Christmas Past At a Museum Past!

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE-CHRISTMAS AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR OWN MUSEUM IN GRAVENHURST

WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM GETTING SOME ATTENTION FROM THE TOWN - A FUTURE - AFTER A BLEAK COUPLE OF YEARS CLOSE TO THE PUBLIC

THE WINTER SEASON SNOW STORM THAT TOOK DOWN THE VERANDAH AT BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSEUM, WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS THE SAME ONE THAT STOPPED ME FROM GETTING TO MY FATHER'S APARTMENT. WHILE IT WASN'T A DIRECT RESULT OF THE STORM'S WEIGHT UPON FAILING OUTDOOR FIXTURES, IT WAS WHAT STOPPED US FROM VISITING ON THE SAME DAY AS HE HAD A STROKE…..WHICH EVENTUALLY LED TO HIS DEMISE. DURING THE SAME SNOW EVENT, MY SON AND HIS MATE WERE TRAPPED ON HIGHWAY II NEAR THE BRACEBRIDGE FAIR GROUNDS, AND IF THEY HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET BACK INTO TOWN, THEY WOULD HAVE STAYED AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S APARTMENT THAT NIGHT…….STRANGE THING THAT……BECAUSE THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE AS HE SUFFERED HIS STROKE, AND BEEN ABLE TO GET MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SOONER. HE LIVED ONE BLOCK FROM THE HOSPITAL. WHAT IS CURIOUS, MAYBE A LITTLE IRONIC….IS THAT ALL OF THE ABOVE HAD SOMETHING OR OTHER TO DO WITH WOODCHESTER VILLA. I WAS ONE OF THE FOUNDING DIRECTORS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND A DIRECTOR AND MANAGER OF WOODCHESTER. ANDREW AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER ROBERT, USED TO RIDE THEIR TOY CARTS AROUND THE MUSEUM GROUNDS WHILE I WAS WORKING THERE; MY MOTHER AND FATHER WERE VOLUNTEERS DURING MY TENURE…..MY MOTHER ACTUALLY BEING EMPLOYED AS A TOUR GUIDE FOR ONE SUMMER. ANDREW AND HIS MATE WERE FORCED TO FOLLOW THE SNOW PLOWS SOUTH DOWN THE HIGHWAY, HOME TO GRAVENHURST, LATER THAT FATEFUL EVENING, INSTEAD OF BEING ALLOWED BACK ONTO TOWN STREETS. IT'S JUST HOW FATE WORKS.

OUR FAMILY SPENT MANY CHRISTMASES AS WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, THROUGH THE EIGHTIES, AND WE HOSTED AT LEAST FIVE OPEN HOUSES DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD. IT IS NO SECRET THAT WOODCHESTER HAS BEEN AN ALLEGEDLY HAUNTED ABODE, AND I AM JUST ONE OF THE PERPETRATORS OF SUCH INFORMATION…..BY EXPERIENCES ENOUGH TO WRITE A BOOK. BUT NEVER ONCE, IN MY LONG RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS OCTAGONAL BUILDING, AND ITS RESIDENT SPIRITS, WAS I EVER ONCE UNSETTLED BY OCCURRENCES, OR FRIGHTENED. IT WAS AN OLD AND DEAR DWELLING FOR ALL OUR FAMILY, AND AT CHRISTMAS, IT SEEMED MOST CONTENT. I HAVE RECENTLY WRITTEN A CHRISTMAS REMEMBRANCE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA FOR ANOTHER PUBLICATION, BUT I WANTED TO SHARE IT WITH THOSE INTERESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE HERITAGE. I WAS PLEASED TO READ ABOUT A NEW INITIATIVE TO EXAMINE THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE THIS COMING WINTER SEASON, TO DISCUSS WHAT PURPOSE IT MIGHT BETTER SERVE THE COMMUNITY IN THE FUTURE. OF THIS, I WHOLE HEARTEDLY AGREE. AND I HOPE ONE DAY, THEY WILL FIND THE FUNDS TO RE-BUILD THE GRAND VERANDAH OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTIFUL LAWNS, AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER BELOW. THIS LITTLE CHRISTMAS TOME, IS A RESPECTFUL TRIBUTE, TO A WONDERFUL PLACE, I LOVED TO WORK AND VISIT…..PARTICULARLY SO AT CHRISTMAS…..WHERE WE ALL MADE RATHER MERRY.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY

The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)

A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.

At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.

I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.

I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.

One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.

On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.

It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.

It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.

I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.

Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.

The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.

I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.

The Logging Industry Became Part and Parcel of The Muskoka Lifestyle

A LITTLE BIT OF QUEBEC'S HERITAGE, PARALLELS MUSKOKA WOOD LORE

     MUSKOKA AND THE PROVINCE OF QUEBEC, HAVE A HERITAGE INDUSTRY IN COMMON. BOTH REGIONS OF THIS FINE COUNTRY, WERE MAJOR INDUSTRY ZONES, FOR THE EARLY LOGGING INDUSTRY, SPECIFICALLY, THE LATE 1800'S QUEST FOR THE GIANTS OF THE FOREST, THE WHITE PINE. WHETHER THE MODERN DAY RESIDENTS OF MUSKOKA, KNOW IT OR NOT, LOGGING WAS A HUGE INCOME PRODUCER OF THIS PERIOD, AND MANY HOMESTEADERS, WITHOUT ANY OTHER MEANS OF INCOME, DID JOIN IN THE WINTER CUT, AND THE SPRING DRIVE OF LOGS, DOWN RIVERS TO AREA LAKES, AND TO THE RESPECTIVE MILLS SERVING THE COMMUNITIES. GRAVENHURST BEING, OF COURSE, ONE OF THE MAJOR LOCATIONS FOR SAWMILLS, EVEN BEING NICKNAMED "SAWDUST CITY," FROM THE BOOMING DAYS OF THE LATE 1800'S. POSSIBLY SOMEONE LIVING IN SOUTH MUSKOKA, WHO HAD FAMILY TIES TO THE LOGGING INDUSTRY, AS IT WAS THEN, HAD SOME INTEREST IN THE PENNINGS OF THIS REVERED QUEBEC BARD, WHO KNEW ALL ABOUT THE WOODLAND ENTERPRISE, AND THE VILLAGES, THAT DEPENDED ON THE CUT, AND MILLING OF LUMBER. THE LOCALLY FOUND BOOK, OF POEMS, COMPOSED BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND, ARE WRITTEN IN HIS TRADEMARK STYLE, POKING FUN AT THE BROKEN ENGLISH SPOKEN BY THE FRENCH, IN THESE SMALL RURAL COMMUNITIES. HE WAS VERY MUCH RESPECTED IN QUEBEC, AND THE REST OF CANADA. AND YES, HE WAS ALSO A DOCTOR.

     I HAVE A NUMBER OF BOOKS WRITTEN BY DR. WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND, ONE OF QUEBEC'S REVERED POETS, INCLUDING AN EARLY EDITION OR HIS BEST KNOWN WORK, ENTITLED "THE HABITANT." AT A LOCAL THRIFT SHOP, IN BRACEBRIDGE, I PICKED UP A FAIR CONDITION COPY OF "DR. DRUMMOND'S COMPLETE POEMS," CIRCA 1926. HE DIED IN COBALT, ONTARIO, IN 1907, FOLLOWING A CEREBRAL HEMORRHAGE, WHILE IN THE COMMUNITY TO ASSIST WITH A SMALLPOX OUTBREAK, IN A MINING CAMP OF WHICH HE HAD AN INTEREST. HE HAD RACED FROM MONTREAL A FEW DAYS EARLIER, TO DEAL WITH THE OUTBREAK OF SICKNESS, BUT HE HAD ADMITTED NOT WANTING TO LEAVE HOME ON THIS OCCASION, SENSING SOMETHING WASN'T QUITE RIGHT WITH HIS HEALTH.

     THE BOOK ISN'T ABOUT MUSKOKA, ALTHOUGH I SUSPECT HE MAY HAVE PASSED THROUGH THE REGION AT SOME POINT(S) IN HIS LIFE. I BEGAN READING THE INTRODUCTION, AND I WAS INITIALLY STRUCK BY THE OPENING POEM, BY S. WEIR MITCHELL, ENTITLED "IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND." I WAS LOOKING OUT OVER THE BOG, NOT LONG AFTER SUNRISE, FROM MY OFFICE CHAIR, POSITIONED AT THE FRONT OF BIRCH HOLLOW. A FEW WORDS SEEMED TO FIT WHAT I WAS LOOKING OUT OVER, AND WHAT I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO RELAY TO READERS FOR YEARS, WITH LIMITED SUCCESS. OF MR. DRUMMOND, MR. WEIR WROTE: "PEACE TO HIS POET SOUL. FULL WELL HE KNEW, TO SING FOR THOSE WHO KNOW NOT HOW TO PRAISE, THE WOODSMAN'S LIFE, THE FARMER'S PATIENT TOIL, THE PEACEFUL DREAMS OF LABORIOUS DAYS. HE MADE HIS OWN THOUGHTS OF SIMPLE MEN, AND WITH THE TOUCH THAT MAKES THE WORLD AKIN, A WELCOME GUEST OF LONELY CABIN HOMES, FOUND, TOO, NO HEARTS HE COULD NOT ENTER IN."

