A Family Business With All The Trimmings

A Family Business With All The Trimmings  - Especially The Shared Philosophy To Let The Good Times Roll

By Ted Currie (On Behalf of the Currie family, Suzanne, Andrew and Robert)

     Yes, this is going to be a year of, well, "The Biography." I think, as a voyeur, you will find it, at the very least, interesting and a tad strange. Hopefully, "strange" in a good way. We won't be insulted if you should feel this way, as we are eccentric to the core. Stoic to a fault, but eccentric because it feels right. It has always felt good and wholesome, and has been honed through years as more of a virtue, than a drag on success. We have our critics but who doesn't? We would never try to sell you on the merits of becoming a dealer of old stuff, as a profession, because it has been a precarious journey thus far, with pitfalls that might have even thwarted Indiana Jones. It is a relationship with history that must, in terms of commitment, be entered upon with eyes wide open, and a marriage-like relationship, that has its profound good times and bad. But passion carries forward none the less.
     The biography, dating back to my own early years in the antique trade, has been on the proverbial back burner for at least a decade. Now that Andrew and Robert have passed their first dozen years in this business pursuit (at home and in our present shop), and wish to continue into the future, it seemed like a good time to hammer it all out, if only for our benefit. In order that we might, when time allows, re-educate ourselves about the circumstances that lead up to our family's rather bold and unrestrained foray into the antique and collectable profession. To read-up on how and why we got from "there", our origin in this business, to "here" the present tense, in the quest for a meaningful existence. And yes, to make a wee profit as thin, at times, as it was, in the beginning.
    Our sons Andrew, and Robert, and their "Curries' Music" enterprise, situated so nostalgically, and comfortably, in the former digs of the historic Muskoka Theatre, on Muskoka Road, here in Gravenhurst, have completed their first full decade in the retail trade in this location. And on July 1st of this year, 2017, will herald their 11th anniversary. But for them, it started several years earlier, when Andrew launched his side of the business from our Gravenhurst home, offering guitar lessons and some used stringed instruments with sundry other accessories. But both Andrew and Robert had been working their way up in the local music community, and were no strangers to concerts and variety shows at the Gravenhurst Opera House, as part of events sponsored by Gravenhurst High School, where both boys attended and later graduated. Both lads entered the business world, in the field of vintage music and entertainment, only months after their respective graduations, investing back in their hometown. But truthfully, their beginning in the music industry, especially in the area of vintage instruments, can easily be traced back to their roots. They were the offspring of two hard core antique collectors and dealers, who took them routinely on antique hunts around the region every weekend of their young lives. I would carry one or the other in a "snuggly" apparatus, strapped to my stomach, in order to transport them through antique shops and malls.
      They were brought up in a house full of old stuff, and as Suzanne and I worked as operational managers at Woodchester Villa and Museum, in Bracebridge, and then for the Crozier Foundation, curating the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, the boys didn't have much of a chance to see or experience anything other than history and heritage in all its glory. Daily play, for the most part, was a contempory venture, with the exception that they had a large collection of vintage items, especially Dinky Toys, vintage Hot Wheels (cars), and old game boards. They didn't seem to mind. Of course, we never asked them either.
    To make it more interesting, and atmospheric in our household, Suzanne and I were both active regional historians during these years, (still, to this day) and we produced mountains of history-related editorial material for a variety of local publications. To recognize the turn of the new century, back in 2000, we wrote and published five small regional texts, including the biography of my book collecting mentor, Dave Brown, whose name will appear often as this biography advances. If our sons appear a little old for their age, we may have contributed to this characteristic.

