN IN. I HAVE RUSTLED-UP A FEW MORE FOLK TALES TO ADD TO THIS SMALL SERIES OF BLOGS ON OUR SOCIAL - CULTURAL PAST.

      "BEFORE THE ACTS OF DEVELOPMENT LEAD US INTO THE 1870'S, THERE ARE INCIDENTS IN THE LIVES OF OUR PEOPLE, THAT IT WILL BE OF INTEREST TO RECORD," WRITES FAMILY HISTORIAN, BERT SHEA, IN HIS BOOK, "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS, BIRTH OF A TOWNSHP." AS IT HAS BEEN SAID, THE WORK OF THE SURVEY WAS THE FIRST SOURCE OF INCOME TO THE SHEAS. YOUNG WILLIAM, AND LATER, JOHN L., IN WORKING WITH THE SURVEYORS, IN THEIR ARRANGEMENT, THE MEN LIVED A COMPLETE OUT-OF-DOOR LIFE. IN THOSE DAYS IN DEEP OF WINTER, THE BRUSH SHANTY WAS THEIR SHELTER; AN OPEN FIRE AT THE DOOR."

     HE CONTINUES, "AS JOHN L. SAID, 'EVERYONE SLEPT WITH THEIR FEET TO THE FIRE AND MANY A NIGHT I SLEPT WITH MY BOOTS UNDER MY HEAD FOR A PILLOW.' THE BLANKETS AND GRUB WAS SUPPLIED BY THE GOVERNMENT BUT WE HAD TO BRING IT. THIS WAS PART OF CAMP MANAGEMENT TO SEE SUPPLIES WERE KEPT UP. AT CERTAIN PLACES, CACHES WERE MADE. THE PLACES OF STORAGE WERE OF NECESSITY, MADE OF LOGS FOR SUFFICIENT SECURITY TO KEEP THE BEARS OUT; THAT WERE FOND OF BACON. ONE OF THESE CACHES WERE ON LOT 13, CON. 5, ON THE HILLSIDE NORTHEAST OF THE FALLS. IT WAS IN FEBRUARY, WE WERE CAMPED IN NORTH CARDWELL. I WAS SENT DOWN TO OUR CACHE AT THE FALLS TO GET A BAG OF FLOUR AND A SIDE OF PORK. THE SNOWSHOWING WAS VERY GOOD IN THE BUSH, BUT THE LAKES I HAD TO CROSS, THERE WAS NO SIGN OF A TRAIL.

     "I HAD A HAND SLEIGH WITH WIDE RUNNERS. I REACHED THE STORE-HOUSE, GOT THE FLOUR AND PORK AND STARTED THE RETURN TRIP. I WAS WEARING LEATHER SHOEPAKS, AND ONE SHIRT. THE TRIP WOULD BE TWENTY MILES THAT DAY WITH TEN MILES OF LOAD UP HILL AND DOWN. AS THE DAY WORE ON THE TEMPERATURE BEGAN TO FALL; THE LAKES WERE TERRIBLY HEAVY GOING; IT WAS IN THE NIGHT WHEN I GOT INTO CAMP WITH MY LOAD. MY BOOTS WERE FROZEN ON MY FEET AND MY FEET WERE ALSO FROZEN. I NEVER GOT OVER THAT TRIP. MY FEET WERE NEVER THE SAME."

     BERT SHEA CARRIES ON HIS STORY, NOTING, "HE TOLD US ABOUT A FIND THAT FOR YEARS WAS OF MUCH INTEREST TO ME. I WAS A BOY AT THE TIME AND NEVER FORGOT THE STORY. THE SURVEYORS HAD CROSSED SKELETON LAKE, AND WERE WORKING SOMEWHERE ON THE NORTH SHORE. THEY FOUND TWO HUMAN SKELETONS LAYING ON THE ROCKS. APPARENTLY TWO PEOPLE HAD DIED THERE ALONE AND NO ONE HAD FOUND THEM TILL THE SURVEYORS CAME, AND BY THE APPEARANCE OF THE BONES, THEY HAD LAIN THERE FOR SEVERAL YEARS. THIS STORY STAYED IN MY MIND, AND MANY TIMES HAVE I THOUGHT OF IT AND WONDERED. THE YEARS PASSED BY AND I BECAME OVER MIDDLE AGE; THE OLD PIONEERS HAD GONE WHO KNEW OF THE INCIDENT. MANY ASK THE QUESTION, 'HOW DID SKELETON LAKE GET ITS NAME?' WHO COULD ANSWER, SHROUDED IN MYSTERY? FEW, IF ANY, I THOUGHT, OTHER THAN MYSELF, WHO KNEW THE FIRST HAND STORY OF THE SKELETONS, TILL ONE DREARY AFTERNOON IN NOVEMBER, ONE OF THOSE LATE AUTUMN DAYS WHEN THE GLORIES OF ALL NATURE SEEM BURIED; AND WE LONG FOR SOMEONE OR SOMETHING TO FILL THE LONGING DEEP DOWN IN OUR HEART; SOMEONE TO CONVERSE WITH, WHO TOO ARE DREAMING OF OTHER DAYS, AND FRIENDS THEY HAVE KNOWN.

     "I SAID TO MY WIFE, BERNICE, LET'S GO OVER AND SEE BILL HAMMELL AND MRS. HAMMELL. PERHAPS THEY ARE ALONE TOO. NOW THE HAMMELLS AND THE SHEAS WERE OLD PIONEER FRIENDS AND WHEN I KNOCKED AT HIS DOOR, AND HE OPENED IT, THE SMILE OF HIS FACE SHONE WITH THE GLOW OF PIONEER FRIENDSHIPS. AS THEY WELCOMED US INTO THEIR HOME. IT WAS NOT HARD TO LEAD THE OLD GENTLEMAN INTO CONVERSATION OF YESTERYEARS. AND WHEN I SPOKE OF THE TWO SKELETONS, HIS EYES BEAMED WITH INTEREST. 'YES,' SAID HE, 'I CAN TELL YOU, THIS AFFAIR WAS A MYSTERY TO OUR PEOPLE AND WE THOUGHT MUCH OF IT, BUT BY GRANDFATHER ROBISON, WHO LIVED UP IN CARDWELL, LEARNED FROM THE INDIAN CHIEF OF THAT DAY, HE AND HIS PEOPLE HAD CAMPED FOR THE WINTER ON THAT SITE. THE LAKE WAS AN EXCELLENT ONE FOR TROUT, AND THE SWAMPS OF CARDWELL WERE USUALLY THE YARDING PLACES FOR THE DEER. BUT WHATEVER TOOK PLACE, DUE TO LACK OF FOOD, THE CAMP WAS FACING STARVATION; THEY MUST MOVE THOUGH IN THE WINTER; IF NOT, ONLY DEATH BY STARVATION FACED THE WHOLE CAMP. SOME OF THEIR MEMBERS WERE ALREADY WEAK. AND ONE BOY WAS UNABLE TO MOVE, AND WOULD HAVE TO BE LEFT. HIS MOTHER, A YOUNG SQUAW, WHO HAD LOST HER HUSBAND, REFUSED TO LEAVE HER SON, ABOUT FOURTEEN YEARS OLD, TO DIE ON THE BLEAK SHORES OF THE LAKE; THAT AFTERWORD SHOULD BE A LASTING MEMORIAL TO ESPECIALLY THE AFFECTION OF A MOTHER FOR HER HELPLESS SON."

     THE HISTORIAN WRITES, "THERE IS LITTLE MORE TO SAY, SAVE THAT WHEN THE VOICES OF HER PEOPLE FADED FROM HER HEARING, THE DEATHLY SILENCE OF WINTER SETTLED IN AROUND THEM. A MOTHER AND HER SON. THE REMAINS OF THE FIRE BURNED LOW AS THE COLD CREPT TO THE MARROW OF THE BONE. SILENCE REIGNED, AND SLEEP, THAT GHASTLY THING GIVEN FROM THE HAND OF THE FROST KING, THE SNOW SPIRITS, BORN ON THE WINGS OF THE WIND, PLAYED OVER THE PLOT, AND COVERED THE TWO LIFELESS FORMS IN A SHROUD OF WHITE. THE FOREST SAPPED IN THE FROST, AND IN THE NIGHT THE POLAR STAR LOOKED ON UNMOVED IN HIS STARS, FROM SOME HEIGHT. THE BLOOD CURDLING HOWL OF THE OLD DOG WOLF, WHO HAD LED HIS PACK OF WHELPS AND BITCHES INTO THE DEER YARDING AREA OF CARDWELL BESPOKE SLAUGHTER AND DEATH. YES, THE DEATH OF A MOTHER AND SON, THROUGH STARVATION."

     AS A LONG-SERVING REGIONAL HISTORY MYSELF, I OWE A HUGE DEBT OF GRATITUDE TO BERT SHEA, FOR THE TWO IMPORTANT BOOKS HE WROTE ON HIS FAMILY HERITAGE, AND THE CHRONICLE OF WATT TOWNSHIP, THE LOGGING INDUSTRY IN MUSKOKA, AND SOCIAL, CULTURAL HISTORY AS IT PREVAILED IN THAT PIONEER HAMLET BORDERING THE SHORE OF THREE MILE LAKE, IN THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES. HE WAS AS MUCH, A CONSERVER OF FOLK TALES AND LOCAL LORE. EVEN BY HIS OWN ADMISSION, HE HAD MISSED A LOT OF PIONEER TALES, AS THOSE WHO WITNESSED THEM HAD PASSED ON, BEFORE HE COULD HARVEST THEIR OBSERVATIONS. HE WRITES, OF THIS, AS FOLLOWS:

     "WITH HESITATION, BUT WITH DEEP CONCERN, I HAVE TAKEN UP THE PEN TO RECORD THE HISTORY OF MY FAMILY; THE SHEAS, LEST AT THIS DATE I FAIL THIS, A DUTY TO OUR RACE; LEST THE RECORD SHOULD BE LOST THAT I HAVE BEEN PRIVILEGED TO HEAR FROM THE TONGUE OF THE ELDERS, WHOM I HAVE BEEN PRIVILEGED TO KNOW, OF RECORDS HANDED DOWN TO THEM, AS WELL AS IN LATER YEARS, THE FIRST HAND ACCOUNTS OF THEIR OWN EXPERIENCES AND ADVENTURES. I HOLD IN MY HEART, A DEEP SENSE OF GRATITUDE FOR THE TOWNSHIP OF WATT, AS WHEN FRIENDS AND RELATIONS FAILED IN MY PEOPLE AND THEY WERE HOMELESS, AND ALMOST DESTITUTE OF A PLACE TO LAY THEIR HEADS, THE GREAT ANCIENT FORESTS OF WATT RECEIVED THEM, AS ITS OWN, AND GAVE SHELTER AND WARMTH, WITH MEAT FROM ITS EARTH AND HIDDEN BOWERS.

     "AND FOR THREE MILE LAKE, WHOSE FIRST SIGHT WAS A VIEW OF SPOTLESS WHITE AND AS THE CHANGING SEASON BROUGHT ITS SPARKLING WATERS, THAT GAVE FROM THEIR DEPTHS SUPPORT FOR LIFE AND RECREATION TO MY FATHERS; WHOSE CANOES OFT CUT THEY WATERS, AND WHOSE BEAUTY OFT CAUSED THEIR SOULS RESPONSE, AND VOICES RAISED IN SONG. BECAUSE I LOVE THEE AND THY MEMORIES; I DO WRITE ABOUT THEY SHORES AS THE GREAT FOREST TREES. SHEAS HAVE SET THEIR ROOTS, THE PARENT TREE HAS CAST ITS SED THAT HAS SPREAD TO DISTANT PARTS OF THE EARTH. BUT YET OUR HOME IS BY THY GLISTENING WATERS AND THE EARTH THAT HAS SO BOUNTIFULLY FED, SHALL GIVE ME COVER WHEN I LAY WITH THEM TO SLEEP."