     "WITH NATURE AS WITH MAN AT HOME, HE LOVED THE SILENT FOREST AND THE BIRCH'S FLIGHT, DOWN THE WHITE PERIL OF THE RAPIDS RUSH, AND THE COLD GLAMOUR OF YOUR NORTHERN NIGHT. SOME MYSTERY OF GENIOUS HAUNTS HIS PAGE, SOME WONDER SECRET OF THE POET'S SPELL, DIED WITH THIS PAST OF THE PEASANT THOUGHT, PEACE TO YOUR NORTHLAND SINGER, AND FAREWELL."

     NEIL MUNRO, IN THE BOOK'S INTRODUCTION, WRITES THE FOLLOWING OF WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND: "THE NAME OF CANADA TO ME, AS TO MANY OF MY RACE AND AGE, HAS A ROMANTIC CHARM THAT DOES NOT RISE FROM ANY GREAT HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS, BUT SURVIVES FROM EARLY YOUTH, THE TRUE PERIOD OF NATURAL MAGIC, OF UNQUESTIONING ILLUSIONS, WHEN GREAT MEN AND GREAT DEEDS HAVE LESS POWER TO STIR THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY, THAN A HINT, IN SOME TRUMPERY FICTION, OF WILD, FREE SPACES OF THE UNSPOILED WORLD. NOT TO PRENATAL GLORY DOES THE MEMORY OF YOUTH GO BACK, AS WORDSWORTH THOUGHT; NOT TO SOME PLATONIC EDEN WHERE, IN A PREVIOUS INCARNATION WE WERE AS ANGELS IN A SINLESS GARDEN; BUT TO THE EARLY, PRIMITIVE, AND ESSENTIALLY MUNDANE VALLEYS, PLAINS, AND HILLS THAT KNEW THE TOILS AND WANDERINGS OF OUR ANCESTORS. IT IS THE UNFENCED, UNINHABITED, AND TRACTLESS AREAS OUR SUBLIMINAL MEMORY RECALLS; THE LONELY MORNING FOREST, THE SHOUTING CATARACT WITH NO NAME, THE LAKES UNDISCOVERED, HUNTS PERILOUSLY FOLLOWED, EVENING FIRES WITH THEIR ASHES DEEP BELOW THE MOULD OF CENTURIES."

     MUNRO DRAWS AN INTERESTING PARALLEL, BETWEEN WHAT DRUMMOND EXPERIENCED IN CANADA, VERSUS HIS NATIVE SCOTLAND, WHEN HE WRITES, "IT WAS NATURAL THAT CANADA SHOULD EVOKE THE VISIONARY ROMANCE OF OUR YOUTH IN SCOTLAND, FOR YET THE MORE FAVOURED OF US SAW SURVIVING SCRAPS OF THAT ANCIENT UNPOSSESSED, UNCULTIVATED AND UNTAMED WORLD, WHEREOF SCOTLAND AND CANADA ALIKE WERE PARTS. IN BOTH LANDS NATURE WORE MUCH THE SAME ASPECT; CLOTHING THE BLUFFS WITH PINE, THE PLAINS WITH NORTHERN WILDFLOWERS, SPILLING HER STREAMS DOWN PRECIPICES, FILLING THE MOUNTAIN CREVICES WITH SNOW OR MIST, OF THE CREEKS AND BAYS WITH THE SAME ATLANTIC OCEAN. THE VERY COLD OF CANADA IN WINTER, HELPED TO RENDER HER FAMILIAR - WERE OUR HAPPIEST HOURS NOT THOSE WHEN THE NORTH WIND WHISTLED AND OUR LAKES WERE ICE? WE KNEW THAT, WITH THE FROST, TO MEN CAME GRANDEUR OF ENDURANCE AND RESERVES OF ZEST, INCOMMUNICABLE TO THE OFFSPRING OF THE SOUTH."

     "THE FOREST FOR WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND, AS FOR ME, HAD NOT RELINQUISHED ANY OF ITS EARLY POWER TO ROUSE HALF-AWED EXPECTANCY TO CHALLENGE, TO ALLURE," NOTED HIS FRIEND, NEIL MUNRO. "A CELT IN EVERY ARTERY OF HIS BEING, IT WAS NOT FOR HIM, AS IT NEVER WAS FOR ME, BY FAUNS AND FAIRIES THAT THE THICKETS, GLADES, OR VERGES OF THE SOLITARY LAKES WERE INHABITED, BUT BY THE CREATURES OF HIS BOYISH WORSHIP, BY LEATHER-STOCKING RATHER THAN THE DRYADS. NO ALIEN COULD DOUBT THE PERSISTENCE OF ROMANCE IN CANADA, WHO SAW THE JOY OF DRUMMOND IN IT, HIS DELIGHT IN THE VERY THINGS THAT THRILLED IN THE BOOKS OF YOUTH; IN GUIDES AND VOYAGEUR, IN CAMPS AND PORTAGES AND CANOES. HE WAS HIMSELF A SPORTSMAN, AND THE WOODS AND RIVERS THEREFORE, HAD A FASCINATION FOR ANOTHER PORTION OF HIS NATURE; BUT RIGHTLY OR WRONGLY, I FANCY HIS LOVE OF THE WILDS AND HIS SENSE OF KINSHIP WITH THE COURAGEOUS, HARDY, AND ENDURING MEN HE FOUND IN SPORTING CAMPS, WERE MORE OFTEN THE ATTRACTION OF THE LAURENTIAN LAKES AND WOODS, THAN THE FISHING AND THE SHOOTING TO BE GOT THERE."

     ONE DRUMMOND POEM CAUGHT MY ATTENTION ABOVE THE OTHERS, BECAUSE IT DEALS WITH EMIGRATION TO CANADA, AND THE PIONEERING PERIOD OF CANADA, WHEN MANY EUROPEANS AND BRITISH SUBJECTS, SAILED TO NORTH AMERICA TO TAKE UP LAND GRANTS, AND TO SEIZE THE OPPORTUNITY FOR BETTER LIVES, AND MORE PROSPEROUS ECONOMIES. THEY BROUGHT THEIR SOCIAL / CULTURAL / RELIGIOUS TRADITIONS WITH THEM, AND THIS IS WHAT WE MOST OFTEN FORGET, WHEN LOOKING AT THE HISTORY OF OUR REGION. IN A SMALL WAY, DRUMMOND ADDRESSES HOW THE TRADITIONS BLENDED INTO THE SOCIAL / CULTURAL RECKONING OF A NEW FRONTIER. IT DOES REMIND ME OF THE SETTLEMENT PERIOD IN MUSKOKA, MANY HUNDREDS COMING FROM IRELAND, SCOTLAND AND ENGLAND. NOW IN THE WORDS OF DR. DRUMMOND.

     THE POEM IS ENTITLED, SIMPLY, "CANADIAN FOREVER." "WHEN OUR FATHERS CROSSED THE OCEAN, IN THE GLORIOUS DAYS GONE BY, THEY BREATHED THEIR DEEP EMOTION IN MANY A TEAR AND SIGH - THO' A BRIGHTER LAY BEFORE THEM, THAN THE OLD, OLD LAND THAT BORE THEM, AND ALL THE WIDE WORLD KNOWS NOW, THAT LAND WAS CANADA. SO LINE UP AND TRY US, WHOEVER WOULD DENY US, THE FREEDOM OF OUR BIRTHRIGHT, AND THEY'LL FIND US LIKE A WALL - FOR WE ARE CANADIAN - CANADIAN FOREVER, CANADIAN FOREVER, - CANADIAN OVER ALL.

     "OUR FATHERS CAME TO WIN US, THIS LAND BEYOND RECALL, AND THE SAME BLOOD FLOWS WITHIN US, OF BRITON, CELT AND GAUL - KEEP ALIVE EACH GLOWING EMBER, OF OUR IRELAND, BUT REMEMBER, OUR COUNTRY IS CANADIAN, WHATEVER MAY BEFALL. SO LINE UP AND TRY US, WHOEVER WOULD DENY US, THE FREEDOM OF OUR BIRTHRIGHT, AND THEY'LL FIND US LIKE A WALL - FOR WE ARE CANADIANS, CANADIAN FOREVER, CANADIAN FOREVER - CANADIANS OVER ALL. WHO CAN BLAME THEM, WHO CAN BLAME US, IF WE TELL OURSELVES WITH PRIDE, HOW A THOUSAND YEARS TO TAME US, THE FOE HAS OFTEN TRIED - AND SHOULD E'ER THE EMPIRE NEED US, SHE'LL REQUIRE NO CHAINS TO LEAD US, FOR WE ARE EMPIRE'S CHILDREN - BUT CANADIANS OVER ALL. THEN LINE UP AND TRY US, WHOEVER WOULD DENY US, THE FREEDOM OF OUR BIRTHRIGHT, AND THEY'LL FIND US LIKE A WALL - FOR WE ARE CANADIAN, CANADIAN FOREVER. CANADIAN FOREVER - CANADIAN OVER ALL!"