     It might seem an act of considerable narcissism, pomposity and arrogance, to write such a biography, when we have no major accomplishments and awards to validate and warrant such an overly intimate text. Or to expect others to find even small morsels of intrigue and adventure, in what, by its very nature, will seem unremarkable when compared to others; biographies possessing sordid confessionals, accounts of scandal, sex, violence, with, of course, latent remorse. We have no scandal to offer our readers, and certainly no remorse about what we have done in this business thus far, or are likely to do in the near, or even distant future. You never know. But if you know my writing style from past immersion, on this site, or in the publications I have worked for, past and present, and of course, my penchant for unique story-telling, I guarantee this text will have its high impact moments, if only to raise a laugh at our expense.
     But here's the thing. After more than forty years in the antique trade, in one form or another, I had a definitive moment with son Robert yesterday, that seemed like the perfect place to begin this biography. If nothing else, it proves my assertion, that I love being involved in both the heritage and entertainment businesses, and cherish my modern-day position, working as both a picker for Suzanne, for her side of the antique shop, and for Andrew and Robert, doing odd jobs lodging here in their incredibly inspirational music studio. Including work on this manuscript. Yesterday afternoon, Robert turned to me in a panic, and asked, "Dad, do you have your glue stick handy?" Handing me, at the same time, a record-cover that had come unglued, on one side, needing an urgent repair. The vintage record, in question, would have fallen-out of the cover unless it was repaired, and thus, couldn't be put up for sale in the shop. Point of all this, is that I was delighted by the request, and have repaired hundreds of books and record covers as part of my function as a senior member of the family business team, who craftfully knows how to wield a glue stick and eraser. It might seem like a come-down for a veteran antique dealer, but believe me, I consider it an honor to work alongside these fine folks, who have taken an idea, a business plan, and a lot of gathered experience, and turned it all into a pleasing, rewarding enterprise. But yet, we are still a million dollars shy of being millionaires. We're okay with this, as we enjoy or daily work, which admittedly, seems more recreational than it probably should.
     The writer of this lengthy tome is forever humble in this regard, and everso pleased to be a part, however small, of this legacy. I hope this enthusiasm and pride reads-through our story, because this, most of all, is what we wish to share. Wouldn't it be great if we all loved to go to work each day, such that we wished to extend it into the after-hours and on free weekends. This, in reality, is our story.
     At a few minutes to ten o'clock this morning, a few days after Boxing Day, with the Christmas spirit still whirling about the shop and warming our hearts, a visitor to our place of business, began pulling at the still-locked front door. Under normal circumstances we will open the door despite the fact we have an entrance clogged with the items we will eventually lift outside that specific day. We have always done this as a courtesy, and we kind of expect the same consideration, on days, for whatever reason, we find ourselves behind our time. This, by the way, is the privilege of owning your own business, and enjoying the whole affair of being an entrepreneur, and we make no apology for a five to ten minute delay opening the door. We are a family business and sometimes families have issues to sort, and pets, two lovely little dogs, to rein-in, before we can get on with the next most important project of any given day.
     So this morning, after the eager-beaver customer tugged at the door, a second and third time, (as if once wasn't enough) getting our attention most definitely, we also didn't miss the nasty comment he made, upon being temporarily thwarted from shop entry. He suggested to his partner, standing to the side, loud enough for us to hear through the closed door, that it was most likely the shop would never open again. Thus, because we weren't open at the moment he desired entry, our longstanding successful main street shop would be closed forever. Well sir, he and his partner didn't get early entry that's for sure, and so far, after a half hour being open, they've never showed up to see if our shop was truly "closed forever." If he had showed-up and made a comment about our tardiness, within earshot of this writer, he would have been forced to listen to one of my often repeated diatribes, about the true benefits and privilege of free enterprise and democracy, and that in case he hadn't noticed it, our operation is not affiliated with government, or government services.
    We represent the good graces and pleasantness of vintage music, antiques and collectables, and we are about as relaxed in this pursuit as we can get, without sitting in arm chairs listening to good music with our mates; and still keep our customers content with the same kind of due diligence we've been providing for well more than a decade. We have a loyal following after all these years, so this being relaxed-thing, seems to have found enough kindred spirits to keep us happily in business. We have no plan to change our philosophy in this regard, and as this is a happy place for all who work and attend here in one fashion or another, we want our visitors to share the experience of goodwill both socially and culturally. Of course, some folks want us to do handstands and juggle flaming batons, and we inform them as gently as we can, that they should seek another shop where those standards are upheld and on display.
     We had another less than kind customer, inform us that our shop smelled like cat-pee, and was worried that the record he was about to buy was going to carry the odour home with him. Needless to say, son Robert's chin hit his chest, being so shocked at the ignorance of the fellow in front, he couldn't muster a response for some time. Not wishing you see, to be rude in response, he suggested that the customer shouldn't buy the record if he was worried about this, and in the meantime, there were more unflattering comments of the same nature, equally hurtful to a family with high standards as far as cleanliness. There are admittedly smells in an old building and with vintage ware that will at time seems musty, but as owners of four cats, with a history of housing felines, believe me, we know the difference between must and cat urine. We could only suggest that the fellow and his partner that day refrain from entering a shop they found so offensive. They're certainly entitled to exercise this privilege. We could only hope the fellow felt better about venting this opinion, and in the process insulting us. Son Robert is a diplomat and a pacifist, and would never have retaliated with any sharp retort, unless it had become threatening. We've had this happen as well, and we are quick to move these unhappy folks to the exit, suggesting they never ever return. Is this bad business practice? Isn't the customer always right? We don't subscribe to this opinion, and once again this is the privilege of business ownership in a democracy.
     I do love it though, when a disgruntled customer, hopped-up on self-righteousness, asks one of us Curries to point out the business manager, in order to lodge a complaint. Andrew will point to me, Suzanne or Robert, and they will point back at the other, in order to have a little fun at the same time as we're about to be reprimanded. "But which one is the owner," they ask. If the four of us are standing together, we point at each other as being the big cheese. This is usually enough to cause the customer to defer and disembark, and although this may violate some business protocols, on the other side of the coin, diffuses a situation that could get ugly. We never mind admitting our faults but we won't take crap that we don't deserve, simply on the basis that some customers like to assign blame for not getting their idea of royal treatment.
     This is, strangely enough, the beginning of what hopefully, will be an attempt in rough, of writing-out a long promised biography and business overview, covering my start in the antique profession and our sons' foray into the business world selling vintage musical instruments and collectables. I started writing this out ten years ago, shortly after Andrew and Robert began their retail business in the former Muskoka Theatre building, on Gravenhurst main street, opposite the historic Opera House and former Carnegie Library. Suzanne, as the expert researcher she is, was able to retrieve these old files that detail how it all began for Andrew and Rob more than a decade ago, and by what philosophy the business plan was based. Simply stated, it was about developing a truly home town business, loyal to the local population, as offered-up by two Muskoka-born businessmen wishing to invest in the area they grew-up and went to school. But as we instilled in them at a young age, through the rigors and joy of running our family antique business, they had to marry their enterprise in all ways and forms, in order to run it with the kind of passion that over-rides the shortfalls of operating a store in a region known for its seasonal economy. If they loved their work, their work place, and their role in servicing the needs of local and visiting musicians, then they would have enough passion to push through the downturns of earnings, and allow lifestyle to unfold with all its resident benefits. More than enough by the way to trump the disadvantages and shortfalls that we tutored them about, having had decades of experience ourselves on how to cope with the summer season boom, and the shoulder-season blues. This was accomplished a long time ago, and I defy anyone who knows us, or doesn't, to find any less passion for our business, as a result of compromises and adjustments we've had to made in order to survive and, I dare say, thrive in business.
     The antique and collectable profession isn't an easy one to marry, and adopt as a lifestyle. If however, you are of this historically minded ilk, and have a genuine interest in how past generations lived, worked and entertained themselves, becoming a dealer of these relics is a more comfortable fit. What I see today in the antique community, are more folks joining the profession who are doing so because of the investment potentials, and for speculation purposes only, which seldom if ever works to the desired end result. You really do have to walk the walk, as they say, and immerse into the profession as if wearing a comfortable pair of pants and jacket, or the most comforting pair of shoes you've ever possessed. I have never separated from my relationship with history or antiques since I opened my first shop in Bracebridge, back in the fall of 1977. But I must have known what lay ahead, because in earnest, I began scrounging for interesting collectables from about six years of age, after my mother Merle released me to the stewardship of our Burlington neighborhood, where "garbage day" was a picker's paradise, and few seemed too worried I would hurt myself treasure hunting garbage can to can. It may not seem to some readers, that this is a flattering place to start our biography and present business overview, but to omit this reference, would be to sadly eliminate the "seeding part" of my own business history, and in turn, corrupting the rest of the story up to and including the present. It may seem a little repetitive at times, and this is due to the fact I am writing these editorial pieces for a daily blog and facebook posting, requiring a little updating and revisitation to maintain continuity. The intention is to eventually publish this material in book form, to satisfy our customers' interest in buying a copy mostly for the music component, a credit of course, to the success of Andrew and Robert to satisfy the needs of their clients in the entertainment business. It may take a year but it will be done, but you will be able to read it first and for free over the next year, if you stick with this online site.
     As a family, we know that the antique and collectable business, whether in the field of Canadiana, or music heritage, is full of resident enchantments, coincidences, assorted strange events, encounters and deja-vu moments that defy logical explanation. It is loaded with situations some would call paranormal, and supernatural, and a little haunted at times just for good measure. This is part of the business of buying and selling old stuff, that once belonged to others, dating back generations and even centuries, that adds color and dimension to our enterprise that is hard to explain; but often requiring not explanation, but rather joyful acceptance on our part, as being the very reason we have joined and stayed with this profession for all these glorious and exciting years.