     BERT SHEA LOVED MUSKOKA, AND HIS BOOKS REFLECT THIS UNYIELDING PASSION.

     SUZANNE AND I  ALWAYS ENJOY OUR TWICEW WEEKLY DRIVE BETWEEN BRACEBRIDGE AND GRAVENHURST, ALONG OUR FAVORITE MUSKOKA BEACH ROAD. THE AUTUMN COLORS ARE DEEPENIING, AND A LOT OF LEAVES ARE ALREADY SPIRALLING TO EARTH. THE TEMPERATURES ARE MUCH WARMER TODAY AND THE SUNSHINE, WELL, AS PERFECT AS THE SKY; APPEARING SO ENDLESS, AND BEAUTIFULLY BLUE. IT'S HARD NOT TO BE AFFECTED IN SOME WAY, BY THIS DRAMATIC CHANGE OF SEASON, AND SPELLBOUND BY THE TWISTS AND TURNS OF THIS WINDING COUNTRY ROAD, THROUGH THE HAUNTED MUSKOKA WOODLANDS. WE DROVE THROUGH MANY OF THE THICK, WINDBLOWN SPIRALS OF OLD LEAVES, DUSTING LIGHTLY UPON THE PASTURES AND LANES, AND WHEN WE STOPPED FOR A WEE RESPITE, WE COULD CLEARLY HEAR THE WHISPER OF WIND THROUGH THE PINE BOUGHS THAT BORDER THE ROAD; OVER THE CAWING OF SEVERAL CROWS IN THE PINE TOPS. THE AREA I CALL THE MAPLE CATHEDRAL, IS AN ALMOST HEAVENLY VISION, ON THE APPROACH FROM THE SOUTH, AND ALL THE VOYEUR CAN HEAR, WHEN ALL ELSE IS QUIET, IS THE GENTLE LANDINGS OF THE LEAVES UPON THEMSELVES, STILL WET WITH MORNING DEW. IT IS AN IDENTIFIABLE ENCHANTMENT, YOU FIND YOURSELF AMDIST, AND AT THE SAME TIME, LIKE THE AUTUMN SEASON IS FAMOUS FOR, IT'S LOGICAL THAT WE WILL, AT SOME CROSSROAD, OR LOOKOUT, FIND OURSELVES BECOMING SENTIMENTAL AND NOSTALGIC, FOR THOSE DAYS OF ONCE, WITH FAMILY; WHEN WE COULD, WITHOUT FEAR OF WHAT IT WOULD LOOK LIKE, TO OUR PEERS, JUMP INTO THE NEWLY PILED LEAVES, AND MAKE SILLY IN PLAY, IN THE SPRAY OF LIGHT BEAMS, BLOTCHING ONTO THE FLOOR OF LEAVES, LIKE AN ARTIST'S PALETTE, FROM THE BORDERING BIRCHES AND PICTURESQUE MAPLES.

     THERE ARE TIMES, IN THIS SOOTHING SOLITUDE, THAT ALONE, WE MIGHT FEEL A WARM HAND SUDDENLY SLIP INTO OURS, WHILE REMINISCING ABOUT THOSE WE USED TO WALK WITH, ALONG THESE SAME COUNTRYSIDE LANES.....OR HEAR A VOICE CALL OUT TO US, WHEN NO ONE IS ANYWHERE NEAR. IF YOU WERE TO HEAR A CHILD'S LAUGHTER, OR THE SWEET SINGING OF AN AUNT OR MOTHER, FROM YOUR OWN CHRONICLE, THEN YOU SHOULD BE PLEASED THESE MEMORIES HAVE BEEN SET FREE, AS YOU FIND YOURSELF, TO MEANDER AS YOU WISH, THIS PAINTED MUSKOKA LAKELAND.

     "A CHIEFTAIN FROM THE HIGHLANDS BOUND, AS WELL YE ALL MAY KNOW, TO SEEK FOR ME A HAPPY HOME, BY ROSSEAU'S SPARKLING GLOW. BY LOCK AND FERN I'LL SETTLE DOWN, AND SWEAR TO LEAVE IT NEVER, FOR 'TIS THE PLACE I HAVE SOUGHT SO LONG, MY HOME AKIN TO HEAVEN."

(BERT SHEA, BIRTH OF A TOWNSHIP)

     THIS IS LIVING HISTORY.

Community Historian Feeling Compelled to Write Memorial Tributes

YOU KNOW YOU'VE ARRIVED AS A COMMUNITY HISTORIAN, WHEN YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO WRITE MEMORIAL TRIBUTES

I HAVE STARTED TO FEEL QUITE VENERABLE AND, A LITTLE VULNERABLE

     It's getting awfully close to home, you might say, if you were one to utter such statements, to reference the close proximity of death. I have lost a considerable number of friends and former associates, even hockey and golfing buddies in the past several years, and it does remind me constantly, that my days of spring chicken-hood have gone the way of the dodo. I'm not ancient but neither were they when they passed. It would scare me a lot, if I wasn't channeling my emotions into editorials. I feel a little more invincible when I'm sitting at a keyboard, penning my innermost thoughts, even about death, thinking I might be fooling the grim reaper with my showing of vigor and resolve to get life and death issues in perspective. Writing about death might actually deflect the Reaper's attention for awhile longer. But this is wishful thinking of course.
     Suzanne commented last night, after I began a coffee-time conversation, about a former neighbor who had passed away recently, that I missed my calling as a writer. "Well, why didn't you follow in Bob Boyer's footsteps, and write memorial tributes for the newspaper?" You know, I really never thought about it, but she had a point. I've actually come to dislike picking up the weekly newspaper from my driveway, these days, for fear someone else I know, will have their life's imprint, in black and white, beneath the column heading that suggests, they have left this mortal coil. And the few words printed below, are all that's left of them, in the public domain, at least. These days, when I find the name of a colleague, or acquaintance in the obituary listings, I want to add comments. I want to infill the blanks because there are usually a dozen I can identify quickly, that if left out, leave half of the portrait in black and white, when it should all be in color.     I feel the listing information is far too limited, and restrained, to such a point, that I will send in a bigger memorial tribute to the local funeral home, out of the utmost respect for the poor sod who passed. In fact, I've even written entire blogs about these old mates, and made a note in my funeral home submissions, that visitors to the site should also consult my blog-site; which may appear as if a shameless self promotion, but honestly, it's simply the case I feel there is so much more to add to the story of their accomplished lives. Funny thing about this, in retrospect, is the fact I used to work closely with associate editor, Bob Boyer, at The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, when he was in charge of handling all obituaries and death notices that came down the pike. Which means over the front counter, and to his back office, that looked a lot like Charles Dickens had been in charge of decorating. No one else wanted to do it, obit writing specifically, especially for us in the news room, feeling we had more important things to look after each week; than to fuss with the details of visitations and funeral services. When two reporters would meet, in front of Bob Boyer's "smoking" office (Bob smoked cigars like I ate licorice), we'd wink at each other, when one asked, "What's Bob doing now," with the response being the same, day after day. "You know. He's on death watch." We hope he never heard those comments, but it was true. Bob, from a family with deep roots in Bracebridge and Muskoka history, and a former Member of Provincial Parliament, not to mention active regional historian, newspaper publisher and editor, knew almost everyone in the community, or at least, their families. It's what oldtime newspaper editors felt was important, and after all, intimate community news sold papers. Obituaries were second only to the newspaper's classified section, whenever we got the results of readership polls back. Community social news was next. It made us news hounds a little uneasy, that we weren't considered the most important resources of the paper, for what we produced each week, to headline the latest edition. But the readers knew what they wanted, and it was news about comings and goings, and that meant births and deaths. Cutting edge columnists were okay if they were writing about either, but otherwise, were well down the list of editorial to be consulted, after paying the news stand price of a weekly issue.
     Back in my era of the 1970's and 80's, the town's size was pretty small, and when our circulation crested 6,000, most of us on staff, thought we'd be going daily having reached that status of readership. But it was also the time of profound change, and urban expansion; and with the influx of many new families into the community, Bob was having a harder time each week, finding those obituaries that he could re-write, adding his own remembrances.
     Seeing as I had to pop into Bob's tiny main floor office, about a hundred times a week, to messenger mail and specific editorial copy for his perusal, I'd stop to talk and casually look at what he was working on, visible on the wrinkled sheet of white paper jammed askew into his battle-weary manual typewriter. When he wasn't working on copy for the Algoma Anglican, of which he was the acting editor, or his "Our Yesteryears" column, which was a regular editorial piece for The Herald-Gazette, or editing copy for his baby, The Muskoka Sun, he was re-writing, or composing first hand, these obituaries for that week's newspaper. Family members would come to the front desk, after the death of kin, and Bob would invite them into his office, so he could get the details first-hand of the visitation and funeral services, along with biographical details of the deceased individual's life. Day after day, week after week, year after year, Bob enhanced the obituaries that were submitted, with his own recollections of these former citizens, many he had been close with, as had his family with their family, many decades earlier. There was one rule the publisher imposed on me, from the time I took the helm of the paper, as news editor. "You will give Bob as much space as he requires for his obituaries," and other memorial tributes. They were to be left alone, as far as my editorial responsibilities were concerned. I may have had a quiet rebellion about this, and probably, at some point, brought this up at a staff meeting, only to be told to mind my own business, and the personal page, was out of my jurisdiction. Seemed a little absurd, but there was no way I wanted to write the kind of stuff Bob laboured at, every week, that involved dead people and their respective burials. He was both family friend, and historian, before he wrote his first word on that tattered paper. Bob recycled paper, and it drove typesetter nuts, trying to figure out which copy was to be set, and which to be ignored, as another week's news. His write-ups were for the record. They have become documented history, both for the family and the community, as archives material. His work was not only relevant for the immediate post funeral period, where people were still passing the notices around, but forever after, as they became permanent record to be proud of, as historians in the future will soon discover of Mr. Boyer's handiwork, that few knew as intimately as I did, working side by side.
     At the time, I didn't appreciate either how much work he did, to bulk-up those basic family-written obituaries, adding his own respectful observations, of long and important friendships. Maybe I thought Bob had too much space at his beck and call, that forced us to kill news stories in other parts of the paper. I know differently now, because low and behold, I have been doing much the same, for friends and associates who have passed, with obituaries, that to me, needed to have more personal information, that possibly, only I knew about the subjects. In at least half of the ones I enhanced with recollections, it was most definitely the case even family hadn't known of our mutual triumphs and recreations together, in our years of association. I didn't put any crude references into the stories for obvious reasons. I had a laugh in private, as I know my spirit friend shared.
     I have become a modern version of Bob Boyer, and I suppose it could be yarned about me, in local gossip, that I'm on my own community death watch, looking for obituaries that seem a little less fulfilling than they should be, knowing what I know about the deceased. After all the years, watching Bob Boyer sitting in his office, puffing on his cigar, hammering out memorial tributes, for citizens he knew well, now here, in this new century, a senior myself, I have become acutely interested in writing memorials and tributes; for families who may not have known some of the great stuff the deceased never fessed-up to, during his or her life. I have surprised quite a few families with these observations. Some are quick to respond with thanks, and others never offer a word either way; which is alright, because I don't compose them with any idea of getting a memorial writer's award. I certainly don't want to offend family, at the time of bereavement, so, like Mr. Boyer, I am careful not to make any mistakes, even typographical errors, which could be embarrassing.
     Point is, I look at a lot of published obits these days, and get mad at the newspaper for limiting content. Gads, you can't get much information out of the word limitation, if that's what it is, which dictates whether it will be published or not. For example, the editor of The Banner, refused to publish my father's obituary, because it was too long according to the paper's policy. I was livid, and let her know this was a disservice to the community. Mostly I was just pissed at being told I write too much! Go figure eh? Me, write too much. That's just crazy talk. Anyway, in order to get the notice published, I had to pare down the words, and write a blog as a companion piece. So she edited-out the blog address. Oh well, I got the message out none the less, by various means, but it still bothers me, that our citizens, who have passed on, are only entitled to so many words, before being assessed a cost over-run. It's why I love writing blogs, because no editor is going to tell me to "shorten it up" or else. The editorial board of these community papers, have no idea how well viewed these personal notices are each week, and how deserving they are of being beefed up with more copy of a personal nature. It's the way these publications were founded, on the personal comings and goings, and social occasions of its citizenry, beyond the double-banked headlines of the front page.
     Should I advertise myself as an obituary / memorial writer, in the spirit of the best community news writer in our regional history, Bob Boyer? Is there a future in writing about death? Of course there is, and apparently, I've honed the capability of doing them quite well; at least that's the message back from families of the deceased. I'm just not sure I can handle all the emotional baggage, like Mr. Boyer did, for decades; offering such kind words at difficult times. I never saw the man shed a tear. But I know he did. But he said goodbye to family, friends and long-time associates in the kindest way he could; with words that always resonated, their lives had been accomplished, and their missions, fulfilled. I don't know how many times, I'd find myself by happenstance, standing behind his chair, close to newspaper deadline on Tuesday afternoons, at the very moment he would end one of these tribute stories, with a profound, serious, editor's tap on the "period" key, and then sit there looking out his small office window, I suppose, wondering if what he had written would pass muster, for the living, and well, even the deceased.
     I'll let you know, if I put out a shingle, in front of the shop, that reads, "FOR HIRE: Ted Currie, Writer - Advocate for the Deceased." Problem is, South Muskoka has changed a lot since the 1980's, and I find I know fewer and fewer citizens beyond the customers who visit our shop. Now that's a real dilemma. Me thinks Mr. Boyer would suggest that was a poor excuse for a young fellow who calls himself a community historian.