     TO ME, IT SUGGESTS QUITE CLEARLY, THAT EVEN THOUGH DRUMMOND WAS PROUD TO BE A CANADIAN, HE MAKES IT CLEAR, THAT IT WASN'T THE CASE NEW CANADIANS HAD TO RELINQUISH THEIR CULTURAL HERITAGE TO BE A PART OF THIS DOMINION; AND THAT IT IS ALL PART OF THE CANADIAN MOSAIC, AND NATIONAL IDENTITY. WHICH BEGAN WHEN THE FIRST EMIGRANTS TOUCHED THE SHORE OF THIS NEW LAND; AND OF COURSE, FOR MUSKOKA, THE BEGINNING OF LARGE SCALE EMIGRATION, TO, IN REGIONS, SETTLE THE UNPOPULATED AREAS OF A SEA TO SEA DOMINION. IT REFLECTS POSITIVELY, THAT, FOR EXAMPLE, BEING OF IRISH OR SCOTTISH ANCESTRY, WAS AS MUCH, PART OF BEING CANADIAN; ACOMMODATING ETHNIC AND CULTURAL ORIGINS AS PART OF NATIONAL HERITAGE ITSELF. I LIKE THIS POEM BECAUSE IT SUPPORTS THE RESEARCH I'VE BEEN WORKING ON FOR DECADES, TRYING TO MORE FULLY APPRECIATE HOW MUSKOKA'S HERITAGE CHARACTER, DEVELOPED FROM THOSE EARLY HOMESTEAD CABINS AND NEIGHBORHOODS, WHERE ICELANDERS HAD SET UP ENCAMPMENTS, BESIDE FAMILIES MADE UP OF OTHER NEWLY EMIGRATED HOMESTEADERS, FROM SCOTLAND, ENGLAND, IRELAND, DENMARK, NORWAY, SWEDEN AND GERMANY; TO NAME SOME OF THE COUNTRIES OF ORIGIN FOR NEW CANADIANS. THEY BROUGHT THEIR RICH CULTURAL HERITAGE WITH THEM, INCLUDING THEIR WONDERFUL FOLKLORE. THIS IS OF TREMENDOUS IMPORTANCE, TO A CULTURAL HISTORIAN LIKE ME, TRYING TO UNDERSTAND HOW AND FOR HOW LONG, OUR EARLY SETTLERS RE-ESTABLISHED AND MAINTAINED CULTURAL IDENTITIES IN THE HEARTLAND OF MUSKOKA.

From the Archives - The Logging Industry Influenced Our Social / Cultural Character

THE LOGGING INDUSTRY CREATED ITS OWN LEGENDS - MUCH OF IT BUILT UPON AN UNFORTUNATE RATE OF MISADVENTURE

     IT REALLY COMES DOWN TO WHETHER A RESEARCHER IS PREPARED TO EXERCISE DUE DILIGENCE OR NOT. I'VE READ SOME REALLY SLOPPY EDITORIAL COPY IN THE PAST DECADE, AND STORIES ABOUT OUR REGION THAT WERE FULL OF INACCURACIES, AND GENERALLY WEAK OVERALL. FEATURE ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN THE LOCAL MEDIA, WHEN DEALING WITH HERITAGE MATTERS, MOST OFTEN LEAVE ME FUMING, BECAUSE THEY COULD HAVE DONE BETTER……IF THEY HAD BEEN GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY, BY THE PUBLISHER, OF SPENDING ADDITIONAL TIME ON A PROJECT, IN ORDER TO GET IT RIGHT. THE RECENT REPORTING ON WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM WAS WEAK AND THE EDITORIAL FULL OF QUESTIONS ABOUT THE HISTORIC OCTAGONAL HOUSE THAT COULD HAVE BEEN ANSWERED BY NUMEROUS FOLKS WHO WERE INVOLVED IN THE ORIGINAL RENOVATION. YUP, CONTRARY TO  BELIEF, WE'RE STILL HANGING ON. AN ARTICLE IN THE WEEKENDER, A WEEK LATER, BY REGULAR COLUMNIST KEN BLACK, WAS BANG ON, AND REITERATED MUCH OF WHAT I HAD WRITTEN ABOUT RECENTLY. HE SHOULD KNOW. HE WAS THERE DURING THE FIRST RENOVATION, AND THE CREATION OF BRACEBRIDGE'S FIRST MUSEUM. SO WHY WAS THERE ANY NEED TO ASK QUESTIONS OF MAGAZINE READERS, WHEN THEY COULD HAVE HAD ANSWERS ATTACHED…..WHICH WOULD HAVE BEEN MUCH MORE EFFECTIVE, FOR READERSHIP APPROVAL, EVEN WITH A BUDGET OF EDITORIAL SPACE. POINT IS, FINANCIAL PROTOCOLS ARE, I SUPPOSE, LIMITING A REPORTER'S TIME TO FREE WHEEL ON AN ASSIGNMENT. WHAT HAPPENS OF COURSE, IS THAT PROJECTS THAT WARRANT GREATER INTERVENTION, AND SURGICAL PROCEDURE TO GET AT THE POINT OF THE ISSUE, ARE NOW SURFACE DUSTED AND CALLED A RESPONSIBLE NEWS OR FEATURE STORY. I MIGHT BE ABLE TO DO THAT WITH SOME HISTORICAL FEATURES, BUT I'D HIT THE MOST IMPORTANT POINTS BECAUSE I LIVE THIS STUFF EVERY DAY. SO WHEN YOU GET WRITERS WHO WANT TO REPRESENT ASPECTS OF THE HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, AND THEY DECIDED TO DO IT ON A TIGHT TIME AND FINANCIAL BUDGET……WELL, YOU GET WHAT YOU GET. IN THE REALM OF THE FOLK HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, INCLUDING LEGENDS, LORE, AND THE PARANORMAL, SORRY FOLKS, THERE IS NO RESPONSIBLE SHORT CUT TO MEET A PUBLICATION DEADLINE. I'VE TAKEN MORE THAN THREE DECADES, INCLUDING APPRENTICESHIPS, TO BE ABLE TO TAKE A FEW LIBERTIES IN THIS AREA…..BUT ONLY A FEW. THAT'S WHY I KEEP A MUSKOKA LIBRARY CLOSE BY, AND IN REGULAR USE. AND I NEVER STOP TALKING TO SOURCE PEOPLE WHO KNOW MORE THAN I DO! THAT ADDS UP TO MANY, MANY HUNDREDS…..YET, IT'S WHAT HAS TO BE DONE TO FULLY UNDERSTAND A HISTORY THAT IS FAR MORE COMPLEX AND INTRICATE THAN MOST BELIEVE…..AS THEY BRUSH BY, WITHOUT TOUCHING THE SIDES, AND THEN CALL THEMSELVES LOCAL HISTORIANS. THAT BUGS ME MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE. DID I MENTION "CULTURAL MAPPING." MY TOWN THINKS THAT'S A GOOD IDEA. CASE IN POINT. WE'LL FEATHER-DUST SOMETHING THAT WILL DEFINE US. BALONEY. NONSENSE. A DOCUMENT THAT WILL HAVE A SHELF LIFE OF TEN MINUTES BEFORE IT IS REDUNDANT BECAUSE OF ITS SHORTFALLS.

     WHEN I WRITE ABOUT FOLKLORE, AND HOW IT DEVELOPED HERE…..AND IF IT WAS MORE ROOTED AND UNIQUE IN MUSKOKA THAN IN OTHER PLACES IN CANADA, I HAVE A BUZZ OF THOUGHTS ABOUT THE DISTINCT QUALITIES OF LOCAL FOLK TALES AND LEGENDS…..AND STORIES THAT INVOLVE THE PARANORMAL IN SOME WAY. WHAT DID MAKE MUSKOKA SOMEWHAT MORE UNIQUE, IN FOLKLORE, IS THAT IT WAS VERY MUCH A DIVIDED REGION ALMOST FROM THE BEGINNING. THE SPORTSMEN AND ADVENTURE SEEKERS WERE TRAVELLING TO MUSKOKA FOR THE GLORY AND ABUNDANCE OF ITS HINTERLAND HABITAT. GENERALLY, IT WAS NOT A PLACE FOR THE POOR AND DESTITUTE TO VENTURE INTO, JUST FOR HUNTING PURPOSES. THIS DID COME LATER, DURING THE HOMESTEAD YEARS. BUT SETTLERS COULD NEVER LIVE ON HUNTING AND FISHING ALONE. SHORTLY AFTER THE SETTLERS BEGAN ARRIVING IN THE REGION, AS FAR BACK AS THE LATE 1850'S, IN SOUTH MUSKOKA, THE SPORTING CREW, INCLUDING TIMOTHY EATON, OF THE EATONS DEPARTMENT STORES, LOOKED TO THESE HOMESTEADERS FOR ACCOMMODATION, AND SUSTENANCE.  IN FACT, IT WAS EATON, STAYING THE FAMILY OF THOMAS AITKEN, IN WINDERMERE, WHO SUGGESTED THE HOMESTEADER EXPAND HIS LODGINGS, TO ACCOMMODATE HUNTERS AND ANGLERS FLOODING INTO THE REGION. THUS, THIS POWERFUL BUSINESSMAN SEEDED THE IDEA FOR WINDERMERE HOUSE, STILL A PREMIER RESORT ON LAKE ROSSEAU. THE RICH WERE PUSHING THE NOT SO RICH, TO HURRY UP WITH DEVELOPMENT, IN LARGE PART, TO FACILITATE THEIR RECREATION. IT HAPPENED. IT WAS THE FOUNDING TIMBERS OF THE PRESENT TOURISM BUSINESS. BUT IT DEPENDED ON A DIVISION IN THE CLASSES, ORIGINALLY, TO GET THIS INDUSTRY HUMMING. IT CAN BE SAID, WITH SOME ACCURACY, THAT THE "THEM AND US" RELATIONSHIP BEGAN IN THOSE YEARS. AND THE SETTLERS WERE GRATEFUL, BECAUSE THEY COULD GET WORK, HELPING TO BUILD THE LARGE RESORTS, AND OPERATE THEM, AS WELL AS SUPPLYING THEM WITH RESOURCES, FROM FIREWOOD, TO MILLED LUMBER.