     To commence this biographical text, tomorrow, we decided, during a family meeting this morning, to re-publish a story I wrote just over a year ago, about our good friend, Canadian actor, James Carroll, best known for his characterization of Max Sutton, on the historical series, "Wind at My Back," which aired on CBC in the late 1990's. His connection with our family, however brief, was profound and life-changing, especially in the music and entertainment component of our business. A chance meeting with this Huntsville radio host, last Christmas season, and a subsequent in-studio performance, at Hunter's Bay Radio, by Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers, marked a huge change in attitude for all of us involved on that day, and for the entire year following. James Carroll would lose his fight with cancer a few months later, but what we had been blessed with, in that short time, was an enlightenment we would have woefully missed without his kind mentorship and encouragement. I wrote numerous editorial pieces during this time, but one set the stage for a more intimate relationship that made all the difference to our relationship with the actor / broadcaster. Every evening since Christmas, we have been watching episodes of the box set of "Wind At My Back," and feeling warm inside our introduction to the show and James Carroll, happened at such an important point in our lives. Join us again tomorrow for a resumption of this story.  

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 and New Years In Bracebridge

NEW YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE

ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS - THE CLOCK TOWER - LOST LOVE - STRANGE TOMORROWS AND FOOTSTEPS ACROSS A PARK

OFTEN THE MOST POIGNANT MEMORIES ARE SAD ONES. TIMES OF DISENCHANTMENT. MOMENTS WHEN IT SEEMS NOTHING COULD BE As DEVASTATING AS WHAT HAD JUST TRANSPIRED. I'VE GOT A LOT OF MEMORIES ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE, BUT THE ONE I CAN'T SHAKE, MARKED THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING BETTER. I JUST DIDN'T KNOW IT AT THE TIME. I COULDN'T HAVE. THE ATMOSPHERE WAS TOO MURKY WITH SELF LOATHING, SELF PITY, AND AN UNQUESTIONABLE INKLING TOWARD SELF DESTRUCTION.

IT WAS JUST BEFORE NEW YEARS THAT I REALIZED A HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEART AND I WERE OFFICIALLY A "FORMER" COUPLE. I HAD NO WARNING. FOR FIVE YEARS WE'D BEEN DATING, AND OUTSIDE OF THE TYPICAL ROCKY ROADS EVERY COUPLE EITHER ENDURES OR FAILS AT, WE HAD BEEN ABLE TO WEATHER THE PREVAILING STORM. AS A COUPLE, WE WERE LIKE OIL AND WATER. SHE WAS SMART, ATTRACTIVE, A GO-GETTER, AND I WAS A STRANGE COMBINATION OF HOCKEY PLAYER / POET, A HALF SCHOLAR WHEN I FELT LIKE IT, A TRADITIONALIST, HISTORIAN, WHO LIKED TO PLAY TABLE-TOP HOCKEY AS A PAST TIME. YEA, THE WRITING WAS ON THE WALL.

WHEN I RETURNED TO BRACEBRIDGE, AFTER UNIVERSITY, I HAD LOTS OF PROJECTS ON THE GO. I HAD JUST OPENED AN ANTIQUE BUSINESS ON MANITOBA STREET, COMMENCED AN HISTORICAL SOCIETY, STARTED WRITING A NEW MANUSCRIPT, AND GOT A PART TIME GIG AS A COLUMNIST FOR A NEW WEEKLY PAPER; AND AS A PROJECT CO-ORDINATOR FOR A MAJOR HISTORICAL RESEARCH ASSIGNMENT WITH THE FORMER MUSKOKA BOARD OF EDUCATION. GAIL WAS LIVING IN TORONTO, WHERE SHE WAS FINISHING UP UNIVERSITY. I WAS HAPPY TO LIVE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE IN THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA. SHE HAD FOUND MANY EMPLOYERS WILLING TO INVEST IN HER SKILLS, EVEN BEFORE SHE GRADUATED. HER HORIZON WAS A MASSIVE PANORAMA. MINE WAS A PANORAMIC VIEW OVER BRACEBRIDGE'S MEMORIAL PARK, WHERE I WATCHED THE KIDS GOING AND COMING FROM SCHOOL, TYPING MADLY AWAY AT THE NOVEL THAT NEVER QUITE MADE IT TO THE PUBLISHER. I DRANK AND DRANK AND DRANK, AND THE NOVEL WAS A DISASTER. SHE BROKE THE NEWS TO ME. FIRST, YOUR NOVEL SUCKS, AND I'M BREAKING UP WITH YOU. IF SHE DIDN'T CALL ME A "TOOL," BET IT WAS THE DESCRIPTION ON HER MIND, AS I CLUNG ONTO HER FEET, AS SHE TRIED TO GET OUT THE DOOR. "I CAN CHANGE….I CAN CHANGE," I called out in the vapor of exhaust as she drove away.

I was also on the verge of becoming the new reporter for the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, and that meant a daily trip to the office in MacTier, a good forty minute plus drive one way. But it was on a damp, moonless night like this, with occasional flurries, that I finally got her message through my thick head. It wasn't the first time she'd suggested a cooling-off period, or a trial separation, which to those who are not married means an ever-lasting break-up. It was the night I learned there was someone else. His name was familiar, and I was devastated. Who wouldn't be? Moreso, it happened when I genuinely felt we would both end up in our hometown, happily employed, having a family, occupying a neat little house with a tasteful shrubbery, and then winding up in later years, feeding the squirrels in Memorial Park. I was such a dork.

On this particular night, just before the turn of January 1st, 1979, I found myself without a partner, most of my friends (which were also hers), the house of cards now collapsed with no survivors, and the lights of the clock tower, to remind me, minute by minute, just how foolish a dreamer I'd been for all these years. We had no business being a couple. We had few parallels of interest, and by the way, I wasn't the most gracious, considerate boyfriend either. I deserved what I got. Many people reminded me of that fact. But when you're clinging to the life raft, and you have a lot of rocks in your pocket, well, you've got a choice to make. You might unload all those rocks, and still find it impossible to climb into the raft. On the other hand, if you don't, the end is frightfully close. As I wandered the snowy streets that night, illuminated for mere seconds, by one street-light, obscured by darkness, illuminated again, and obscured as a pattern of my torture, it gradually became clear to me, that the one over-riding positive, was that my feet were firmly planted on home turf. I was where I wanted to be. I'd chosen Bracebridge, over Toronto, and many other locales in the province, long before our break-up. If there was any place to absorb the thud of a broken heart, it was here……and these were the streets that occupied my attention for so many years…….and the memories came flooding back, as if to say, "Teddy, old buddy, you can count on us." And I did. Whenever, during that long, bitterly cold winter of 1979, I found myself in some misery or other, a gentle meander through Memorial Park, up Nelson Street, to my two favorite schools, Bracebridge Public and BMLSS, and maybe down to Jubilee Park where I played baseball in the summer, quelled the wail of the injured beast. Possibly I'd even hike up Hunt's Hill, beyond the Muskoka River, to wander the length of Alice and Toronto Streets, where my ghost of childhood still dwells all these years later. I probably had welled-up eyes for those sentimental hikes, but gradually, I began to feel more confident, and it seemed right to be back in the bailiwick, where I'd had so much fun as a gad-about kid.