Muskoka Is More Than A Pretty Face

REASONS TO RESPECT THE PIONEER PERIOD IN MUSKOKA - THERE'S A MORAL TO THIS STORY WE NEED TO UNDERSTAND

STEWARDSHIP IS NOT JUST AN ENVIRONMENTAL ISSUE. HERITAGE ARCHITECTURE NOT THE END-ALL

     "BY THE ELAPSE OF THE YEAR 1873, THE FIRST TEN YEAR MARK OF SETTLEMENT OF THE COMMUNITIES OF WATT (PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES) HAD PASSED. BY GREAT EFFORT ON THE PART OF THE SETTLERS, MUCH HAD BEEN ACCOMPLISHED. EACH ONE TO THE BEST OF THEIR SKILL AND KNOWLEDGE, HAD LENT THEIR SERVICES TO THE COMMUNITY. FROM LITTLE TOMMY ROSEN, THE BLACKSMITH, TO WILLIAM KINGSHOTT WITH HIS SUPPLY OF DRIED ROOTS, BARKS, PLANTS AND BERRIES, THAT COULD BE READILY TURNED INTO MEDICINE TO RELIEVE THE SUFFERING, OF HIS FELLOW SETTLERS AND THEIR CHILDREN. THEY KNEW OF NO OTHER THEN, THAN THAT OF DOCTOR KINGSHOTT OR OF MRS. RYAN OR MRS. MORLEY, WITH MEDICINES MADE FROM GARDEN PLANTS, PRECIOUS POSSESSIONS PROCURED BY HERSELF AND CARRIED CAREFULLY HOME, AND PLANTED IN THE GARDEN AND CULTIVATED BY HER OWN HAND. THE WORMWOOD AND THE TANSY PLANT FOR RELIEF OF PAIN, AND MANY OTHERS. MANY WERE THE GROWING CHILDREN, EACH OF THEM BEHELD WITH PRIDE AND CALLED BY THEIR FIRST NAMES; AND TO THEM COULD RELATE SOME STORY OF AN INTERESTING EXPERIENCE ENCOUNTERED BY EACH OF US, AT THE TIME OF THEIR BIRTH; THEY (THOSE WHO COULD HELP DELIVER THE CHILD) HURRIED THROUGH THE WOODLAND PATHS OR TRAILS TO REACH THE CHILD'S MOTHER'S SIDE. BUT TO THESE DEAR SOULS, AGE WAS CREEPING UP ON THEM; THEY, WHOSE THOUGHTS WERE NOT ALWAYS FOR THEMSELVES BUT WERE FILLED WITH CONCERN FOR OTHERS, FOR THEY TRAVELLED NOT LIFE'S SMOOTHEST WAY." BERT SHEA, "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS AND THE PATHS OF ADVENTURE."

     WHY WAS IT NECESSARY FOR REVEREND N. WILLISON, A FAITHFUL FRIEND OF MUSKOKA, TO WRITE A POETIC TRIBUTE TO OUR REGIONAL PIONEERS, IN HIS POPULAR BUT RARE BOOK, "MUSKOKA ECHOES," PUBLISHED IN SASKATOON, SASKATCHEWAN, IN 1946? WILLISON OFFERS NO EXPLANATION HIMSELF, AND HIS BOOK HAS NO PREFACE OR INTRODUCTION. FROM THE FIRST PAGE OF COPY, HE BEGINS HIS PRAISE OF MUSKOKA.  HERE IT WAS,  ONLY ONE YEAR AFTER THE CATASTROPHIC IMPACT OF WORLD WAR, WHICH WAS STILL REVERBERATING AROUND THE GLOBE, AND WITH A NEWFOUND FEAR AND MISTRUST OF POLITICAL AMBITIONS ANYWHERE, REVEREND WILLISON, LIKE A MODERN ERA THOREAU, FOUND INSPIRATION, ENOUGH FOR THE FUTURE, WITHIN THE NATURE AND HISTORY OF OUR DISTRICT IN CANADA. IN PARTICULAR, HE SAW ABOUT HIM, ON HIS RETREATS HERE, GOOD REASON, TO BASE THIS FORESIGHT AND INSPIRATION, ON THE FOUNDATION LAID BY THE PIONEER PERIOD IN MUSKOKA. WHAT HE DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT THE REGION, HE DELVED INTO, EXAMINING THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE HISTORY WAS MADE. HE FOUND COMFORT IN VILLAGE AND CHURCHYARD CEMETERIES, WHERE THE FOUNDING PIONEERS WERE BURIED IN THE SHADE OF LILACS.

     TO SOME, READING THESE BLOGS, AND EVEN A FEW OF MY ASSOCIATES IN REGIONAL HISTORY, THE HOMESTEAD CHRONICLE HAS HAD ITS DAY. IT'S RELEVANCE TO MODERN LIVING, IN THIS NEW CENTURY, JUST DOESN'T SEEM AS IMPORTANT AS IT DID BACK IN THE 1940'S, UNTIL THE MID 1970'S, WHEN OTHER HISTORICAL REALITIES SEEM TO BECOME MUCH MORE EXCITING, AND IN THE BUSINESS SENSE, TOURISM-FRIENDLY. THE POPULARITY OF CERTAIN AVENUES OF LOCAL HISTORY BECAME, BY TRENDS OF THE ERA, MUCH MORE MARKETABLE, THAN TRYING TO SELL AND RESELL WHAT AMOUNTED TO "THE SAME OLD, SAME OLD." AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT EARLIER IN THIS SHORT SERIES, ON OUR PIONEER HERITAGE, THE INCREASING PROFILE OF STEAMSHIPS, WOODEN BOATS, RESORTS, AND RAILWAY ANTIQUITIES, HAVE OVER-TAKEN OUR PREVIOUS FASCINATION WITH THE PIONEER ERA, AND IT DOESN'T TAKE A DEGREE IN CANADIAN HISTORY TO KNOW IT WAS BOUND TO HAPPEN. THERE'S ONLY SO MUCH YOU CAN DO, TO MAKE HOMESTEADERS AND RURAL EXISTENCE IN THE 1850'S TO 80'S EXCITING. IT DOES COME DOWN TO MONEY AND THE RETURN ON AN INVESTMENT. OPENING A PIONEER MUSEUM, FOR TODAY'S MARKETPLACE? FORGET IT! IT WOULD LOSE MONEY, AS THEY SAY, "HAND OVER FIST." AN INTEGRATION OF COLLECTIONS DOES WORK, IF YOU ADD A DISPLAY OF TOURIST RELATED NOSTALGIA, SECTIONS ON THE WOODEN BOAT BUILDERS OF OUR AREA, MIX IN SOME LOCAL RAILWAY IMAGES AND COLLECTABOES, AND DON'T FORGET THE STEAMSHIP EXHIBIT. AS PART OF THE CHRONICLE, THE PIONEERING YEARS WOULD GET NOTICED, BUT LARGELY, ONLY WHILE PATRONS ARE MOVING THROUGH THE DISPLAYS, TOWARD THE AREA OF THE MUSEUM THEY FIND MOST ALLURING.

     AS I'VE NOTED PREVIOUSLY, PART OF THE DISCONNECT, IS THAT THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD IN OUR REGION, GETS VERY LITTLE ATTENTION IN THE SCHOOLS, AND ALMOST NO EXPOSURE ON THE PUBLIC SPEAKING CIRCUIT; TO SERVICE CLUBS AND COMMUNITY GROUPS, THAT REGULARLY BOOK GUESTS TO LECTURE ABOUT IMPORTANT LOCAL ISSUES. SPEAKING ABOUT PIONEER LIFE IN MUSKOKA, IS SO FAR DOWN THE LIST OF POPULAR SUBJECTS, THAT IT'S NO WONDER, THE RELEVANCE OF THE PERIOD IN CONTEMPORARY MUSKOKA, HAS BECOME SERIOUSLY OBSCURED, AND NEGLECTED, DESPITE THE FACT, THERE IS SO MUCH TO LEARN FROM THE PERIOD. THE ONLY REASON IT HAS LOST ITS LUSTER, IS DUE TO THE FACT NO ONE WANTS TO INVEST IN ITS CONSERVATION. IF A TRAIN STATION NEEDS REFURBISHING, OR VINTAGE WATERCRAFT, A STEAMSHIP PERHAPS, COMPARE THE RIDICULOUSLY DIFFICULT EFFORT AND MINIMAL FUNDS AVAILABLE, TO SAVE A PIONEER CHURCH, FOR EXAMPLE; OR HELP RESTORE THE CRUMBLING TOMBSTONES IN THE COMMUNITY CEMETERIES. IT'S HAPPENED HERE, AND CONTINUES TO BE THE KIND OF SLIPPERY SLOPE, WE'RE ON THE CUSP OF, THAT MEANS THE NEGLECT WILL CONTINUE FOR A LONG TIME TO COME.

     I DON'T REALLY EXPECT TO BE ABLE TO CHANGE ATTITUDES, ON THE SCALE THAT IS NEEDED, TO BRING BACK A KEEN AWARENESS, OF JUST HOW IMPORTANT THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD IS, TO THE UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT MUSKOKA IS ALL ABOUT, BROADLY AND GENERALLY. WE WILL OF COURSE, ONLY TRULY REGRET IT, WHEN ALL SIGNS OF HOW IT  BEGAN, IN THE ARCHITECTURAL SENSE, ARE GONE OR GROWN-OVER UPON THE LANDSCAPE. IT'S QUICKLY APPROACHING. EVEN IN CEMETERIES. IF THERE ISN'T MORE CONCERN ABOUT TOMBSTONE CONSERVATION, WE ARE GOING TO LOSE THE MOST IMPORTANT ASPECT OF OUR LOCAL HERITAGE.....BECAUSE THESE FOLKS GAVE US WHAT WE HAVE TODAY, THROUGH THEIR EFFORTS TO BUILD COMMUNITY AND NEIGHBORHOOD VALUES.