     THE INDUSTRY THAT IS MOST NEGLECTED BY "BRUSH-OVER" HOBBY HISTORIANS, AND THOSE GENERALISTS WHO BELIEVE TOURISM HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE END-ALL OF OUR ECONOMIC HERITAGE, WAS THE LOGGING / LUMBERING YEARS. AS FAR AS FOLKLORE GOES, IT WAS THE BIGGEST PRODUCER OF ORAL AND WRITTEN STORIES, AND FOR GOOD REASON. I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO MAKE SOME ATTEMPT, TO CALCULATE JUST HOW MANY SETTLERS, WHO HAD TO BECOME LOGGERS IN ORDER TO SURVIVE, PERISHED IN THE BUSH BY INDUSTRY MISADVENTURE. KNOWN AS ONE OF THE MOST DANGEROUS INDUSTRIES IN THE WORLD, EVEN BY TODAY'S STANDARDS, BACK THEN, THERE WAS NO SAFETY PROTOCOL TO SPEAK OF…….EXCEPT SAGE ADVICE EXCHANGED BETWEEN VETERAN AND NEWCOMER AT THE START OF EACH CAMP OR RIVER RUNS. THE PROBLEM OF COURSE, WAS THAT MANY OF THE PIONEERS TO OUR REGION, WERE FROM CITIES IN EUROPE, AND HAD NO EXPERIENCE FELLING THE GIANTS OF THE FOREST. MANY WERE MALNOURISHED TO BEGIN WITH, AND ALMOST ALWAYS UNDER-DRESSED, WITH DANGEROUSLY INADEQUATE FOOTGEAR, (BEING UNABLE TO AFFORD BETTER), AND WHILE UNDOUBTEDLY THEY COULD PURCHASE MATERIALS FROM THE COMPANY STORE, MOST COULD ILL AFFORD ANY EXTRAVAGANCE, EVEN IF IT IMPROVED THEIR CHANCES OF SURVIVAL.

     SO SHORTLY INTO THE HOMESTEAD EXPERIENCE, THE MALES OLD ENOUGH TO WORK IN THE LUMBER CAMPS, DURING THE WINTER CUT, LEFT THE WOMEN IN CHARGE OF THE CABIN IN THE MODEST CLEARING, AND SPENT THEIR TIME HACKING AWAY AT THE WHITE PINE OF THE THICK MUSKOKA FORESTS. THOUSANDS WERE INJURED. THOUSANDS WERE KILLED. THOSE WHO SURVIVED THE EXPERIENCE, SOME OF MANY SEASONS, THE STRESSES ON THEIR BODIES MADE THEM LESS PRODUCTIVE ON THEIR FARMSTEADS. OUT IN THE BITTER COLD, WITH SAWS AND AXES, AND SLEIGH-LOADS THAT NOT ONLY KILLED THE HORSES EMPLOYED TO DRAW THE TIMBER ALONG THE ICED-OVER TRAILS, THE LIVES OF THE LOGGERS WERE ALSO SHORT ONES. THERE WERE THOSE WHO GOT RICH AS A RESULT OF THE FARMERS OFF-SEASON LABORS, BUT IT RARILY MADE IT BACK TO THE HOMESTEAD…..AS THE COMPANY STORE CALLED ITS LOANS; AND LIQUOR IN THE VILLAGES, TOOK THE REST. IT WAS THE FRAMEWORK OF INCREDIBLE STORIES OF HARDSHIP, HEROES, IMMORTALITY, AND MORTALITY. IT WAS THAT KIND OF BUSINESS. RIGHT DOWN TO THE RIVER RUN, WHERE THE LOGGERS HAD TO GET INTO THE THICK OF LOG JAMS, TO RESUME FREE FLOW; PUTTING THEIR BODIES AND PHYSICAL RESOURCES AT GREAT PERIL, JUST TO MAKE MONEY FOR THE COMPANY. THERE WERE STORIES OF GREAT LOSS. FATHERS AND SONS LOST IN THE BOILING RAPIDS OF MUSKOKA RIVERS. HOMESTEADS LOST THEIR FARM HANDS, IN THE RIGORS OF THE WINTER AND SPRING CAMPS, AFTER BEING CRUSHED BY THOUSANDS OF POUNDS OF MUSKOKA LOGS; HIT ON THE HEAD BY A FELLED TREE…..OR TUMBLING AND ROLLING DOWN INTO THE TURBULENT SPRING RIVERS.

     I HAVE FOUND MANY RIVER-SIDE GRAVES, IN MY EARLY DAYS, EXPLORING THE MUSKOKA WATERSHED. I FELL INTO ONE, ADJACENT TO THE MUSKOKA RIVER, NEAR THE MOUTH OF LAKE MUSKOKA, AND I WOUND UP LAYING, AS THE BODY WOULD HAVE, WHEN COMMITTED TO THE GROUND AFTER THE DROWNING. THE ROUGH BOX, IF THEY EVEN WENT TO THAT EXTENT, HAD GIVEN WAY, AS DID THE EARTH, AND A PERFECT GRAVE SITE DEPRESSION CAUGHT ME BY SURPRISE. IT WAS COVERED OVER BY VEGETATION, BUT THERE WAS NO DOUBT WHAT IT WAS…..AS I'VE SEEN NUMEROUS SITUATED ABOVE THE RIVERS. THERE ARE STORIES ABOUT LOGGERS KILLED ON THE RAPIDS, OR IN THE AREA OF WATERFALLS, AND HOW AND WHERE THEY WERE BURIED ACCORDING TO THE ATTENDING CREWS. FACT IS, THEY HAD TO ACT FAST, BECAUSE OF THE RIGORS OF THE LOGGING RUN, GIVING THEM ONLY A SHORT TIME AT ONE CAMP SITE…..AND MANY MILES BACK TO THE HOME VILLAGES. THE BODIES OF THE DECEASED WEREN'T ALWAYS HAULED HOME FOR PROPER IDENTIFICATION BY FAMILY, AND A CHURCH BURIAL. THE VICTIMS WERE HAULED OUT OF THE WATER, IF THEY COULD BE FOUND AT ALL, AND SET INTO A HASTILY DUG GRAVE NEAR WHERE THE MEN ATE AND SLEPT. THE REASON FOR THIS, OF COURSE, WAS THAT THE HEAVILY TREED BUSH, AFFORDED VERY LITTLE ROOT-FREE SPACE, IN ORDER TO DIG A GRAVE, IN AN EXPEDIENT MANNER. SO HAVING CLEARED A CAMP SITE OVER MANY YEARS, REMOVING THE TREES, IT WAS EASIER TO DIG DOWN IN THESE SMALL CLEARINGS. SO IT BECAME QUITE CONVENIENT TO DEPOSIT THE DEAD VERY NEAR WHERE THE CAMP LOGGERS WERE HAVING THEIR LUNCH OR DINNER. THIS IN ITSELF GAVE RISE TO MANY STORIES, AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE….ESPECIALLY AROUND THE CAMP FIRE, IN THE ILLUMINATION OF FLAME AND OIL LANTERN, ON THE WINDSWEPT LAKE AND RIVER BANKS OF OUR REGION.

     THE INTENSITY OF THE INDUSTRY, AND ITS HUGE PERILS, GAVE RISE TO THE MORE FAMILIAR LEGENDS WE KNOW IN CANADA….THE FOLKS SONGS, AND GHOST STORIES THAT WERE TOLD AROUND CAMP FIRES, ABOUT LOGGERS STILL RIDING THE TIMBER DOWN THE CHUTES…..NOT KNOWING THEY'RE NOW, OF THE DECEASED. THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF REFERENCES, IN REGIONS WHERE LOGGING WAS A MAINSTAY INDUSTRY, OF HEROIC ACTS AND ACT-OF-GOD SURVIVAL STORIES, ALSO WRITTEN INTO LOCAL FOLKLORE. THERE ARE STORIES OF INCREDIBLE BRAVERY AND SUPER-HUMAN STRENGTH, AS I WILL RELATE IN UPCOMING BLOGS. LOGGERS WERE SAVED BY GOD'S GOOD GRACE, FROM BEING KILLED WHEN HIT BY FELLED TREES, THAT HAD GOT HUNG-UP IN OTHER PINES; RIVER DRIVERS WHO FELL INTO THE MASS OF TUMBLING LOGS, ONLY TO RESURFACE, UNSCATHED, FURTHER DOWN THE RIVER. THOSE WHO WERE CUT BY SAW AND AXE, WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED, BUT SURVIVED……WORKERS KICKED BY HORSES, BUT LIVED TO TELL THE TALE OF BEING AT HEAVEN'S GATE, BUT BEING TURNED BACK TO FULFILL THEIR MORTAL OBLIGATIONS. ONE BOOK, I USED TO OWN, WAS ENTITLED "FROM THE LUMBER CAMP TO THE MINISTRY," AND IT CONTAINED MANY POWERFUL STORIES, ABOUT THOSE WHO SURVIVED AGAINST ALL ODDS……AND CREDITED GOD FOR GIVING THEM ANOTHER CHANCE. THUS THEY HAD BEEN "SAVED" AT THE RIGHT TIME, TO APPRECIATE, AND CONFESS PUBLICLY THE SPIRITUAL GOOD GOD COULD BESTOW UPON HIS FLOCK.