I have written a lot about home towns. They fascinate me. I always find solace, recalling the play "Our Town." And when I think about that particular year in my life, all I can say, is that Bracebridge was the place that brought me round again. The place that embraced me when I wondered if life was worth the pain and suffering. What guy hasn't experienced this….."it's all over" attitude when dumped. But honestly, if I'd been living in Toronto, as I was only a few months earlier, I'd have had nowhere to turn…..no friendly streets, no beckoning old haunts, no mates to visit when the mood got desperate. I don't know if this is a proper endorsement of a home town. I don't know whether it might seem trivial to some, or that any town on earth would have provided somewhat the same……short of the attached memories. Yet I knew in my heart, my rather tattered soul, that when I'd return up to my attic work-room, in the former McGibbon House, after such a walk, that I'd be able to tap at the keyboard until well past midnight…….getting the misgivings on paper, the typical option of a writer with attitude. It took a lot of walks, and a hell of a lot of paper, but the combination of familiar places, and a comfortable, friendly old home, made the transition so much better than the sandpaper reality, I'd been sliding down for months. I'd made the right decision to move home, and to make a life for myself in Muskoka.

As a result of this decision, I met another high school gal, I'd been sweet on even before Gail, and we hit it off…….and it started at the McGibbon House. Our two boys were born in Bracebridge. It was a home town in every sense, and it had afforded me a place to settle, to work, to participate, and to build a family. When I look at that illuminated clock tower, passing through town, I can still remember that night before New Years, when it reminded me of the reality I'd been trying desperately to dodge. Now it is a reflection of the moments of a good life, with the association of a good town.

It is true that Suzanne and I moved our young family to Gravenhurst back in 1989. Yet there will never be a time, when I will turn my back on this wonderful town, beneath the glowing clock tower, where the Muskoka River steams over the cataract of Bracebridge Falls, the train horn blasts away the winter calm, and the ghosts of an old writer, are precisely where I thought they'd be……playing where they have always played, wandering where they have always been inspired, and reminding me of the linkage of time and place, heart and soul. It was on a night like this, just like this, two years ago, when I came to the top of the old Queens Hill, and saw the beacon clock tower greeting me……and consoling me, on the passing of my father only moments earlier. As it had always been, I was comforted to be in the home town where so much family history had been made. I could see the silhouette of my mother too, walking toward me in the lamplight, as if to say, "Ed's okay Ted. We're both okay." It was the town they adored. It's where they lived in retirement, until the end. And this was it.

A lot can be attributed to home towns. Sentimental stuff. Romantic hinges that creak when opened and shut again. Much is sickly sweet and maudlin and not worth much more than a few lines of poetry in a journal of remembrances. This home town saved my life. It restored my life. It was a place for a soft landing, and a place of immeasurable inspiration when I needed it the most. I might live ten miles to the south today, but rest assured, Bracebridge is a lot closer in my heart.

Happy New Years to you!

Christmas in Muskoka 2016- Back to 1871

STORY BELOW TAKEN FROM AN 1871 ISSUE OF THE NORTHERN ADVOCATE - EXPOSING SOME SOCIAL FESTIVITY IN THE MUSKOKA WILDS

     I WANTED TO SHARE THIS WEE TALE TAKEN FROM THE NORTH ADVOCATE OF 1871, ADDITIONALLY PUBLISHED IN THOMAS MCMURRAY'S SETTLERS' GUIDEBOOK, ENTITLED "MUSKOKA AND PARRY SOUND," ALSO PUBLISHED IN 1871. IT DOES NOT REFERENCE WHERE THE "WOOL PICKING BEE" WAS HELD, BUT IT WAS MOST LIKELY BETWEEN GRAVENHURST AND BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE MOST HUMBLE OF PIONEER ACCOMMODATIONS. IT DOESN'T REFERENCE IT AS BEING AT CHRISTMAS TIME, BUT IT WAS IN THE WINTER SEASON. IT SHOWS THAT WE MUSKOKANS, EVEN BACK THEN, COULD MAKE FUN OUT OF JUST ABOUT ANYTHING. THIS IS A NICE PIECE OF CANADIANA.

     "Understanding one of the objects of your columns being to convey abroad information concerning our great country, as well as to supply means of edification to our own people - the settlers. It may, I think, be fairly regarded  as a needful part of your work to give the outsiders some idea of bush life, as well as land. One of the questions, no doubt, arising in the minds of those moving in, would very likely be: how do the poor folks make out to pass their evenings, or, have they anything corresponding to missionary breakfasts, complimentary dinners, or oyster suppers? Some sketches of real life in the bush might serve the purpose of answering such questions.

     "A 'wool-picking-bee' (let me guard against being misunderstood), does not mean an insect of the bee kind peculiar to this region, and noted for for picking the wool of the sheep, but is the name for a kind of affair which will be best understood by a brief description of a single 'bee'. The one I had the privilege of attending, was got up by a lady inviting her friends and neighbors on a given evening. A goodly number accepting, they assembled and commenced operations around a large home-made table, by teasing the tufts of wood, preparatory, to further manufacture; meanwhile some of the young people were good naturally at teasing one another. Amongst the company present might be noticed the various functionaries of the locality, as trappers, postmaster, path-masters, school teachers, miscellaneous traders, etc., and in most cases, several offices meeting in the same individual, and all claiming the addition of B.W. (Bush Whacker), and not in the least, the correspondent of the Northern Advocate (Thomas McMurray himself). But now the work and amusement proceed in unison, which is more than can always be accomplished. Interspersed, more-over, with something of edification, and not altogether with a religious bearing, hymn singing, and a trifle of political and theological discussion."

     A verse was read as such; "Here in bush, life is found, work and play abound, and yet strangely agree, here extremes we'd unite, here the sombre and the bright, mixed together you see; unrestrained seem to run, both the serious and fun, in the 'wool picking bee.'

     "About noon of night, there might, perhaps, be noticed a shade of falling off in the spirit of wool-picking, when a sound is heard indicating a change of scene and a variety in the exercises to be introduced, of which one might for an hour or two previously, have smelled the approach. Preparations are ordered, the wool is speedily removed, and picking of another kind introduced. It might do in the city to say 'the delicacies of the season,' but here the dishes, or what was on them, would require somewhat varied terms to describe. It was in fact a great meal, of which the items would be more tedious to describe than they were to discuss practically. A roast beaver might, perhaps, be the most notable deviation from the ordinary fare, but breakfast, dinner, and supper were so amply represented, that a good old-style brother declared, ' If this be wickedness, I hope to be always a sinner.'