     "HOW SOON THEY PASS, - THE OBJECTS OF OUR LOVES! THE LILY BLOOMS, THE SONG OF BIRDS IS HEARD; THEY ARE NO MORE. LIKE FAITHFUL HOMING DOVES, OUR DEAR ONES FOR RETURN TO GOD ARE STIRRED," WROTE REVEREND WILLISON, IN HIS POEM, "A MUSKOKA PIONEER." THERE IS AN ACCOMPANYING PHOTOGRAPH OF ONE OF THE REGION'S GRAVEYARDS, PRESUMABLY IN THE UFFINGTON AREA OF EAST MUSKOKA.

     "OUR LOVED ONE PASSED THE NOON OF MAN'S BRIEF DAY, THEN NOON FOR HIM WAS MERGED IN FAIRER LIGHT; LIKE ENOCH HE HAD WALKED IN GOD'S OWN WAY, AND SO GOD CALLED HIM HOME BEFORE THE NIGHT. HIS LIFE WAS HARD FROM CHILDHOOD TO THE END, AT SIX A MOTHER LOST, A BROTHER'S CARE; ON HIS YOUNG SHOULDERS LAID. HE COULD SPEND HIS TIME AT SCHOOL AND YOUTH'S ADVANTAGE SHARE. HIS LIFE WAS HARD; HIS GROWING FRAME WAS BENT, FROM DIGGING CLAY AND LIFTING STONE, WHILE SIDE BY SIDE WITH STALWART MEN HE WENT, AND DREAMED OF FIELDS THAT SOME DAY WOULD OWN."

     REVEREND WILLISON ALSO WROTE, IN HIS POEM, "MUSKOKA," THAT "THE FAIREST? WHEN GLORY SURROUNDS ME, WHEN ALL THAT I SEE BRINGS DELIGHT; THE SKIES, WHEN THE SUN RULES THE HEAVENS, OR STAR-HOSTS PARADE IN THE NIGHT."

    I TOOK A BRIEF HIATUS EARLIER THIS AFTERNOON, AND ENJOYED A SLOW MOTOR TRIP FROM GRAVENHURST, NORTH TO BRACEBRIDGE, ALONG THE PICTURESQUE LENGTH OF WINDING, HARDWOOD FOREST-BORDERED, MUSKOKA BEACH ROAD. I HAD A LITTLE ANTIQUE BUSINESS TO TAKE CARE OF, BUT I NEVER LET THE RIGORS OF ENTERPRISE, DETRACT FROM MY ENJOYMENT OF THE TRIP. I'D BEEN READING REVEREND WILLISON'S BOOK, BEFORE I LEFT, AND IT STAYED WITH ME OVER AND ABOVE THE MOZART PLAYING ON CBC 2. "I SEE, I INHALE, AND I LISTEN; I TOUCH WITH A REVERENT HAND; MY HEART LINGERS LONG IN THOSE HEAVENS, THAT PATTERNED THIS MARVELLOUS LAND. MUSKOKA! SO LOVELY IN SUMMER! IMPRESSIVE WHEN ROBED IN THY SNOW. I LOVE THEE! GOD KNOWS I LOVE THEE. GRANT ME THY BOSOM REPOSE."

     WELL KNOWN CANADIAN POET, WILSON MACDONALD, WROTE, IN HIS POEM, "MUSKOKA," EARLIER IN THE 1900'S, "CHIDE NOT THE LEISURE OF THIS DRIFTING MOON, NOR BLAME THE LAZY LOITERING OF STARS, THAT PASS ABOVE THESE ISLES OF BEARDED STONE; NOR WONDER SHOULD THE SLOWLY WHEELING CARS, OF ALGOL AND ARCTURUS CRAVE THE BOON, TO EVER HERE REMAIN - AND NIGHT PAUSES LIKE A NOMAD WHO HAS FOUND, IN WOODLANDS STRUNG WITH MOONLIGHT WHOSE PALE RAIN, DESCENDS TO EARTH WITH NEITHER SCENT NOR TONE, THE HAVEN WHITHER AGELONG SHE WAS BOUND.

     "DARK ARE THESE GROPING WATERS, DARK AS WINE, FROM A WILD CHERRY'S HEART; A LIGHT WIND COMES, WITH SPEED OF FIRE AROUND A WOODED TURN, WITHIN WHOSE DROWSY HAUNTS A PARTRIDGE STRUMS, IN DREAMS, DISTURBING SLUMBER OF THE PINE. HERE, THE WHITE POPLARS BOIL, ABOVE THE MOON-FIRES KINDLED IN A POOL, WHEREIN THE DYING HEMLOCK POURS ITS OIL, AND WHERE THE BROWN, DECAYING FRONDS OF FERN, LIE IN A DREAMLESS SLUMBER, SWEET AND COOL." THIS SHORT POEM WAS PUBLISHED IN 1926, INSPIRED BY MACDONALD'S STAY IN MUSKOKA, ON TOBIN'S ISLAND, LAKE ROSSEAU......AT WHAT WAS KNOWN AS THE MUSKOKA ASSEMBLY, WHICH DREW MANY OF CANADA'S FINEST AUTHORS AND POETS.

     THE FACT THAT POETS ONCE ROAMED THE THIN LAKELAND PATHS, WINDING THROUGH THE PINE FORESTS, AND OUT ON THE PIONEER PASTURES, TO SEE MUSKOKA THROUGH THE SEASONS, DOESN'T IMPRESS, IN GENERAL TERMS, THE MODERN AUDIENCE. I'VE TRIED ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS, TO REMIND MUSKOKANS AND SYMPATHETIC OTHERS, HOW IMPORTANT IT IS TO KEEP THESE INSIGHTS OF MUSKOKA ELECTRIC AND PROMINENT. FOR THE BENEFITS OF ALL THOSE, OF FUTURE-MINDEDNESS, WHO SHARE EVEN MILD CONCERN, THAT MUSKOKA'S IDENTITY, OUT OF NEGLECT AND INCONSISTENCY BY THOSE WHO GOVERN, IS LOOKING TODAY, MORE LIKE A CONVENIENT LANDSCAPE, FOR PROMOTIONAL ADVANTAGE.....THAN AS A SPIRITUAL HEAVEN-ON-EARTH SANCTUARY. IN HARMONY WITH WHAT THE GOOD MR. WILLISON AND WILSON MACDONALD HIGHLIGHTED IN THEIR WORK. IN REALITY, I CAN PUT FOLKS TO SLEEP WITH THIS STUFF, AND YET, THERE IS AN OVERWHELMING NECESSITY, IN MY HISTORICAL BENT, TO REPRESENT THESE EARLY DAYS AND IMPRESSIONS, REGARDLESS OF THE CONSEQUENCES. I DON'T LIKE THE THOUGHT OF YOU FALLING ASLEEP IN YOUR CHAIRS, READING THESE TOMES, BUT I STILL MUST REMAIN FAITHFUL, THAT THE MESSAGE WILL EVENTUALLY IMPRINT SUBTLY IF NOT POIGNANTLY, ON THOSE OF GREAT PASSION FOR MUSKOKA.....WHO DIDN'T KNOW ITS CHRONICLE WAS BEING RE-WRITTEN, BY INTERLOPERS, WITH VESTED INTEREST, DRIVEN BY MARKET SHARE.

     MUSKOKA IS MORE THAN A PRETTY FACE TO BACKDROP BEER ADVERTISEMENTS, OR FOR SELLING INTERIOR DESIGNS OF LAKESHORE LUXURY, COTTAGE-CHIC, AND HINTERLAND RUSTIC. MUSKOKA IS MUCH MORE THAN A PICTURESQUE LANDSCAPE, JUST TO USE AND ABUSE, TO MOVE SOME PRODUCT OR OTHER, FOR A CORPORATION'S MARKET ADVANTAGE. MAYBE IT'S TRUE THAT WILLISON AND MACDONALD WERE ALSO EXPLOITING MUSKOKA FOR PERSONAL GAIN, SELLING THEIR BOOKS FOR A SUPPOSED PROFIT. YET, EVEN IF IT WAS ONLY A CAPITALIST INTENTION, TO PROFIT FROM THEIR WORK, AT OUR REGION'S EXPENSE, THEY HAVE STILL GIVEN US SOMETHING THAT HAS INTEGRATED SO BEAUTIFULLY, NATURALLY, AND PLEASANTLY INTO OUR CULTURAL PATINA, THAT BEER AND COTTAGE LIFESTYLE ADVERTISING WILL NEVER ACHIEVE.

      "TO ME ALL THE FOREST IS VOCAL; THE TREES AND THE SHRUBS ARE MY FRIENDS, THE FLOWERS ARE LOVELIEST, SPRINGING, FROM SETTINGS THEIR HABITAT LENDS, WITH RESONANCE GIVEN BY ARCHES, AND DOMES LIKE CATHEDRALS ABROAD, THE CHORISTERS NATIVE TO THE WOODLANDS, MY ECSTASY CARRY TO GOD. I LOVE THEM! I LOVE ALL THE ECHOES, FROM THE VALLEYS AND SLUMBERING LAKES. TO VOICES FIRST HEARD IN MUSKOKA, MY HEART IN ITS DREAMING AWAKES, MERE ECHOES! BUT ROLLING FOREVER, THEIR SWEETNESS INCREASES ENROUTE, TILL GOD WHO AN EDEN CREATED, THROUGH CHRIST OFFERS EDEN'S NEW TRUST."

     REVEREND WILLISON'S POETIC INTERPRETATION OF MUSKOKA, WOULDN'T SELL A HIGH POWERED SKI BOAT, OR EVEN A PAINTED MUSKOKA CHAIR TODAY, OR ANY DAY IN THE FUTURE, WITHOUT THE COMPANION POWER PITCH....THE ROCK 'N ROLL SIZZLE THAT MAKES IT EXCITING TO SPEND, SPEND, SPEND, WHILE IN "COTTAGE COUNTRY." THE FLOWERY APPROACH, WITH ITS CHRISTIAN VALUES, WOULD NOT MAKE THE KIND OF AD COPY, THAT SELLS MUSKOKA CONDO LIVING, OR ALL INCLUSIVE GOLF PACKAGES; MUSKOKA WEAR OR RESORT FINE DINING. STILL, THE PORTRAIT OF MUSKOKA LIVING, REVEALED BY THESE SAME POETS, BACK IN A MORE ROMANTIC ERA, IS THE REASON TODAY OUR REGION HAS REACHED ITS PRESENT ZENITH OF ATTRACTION. MUSKOKA'S TALKING HEADS WON'T CREDIT HOMESTEADERS, OR THE SUCCESSION OF POETS AND PAINTERS, WHO CREATED THIS CRAZY FOLK-QUILT OF HERITAGE, THAT STILL EMERGES IN SOFT FADED HUES, THROUGH THE RHETORIC OF MODERN PHILOSOPHY; BUT EVEN BY ITS DIMINISHED POIGNANCY, IT IS OF A GREATER VALUE IN POSTERITY, THAN WHAT SURFACE-SKIMMING HAS OBVIOUSLY SATISFIED IN THE HEARTS, MINDS AND WANDERLUST OF SHALLOW MODERNISTS.....WHO FEEL POETRY IS AS BURDENSOME AS WALKING THROUGH WASTE-DEEP WATER, SHOULDERING BRICKS.