     YOU CAN IMAGINE, I'M SURE, THE HORROR OF SEEING A GROUP OF LOGGERS, COMING UP THE LANE TO THE FARMSTEAD CABIN, PULLING A SLEIGH, WITH A WOOL BLANKET CONCEALING THE CARGO. A DROWNED OR FATALLY INJURED LOVED ONE WAS BEING BROUGHT HOME TO THE FAMILY…….FOR PROPER BURIAL. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A GRAND-FATHER, FATHER, SON, UNCLE, COUSIN OR NEPHEW, AND IT ALWAYS MEANT, ON TOP OF GRIEF, THE REALITY THE FAMILY FARM WOULD SUFFER FROM THE LOSS OF MANPOWER THAT SPRING. THAT WAS THE HARD REALITY OF IMPOVERISHED SETTLERS IN MUSKOKA, DURING THE YEARS OF THE FREE GRANTS AND HOMESTEAD ACT. THERE WAS A LOT OF SUFFERING, AND IT WAS THE INSPIRATION FOR SAD SONGS, MEMORIAL POEMS, AND THE CREATION, OVER TIME, OF LOCAL FOLKLORE. FREQUENTLY THE STORIES DID INVOLVE SOME ELEMENT OF THE SUSPECTED PARANORMAL; AND LIKE THE STORIES TOLD BY WRITERS LIKE WASHINGTON IRVING, AND CHARLES DICKENS, THERE WERE MORALS THAT UNFOLDED IN THE FOLKTALES EVOKING THOUGHTS OF GOD AND THE DEVIL, GUARDIAN ANGELS AND FALSE PROPHETS, GOOD DEEDS AND BAD, HOBGOBLINS AND SPECTERS, SOMEHOW INVOLVING THOSE LOST IN THEIR LABOURS.

     WHILE WE DON'T DRAW ON THE LOGGING INDUSTRY MUCH THESE DAYS, TO BROADEN THE SCOPE OF OUR BOOKS OF LOCAL HISTORY, IT ONLY REFLECTS ON THE STORY TELLER HOWEVER…..NOT ON THE WEALTH OF INFORMATION CONTAINED TO THE CONTRARY. IT'S GENERALLY, THE LAST PLACE GHOST HUNTERS LOOK, OR RESEARCH, TO PULL OUT THEIR FEW PALTRY STORIES, THAT APPARENTLY OFFER SOME DEFINITION TO OUR REGION OF THE PROVINCE……ON A BUDGET OF TIME AND INK  OF COURSE. BUT WHEN THE STAUNCH AND STALWART HISTORIAN GETS A RARE CHANCE TO COMMENT, IN OUR MODERN MEDIA, WELL, IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE ANY RESPONSIBLE REPRESENTATION OF FOLKLORE, OR THE PARANORMAL IN THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, WITH ONLY A PERIPHERY OVERVIEW; NOTHING SHORT OF A FULL EXAMINATION, OF ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT AND DEADLY INDUSTRIES WE HOSTED HERE, FROM THE EARLY 1860'S, WILL SUFFICE. YOU CAN'T DO IT ON A TIGHT BUDGET OF TIME, BECAUSE IT WOULD DENY A TRUTHFUL PRESENTATION OF THE LOGGING INDUSTRY, AT ITS MOST SUCCESSFUL AND MOST TRAGIC. MAKE NO MISTAKE; THE LUMBERING INDUSTRY WAS A HUGE ECONOMIC FORCE IN OUR REGION, AND IT MADE NAMES LIKE BOOTH AND DOLLAR THE STARS OF FLEDGLING NORTH AMERICAN INDUSTRIAL OUTPUT. AND THIS IS WHAT MOST OFTEN MAKES IT TO PRINT…..MORE SO THAN THE HUGE TRAGEDY OF WHICH IT WAS, I SUPPOSE, INCONVENIENTLY ASSOCIATED. MANY HOMESTEADS FAILED, BECAUSE MALE MEMBERS OF THE PIONEER FAMILIES WERE EITHER KILLED OR MAIMED BY THE VERY INDUSTRY THEY SOUGHT OUT, TO SAVE THEMSELVES FROM STARVATION……WHEN THE FARMS, AS THEY OFTEN DID IN THOSE DAYS, FAILED TO PRODUCE A QUALITY CROP. YES, IT WAS THE KIND OF DYNAMIC THAT PROVIDED THE FOLKISH RENDERINGS, TO BE SPUN INTO THESE TALES OF DEATH AND SURVIVAL. AS MUCH, THERE IS A PATINA OF THE LOCAL PAUL BUNYONS, THAT DESPITE THE SORROW THE LOGGING INDUSTRY CREATED, BECAME THE BRACING TIMBERS OF OUR COMMUNITIES……SOMETHING THAT IS FORGOTTEN TODAY, WHEN POPULAR HISTORIES ARE PENNED. IN SOME TOMES, IT'S AS IF THE BUSINESS AND POLITICAL CLASS BUILT THE COMMUNITIES THEMSELVES, WITH NARY A HOMESTEADER'S SHOULDER TO CARRY THE BURDEN…..NUFF SAID. WELL, I BEG TO DIFFER. AND I'VE GOT SOME FOLKTALES TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT.

Seymour Penson Original Art or An Unsigned Muskoka Landscape; In Quest Of Muskoka's Lost Treasures

A recently acquired Victorian era painting we think my be an original Seymour Penson landscape

A Seymour Penson sketch published in the 1879 Muskoka Guide Book and Atlas

COULD THIS BE A SEYMOUR PENSON ORIGINAL PAINTING? IT HAS ALL THE HALLMARKS!

SEYMOUR PENSON AND CAPTAIN ROGERS WORKED ON THE 1879 "MUSKOKA GUIDEBOOK AND ATLAS"