     "It is not too much to say that full justice was done in relieving the rude table from its cause of groaning; so, having picked the wool, and the bones of the beaver, and chickens, and singing the doxology, each seemed disposed to pick a partner, and the 'bee' stood adjourned sine die. This I must say in conclusion, for the relief of some of your uninitiated readers, who may feel a kind of commiseration for the sadness of poor bush life, and would start with alarm to hear of a wool picking bee; had they only the chance of taking part in the affair, they might be more disposed to envy than pity; and I seriously advise them, if ever they get an invitation to a wool-picking bee - to go." (The editorial piece was actually written by McMurray on October 26th, 1868, when he resided in Draper Township.)

     An original copy of this rare Muskoka history, was given to me as a gift, when I married into the Stripp family of Windermere. Suzanne's mother, Harriett, was from one of the pioneer families, who settled in the Three Mile Lake, Ufford area, of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and the book had belonged to her father, John Shea, a farmer in the area and former municipal clerk. As an historian, I was honored by the gift, and it has been used many hundreds of times, to assist in research projects. There is a pencilled line above a verse written by McMurray, that John Shea found interesting. It reads as follows:

     "Now in the primal woods, the axe resounds, and the tall pine receives its mortal wounds, as stroke on stroke disturbs the silent snow, the wound enlarges by each well aimed blow. The forest giant shakes in all his might, and crashing falls neath his disposed weight, and quickly carries to the branches bent, that strive in vain to stop his sure descent. A swift and certain ruin with rebound, and echoing woods repeat the thundering sound, stripped of his limbs, and squared, and hewn he lies, to human kind a good but hard won prize. It soon is made to raise the sheltering house, Or o'er the seas afar is doomed to roam, to build the bark, or adorn the hall, raised from the ruins of a forest fall. His roots remain to meet a slow decay, and mend the soil when sown some future day."

     The Shea family was well connected in the logging industry of the pioneering period in Muskoka, so the fact this was marked, was quite relevant.

THE SLEIGH RIDE, OF THE 1870'S IN MUSKOKA

     IN RESPECT TO THIS CHRISTMAS SEASON, OF 2012, HERE IN MUSKOKA, I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE THIS POEM PUBLISHED IN MCMURRAY'S BOOK, THAT JOHN SHEA OR A FAMILY MEMBER, AT THE UFFORD FARM, HAD MARKED AS WELL…..AS BEING A POEM TO REMEMBER. YOU WON'T SEE MANY, (MORE LIKELY NONE) TO THIS IMPORTANT LOCAL PIECE, THAT IS PART OF OUR FOLK LORE AND CULTURE. IT IS A GEM OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT HAS BEEN LARGELY FORGOTTEN; BEING CONSIDERED TOO OLD TO MATTER ANY LONGER. AS A LONG SERVING SOCIAL / CULTURAL HISTORIAN, THIS KIND OF LOCAL WRITING, ESPECIALLY FROM THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD, IS DEFINITELY AN IMPORTANT PART OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT IS JUST AS RELEVANT TODAY AS IT WAS AS THE INK DRIED IN THIS FIRST MUSKOKA BOOK. YOU WILL FIND MANY OF THESE CULTURALLY SIGNIFICANT TEXTS, STILL REGALED IN STATES LIKE VERMONT AND CONNECTICUT, AND IN THE HINTERLAND OF QUEBEC, AND THEY SHOULD BE SIMILARLY CELEBRATED AND USED AND RE-USED FOR WHAT THEY REPRESENT OF THE PAST…..AS APPROPRIATE TO OUR BEAUTIFUL WINTER LANDSCAPE OF THE MODERN ERA.

     HERE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PIONEER JOURNAL EDITORIALS - IN THE FORM OF A POEM.

THE SLEIGH RIDE

     "Calm is the night, and clear and bright; the silver moon is shedding, a flood of light o'er the snow so white, and an icy glory spreading. In misty light the moon does lend her, and the starry vault of blue above, is sparkling bright with a frost splendor.

     "Swiftly we bound o'er the frozen ground, gaily, joyously, cheerily; and our thoughts to keep time to the musical chime, of the sleigh bells tinkling merrily. For our hearts are attuned to the pleasing strains, of gladness, glee and innocent mirth; and we feel the sin has made dark stains, yet happiness lingers still on earth.

     "In wrap and rug, right warm and snug, all care to the winds we fling; and laugh and song, as we speed along, make the silent forest ring. The distant owl our voices hears, and screams from the dark and lonely dell, in answer to our joyous cheers, a discordant, wild, unearthly yell.

     "Faster we go - the frozen snow, from our horses feet is flying; the echoes long repeat our song, far in the distance dying. Our joyous brass exulting bound, and utterance find in gleeful voice, till rocks and hills, and dales resound, and even the gloomy woods rejoice.

     "Our sleigh now glides where the river hides, under the ice bridges strong, where deep and low the waters flow, so silently along. And now it is past, and on we roam, by the frozen lake - snowy plain, past the gleaming lights of the settler's home, and away through the lonely wood again.

    "The fall, it is they; we can see the spray, that the seething waters toss, like a glittering cloud, o'er that foaming flood; and now, as the bridge we cross, its echoing thunders louder grow, Check'd is our noisy mirth and song, and we stop and gaze where far below, the rolling torrent roars along.

     "The trees that stand on either hand, are hung with icedrops fair - with gems of light and jewels so bright, and dazzling crystals rare - reflecting back each twinkling star, with a sparkling beauty, rich and grand, a glittering scene, surpassing far, our wildest dreams of fairy land.

     "When swiftly past, in the roaring blast, the frost king sweeps his pride, his icy form the raging storm, and the mantling snow wreath hide. And unseen spirits the way prepare, wherever his royal feet would go, with dazzling carpets white and fair, and the crystal bridge where waters flow.

     "I love the clink, on the frozen rink, of the skater's iron heel; The merry huzza of the boys at play, with their sleds, on the slippery hill; the long, long nights, by the bright fireside, in the joyous home where happiness dwells; and best of all, the merry sleigh-ride, and the musical chime of the tinkling bells."

     This is the Muskoka heritage scene I love to recall. When we ponder our identity these days, I draw back to the old books, to see if I can find something remarkable to show the public…….that believe it or not, Muskoka was more than a pretty face….way back when. This is our cultural identity. And there's a lot more to explore. I will be presenting some of these social / cultural anchors and traditions, in the coming week of Christmas season blogs.