   TO ASSUME THAT "CONTEMPORARY THINKING," OF WHAT "MUSKOKA IS WORTH, OR COULD BECOME IF UTILIZED TO ITS FULL POTENTIAL" AS A MARKETABLE ENTITY, IS "LIVING IN THE NOW," WITHOUT ANYTHING WHATSOEVER ATTRIBUTED TO THE INTRICACIES OF THE LANDSCAPE, SEEN AND UNSEEN, IS TO SHOW GREAT IGNORANCE OF LIFE'S GRANDER SCHEME. THESE HAUNTED WOODLANDS, THE IMPERATIVE OF TRUTHFUL DIMENSION, IS THUSLY AND FIRMLY BANKRUPT, AS A RESULT.... VOID OF ITS INHERENT CAPABILITY OF CELEBRATING INCREDIBLE NATURAL AND SUPERNATUREAL EXPERIENCE. TO WALK DOWN THESE WELL TRODDEN LAKESIDE PATHS, IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, ON A SUN-DRENCHED AUTUMN DAY LIKE THIS, AND NOT HEAR THE HAUNTING, DISTANT ECHO...., THE CALM WHISPER OF THE POET'S WORDS, OR SENSE IN THE WIND'S CARESS OF THE PINERY, THE DISTANT HARP OF A MUSICIAN ONCE...., POSSIBLY THE FOOTFALL OF A CHILD FOLLOWING BEHIND, OR THE WARM COMFORT OF THEIR TINY PORCELAIN HAND SLIPPING INTO OUTSTRETCHED FINGERS, TO BE LED CONFIDENTLY ALONG THE UNKNOWN PATH, IS THE HAPLESS RETRACTION OF KEEN PERCEPTION, I HAVE THANKFULLY NEVER SUFFERED.....AS A MUSKOKA HISTORIAN, A LATENT POET, AND COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER. I HAVE ALWAYS EXPERIENCED THE ENCHANTMENT OF THIS STORIED PLACE ON EARTH, AND I'VE BENEFITTED PERPETUALLY FROM ITS MANY SOURCES OF INSPIRATION.....MANY OF THE MOST POIGNANT, GOING BACK TO THAT PURE PIONEER EXPERIENCE, THE ROUGH HEWN TIMBERS OF OUR CHRONICLE....OF WHICH EVERYTHING TODAY HAS BEEN BUILT ATOP.

    I HOPE YOU HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY, THIS THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, TO HIKE THROUGH THE LIGHT AND SHADOW OF OUR PLEASANTLY HAUNTED WOODLANDS.....THE CHANCE TO SIT ALONG THE LAKESHORE, LISTENING TO THE GENTLE CARESS OF WATER AGAINST THE ROCK, THE HARP-SONG OF WIND THROUGH PINE, AND THE CALMING RUSTLE OF FALLING LEAVES ALONG THE PATH WE ARE NOW WALKING. IT WILL ILLUMINATE FOR US AGAIN, IN THE ENDEARING STORIES TOLD LATER AT HEARTH-SIDE, WHEN OUR DINNER IS DONE, AND WITH LOOSENED ATTIRE, WE THINK ABOUT THE HOST REGION, AND WHAT IT HAS DONE FOR US; THE SENTIMENTAL AND POETIC, FOR "LONG AND LONG."

I Wanted To Golf With My Old Chums From The Herald Gazette But Half The Foursome Is Gone

ALL OF A SUDDEN I WANTED TO HOLD A GOLF CLUB AND TEE OFF WITH THAT OLD GANG OF MINE; BUT HALF OF THEM ARE GONE

     Today offered the kind of weather an old golfer can't resist. One that a nostalgic old fart like me gets hung up on, for some pretty obvious reasons. I miss those guys. The Herald-Gazette gang, used to break away in the late afternoon, on  sunny and warm Thursdays just like this, which was one of the most boring days to hang around the newspaper office; and head out to Bracebridge Golf Course to keep the Pratts company. I'm not sure they liked to see us coming, because we left a lot of carnage out on the fairways, and not just divots. But I suppose it was our support of the clubhouse offerings, that made up for everything else.
     I thought, with full and glorious reminiscence, about standing out there on the first tee, overlooking the magnificent first fairway sprawling out in front, and the good company of my golf buddies, including Brant Scott, Harry Ranger, and Alistair Taylor, who was an honorary editor with our paper. We'd all have sparkling new golf balls, purchased from the sports department of the clubhouse, and the idea, was that we would use one ball each for the entire nine holes. That's what our ambition and dream was, but you know that never happened. By the end of the first hole I would have already lost two of the three I purchased.
     But there we were, that close-knit bunch, who also made up the core of the Herald-Gazette Rink Rat hockey team, hacking and thwacking, shanking and slicing all over God's half acre, in the spirit of that great highland game, of golf. We loved it all. All the terrible things that happened out there, were part of the sport; sliding and then tumbling down hillsides, looking for our lost balls, and sinking down into the muddy quagmires, too proud to admit the swamp got the only ball left in our bag. How content we were to be out in the open air, until the storm came along, and once again, we were too proud to put the clubs back in the bag, and run to the clubhouse for fear of being electrocuted. We took the lightning flashes like manly men, and played through whatever the devil could throw at us intrepid part-time athletes.
     We laughed, and cried, and cursed the Bogies that drove our scores into almost fictional excesses, and we shouldered each other after injury, at times when the ball came thwacking back after hitting a tree, striking one of us in the groin or worse. We consoled each other when our golf carts slid slowly and quietly into the murky depths of the water hazard; crafting cleverly devised poles out of ball retriever gadgets, to haul them out, with snakes and assorted sea creatures trapped inside. Good times.
     It wasn't as if my memory was recalling great games of golf. Quite the opposite. It reflected on some of the most incredibly horrible games in golf history. It reminded me that we played golf because it was a respite in life and work, from everything else that was going on in our lives. For those nine holes, sometimes played twice a week, we were free spirits, like Fonda and Hopper on that wild cross-country ride on their choppers. We used golf clubs and balls as a source of liberation, and the occasional cold pop, if you know what I mean, as a stress inhibiter. Instead of having to buy motorcycles to find our lost mojo. In retrospect, I think I enjoyed the good humour out there on the links, more than the act of hitting a little white ball into a tiny hole on carpet-grass. When we teed off, on that first hole, it was the beginning of a mini vacation, and in other ways, a sort of recreational therapy, where we felt comfortable admitting some of our personal issues, at about the same time as cursing the heavens, because our ball just hit the sand trap, or became hidden in the fern cover of a lush border forest. It was, in a therapeutic way, good to let our frustrations loose, and farting around nine holes, just seemed to pacify us by the end of the round. The only real upset would be if the golf bag containing refreshments, was the one that sunk to the bottom of the hazard lagoon.
     Today I must admit, I became very nostalgic for those days of golf, the old fashioned way; where it was the social occasion, and the sporting culture, that was more important than what was pencilled onto the scorecard. Two of the old gang, Harry Ranger and Brant Scott have since passed away, and well, that certainly messes up the foursome. I think I might take a drive past the golf course, for old times sake, and you never know; I might just pick up a club, and slice or shank for old times sake. But most likely, I will just get misty-eyed and try to forget about golf altogether. That's why I went to the effort of writing this down, just in case I was to ever truly forget, what got me from then, to now, with such respect for all that has been stuffed into my golf-bag like biography.

THE RESIDENT PEACE OF A GRAVEYARD - THE BIRD, SQUIRRELS, CHIPMUNKS, AND OTHER WEE CRITTERS OF EARTH, AND SKY, ANIMATE SOLITUDE

I STOOD BETWEEN THREE OF THE BEST KNOWN HISTORIANS IN BRACEBRIDGE - WHAT A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE

     KEEPING THE DECEASED COMPANY. FOR ME, I THINK IT'S THE OTHER WAY AROUND. AFTER ONLY A FEW MINUTES OF ADJUSTMENT, IN A CEMETERY SETTING, I CAN BECOME VERY CALM AND QUITE THOUGHTFUL. I HAVEN'T TRIED WRITING COPY IN SUCH A PLACE, BUT I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING. THE STORY-LINE OF CHOICE, WOULD HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH GHOSTS. IT WOULD HAVE EVERYTHING TO DO WITH HISTORY. WHAT THESE CITIZENS LIVED THROUGH AND ACCOMPLISHED, AND WHAT I HAVE SEEN OF THEIR FORESIGHT EVER SINCE. I THINK I MAY HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT GHOSTS IN GRAVEYARDS WHEN I WAS A KID, AS A VICTIM OF HOLLYWOOD THRILLERS. AS AN HISTORIAN, TODAY, I SEE THESE PLACES AS BEING SPIRITUALLY ENHANCED, BUT ENTIRELY POSITIVE PLACES IN WHICH TO STROLL ABOUT; EVEN IF YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE ANY OF THE NAMES. I COULDN'T WRITE LOCAL HISTORIES, WITH ANY SENSE OF ACTUALITY, WITHOUT KNOWING THESE PLACES, AND THESE NAMES. THE FAMILY NAMES ON THE TOMBSTONES, REPRESENT THE FIRST DOZEN CHAPTERS OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORY. MANY OF THOSE FAMILY NAMES ARE STILL REPRESENTED IN OUR COMMUNITY, EVEN AFTER ALL THIS WATER HAS PASSED UNDER THE BRIDGE. THEY GAVE A COMMUNITY TO THE MODERNISTS, AND THEY SHOULDN'T FORGET THAT FACT, WHEN TODAY, THEY'RE (COUNCILLORS INCLUDED) MULLING OVER WHAT CHANGES THEY'D LIKE TO MAKE, IN ORDER TO RE-INVENT BRACEBRIDGE. I'D LOVE THE OPINION OF THOSE WHO RESIDE IN THESE QUIET PLACES, WHO CREATED OUR DESTINY, FROM ABOUT THE 1860'S, BASED ON COMMON SENSE AND ORDERLINESS. WE DO HAVE THEM TO THANK FOR GETTING THIS FAR ALONG. I DON'T FEEL WE USE THEM AS ROLE MODELS AT ALL. BUT YES WE SHOULD.

     AS I NOTED IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, SUZANNE AND I TOOK A STROLL THROUGH SEVERAL BRACEBRIDGE CEMETERIES YESTERDAY, AND VISITED WITH SOME OF MY OLD CRONIES THAT I THINK ABOUT OFTEN. BILL ANDERSON, THE PAINTING-BARBER, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE UNION CEMETERY IN FALKENBURG, AND WITH FRED AND MARY BAMFORD, IN THE ANGLICAN CEMETERY, ON NORTH MANITOBA STREET. I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT GOING TO CEMETERIES, OR MEMORIAL SITES, BUT I BECOME VERY SUBDUED. I AM NOT A SUBDUED HUMAN BEING, BUT THESE PLACES OF SPIRITUAL SOLITUDE, MAKE ME FEEL AS IF I'M ONE STEP AHEAD OF MY OWN HEARSE. I HAVE ALWAYS FELT LIKE THIS, AND IT'S AS IF ALL THE FOLKS I HAVE KNOWN, WHO ARE BURIED, OR IN MEMORIAL CAIRNS, ARE WHISPERING TO ME, "YOU KNOW TED, THE AFTER-LIFE IS A PRETTY DECENT GIG. WE'RE ALL FRIENDS IN HERE, AND BEYOND."