     Yes, I would like to own an original Lawren Harris, for fifteen minutes or so, and then release it to auction, and happily spend the four million dollars raised, to buy my wife nice stuff. Or something like this. Maybe a recreational vehicle or a trip to paradise wherever that is these days. Lawren Harris is the Canadian artist attracting most attention this week, after some record sales figures at an art auction. So when it comes to an original Seymour Penson, who I happen to think was of the highest calibre as a painter, and sketch artist, we might indeed own one that is of importance to Muskoka, as an heirloom art piece, but in terms of appraisal, it's a fair distance from a Lawren Harris original. Still, while I wouldn't be able to retire just yet, on the auction sale price realized, I guarantee you, it would be coveted by those who collect regional artifacts and general memorabilia.  Just not for four million bucks. I would be proud to own such a Muskoka reflective period, by an artist best known for his regional depictions as far back as the 1870's.
     In our regular hunt and gather adventures, in this region, and slightly beyond (we stick to a hundred mile radius), we are always looking for antiques with a local provenance. There is considerable money to be garnered by finding the best pieces, that as far as I'm concerned, are still out there waiting to be discovered. It's the way we've been operating since Suzanne and I opened Birch Hollow Antiques, in 1986, and I can't see us ever changing in this regard. We've been acquiring these relics for our collector friends, ever since, especially in the way of antiquarian and out-of-print Muskoka books; and we are responsible for placing these important finds with those having a family connection; this is the neatest part of the business, repatriating lost heirlooms with family who thought the possessions long gone, and never to be returned. This doesn't mean to suggest the pieces had been stolen, but instead, sold-off by family and estates, at a time when the antiques didn't appeal to those responsible for their ongoing stewardship. Most of the time however, we didn't get them from the initial sell-off, but instead, many years after the dispersal. We may find these antique pieces, having a Muskoka connection (others are unaware) in shops or even at garage sales, throughout Muskoka, and even as far south as Simcoe County, and especially during our frequent shopping in Huronia, where some of our best finds are made. This is exactly what's been happening for us, and you don't quit what works best.
     When Suzanne and I shop for our business, and our own collecting interests, we always remind ourselves before our first stop, that should we come upon any Muskoka heritage item, whether a painting, photograph, vintage sign, crested hotelware, steamship memorabilia, resort collectables, or just about anything else with a proven provenance in our district, that we must inform the other partner, and debate the investment value, and interest, a subject piece would generate amongst our collector friends. This comes after numerous occasions, of driving home, and being halfway to our driveway, before hearing about the interesting piece with a possible local connection, Suzanne forgot to mention, during our tour of duty. I've gone back the next day a dozen or more times, and on each occasion, I've made the subject purchase. I've made similar mistakes in identification before, as well, and yes, Suzanne made me drive back in case it was sold in the week before we came back to the same shop. We are very routined in this shopping thing.
     We know, for example, that finding and purchasing certain resort materials, such as having clear provenance to the Royal Muskoka Hotel, Ferndale, Bigwin Inn, or Windermere House, to name a few, we would have interested buyers immediately; such that we could contact them before or after the purchase, and be fairly confident they would want us to follow through. For pieces priced high, we may only act as go-betweens, to make sure our collector clients, get a fair chance to bring a significant piece back to Muskoka. A dealer at any number of antique and second hand shops we visit regularly, may not know just how rare or historically important these unidentified articles are; and that's why we have to be up on our antique identification skills. We study vintage photographs all the time, so that when we travel around, we have these as reference points to make comparisons. You may think this is an impossible task, but we know differently. Most dealers only react when "Muskoka" is imprinted on a book, bowl, hotelware platter, or noted on the back of a painting for example. We know Muskoka artists past and present, which does give us a pretty fair advantage, when it comes to identification. I can't give away our trade secrets except to share one example of a work, found regionally, that we believe is the art work of a fairly well known, yet under-celebrated artist of the pioneering era, by the name of Seymour Penson, the owner of the former Ferndale Resort, in Port Carling. He was the artist responsible for the graphic content of the 1879 publication, the "Muskoka Guidebook and Atlas," partnering with its author, Captain Rogers, of Port Sandfield. It is still one of the most sought after of all the Muskoka related books, and getting an original, with hand tinted maps, is most definitely a holy grail to the collector of local relics.
     Seymour Penson was also the artist of choice, in the early history of the Canadian National Exhibition, in Toronto, commissioned to paint the huge murals, that would back the orchestra, on stage, playing during the celebratory fireworks display, over the lake, at the Toronto landmark; although little mention is made of his amazing contributions to the festival of those days. He was an outstanding illustrator, who could have made a much greater name for himself in national art, had this been his intention. Penson's art work, in the form of lakeland depictions, appear on high quality china dishes, created in limited numbers, in the late 1800's. These are quite valuable and are prized by Muskoka collectors. You can view samples by conducting an online search.
     Several weeks ago we discovered a small but well executed Victorian era painting, of a waterway, with a sailing craft illustrated, that we believe is a Muskoka scene, and it contains many of the hallmarks associated with the work of Seymour Penson; especially the fact he liked to place hats on all the characters he included on his panels. This one is no exception, as the sailor in the boat, is wearing a hat similar to others worn, by people sketched in the panels, published in the Guidebook and Atlas. In fact, we have not been able to find a single sketch, or illustrated person, in any of the art pieces we have seen to this point, from Penson's hand, who isn't residing under a similarly proportioned hat. We haven't seen more than a fraction of his work thus far, in our research, but enough to use this as a means of identification in the early going. The art work itself is reasonably indicative of the romantic period of the Victorian art movement, and we can find dozens of examples of work that closely parallels what we believe to be an original Penson painting. It's not all that easy to prove without a signature, or the common initials of "S" overlapping "P", meaning "Seymour Penson." Often times, if a painting was done for a family member, or close friend, the artist didn't bother signing it, preferring possibly to craft a special note or card as a companion identification. As it turns out, the card is usually lost over time, and provenance becomes weaker and weaker as owners pass away, and the younger generation takes over stewardship. It was presumed the provenance of the otherwise, unidentified art work would always be known by family and friends, and would stay in their related households forever. There are pencil notations on the back of the academy style board, but much too faint to read even under heavy magnification.
     What it comes down to, other than wishful thinking, is for a family member who has become expert in Penson's art work, to agree that it is his work; or not! It would be, if proven his work, one of the best Muskoka finds we've had in all our combined years of business, and as for being locally important, it would be museum quality to say the least. We have published an illustration from the Guidebook and Atlas, sketched by Penson in the 1870's as a comparison. See what you think. Penson or "not a Penson," that is the question.
     In the meantime, we're off an running again, on the quest for the very next holy grail. This has been a banner fall season for exciting new discoveries; and by this, I don't mean vintage end tables, or hoosier cabinets....that don't fit well into modern condo decorating schemed. We have a lot of condo-dwelling customers who like small stuff; like a Seymour Pensive original, amongst other things like antiquarian books. Just so happens, we have those items in stock. Hey, we love our business because it is adventure filled, and a always a treasure hunt without the pirate's map. Even when we fail to turn-up much on some of these ventures, we never lose the zeal for the very next hunt and gather down the pike. And as you might expect this is a very personal, almost selfish pursuit, it is afterall, for the benefit of our customers, who seem to appreciate our taste in local antiquities.
     We'll keep showing our latest antique and collectable finds on our facebook page, and should you be interested in acquiring them, please contact us as soon as possible. Quite a few pieces are sold from facebook, which means they never arrive in the store as inventory. It pays to check us out daily to see what's up!
     Thanks for joining today's blog. Hope you're gearing up for a great Christmas season here in Muskoka or wherever you happen to be. But for gosh sakes, be careful out there, as the weather in these parts can change for the worse in a matter of minutes, as snow squalls cut west to east; and on Highway 11 and the 400 getting caught can be catastrophic. Slow down and enjoy the view. Remember to maintain a container of emergency supplies in your car, just in case you do become stranded at some time in the future.