     I hope each and every one had a restful and peaceful Christmas Day. Everyone here at Birch Hollow is pleasantly stuffed with treats of all sorts, and yet, will hungering anticipation, for the presentation later this evening, of the roast beast and all the festive trimmings. Suzanne has cut-off all treats from this point on, so we will be tantalized for the next several hours, by the heavenly aroma, of a turkey in the oven. At dinner, we will say a little prayer of remembrance, to those who used to gather around this pine harvest table on Christmas day. Suzanne's father, Norm Stripp (her mother Harriet passed away shortly after we were married), my parents, Merle and Ed, who always made the most out of our family holidays. Also in fond remembrance, are our dear friends, Dave Brown, our teacher friend from Hamilton, Suzanne's aunt and uncle, Ada and Jack Gillis, of Ufford, (where we used to spend our Christmas Eves, for so many years), and Alec Nagy, of Burlington, husband of Ann, who both looked after me as a wee lad, when my parents were at work. Alec died this past year. He was a kindly chap, who let me follow him during yard work and lawn mowing, and of this, I was the content voyeur child.

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 On Being Canadian and Old, Cold Hockey Rinks

ON BEING CANADIAN AND PLAYING IN RINKS COLDER INSIDE THAN IT WAS OUTSIDE

FEET AND NOSE FROZEN - REMINDS ME OF MY YOUTH

Chilled to the core of my old creaking bones, I’ve just now arrived in the safe haven of a cheerfully bright and warm Birch Hollow.....and while the thermometer tells me with a wink of an oldtimer’s reflection, that it’s only minus fifteen, it has all of a sudden given me a flash of reminiscence. In my middle fifties now, I’m told by my senior cronies that it’s all right to have flashbacks and this teeter-totter of mid-life crazy.......and it’s not the preamble to a stroke or sudden senility. You tell me? If this blog reads a tad nuts, I’m okay; if it makes sense, geez maybe I am in trouble. I’ve often worked in opposites, or so I’m told by my editors over the decades.

It’s been almost a year since my father passed away. A year before he died I wrote a little tribute to Ed, about his unfailing determination to get me to my minor hockey games back in the early 1960's. It was a hit and miss situation from the get-go because nothing in my Burlington days, was within easy walking distance for an eight year old. And our car, a vintage “hit and mostly miss” Austin, was a lover of warm climes, and on so many occasions, wouldn’t start without a push or a boost. Our family didn’t have a lot of money, so paying for a tow-truck was out of the question, and most people we knew hated to see my dad coming through the snow flurries of a January morning......with that look in his eyes of anger, frustration and yet resignation the day wasn’t going to get much better. “Could you give me a boost Fred?” he’d ask. Fred was just one of a dozen names spoken on those occasions of battery failure.

When we did get going, it was usually to the outdoor Kiwanis Rink, and it was bloody cold out there at about 4:00 a.m., in mid-January, the only time our young team could get ice on weekends, in the crammed city league. Poor Ed was frozen and tired before he got to work that day....and all the other days he hauled his goaltender son to and from the rinks. When we moved to Bracebridge, in the winter of 1966, playing hockey was much different, as we had a marvelous old time arena and a modestly chilled playing surface. We also got to play, in what seemed to our family, as prime arena time, coming after eight in the morning on Saturdays. That was, of course, for the practices and the home games. Ed then had to deliver me, and a few team-mates to natural ice arenas, in Port Carling, Bala, MacTier and Baysville. It was a painfully cold experience as I remember, and a lot harsher than today’s minus fifteen.

The car heater seldom worked. Ed had to clean the windshield with a scraper every few miles, our feet would be frozen long before we made it to the rural arenas, and even then, with the exception of a heated lounge and dressing room, the dominating condition was cold and colder. I thought I was one of the first goaltenders ever to have my mask break a puck in two but I later found out this was pretty common on natural ice rinks. True enough. We had pucks break after that, just hitting the boards. I can remember being the back-up goalie on twenty below nights, and crying because of the pain in my toes. Of course, as the coach barked at me, “Currie, stop complaining,” and as I found out at intermission, warming frozen toes is twice as painful as having them nearly frozen. It was quite a scene at the end of the game, having won on the scoreboard but crying with pain in the dressing room, as the red hot stovepipe brought back circulation. Some kids actually burned themselves, putting their frozen toes right on the metal pipe, only to have part of their skin remain when yanked violently back when thawing commenced. Those old stove pipes branded a lot of hockey players back then, as the dressing rooms were not much more than bedroom size, for fifteen to eighteen kids and equipment.

The real crying came on the way home again, when frozen and thawed toes were frozen all over again, and by the time we hit the town limits, the heater had come on for a tad and provided a third thaw in the same night. My dad’s feet were frozen too, as he never seemed to have appropriately warm footwear even up to his last days. He was a tough guy but I know he suffered a lot, taking me to those games in colder than cold arenas. I never heard him complain about personal discomfort, just a few choice cusses when the car wouldn’t start, especially for the trip home. He hated to be late for work.

I don’t know whether he thought I had the right stuff to make the National Hockey League. My parents didn’t push me into hockey and I know they always had a hard time paying for the season’s registration in those days. They could get vocal and a tad critical of my play, especially if I let one of those long drifting slapshots in, that I should have stopped easily. By and large they weren’t crazy parent-fans, and they never approached the coach to beg more ice time for their special child. I appreciated that then, and now, because some parents made fools of themselves, and embarrassed the heck out of the kids, with their in-stand tirades. Ed just sipped at his hot coffee and talked with other fans about pro hockey, how he used to be a rink rat at Maple Leaf Gardens when Connie Smythe was the king of the city, and the big stars of the past he used to drink with at a local watering hole.

It’s funny how one moment, you’re shivering while the dog has its morning constitutional, and something strange, like a childhood recollection of frozen toes, will all of a sudden become the all encompassing state of the union. I could close my eyes and see it all, as if I was at that very moment getting ready to step onto the ice for a minor hockey game, in a tin ceiling arena, which was often said to be colder inside than out. While I didn’t haul a thermometer around with me, I’m pretty sure that analysis was true. God bless the fans who stood out along those rickety boards to support us. Ed watched from the crowded viewing area, in the lobby, having a cigarette or a dozen, running out to start the car every half hour or so, to get a head start on emergency planning before the final buzzer. We usually had two to four players in each car, and it added a more serious responsibility to the task. Ed and I had been stuck all over God’s half acre, and survived to tell the story. But he sure as heck didn’t want to have parents worrying at home, that there had been an accident on the highway. For all those years of minor hockey, Ed didn’t have much time to enjoy the game. I grew up knowing the importance of having plans “B” through “Z”, to employ when the first plan failed as we expected it to.....but never missing a beat to seek the alternative and the one after that. We had a lot of fun out there. But our cars sucked!

The saddest time for Ed was when our car wouldn’t start at home, in Burlington, and by time we called for another ride, everyone had already headed out. In this pre cell phone dark age, there was no other option, considering we didn’t have any loose coins for a taxi. He was always devastated when his backup plan failed. Trundling my equipment back up the stairs was far more of a let-down for him than me......I could stay home watching the Saturday morning funnies while he had to drive for an hour to work, thinking about the way he’d let his son down. I suppose in retrospect, I milked it a little, and on most occasions, he’d leave a few dollars behind so that I could at least buy some hockey cards at the variety store. What I didn’t realize was that he was giving up his lunch money but he didn’t want me to be totally disappointed with the day I’d looked forward to all week.