     I FOUND MYSELF YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, STANDING BETWEEN SIX OF BRACEBRIDGE'S WELL KNOWN HISTORIANS. I CALLED TO SUZANNE, WHO WAS VISITING SOME OF HER RELATIVES, BURIED ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE CEMETERY, TO LET HER KNOW THAT I WAS STANDING IN A SORT OF HISTORIC MATRIX IN REAL LIFE, REAL TIME. NOW CONSIDERING WHAT I WRITE ABOUT EACH WEEK, AND WHO MY MENTORS HAVE BEEN, INCLUDING THE BOOKS THAT HAVE BEEN MY CRUTCH FOR YEARS AND YEARS, IT WAS A POWERFUL SENSATION, TO BE STANDING BETWEEN G.H.O. THOMAS, HIS SON REDMOND, WHO I HAVE BEEN QUOTING FOR THE PAST WEEK, AND GEORGE BOYER, HIS WIFE VICTORIA, ROBERT BOYER AND HIS WIFE PATSY, EACH HAVING WRITTEN A BOOK OR TWO ABOUT MUSKOKA HISTORY. G.H.O. THOMAS, WROTE A HISTORY OF BRACEBRIDGE, WHICH I HAVE QUOTED FREQUENTLY, DURING THE PAST THREE MONTHS, AND WAS FORMER EDITOR OF THE BRACEBRIDGE GAZETTE. HIS SON REDMOND, A MAGISTRATE, WAS ALSO A WRITER FOR THE PAPER, AND THEN WROTE A COLUMN FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE, IN THE LATE 1960'S, AS WELL AS COMPILING THE BOOK "REMINISCENCES." GEORGE BOYER WROTE A HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, THAT IS STILL HIGHLY SOUGHT AFTER BY COLLECTORS; VICTORIA WROTE AND PUBLISHED A HARDCOVER TEXT, PROFILING THE HISTORIC HOMES OF BRACEBRIDGE, (MY OLD NEWSPAPER CHUM, BRANT SCOTT TOOK THE PHOTOGRAPHS FOR VICTORIA'S BOOK), PATSY BOYER WROTE SEVERAL BOOKS OF HERITAGE STORIES, AND OPINION PIECES, ABOUT HER HOME TOWN, AND ROBERT J. BOYER, OF COURSE, WROTE NUMEROUS BOOKS, HIS MOST POPULAR BEING "A GOOD TOWN GREW HERE," PUBLISHED IN 1975. IT WAS REALLY SOMETHING, TO STAND THERE, AMIDST ALL THE FRIENDLY DIN OF BIRD-SONG, CHIPMUNKS RUSTLING IN THE NEWLY FALLEN LEAVES, THE SQUIRRELS SCOLDING EACH OTHER IN THE PINE BOUGHS, AND WATCHING BEES HOVERING AROUND SOME BORDER WILDFLOWERS. THIS WAS AN UNANTICIPATED SITUATION. I HAVE BEEN TO THE CEMETERY BEFORE, BUT I WAS DRAWN HERE ON THIS DAY, INITIALLY TO SEE THE "BROWNING" FAMILY PLOT, AS RELATES TO REDMOND'S WRITTEN ACCOUNTS; ROBERT BROWNING, OF COURSE, BEING THE ONE EJECTED FROM THE HORSE-DRAWN HEARSE, WHEN SOMETHING STARTLED THE TEAM. THE PALL BEARERS WERE STILL IN PLACE, AND CAUGHT MR. BROWNING BEFORE HE HIT THE SURFACE OF THE ROAD. SO I HAD TO SEE HIS FINAL RESTING PLACE, KNOWING THIS INTERESTING HERITAGE ANECDOTE. IT IS A PROMINENT STONE, AND FAMILY PLOT, ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE ENTRANCE, OFF MANITOBA STREET.

     I HAVE ENORMOUS RESPECT FOR ALL THESE FORMER CITIZEN - HISTORIANS OF BRACEBRIDGE, AND I CONFESSED TO THEM, AUDIBLY, THAT THEIR DILIGENT WORK TO CONSERVE HISTORY, HAS KEPT ME IN RICH SUPPLY OF RESOURCES FOR THE PAST THIRTY-FIVE YEARS. I COULDN'T GET THROUGH A MONTH, IN MY PROFESSION, WITHOUT REFERENCING THEIR WORK, IN SOME FASHION, AND TO SERVE SOME HERITAGE PURPOSE. I WISH I HAD KNOWN G.H.O. THOMAS, AND SON REDMOND BETTER, AND BY TIME I BEGAN WORK AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BOB HAD ONLY RECENTLY LOST HIS WIFE PATSY. VICTORIA AND GEORGE HAD DIED EARLIER. BUT I DO FEEL PRETTY GOOD, ABOUT THE FACT, I SPENT A LOT OF TIME WITH BOB BOYER, HUDDLED WITH HIM IN HIS DICKENSIAN OFFICE, ON 27 DOMINION STREET, LOOKING UP, AND CONFIRMING SOME HISTORICAL DETAIL, FOR THAT WEEK'S ISSUE. HE'D INVITE ME IN, IF I WAS IN NEED OF SOME INFORMATION FROM BACK ISSUES, AND WHILE CHEWING THE END OF HIS ENORMOUS CIGAR, AND BEING BARELY VISIBLE THROUGH THE BLUE HAZE, HE COULD SWIVEL HIS CHAIR, STICK HIS HAND IN THE MIDDLE OF A PILE OF PAPER AND BOOKS, THREE FEET HIGH, AND PULL OUT EXACTLY WHAT HE WAS LOOKING FOR. EVERYONE WHO HAD A SIMILAR QUESTION TO RUN BY BOB, WOULD ASK ROUGHLY THE SAME QUESTION WHEN LEAVING HIS OFFICE, INFORMATION IN HAND. "HOW DID HE JUST DO THAT? THERE MUST HAVE BEEN A THOUSAND PAGES ON THE PILE, BUT HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE THAT SPECIFIC PIECE OF NOTEPAPER WAS BURIED." IT WAS THE BOB BOYER MAGIC. I SAW IT UP CLOSE, AND I STILL COULDN'T FIGURE OUT HOW HIS MIND WORKED IN THIS RESPECT. HE WAS DEFINITELY AN ARCHIVIST.

     WHEN THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICES WERE RENOVATED, SOME TIME IN THE MID 1980'S, I THINK IT WAS, BOB SUFFERED A HUGE SET-BACK IN HIS OWN COMFORTABLE COMMONPLACE, OF BEING MUSKOKA SUN EDITOR. THE SIZE OF HIS OFFICE WAS SERIOUSLY REDUCED, AND ALL OF US STAFFERS THOUGHT THIS WOULD CAUSE A MAJOR STIR FOR BOB, BECAUSE OF ALL THE CLUTTER HE POSSESSED, OVER SQUARE EVERY INCH OF THE LARGER OFFICE. THERE WAS NOTHING BUT SMOKE RESIDUE ON THE CEILING. DURING THE RENOVATION, BOB SPENT MORE TIME WORKING FROM HOME, OR AT THE BACK OF THE SHOP, WHERE THE LAYOUT CREW, CUT AND PASTED EDITORIAL COPY, AND PHOTOGRAPHS, ON THE NEWSPAPER FLATS; THEIR KNIVES DRAWN AND THE SMELL OF NEWLY WAXED EDITORIAL COPY PERMEATING THE AIR, WITH A STORIED, NEWSPAPER TRADITION, THERE BEING A TRACE SCENT OF CIGAR. HE THREW PLASTIC OVER HIS IMPORTANT PAPERS, TO KEEP THE DUST OFF THEM, BUT I REMEMBER GOING BY HIS OFFICE ONE DAY, WHILE THE WORK CREWS WERE USING A POWER SAW, AND SEEING HIM SITTING ON HIS CHAIR, IN FRONT OF HIS COVERED DESK, READING SOME COPY FOR THE "ALGOMA ANGLICAN," WHICH HE ALSO HAD SOME EDITORIAL INPUT. HE WAS BEING DUSTED AT THE SAME TIME, FROM THE NEARBY SAW, CUTTING THROUGH DRYWALL. HE WAS BEING COATED BY WHITE DUST, AND I'M SURE INHALING SOME AS WELL, BUT WHEN BOB LOCKED ON TO SOMETHING, LIKE PROOFING EDITORIAL COPY FOR THE TYPESET DEPARTMENT, HE WASN'T GOING TO BE RUFFLED BY SOME MINOR CONSTRUCTION IN THE VICINITY. I DON'T KNOW IF THERE WAS ANY DANGER WITH THE DUST, AND SMOKING HIS CIGAR, BUT NOTHING BLEW UP, SO I GUESS IT WAS BENIGN.

     WHEN THEY GOT HIS OFFICE RE-ADJUSTED, IT WAS SUBSTANTIALLY SMALLER. WE ALL COMMENTED TO HIM, HOW HE WAS GOING TO STORE ALL HIS ARCHIVES WITH THE MUCH SMALLER DIGS. "OH, I WILL GET IT ALL IN EVENTUALLY," HE'D MUTTER, CHOMPING DOWN ON WHAT APPEARED, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, LIKE A HALF-EATEN CIGAR. ABOUT A WEEK AFTER COMPLETION, OF THE REMODELLING OF THE LOWER OFFICES, I WAS WHIPPING BY BOB'S OFFICE, ON THE WAY TO THE DARKROOM, WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, HIS ARM REACHED OUT AND GRABBED ME BY THE ELBOW. THIS WAS HIS HABIT, AND I HAVE NO IDEA, HOW  HE KNEW WHO WAS COMING DOWN THE HALL, BECAUSE HE HAD LIMITED VISIBILITY THROUGH HIS AVERAGE SIZED DOOR, WITHOUT ANY WINDOW, EXCEPT TO OUTSIDE. MOST OF US WHO WORKED, IN THOSE DAYS, AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, KNEW THAT AT ANY MOMENT, PASSING BY HIS OFFICE, HIS ARM WOULD REACH OUT, TO PULL US TOWARD HIS INNER SANCTUM. SO ON THIS PARTICULAR DAY, I WAS HALF EXPECTING TO BE HAULED INTO HIS OFFICE, BECAUSE THERE HAD BEEN SOME HEADLINE ERRORS IN THAT WEEK'S ISSUE OF THE MUSKOKA SUN; BUT TO MY GREAT SURPRISE, BOB JUST WANTED TO SHOW ME HOW HIS NEWLY RENOVATED OFFICE LOOKED. IT WAS WEIRD. I MEAN IT. THE MAN HAD SUFFERED THE LOSS OF A LARGE PART OF HIS OFFICE, YET IT LOOKED EXACTLY THE SAME AS IT WAS BEFORE THE CONSTRUCTION. ALL THE BOOKS AND PAPER WERE STACKED AS THEY WERE BEFORE, AND ALTHOUGH THERE WAS THE NAGGING SENSATION OF BEING CLOSER TO BOB THAN BEFORE, WHILE WE CHATTED, EVERYTHING WAS WHERE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, INCLUDING THE SEVERAL CRUMPLED PIECES OF PAPER, HE HAD RIPPED OUT OF HIS TYPEWRITER CARRIAGE, AND HAD TUMBLED ONTO THE FLOOR. IT WAS LIKE TIME HAD STOOD STILL. YET THE PLACE HAD BEEN TORN APART A FEW DAYS EARLIER, AND MUCH OF THE PAPER AND BOOKS, BOXED AND STORED UNDER PLASTIC, BUT IN THE SAME SPACE. "BOB, HOW DID YOU DO IT" I ASKED, ABOUT LOSING TEN FEET OF OFFICE SPACE, BUT HAVING IT LOOK AS IF HE HADN'T LOST AN INCH. "IT'S A LITTLE SMALLER," HE ANSWERED. "YOU SEE, I CAN'T MOVE MY CHAIR BACK AS FAR ANY MORE, AND I'VE HAD TO PUT THE BOOKS HIGHER ON THE SHELVES." WHICH WAS TRUE. YET WHEN HE WANTED TO SHOW ME SOME ARTICLE HE FELT WAS RELEVANT, TO A STORY WE WERE WORKING ON FOR THE NEXT ISSUE, HE ONCE AGAIN, BIT HARD ON THE END OF HIS STOGIE, AND WITH BOTH HANDS, MANIPULATED A LEANING STACK OF DOCUMENTS, AND PULLED OUT THE EXACT ONE HE WAS LOOKING FOR; AND AS BEFORE, SEEMINGLY AWARE, AS IF BY SENSORY PERCEPTION, WHERE EVERY PAPER OR NOTE WAS LOCATED, EVEN THOUGH IT SEEMED AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK.