For The Love of Steam Locomotives

FOR THE LOVE OF STEAM LOCOMOTIVES - "LADY IN BLACK" GETS HER DAY IN THE LIMELIGHT

1939 FEATURE ARTICLE IN THE CANADIAN NATIONAL MAGAZINE, WRITTEN BY BRIAN HODGKINSON

     The vintage image published above, was taken from the August 1936 issue of "Canadian National Magazine," and shows the locomotive known as "a Lady in Black," leaving Toronto's Union Station with "The International Limited." The original photograph was taken by "Jaycocks." Those were the days.
     I found the neat story in the beat-up edition of the vintage magazine, that I purchased from a local thrift shop a few months back. The issue profiles the extensive 1939 Royal Visit to Canada, of King George and the Queen, (Queen Elizabeth's mother), and the contribution made by the Canadian National to facilitate the long-distance travel of the party. The magazine was sent to company employees, with a letter from Canadian National management, thanking them for their co-operation and service, to make the Royal Tour successful, and their stay in Canada comfortable.
     The magazine itself is admittedly in pretty rough shape, but the front graphics, in full color, showing the Royal train engine, and the signed letter, plus a few excellent advertisements, are well worth salvaging. As is the article entitled "Lady in Black," by writer Brian Hodgkinson. It's published on page two of the Canadian National Magazine. As a fellow quickly turning-on to Railroadiana (memorabilia) as an elder statesman, this story is the perfect lead-in for me, and reminds me of all the trains I watched as a kid, sitting up on the freight platform of the Bracebridge Train Station; and all those snaking trains I heard blasting their horns on the approach or departure from our hometown, through the four seasons. Ah, the romantic din of a rumbling train; especially the long freight trains, that shattered the solitude of a winter evening. It was remarkable, to a rural kid, with train fantasies, especially for a lad who thought about jumping into an open box-car one day, and riding the silver rails to destinations unknown. The train horns blasting at the rail crossings, identified key moments of every day, when I lived in the town built along both embankments of the Muskoka River, parallel to the silver rails of the Canadian National Railway, and the grand train station that once stood on Main Street, across from the former Albion Hotel.
     To me, this is a romantic, sentimental, nostalgic mainstay article for all of us who have a "thing" for vintage railway collectables; and who adore the stories about the good old days of steam locomotion.
     In the words of writer Brian Hodgkinson: "The mind of every man and woman is an invaluable storehouse of pictures - pictures of past, present and future. Some are more beautiful than others. Some are more exciting and appealing but no matter what the extent or variety of the collection, they are all priceless. What is more, they cannot be stolen, or taken away. Like you - I own one of those storehouses and so I'd like to relate the thoughts of the imaginative pictures of one, who all his life, has been deeply fascinated by trains and all that they stand for.
     "I often wonder if the average traveller, after settling comfortably in his car seat, has any idea of the countless number of things that must be in flawless condition, to make his trip safe and comfortable. I don't believe very many of us have. Seldom, I believe, does one realize the miles upon miles of track that have to be checked regularly - the switches that have to be kept in perfect working order - the semaphores in the operation of which, there is no room for inaccuracy - the dispatchers and staffs to whose lot falls the job of keeping all lines clear, in whose hands rest the lives of those who travel by rail. A romantic figure is the dispatcher, a man whose job it is to see that the cars of a rumbling freight train, for instance, aren't transformed into firewoood, because of erroneous or mistaken train orders. Does one ever think of those who man the signals - or the master mechanics - of the thousands of shop men, trainmen, brakemen, conductors, firemen, engineers? It's a lot to think about I know - when one only has room for the excitement and adventure of two months riding the cushions, as I did, you suddenly become aware of these things."
     Brian Hodgkinson writes, "I suppose there are a hundred different professions or walks of life that could be called fascinating but just now I'd like to put into words some of the thoughts, which have passed through my mind as I stood and watched the different pictures presented, almost kaleidoscopically by one of man's most fascinating industries - the railroad. It is a word token of admiration and appreciation for one of the greatest personalities ever created by the hand of man. And in this I am confident that I will be joined by every 'tallow pot,' who ever fired an engine, by every 'hogger' who ever tugged at a universal bar. They speak of Hollywood as the city of glamor - they mark the lion as having a stout heart - and they refer to the opera house as the house of the ultimate in thrilling voices! Three remarkable characteristics of which any woman would be terribly envious and justly proud, and yet I've met just such a person. Come with me, just for a few moments, over to the railway yards. I'd like to introduce you to a personality which I feel sure, after you have been made thoroughly acquainted, will place you in a profound state of admiration and respect. This is a personality that is known to exist, yet by the majority of people is simply taken for granted. To the men, who really know her, she is known as the "Lady in Black'.
     Allow me to introduce you to 6045 - Doesn't mean much to you does it? Well, 6045 happens to be an exceedingly distinguished member of the Six-thousand-No.; not the 'Four hundred,' the six thousand; the class of railway locomotives known as the Six-thousand series, and commonly recognized as among the world's largest of these living giants of the road. Glamorous? Every single inch of her from rear coupling to pony truck. Stout hearted - you ask? Just let your eyes rove over those cylinders and driving rods and that boiler - you'll think twice before saying no. And we spoke of the opera as the ultimate in voice thrill, did we? Have you ever lain atop the catwalk of a rolling box car and heard a three-chime locomotive whistle call to everything within a ten mile radius? If not, you don't really know the thrill you've missed, until your spine has tingled with an indescribable excitement, brought on by that soul-inspiring voice. And oddly enough, our lady in black is not unlike us humans. She has her likes and dislikes, her temperamental moods, and like most women of good taste, is extremely particular about her health and appearance. I suppose by this time, you think me more or less a sentimental fool, glorifying such a thing as a pile of steel on wheels, - which only has one purpose; that of drawing a string of cars to a particular destination. But I dare you sometime, when talking to a railway engineer or fireman, to refer to a locomotive as a pile of steel on wheels. Just watch his face flame with indignation - his eyes look at you with an expression that holds only pity for your ignorance. You see, a locomotive is to a hogger what an infant is to its mother. He may not show it, but down deep is kindled a love that will never be extinguished as long as he can yank a whistle-cord, and open a throttle. To go further than that - as long as he draws a single breath. It's because he knows his charge so intimately, I suppose. In his mind's eye is a photographic picture of every component part, every bearing. Yes, and of every rivet."
     The train loving writer, Brian Hodgkinson, continues his story, noting, "I spoke a moment ago of the likes and dislikes of our Lady in Black. Among other things, her big weakness is live steam. Keep up her steam pressure and she'll work till she falls to pieces. Plenty of good grease and oil is to her what bread is to humanity. And like a spirited race horse she thrives on good trackage. Have you seen an engineer or fireman with a wad of waste in one hand and an oil-can in the other, going over every moveable part of the engine? There probably isn't a single thing wrong with 6045 but that doesn't make a bit of difference. Tap, tap, tapping here, tightening a bolt there, a drop of oil on a bearing, a dirt spot disappearing in a clump of waste. I've often thought that many people would envy the attention and fuss that is made over a locomotive, before it is released from the roundhouse for a run. More time and more meticulous care is taken in the cleaning maintenance and grooming of these ladies in black, than is ever spent on a growing infant or a thoroughbred racehorse. I trust that the next time you settle down in a comfortable sleeping car seat, you will give a thought or two to the head-end - when rolling along on a ribbon of steel, in all her glory, and glamor; with the heart of a lioness, and a voice with all the thrills of the opera, is a lady who, even in her weakest moments, steals the hearts of men. Her name? I'm sorry. She prefers to remain anonymous; she is simply known as "The Lady in Black'."
     I can remember stopping in the middle of a game of road hockey, as did every one else in the Hunt's Hill gang, holding those broken sticks, when on those bitter winter evenings, one of several trains thundered through town. The horn was so loud, and the engine so dominant over all other sounds, emanating from the entire town, that it was almost impossible to focus on anything else, even scoring a goal. At times it seemed like the powerful train light would soon be visible at the end of our street, the engine having left the tracks, crossed the river, climbed the hill, and like the movie "The Polar Express," was going to run right up Alice Street, and stop to give us a free ride northward. You know, to restore our faith in Santa Claus. But it was just the echo from the deep river basin, bursting over the north hillside, that amplified the train's passage. That and the fact there was the familiar winter-time clickety-clack of the train wheels, on the contracted steel rails. They would make little sound in the hot days of summer, when the rails actually expanded and narrowed the gaps so to speak. At this time of year it was quite musical and some of us hummed to the beat. It was an intrusive reality, living close to the tracks and the train station. I didn't mind the regular interruptions through the day, and in school it was a blessing let me tell you, because it always reminded me of the big wide world out there, that these trains were networking with in transportation services; connecting with ships and planes headed around the globe with freight and passengers. It provided, as they say, food for thought. In this regard, I had an insatiable appetite.

Booksellers and Historians: Dora Hood

BOOKSELLERS HAVE BEEN ALLIES FOR HISTORIANS AND AUTHORS SINCE THE BEGINNING

THE TOM THOMSON MYSTERY COMES TO A THE NEIGHBORHOOD OLD BOOK DEALER

     IN 2013 IT'S INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO FIND A CANADIAN ARTIST HISTORIAN / BIOGRAPHER, OR COLD-CASE SLEUTH, WHO HASN'T ADOPTED THE "MURDER" EXPLANATION, FOR THE DEATH OF LANDSCAPE ARTIST, TOM THOMSON, IN ALGONQUIN PARK'S CANOE LAKE, IN JULY OF 1917. FROM 1917, ON TO THE LATE 1990'S, MOST RESEARCHERS BELIEVED IN WHAT THE CHIEF CORONER HAD RULED, THAT JULY EVENING AT CANOE LAKE. THOMSON DIED THE RESULT OF ACCIDENTAL DROWNING, WHILE TRAVERSING CANOE LAKE FROM WHERE HE HAD BEEN LODGING, IN THE TINY INHABITATION KNOWN AS MOWAT, SPECIFICALLY AT SHANNON FRASER'S MOWAT LODGE. CERTAINLY INTO THE LATE 1990'S, THOSE BELIEVING HIS DEATH WAS THE RESULT OF FOUL PLAY, WERE SERIOUSLY OUT-NUMBERED BY THOSE WHO FELT THE ARTIST HAD PROBABLY BEEN PEEING OVER THE SIDE OF THE CANOE, (AFTER TOO MUCH BOOZE) AND SIMPLY TOPPLED INTO THE WATER……HITTING HIS HEAD ON THE GUNNEL, ON THE WAY DOWN. THUS, BEING KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS, HE HAD NO WAY OF SWIMMING OUT OF THE JAWS OF FATE.

     TODAY, THERE ARE FAR MORE HISTORIANS AND RESEARCHERS, CONNECTED WITH THE THOMSON STORY, WHO ARE OF THE OPPOSITE OPINION. THE LATEST BOOKS OUT, AND ARTICLES ON THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING HIS DEATH, POINT TO FOUL PLAY AS THE ONLY REASON, THE TALENTED ARTIST DIDN'T LIVE ON, TO PAINT MANY MORE AMAZING LANDSCAPES. YET EVEN AS THE INQUEST WAS BEING HELD, MINUS THE BODY (THOMSON HAD ALREADY BEEN BURIED BEFORE THE CORONER COULD ARRIVE FROM NORTH BAY), THERE WERE REPORTEDLY MANY IN ATTENDANCE, WHO DID NOT AGREE WITH THE OFFICIAL FINDING. THEY KNEW THOMSON AS A MORE COLORFUL, AGGRESSIVE PERSON, AND RECOGNIZED HE HAD ADVERSARIES IN THE CANOE LAKE COMMUNITY. FOR WHATEVER REASON, AND IT WAS PROBABLY ASSOCIATED WITH SMALL-COMMUNITY LOYALTIES, THE CORONER, DR. RAINEY, DIDN'T RECEIVE ONE RESPONSE WHEN HE ASKED IF ANY ONE IN THAT ROOM, HAD REASON TO CONTRADICT THE FINDINGS, AND THE THEORY OF ACCIDENTAL DROWNING. SO WHILE THERE WERE SIGNIFICANT CONCERNS, ONLY DAYS AFTER HIS DEATH, THAT THOMSON HAD BEEN MURDERED, IT WOULD BE ALMOST A DECADE BEFORE ANY OF THESE CONCERNS WERE EXPRESSED, TO SOMEONE WHO COULD TAKE IT FURTHER THAN GENERAL CONVERSATION.

     WHILE WORKING ON A BIOGRAPHY OF THOMSON, WELL KNOWN CANADIAN WRITER AND RESEARCHER, BLODWEN DAVIES, BEGAN FINDING SOME DISCREPANCY IN THE STORY OF THOMSON'S FINAL HOURS. IT ACTUALLY BECAME SO GLARING, THAT THE THOUGHT PROBABLY CROSSED HER MIND, ABOUT WHY THESE RESIDENTS AND FORMER ASSOCIATES HAD NOT RAISED THE CONCERN TO THE CORONER, WHEN THEY HAD THE CHANCE. WHO WERE THESE PEOPLE PROTECTING? KEEP IN MIND, MANY IN THAT ROOM WERE CONSIDERED THOMSON'S FRIENDS. IT IS REPORTED THEY WERE MUMBLING ABOUT MURDER AMONGST THEMSELVES, MINUTES AFTER THE CORONER ENDED THE INQUEST.