I have written a number of pieces about my old hockey days, and dear old dad, and it’s funny now to think back on those years, and ponder if he really did think I was N.H.L. bound. As a matter of some irony, many years later, my boss at the time, Roger Crozier, a great former netminder of the Detroit Red Wings.....working then for the American Bank, MBNA, told me that I was considered the next Bracebridge kid to get a shot at the big leagues. We’d been talking, during breakfast, one morning in Wilmington, Delaware, that one of the reasons I’d been given a free week at his Red Wing Hockey School, (late 1960's) in Bracebridge, was due to the reports from my coaches that my future looked pretty bright, if I could change some of my bad habits. I still have a few of those but I’m no longer a goaltender. I remember coming home to Muskoka, and meeting up with my dad, and being so happy to relay the news........that I had been actually considered professional material way back when. He just smiled and said, “Ted, a lot of people thought you had what it required to go on in hockey......coaches, managers, fans. There was only one who disagreed.” “Who was that, Ed,” miffed by anyone then, on this new information, who wouldn’t have seen all my prowess budding forth. “You,” he answered. “You decided to play hockey because you enjoyed it.....not because you had your heart set on a professional career. We wouldn’t have changed a thing. You loved hockey. Pushing would only have frustrated you.....and ruined the fun you were having otherwise.”

When I asked Roger, one day a few months later, whether he would like to be best recognized and remembered, in a biography I was working on, as either an all star hockey player, or as a banker, as he was in the period before his death in the mid-1990's, he responded without any hesitation..... “I’d like to be known as a banker, Ted!” I though this was pretty profound coming from a former professional hockey star, who had achieved acclaim at every level of his minor and junior hockey, up to and including milestones with the Red Wings, Buffalo Sabres and the Washington Capitals. “It was a job,” he said. He often said that he enjoyed the game when it was over, not during. For me then, I think I made the right decision. My first choice of professions was to join the media, of which I’m still a member, and as an antique collector /dealer, an adventure that has run parallel to writing for well more than thirty years.

I owe Ed a lot. He understood me even though I would have argued the opposite. While I think he might have liked to have a pro player as a son, he seemed to like telling folks his offspring was editor of the local newspaper. I hope this was the case. But regardless, I do very much credit his patience and determination with giving me a damn fine childhood.....even though frozen toes are the most poignant memories at this moment of thawing.

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 New Year's in Bracebridge

NEW YEAR'S IN BRACEBRIDGE -

THE OLD GANG, A LOT OF FUN UP ON LIDDARD AND AUBREY STREETS - AND THEN WE GOT SERIOUS - THAT WASN'T ANY FUN

WE MAY HAVE HAD THE STRANGEST ROAD HOCKEY CONFIGURATION IN CANADA. IT'S WORTH A HOCKEY BOOK ON ITS OWN. IT WAS AN "L" SHAPED DRIVEWAY, AT THE HENRY HOME, UP ON LIDDARD. THAT'S RIGHT. WE PLAYED ON A RIGHT ANGLE. CRAZY. WE DEVELOPED HOCKEY SKILLS NO ONE HAD EVER SEEN BEFORE. WE HAD ABOUT TWENTY FEET OF STRAIGHTAWAY, AND A RIGHT TURN TO THE OPPONENT'S NET. IF WE TURNED LEFT, WE RAN INTO A TOUGH MAPLE. FRANK HENRY, OWNER OF THE LIDDARD STREET HOCKEY VENUE, JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD WHEN HE WENT TO WORK, AND THEN CAME BACK, AND WE WERE STILL TWISTING WITH SHARP RIGHTS AND EQUALLY SHARP LEFTS, TO GET A CLEAR SHOT ON NET. IT WAS CRAZY. FRANK'S SON STEVE WAS THE HOST, AND HE INVITED THE NEIGHBORHOOD LADS TO PLAY ON SATURDAYS, AND AT TIMES WE FILLED THE RESIDENTIAL LOT WITH HOCKEYISTS, PLAYING THE GREAT CANADIAN GAME. WHEN STEVE AND HIS DAD WENT TO A HUGE EFFORT TO BUILD A NATURAL ICE PAD, AT THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, WE JUST STOOD IN THE DRIVEWAY BANGING OUR STICKS. IT WOULDN'T BE THE SAME WITHOUT THE LEFT AND RIGHT TURNS TO THE NET. WE'D KEEP DITCHING IN THE SNOWBANK.

WE HAD PLAYERS BACK THEN LIKE RANDY CARSWELL, WHO ALSO PROVIDED THE PLAY BY PLAY, SCOTT RINTOUL, ROD BALDWIN, RON BOYER, ROGER TAVERNER, RICK HILLMAN, STEVE, MYSELF, AND A HALF DOZEN DAY-PLAYERS LIKE HIS SISTERS LINDA AND SUSAN.

EVEN THOUGH I WAS A HUNT'S HILL LAD, AND PROUD OF IT, THERE CAME A POINT IN MY ROAD HOCKEY CAREER, WHEN MY TEAM-MATES STARTED TO LISTEN TO ROCK 'N' ROLL, AND GAVE UP ON THE ALICE STREET SHINNY. I WAS DEVASTATED. SOON THOUGH, A SHIFT TO A NEW NEIGHBORHOOD, GAVE A LOT MORE ZING TO THE ROAD HOCKEY TRADITION, AND IT BECAME THE REAL LIFE "70'S SHOW," WITH SOME GREAT FOLKS. THE HENRY'S HOME WAS THE PERFECT PLACE TO HOLD OUR SOCIAL CLUB MEETINGS, AND YOU KNOW, THEIR WATCHFUL EYES, AND KEEN ADVISORIES, KEPT US OUT OF THE KIND OF TROUBLE TEENAGERS ARE DRAWN TO….THAT ARE USUALLY A TAD SELF DESTRUCTIVE. WE KIND OF POLICED OURSELVES, AND ENJOYED TEENAGE REBELLION BY PLAYING SPORTS, FROM BASEBALL TO SUMMER HOCKEY, SLEDDING IN THE WINTER, HIKING IN THE SUMMER.