      I WAS SO IMPRESSED BY ROBERT BOYER, AND THE WAY HE TREATED ME AS AN APPRENTICE, FOR THOSE TEN YEARS AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, THAT SUZANNE AND I NAMED OUR SECOND BORN SON IN HIS HONOR. IN FACT, ROBERT USED TO COME WITH US, WHEN I WOULD DRIVE BOB DOWN TO ORILLIA FOR HIS EYE EXAMINATIONS AND SURGERY, AND THEN HE WOULD TAKE US OUT TO LUNCH, AT THE FORMER SUNDIAL RESTAURANT, WHERE HE'D INSIST THAT ROBERT SHOULD HAVE A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE. I REMEMBER ONE OCCASION, FOLLOWING A PERIOD OF FREEZING RAIN, DRIVING HIS CADILLAC DOWN ONE OF THE LONG SLIPPERY HILLSIDES IN ORILLIA, WITH BOB IN THE FRONT SEAT, AND ROBERT IN THE BACK, LOSING CONTROL, AND SPINNING WILDLY THROUGH AN INTERSECTION. BOB WAS READING INFORMATION ABOUT HIS EYE CONDITION, AND THE YOUNGER ROBERT WAS READING A STORY-BOOK I'D BROUGHT ALONG TO ENTERTAIN HIM. WHEN THE LIGHT CHANGED, TO RED, I JUST TOUCHED THE BRAKE, AND GOSH, I WAS SENT INTO A SPIN. RIGHT THROUGH THE RED LIGHT, MISSING TWO CARS CROSSING, AND NOT STRAIGHTENING OUT UNTIL WELL PAST THE INTERSECTION. I WAS ABSOLUTELY WILD WITH FEAR, BECAUSE OF THE TWO VULNERABLE PASSENGERS, WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN HIT BROADSIDE, AS THERE WAS NOTHING COMING ON THE DRIVER'S SIDE. I REMEMBER THANKING GOD, ONCE SAFELY ON THE OTHER SIDE, HAVING STOPPED CURLING DOWN THE ROAD A PIECE, AND THEN LOOKING OVER TO BOB, IN PREPARATION FOR THE LECTURE I WAS GOING TO GET, ON SAFE DRIVING IN WINTER CONDITIONS. BOB WAS STILL READING THE MEDICAL INFORMATION, AND HAD MISSED THE WHOLE SPIN DOWN THE ROAD. ROBERT WAS ASLEEP. I HAD TO CLOSE MY EYELIDS MANUALLY FOR THE NEXT HOUR, I WAS STILL SO SCARED OF WHAT WE HAD NARROWLY MISSED, OF A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT. WHEN BOB ASKED ME LATER, IF I WAS OKAY, I JUST TURNED TO HIM AND SMILED, "EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW BOB, JUST FINE." HE PROBABLY SAW THE FEAR IN MY EYES, BUT HAD MISSED THE ENTIRE SHORT-LIVED EPISODE, AND I NEVER ADMITTED IT TO HIM LATER-ON EITHER. I DID SORT OF THINK OF IT, WHILE STANDING THERE, READING HIS NAME, ETCHED ONTO THE BOYER TOMBSTONE, AND I'M SURE MY THOUGHTS EXPLAINED THE WHOLE MISADVENTURE, AND HOW LUCKY WE WERE, ON THAT DAY, TO HAVE ESCAPED SERIOUS INJURY. AFTER THAT INCIDENT, I REFUSED TO DRIVE BOB'S CAR, AND INSTEAD MOTORED HIM TO HIS APPOINTMENTS IN OUR OLDSMOBILE WHICH WAS A NICE RIDE, BUT NOT AS LUXURIOUS AS THE CADILLAC. I WONDERED IF THE COMFORTS OF THAT CAR, HAD DRAWN ME INTO COMPLACENCY ABOUT THE DRIVING CONDITIONS, WHICH HAD BEEN SLOWLY IMPROVING, ON THAT DAY, BUT NOT IN ALL LOCATIONS. THERE WASN'T A LICK OF SAND ON THAT INTERSECTION. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN GOING SLOWER. I'VE NEVER CAUSED AN ACCIDENT IN MY DRIVING LIFE, WHICH BEGAN SHORTLY AFTER MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. I WAS MOVED BY A NUMBER OF MEMORIES, STANDING THERE, THINKING ABOUT BOB BOYER, AND OUR TIME SPENT TOGETHER AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND OTHER PLACES AROUND THE REGION. I'M NOT AT ALL SURE HOW BOB WOULD HAVE REACTED, HAD HE SEEN THE FULL SPIN OF TERROR, BUT WELL, THAT'S HISTORY NOW AS WELL.

     I MOVED ON THROUGH THE CEMETERY, TO TOUCH THE MONUMENTS (THIS IS MY WAY OF CONNECTING) BELONGING TO OTHER FRIENDS, WHO HAVE DEPARTED, SOME EVEN RECENTLY. I SAID HELLO TO GORD "GORDO" LOMAS, WHO I WORKED WITH IN THE PRINT MEDIA FOR MANY YEARS, TIM ROWE, WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO PLAY THE BARITONE IN JOHN RUTHERFORD'S MUSIC CLASS, AT BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, BUS BRAZIER, WHO PLAYED CHIEF MUSKEUQUE, (SPELLED MANY DIFFERENT WAYS) IN ABOUT A THOUSANDS PARADES AND FESTIVALS, (WEARING BEAR GREASE HE CLAIMED, WHILE BEING BARE CHESTED IN SANTA CLAUSE PARADES), AND GARTH "BUTCH" BRAZIER, AN ALL STAR PLAYER ON THE OLD INTERMEDIATE "C" HOCKEY TEAM, "THE HUSKIES," FROM THE LATE 1960'S. GARTH WAS DROWNED IN A HUNTING-SEASON BOATING MISHAP, AND I HANDLED HIS MEMORIAL DISPLAY AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, WHICH WAS ORIGINALLY ERECTED IN THE OLD LOBBY, A MONTH OR SO AFTER HE WAS KILLED. I HAD THE CHANCE TO SEE HIM PLAY, AND IT'S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY; HE WAS AN ALL-STAR PLAYER FOR SURE.

     ON A QUICK COUNT, SUZANNE AND I ESTIMATED, ON THE CONSERVATIVE SIDE, TO HAVING KNOWN UPWARDS OF TWO HUNDRED OF THE FORMER CITIZENS BURIED IN THE ANGLICAN CHURCH CEMETERY. HER AUNT AND UNCLE, MARY AND REG BILLINGSLEY ARE BURIED THERE, ALONG WITH SUZANNE'S COUSIN, DOUG, VICKY AND THEIR INFANT DAUGHTER, SARAH, WHO WAS THREE YEARS OLD AT TIME OF PASSING. HER COUSIN DOUG, WAS MARRIED TO VICKY BOYER, BOB BOYER'S DAUGHTER. SO NOT ONLY WAS I BOB'S ASSOCIATE EDITOR, WITH THE MUSKOKA SUN, AND HIS OCCASIONAL DRIVER, I WAS ALSO AN IN-LAW THROUGH SUZANNE'S FAMILY RELATIONSHIP.

     THE MOST INTERESTING PART OF THE STROLL THROUGH THE CEMETERY, WAS MY CONNECTION TO THE HISTORIC FAMILIES OF BRACEBRIDGE, THAT I WRITE ABOUT EACH YEAR, INCLUDING NAMES LIKE MAHAFFY, LOUNT, BASTEDO, BROWNING, SALMON, AND PARLETT. I STOOD ON RUSS SALMON'S PLOT AND SAID HELLO. I USED TO TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS OF RUSS WHEN HE PLAYED "SANTA" AT BRACEBRIDGE'S "SANTA'S VILLAGE." HE WAS A REGULAR AT THE OLD CURLING CLUB, WHEN IT WAS LOCATED ACROSS FROM THE ARENA ON JAMES STREET. I'D SEE RUSS AT LEAST ONCE A DAY WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, AND HE NEVER GOT FAR DOWN MANITOBA STREET, WITHOUT STOPPING TO CHAT WITH HIS CRONIES. IT SEEMED EVERYONE KNEW RUSS SALMON BACK THEN, AND A LOT OF CONVERSATIONS HAD TO DO WITH SPORTS. HE LOVED REKINDLING MEMORIES OF OLD CHAMPIONSHIP TEAMS, MEMORABLE GAMES, AND RECOLLECTING THE EXPLOITS OF OLDER STARS FROM THE GOLDEN YEARS OF RIVER AND POND SHINNY. I WHISPERED A HELLO TO CANON DAVID MITCHELL, OF ST. THOMAS ANGLICAN CHURCH, WHO YOU COULD SET YOUR WATCH BY, AS HE WALKED FROM THE CHURCH TO THE MANSE, ON MCMURRAY STREET, THROUGH MEMORIAL PARK; I COULD WATCH HIS COMINGS AND GOINGS FROM MY ATTIC WINDOW, AT THE FORMER HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, ON MANITOBA STREET. HIS WAS QUITE A STRIKING PRESENCE, WEARING A BLACK ROBE, CROSSING THE PARK ON THE BITTEREST WINTER DAY, DURING A SNOW SQUALL. HE USED TO DROP IN TO SEE BOB BOYER, AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, QUITE FREQUENTLY, AS BOTH OF THESE FINE GENTS CONTRIBUTED MATERIAL TO THE "ALGOMA ANGLICAN." I STOPPED TO PAY RESPECT TO REVEREND STANLEY TOMES, ALSO FROM ST. THOMAS CHURCH, WHO USED TO DROP INTO THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ALSO TO SEE BOB; BUT OCCASIONALLY HE WOULD POP UPSTAIRS TO SHOW ME A MODEL BOAT HE WAS WORKING ON, WHICH IF MEMORY SERVES, WAS BUILT WITHIN A BOTTLE. I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT SUCH THINGS, BUT STANLEY DID.  

     I STOPPED, ON THE WAY OUT OF THE CEMETERY, TO CHAT WITH FRED AND MARY BAMFORD, FORMER OWNERS OF WOODLEY PARK COTTAGES, ON TORONTO STREET, AND OPERATORS OF THE FAMOUS BAMFORD'S CORNER STORE, AT THE NORTH END OF THE BLOCK, THAT ALSO HAD THE FORMER BLACK'S VARIETY STORE, WHICH LATER BECAME "LIL & CEC'S." MY MOTHER MERLE WORKED AS A CLERK FOR THE BAMFORDS, SHORTLY AFTER ARRIVING IN BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE MID 1960'S, AND I CAN SO CLEARLY RECALL STANDING WITH FRED IN FRONT OF HIS RENTAL COTTAGES, AS BIRDS LANDED ON HIS HEAD, AND ATE SEEDS FROM HIS OUTSTRETCHED HAND. I WATCHED AS A CHIPMUNK PULLED A PEANUT OUT OF A SHIRT POCKET ONCE. I EVEN WITNESSED SQUIRRELS AND BLUE JAYS DO THE SAME THING. HE KEPT MANY BIRD BOOKS IN HIS LIVING ROOM, AND HIS GENTLE, PATIENT WAYS, MADE HIM A FRIEND TO MANY CREATURES OF THE FOREST. HE WOULDN'T EVEN HURT AN INSECT, EVEN IF IT WAS BITING HIM. HE WOULD JUST BRUSH IT AWAY, SAYING "THAT'S FOOD FOR THE BIRDS, SO BEST NOT KILL IT!" BOTH FRED AND MARY PLAYED A LARGE ROLE IN MY CHILDHOOD, AS BAMFORD'S WOODS, WAS WHERE I HUNG OUT, UP ON ALICE STREET. FRED HAD A RULE. YOU COULD PLAY IN THE WOODS, AS LONG AS WE DIDN'T HURT THE TREES, OR ANY OF THE CREATURE INHABITANTS, THAT CALLED THE SMALL FOREST  

THEIR HOME. I REMEMBER HIM GETTING AGITATED, WHEN ONE OF OUR FRIENDS, A YOUNG GIRL, FROM ONE STREET OVER, SLIPPED AND FELL OUT OF A SMALL PINE TREE, HITTING HER BACK ON AN EXPOSED ROOT. THEY HAD TO REMOVE HER BY AMBULANCE, AND FRED WAS VERY UPSET THAT HIS TREE HAD CAUSED SOMEONE ELSE PAIN. HE WAS LIKE THAT HOWEVER, AND ASSUMED THESE KIND OF EVENTS WERE CAUSED BY HIS NEGLIGENCE. THE GIRL WAS RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL LATER THAT DAY, HAVING RECEIVED NO SERIOUS INJURY, OTHER THAN SOME BAD BRUISING ON HER BACK.