    DAVIES WAS SO DISTURBED BY WHAT SHE WAS HEARING, THAT SHE GATHERED UP THE CONTENT OF THE STORIES, AND APPROACHED THE ONTARIO PROVINCIAL POLICE, ASKING THEM TO RE-OPEN THE COLD CASE. AFTER A PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION, THE MATTER WAS RULED A NON-STARTER. NOT FOR DAVIES, BUT AS FAR AS THE OFFICIAL PROVINCIAL STAND…..IT WAS GOING TO REMAIN AS ACCIDENTAL DROWNING. SHE WAS PRETTY MUCH AWARE THERE WERE A NUMBER OF ROAD BLOCKS BEING ERECTED TO STOP THIS FROM GAINING MOMENTUM. THIS HAS BEEN A CONTINUING ISSUE IN THE INVESTIGATION OF JUST HOW TOM THOMSON DIED. IT IS KNOWN THERE WERE HIGH RANKING PROVINCIAL OFFICIALS WHO REFUSED OUTRIGHTLY TO RE-OPEN THE CASE, EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS COMPELLING EVIDENCE OF MURDER. BUT HERE IS WHERE A BOOKSELLER ENTERS THE HISTORY BOOKS, ON THE THOMSON FILE.

DORA HOOD MEETS AUTHOR BLODWEN DAVIES

     "Fame came, as everyone knows, to Sir Fredrick Banting, at a very young age," wrote Toronto Bookseller, Dora Hood, in her 1958 biography, "The Side Door - Twenty-six Years In My Book Room," published by the Ryerson Press. "With the perfecting of the discovery of insulin by him, in association with Dr. C.H. Best, he emerged from the sheltered life of the laboratory into the turmoil of publicity. When I met him this phase, so overwhelming to one of his nature, had passed and he, through his new friends, the artists of the Group of Seven had discovered another talent. He reveled in his ability to paint the wild scenery of Northern Ontario and Quebec and this led him to begin his collection of books on exploration. I believe he was happier then than at any time in his short life." (Banting was more than a proficient painter, and his works today sell for many thousands of dollars, at fine art auctions in Canada)

     She notes that, "Among the friends who influenced his taste was Miss Blodwen Davies. At that time, about the early 1930's, she had won a reputation as a writer collecting material for a life of Tom Thomson, the artist who had lately met a tragic end in the northern woods. Many years after Miss Davies told me Banting had helped her theory of how Thomson met his death. Together these two interesting persons visited the Book Room. They generally came in the evening when they had plenty of time to examine the bookshelves. His taste for first editions of fur trader journals, such as Hearne was expensive, but he wisely did not deny himself this extravagance.

     "He had an ambition to study and perhaps later write a paper on Indian medicine and remedies. I doubt, however, that he ever got beyond the desire. Miss Davies' interest in artists and local history led her to other shelves and between these two brilliant personalities I was kept on my toes and enjoyed my evenings. Once Banting asked me to see his collection and to give him some advice as to how he should proceed. We spent an interesting hour in his studio-study-library, and alas, that was the last time we were to meet. With the breakup of his first marriage and his home life, he ceased to collect Canadiana. Had he lived through the war I feel sure he would have returned to the interests of this happy period of his life. Dr. Lloyd Stevenson, in his biography of Banting, refers to his visits to the Book Room. Thus is this small business immortalized."

     It is more than just an old rumor that Blodwen Davies was part of the marital issues at this time.

     The theory that Blodwen Davies and Dr. Banting had been examining, in regards to Thomson, was that he had most likely met with foul play, and that accidental drowning could not explain all the circumstances of his mysterious disappearance at mid-day on a calm lake, on a waterway he had traversed many hundreds of times. In later years, Judge William Little would use her theory, in the 1950's, and arrange an informal (without proper permission from the Park Authority) exhumation of the allegedly empty Mowat gravesite. It has been documented that Thomson's body had been moved from the Mowat plot, to a family gravesite in Leith, Ontario, as arranged by his brother George Thomson, and Tom's girlfriend, Winnie Trainer of Huntsville. Judge Little, of course, found that the empty grave was still occupied. There were skeletal remains found in what appeared to be the same coffin that had been afforded Thomson in July 1917. The name plate hadn't been inscribed, due to the fact the funeral had occurred quickly because of the decomposition of the body. An undertaker, by the name of Churchill, had been hired to move the body, but there have been many doubts about what was in the metal shipping casket, taken from Canoe Lake by train. Most likely enough Algonquin soil to make it seem a body was inside. In the early 1970's, Judge Little wrote the book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," based in part of the suspicions raised initially by Davies, and Banting in the 1930's. A CBC documentary was aired on the allegations made by Judge Little, and once again, Blodwen Davies was mentioned in the film, as one who had suspicions Thomson had been murdered.

     Ever more books are written about Thomson and his demise, and most theories today, shine an adverse light on Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser, as being the one most likely to have killed Thomson. It is believed that a drunken fight broke out between the two men, at the Mowat Lodge, over an outstanding amount of money owing to Thomson, and the bigger man, Fraser, had knocked the artist to the floor, where he hit his head on a fire grate……knocking him unconscious. There is a scenario discussed amongst Thomson historians, that Fraser and his wife loaded Thomson's body in a canoe, towed it with a rowboat out into Canoe Lake after midnight, and dumped the body and set the canoe adrift. It is also suggested they had lashed a weight to his legs with fishing line, but the action of the waves on the rocks below, severed the body from the anchor. The bottom line. It's much easier to put forward the "murder" theory today, than it was in Blodwen Davies' day, when she was scorned for suggesting it, and the same held, much later for Judge Little…..yet both books today still serve as reference for a host of Thomson books.

     The author of the bookseller's biography, Dora Hood, wrote, "Occasionally during my busy years in the Book Room I thought it might be worthwhile to record my experiences. But beyond keeping a brief diary for a few months of the requests of my callers, I made no effort. Two years after I retired, Mr. Stewart Wallace, who succeeded me in the business, suggested that I write a book on the subject of buying and selling Canadian books. By then I had begun to miss the stimulation and excitement of my book work and decided to try my hand at authorship. I had my letter files, and many of my old customers were still coming into the Book Room or buying by mail from the catalogues, and it was therefore not difficult to recall incidents of my former occupations. As more than one third of my life had been devoted to books and collectors it was chiefly a matter of selection, which proved quite a formidable task. Many of my collectors came to have a talk (while in Montreal) and I thoroughly enjoyed it, for I am convinced, that by and large, book collectors are among the most delightful people one can meet."

     She writes, "My decision to retire came about as swiftly and easily as had my determination to be a bookseller. I was seated as usual at the large table in my office surrounded by piles of books, and was about to take up my pencil to trace the words 'Catolgue 47,' when suddenly the thought came, 'You've done this long enough. Why not do something else in what remains of your life?' The business was still flourishing, and until that moment I was conducting it with as much interest and vigor as I had from the beginning, but the incentive was now lacking. My two children were married, and I began to realize that  I must seek companionship outside my house and work. I was anxious, too, to give more time to the work for the deaf. I had been partially deaf myself for many years and was intensely interested in what is now known as the Canadian Hearing Society, and had been a member of the board for some time. On my retirement I was able to act for three years as President of the Toronto Women's Auxiliary of this society.

     "As I looked back over the years, I knew how fortunate I had been. Although not endowed with unlimited strength, my health had been remarkably good. I had not made a fortune but I had been free from financial crises and had no bad debts, which speaks well for book buyers as a class. i had customers all over the free world who honored me with their business and those whom I met in my office were highly intelligent and nearly all of them friendly. But like the 'folios and quartos,' there seemed no rest for the bookseller as long as his door remained open and his telephone connected."

     She notes in conclusion, "All beginnings must have endings. But it seemed unthinkable and above impossible simply to bring the business to an end. I began to look for a successor. Once again, with very little effort on my part, events were favorable, and I was able to pass the business on to the one person I knew who would more than do it justice. The name has been carried on and the quarters remain the same. An old customer returning would scarcely notice any change except that now a well known and scholarly man sits at the office table. Dr. Stewart Wallace, on his retirement in 1954, after thirty years of distinguished work as Librarian of the University of Toronto, has become owner and proprietor of the Book Room."

     "Never again shall I feel as pleasant a glow of accomplishment as I did in bygone years on reading such letters as - 'Dear Mrs. Hood: Last night I spent a very pleasant hour perusing your fine catalogue. I have all your catalogues and treasure them as the most important series of Canadiana offering that have been issued. I would like to purchase any of the following that are still unsold…..yours sincerely, F.C.K."

     You can search for this book, by visiting the Advanced Book Exchange collective of old book dealers, and typing in the author and title. Suzanne and I buy books from the ABE with confidence, so I can heartily recommend their wonderful service to bibliophiles around the world.

     In tomorrow's blog, we're headed to Paris, France, to visit two of the most historic booksellers, from the early to mid years of the 1900's. The places James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald liked to hang-out. It will further enforce, why some of us get hooked on the book collecting - book selling thing. Dora Hood's departure from the business was a class act. I'd be kicking and screaming; my wife having to throw me over her shoulder, to separate this bibliophile from his enterprise.