     I WAS TALKING ABOUT MARY, A FEW WEEKS AGO, WHEN I WAS WRITING A RETROSPECTIVE OF SOME OF THE TOWN'S TRAGIC EVENTS. ON A SUNDAY MORNING, THEIR LITTLE GENERAL STORE, HAD AN ELECTRICAL MALFUNCTION, AND CAUGHT FIRE. THERE WAS SO MUCH INVENTORY JAMMED INTO THE SMALL ROOMS OF THE SHOP, IT WAS LUCKY, ON THAT MORNING, FIRST RESPONDERS WERE ABLE TO GET EVERYONE OUT ALIVE. MARY HOWEVER, AND I REMEMBER WATCHING THIS WITH MY OWN EYES, RAN BACK INTO THE BLAZING STORE, AFTER BEING INTITIALLY RESCUED WITH ONLY MINOR BURNS. SHE HAD A WALL SAFE, AND WANTED TO GET THE MONEY OUT BEFORE THE FIRE CONSUMED THE WHOLE BUILDING. I DON'T KNOW IF SHE RETRIEVED THE MONEY OR NOT, BUT SHE DID GET SEVERE BURNS TO HER HANDS, AS A RESULT OF TRYING TO GET TO THE WALL SAFE. THEY WERE TRYING TO WRAP HER HANDS, WITH TEMPORARY BANDAGES, BUT SHE KEPT TRYING TO BREAK LOOSE FROM THE AMBULANCE ATTENDANTS. THE BRACEBRIDGE FIRE DEPARTMENT WAS ABLE TO SAVE THE STRUCTURE, AND IT STILL EXISTS ON THAT CORNER OF TORONTO STREET, BUT NEVER RE-OPENED AS A CORNER STORE. MARY DIED A SHORT WHILE LATER, BUT I CAN'T RECALL NOW, IF IT WAS THE RESULT OF THE BURNS SHE RECEIVED THAT DAY. FRED HAD SUFFERED FROM HEART RELATED PROBLEMS FOR SOME TIME, AND I BELIEVE THIS IS WHAT EVENTUALLY CLAIMED HIS LIFE. ALL OF US KIDS IN THAT NEIGHBORHOOD, BENEFITTED FROM THE KINDNESS OF THE BAMFORDS, SO I DID FEEL IT NECESSARY TO LET THEM KNOW HOW I FELT, BEFORE LEAVING THE CHARMING SOLITUDE OF THE ANGLICAN CEMETERY. I CAN'T REMEMBER ALL THE NAMES NOW, AND ALL THE STONES I TOUCHED OUT OF RESPECT, BUT THERE WERE DOZENS I PAUSED BESIDE, IN THOUGHTFUL MEDITATION, ABOUT THE WAY OUR PATHS HAD CROSSED IN THE PAST; MANY TIMES, THROUGH MY WORK AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND IN ASSOCIATION WITH MR. BOYER, WHO HAD A PARADE OF VISITORS, ON MOST DAYS OF THE WORK WEEK. I REMEMBER ONCE, SEEING FOUR OF HIS FRIENDS IN HIS OFFICE, BUT ONLY TWO LEAVE. I ASKED HIM ABOUT THIS, BECAUSE IT HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCE. "DO YOU HAVE A TRAP DOOR IN HERE BOB, BECAUSE HALF THE TIME, I DON'T SEE YOUR GUESTS LEAVE YOUR OFFICE OR THE BUILDING." HE'D WOULDN'T VERBALIZE A RESPONSE, JUST WINK, SMILE, CLENCH HIS CIGAR WITH THE SIDE OF HIS MOUTH, AND RETURN TO HIS TAPPING AT THE KEYBOARD IN FRONT. MAYBE HE DID HAVE A TRAP DOOR, OR AN ALTERNATE EXIT I WASN'T AWARE OF. I WAS ALWAYS FASCINATED BY THE COMINGS AND GOINGS AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICE, WHICH I ALWAYS FELT WAS, BY TRADITION OF THE PROFESSION, SPIRITUALLY WELL-ENDOWED. I NEVER PASS THE OLD BUILDING TODAY, WITHOUT THINKING THAT I CAN SEE BOB'S SILHOUETTE, THROUGH THE WINDOW, THAT WAS ONCE THE PORTAL FROM HIS OFFICE, ONTO THE REST OF THE WORLD.

     WHEN I ENTER A CEMETERY, ON SOME HISTORICAL MISSION OR OTHER, I INITIALLY FEEL THE SOLEMN REALITY OF THE MEMORIAL PROPERTY. I FEEL HUMBLE AND A LITTLE LOWLY IN THE PRESENCE, OF THOSE WHO BUILT THE COMMUNITY, FROM THE FIRST LOG CABIN AND CULTIVATED YARD, TO THE PRESENT HUSTLE AND BUSTLE, OF WHICH THEY LAID THE FOUNDATION TIMBERS. I STOPPED FOR A FEW MOMENTS, YESTERDAY, TO LISTEN TO ALL THE SOUNDS OCCURRING AROUND THE PROPERTY, AND IT WAS FULL AND ROBUST WITH BIRDSONG, AND SQUIRREL CHATTERING, EVEN THE SOUND OF A WOODSMAN'S AXE, SOMEWHERE OFF IN THE DISTANCE. THERE WERE THE REPEATED SOUNDS OF GOLF CLUBS HITTING BALLS, ON NEARBY SOUTH MUSKOKA CURLING AND GOLF CLUB, WHICH ONCE BELONGED TO LANCE HARDY, AND FAMILY, WHO, IN MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, I ALSO VISITED WITH YESTERDAY AFTERNOON. I DID A RECENT HISTORY OF THE GOLF CLUB, DATING BACK TO THE FARMSTEAD OPERATED BY THE ELDERLY MR. HARDY. NOTHING I COULD PREOCCUPY WITH, TOOK ME AWAY FROM THE SOMBRE REALITY, THAT THESE FOLKS AND I WERE A DIMENSION APART NOW. BUT AS THE HISTORIAN CAN DO, WITH THE STROKE OF A PEN, I OFFERED SOME OF THESE OLD FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, THE GUARANTEE, THAT OUT OF RESPECT FOR THEIR ACCOMPLISHMENTS, THEIR NAMES WOULD BE REPEATED OFTEN, FOR THE BALANCE OF MY OWN LIFE; BECAUSE IT'S THE WEIGHT I PLACE ON ALL THEIR AMAZING CONTRIBUTIONS, TO TRULY GIVING US "THE GOOD TOWN THAT GREW HERE."

     AT TIMES WHEN I READ ABOUT CERTAIN BRACEBRIDGE CITIZENS, BEING UNHAPPY WITH THE WAY THE TOWN IS PROGRESSING, AND HIGHLIGHTING ITS DEFICIENCIES, AND LACK OF IDENTITY, I WANT TO YANK THESE CRITICS INTO MY OWN OFFICE, AND GIVE THEM A NEEDED HISTORY LESSON. THE CITIZENS BURIED IN THIS BEAUTIFUL PLACE, GAVE US THE FOUNDATION ON WHICH TO BUILD A PROSPEROUS COMMUNITY. YET I KNOW FOR SURE, THAT MOST OF THOSE WHO COMPLAIN ABOUT WHAT THE TOWN DOESN'T POSSESS OF ADVANTAGES, HAVE LITTLE IDEA HOW HARD THESE FOLKS WORKED, IN THEIR LIVES, TO GIVE US THE "GOOD" TOWN STATUS. JUST BECAUSE WE DON'T ALWAYS FOLLOW THROUGH, IN THE CONTEMPORARY SENSE, DOESN'T MEAN WE HAVE A WEAKENED IDENTITY, OR A LESSER RESOLVE TO SOLIDER-ON, AND MAKE IMPROVEMENTS, AS THE YEARS GO BY. A STRONG FOUNDATION WILL NEVER LET A BUILDER DOWN. MAYBE I SHOULD OFFER THESE FOLKS A WALKING TOUR, THROUGH SOME OF OUR CEMETERIES, TO FORMALLY INTRODUCE THEM TO THE GOOD NEIGHBORS, WHO HAD SUCH MASSIVE INFLUENCE, ON WHAT THE TOWN WAS TO BECOME. THE IMPACT, SMALL AND LARGE, THAT THESE PEOPLE HAVE HAD ON THE WAY IT HAS ALL COME TOGETHER, DATING BACK TO THE LATE 1850'S. WE HAVE TO BE REVERENT OF THE BUILDERS, WHO CREATED OUR NEIGHBORHOODS AND OUR TOWN IDENTITY, AND OF THIS, AFTER A TOUR LIKE WE ENJOYED, I HAVE FULL CONFIDENCE, IN THE STABILITY OF THAT FOUNDATION TO SERVE LONG INTO THE FUTURE.

     I KNOW ONE THING FOR SURE. I WILL CONTINUE, AS LONG AS GOD ALLOWS THE WRITER TO COMPOSE, TO KEEP BRINGING UP THESE NAMES, AND CITIZEN CONTRIBUTIONS, FOR BENEFIT OF THE MODERN GENERATION, WHO HAVE NEVER HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF A CHAT WITH ROBERT BOYER, OR REDMOND THOMAS, AND NEVER EXPERIENCED THE GOOD FUN, AND CHEER, OF HAVING AN ANIMATED CONVERSATION WITH THE LIKES OF RUSS SALMON, OR BUS BRAZIER. IF EVER I WAS ASKED ABOUT MY RELEVANCE AS AN HISTORIAN, TO THE COMMUNITIES I SERVE, I CAN SAY WITH CALM RESOLVE, THAT "IT IS TO REPRESENT, AND CELEBRATE THE INTEGRITY, THESE CITIZENS IMBEDDED, FOR LASTING POSTERITY, IN THEIR CHERISHED HOMETOWN." BET YOU NOBODY WILL EVER ASK ME, TO DEFINE MY ROLE IN THE HISTORY PROFESSION. READING BETWEEN THE LINES, ONE MAY HOWEVER, SENSE THAT I DO HAVE ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVEYARD, NOT BECAUSE I'M CLOSE TO DEATH (OR AS FAR AS I KNOW), BUT BECAUSE I FEEL IT INCUMBENT, TO KEEP THESE CITIZENS RELEVANT IN CONTEMPORARY TIMES. THERE IS MORE TO LEARN, AT A COMMUNITY CEMETERY, THAN YOU WOULD EVER BELIEVE, ON YOUR FIRST STEP PAST THE MEMORIAL GATE.

     SUZANNE ASKED ME WHAT I WOULD WISH TO BE WRITTEN ON MY OWN TOMBSTONE, AND AT FIRST, I HAD TO LOOK BACK AT HER, AS IF SHE KNEW SOMETHING I DIDN'T. "WELL, IF WE HAD THE MONEY TO PAY FOR THE EXTRA LETTERING, AFTER MY NAME, DATE OF BIRTH AND EXPIRY DATE, I WOULD LIKE SOMETHING THAT SAID, "BY GOLLY, HE TRIED TO BE AS GOOD AS HIS MENTORS; MAYBE HE WAS, MAYBE HE WASN'T; NUFF SAID."

     THANKS SO MUCH FOR VISITING WITH ME TODAY. DON'T BE SHY ABOUT VISITING OUR MANY MUSKOKA CEMETERIES. THEY ARE TRULY INTERESTING PLACES, OF INSPIRING AND PLEASANT SOLITUDE. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO YOU ARE GOING TO RUN INTO. BUT I'LL TELL YOU WHAT. IF THE HISTORIANS FIND THESE PLACES REMARKABLE, FOR SO MANY REASONS, SO WILL YOU!