I GET KIND OF SAPPY AT THIS TIME OF YEAR. SITTING HERE, LOOKING AT THE OLD PHOTOGRAPHS OF THOSE KODAK MOMENTS, WHEN WE REALLY DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE HOW WE'D WIND UP EVENTUALLY. I'M PRETTY SURE THEY WOULD HAVE AGREED, I'D BE IN SOME PENAL COLONY BY NOW, FOR MOUNTING SOME GOVERNMENT OVER-THROW, OR WORSE, AND I'M PRETTY SURE THEY'D HAVE BEEN RIGHT, IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR THE CALMING DEGREE OF SENSIBLE PROPORTION, MENTORED BY THE HENRYS. I REMEMBER THE DAWSON GALS, LINDA AND MARION, (I DATED BOTH), JUDY GREY, NANCY CRUMP AND LINDA HENRY…..ALL FINE FRIENDS, FROM A REMARKABLE PERIOD OF THE 1970'S……WHEN THERE WERE SO MANY LIFE CHANGING SHARP RIGHT, AND LEFT TURNS WE COULD HAVE MADE……JUST LIKE OUR HOCKEY GAMES. BUT WE DIDN'T. ALL HAVE HAD PROSPEROUS AND SUCCESSFUL LIVES AND CAREERS, AND I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM.

AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT WE'D BE TOGETHER FOREVER. IT NEVER ONCE CROSSED MY MIND, THAT MANY WOULD MOVE AWAY FROM MUSKOKA, AND THAT THE OLD DAYS WOULD BE JUST THAT…….SOME DOG EARRED PHOTOGRAPHS IN AN OLD ALBUM, DUST COVERED AND SMELLING A LITTLE MUSTY. IN MY MIND HOWEVER, THESE MEMORIES HAVE ALL BEEN MUCH CLOSER, MUCH DEARER, AND RECALLED MUCH MORE FREQUENTLY……..THAN I'M SURE THEY THINK OF ME, ALL THESE YEARS LATER. WHAT THEY GAVE ME, WAS MY SENSE OF HOME TOWN, A GREAT CHILDHOOD AND A SAFE TEENAGEHOOD…..WHEN I THINK HONESTLY, I COULD HAVE VERY EASILY STRAYED. IF I HAD, EVEN BY A STRAY MOLECULE, LEFT THE PATH I TOOK FROM THAT VINTAGE, IT IS VERY UNLIKELY I WOULD BE WHERE I AM TODAY…….HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WITH MY WIFE SUZANNE AND TWO FINE MUSICIAN LADS, ANDREW AND ROBERT. IT WAS BECAUSE OF THEM. THEY MIGHT THINK THIS RIDICULOUS, BUT IT'S TRUE NONE THE LESS. THEY TEMPERED ME AT A TIME WHEN NO ONE ELSE, INCLUDING MY PARENTS, COULD CHANGE HISTORY. IT WAS LINDA DAWSON WHO CHASTISED ME FOR DRINKING, AND I KNEW IT WAS A TERRIBLE WAY TO TREAT SOMEONE YOU CARED ABOUT. I STOPPED. I HAVE REMEMBERED THE LOOK OF DISDAIN ON HER FACE, ALL THESE YEARS LATER. LOOKING AT SOMEONE SHE TRUSTED, HAVING A HARD TIME STANDING UPRIGHT. WHILE IT'S TRUE I HAD MANY ENCOUNTERS WITH BOOZE OVER THE YEARS, AT THE TIME, IT WAS LINDA WHO SOWED THE SEED OF DISCONTENT…….AND MADE ME AWARE OF THE COLLATERAL DAMAGE OF HAVING TOO MUCH FUN.

I AM GRATEFUL FOR THESE FRIENDSHIPS OF ONCE. THEY WERE THE MAKING OF ME…..FOR BETTER OR WORSE……GOD BLESS AND OF COURSE, HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ONE OF THE OLD GANG.

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 The Ghost of Mine

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE

THAT OLD GHOST OF MINE - ARSE OUT OF HIS SNOWPANTS - A SLIVER STICK - TWO ICE GOAL POSTS AND WISHFUL THINKING

I TOOK A DRIVE UP TO BRACEBRIDGE'S ALICE STREET TODAY. SAW MY GHOST. I DIDN'T NEED THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST TO DO THIS. NO MATTER WHAT THEY DO TO THAT STREET IN THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS, SOMEONE WILL LOOK OUT OF A CONDO WINDOW, FROM THE NINETIETH FLOOR, AND SEE MY GHOST PLAYING HOCKEY, CALLING THE PLAY BY PLAY…….ON HIS OWN UP-ICE RUSH. I DIDN'T NEED MUCH MORE THAN THAT OLD STICK, LUMPS OF ICE (THEY WERE CHEAP), AND A PUCK. I HAD LOTS OF THOSE AND SLIVER (BLADE) STICKS, I HAULED HOME FROM THE ARENA FOR ROAD HOCKEY. MY PARENTS DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY TO SPEND ON TOYS, AND WHILE I PROBABLY GOT A NEW HOCKEY STICK UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE, IT WAS USUALLY THE CHEAPEST MONEY COULD BUY. BLESS THEIR HEARTS, THEY TRIED, AND I APPRECIATED IT. UNFORTUNATLY, AFTER A COUPLE OF GAMES, THERE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN EVEN A SLIVER OF THAT BLADE LEFT. IT'S TRUE, I LIED TO THEM ABOUT THE WELFARE OF THE STICK….AND AS FAR AS THEY KNEW, I NEVER BROKE ONE THAT SANTA HAD PROVIDED.

WHEN I GO UP THERE, TO ALICE STREET, I CAN'T HELP BUT GET MISTY-EYED. WHEN I WENT OFF TO UNIVERSITY IN THE FALL OF 1974, WE WERE ON THE VERGE OF MOVING TO A SMALL COTTAGE ON ALPORT BAY, OF LAKE MUSKOKA. IT WAS A SMALL COTTAGE AND WE GOT A GOOD RENT FOR BASCIALLY BABYSITTING A LAKESIDE PROPERTY FOR AN OUT-OF-THE-COUNTRY FAMILY. BY THIS TIME, MY FAMILY WAS DOING MUCH BETTER FINANCIALLY, AND AS I WAS AWAY FOR MOST OF THE YEAR, THE FOOD BILLS DROPPED DRASTICALLY. I REMEMBER CATCHING A RIDE TO TORONTO, THAT SEPTEMBER DAY, AND LOOKING AT ALICE STREET AS IF IT HAD BEEN A LIVING HELL……A PLACE I'D RATHER FORGET, AND NEVER COME BACK TO…… I WAS FREE. OFF TO CONQUER THE WORLD. IT SEEMED THE BEGINNING OF SUCH AN AMAZING ADVENTURE. THAT LAST LOOK BACK, SHOWED A RUN-DOWN OLD BUILDING, WHERE TEN FAMILIES HOLED-UP INDEFINITELY, WAITING FOR THEIR PROVERBIAL SHIP TO COME IN…….FOR SOME IT NEVER CAME AND THIS WAS THE LAST PLACE THEY SAW BEFORE HEADING OFF IN THE AMBULANCE OR HEARSE.

I can't tell you how rotten I have felt for all these years, having had such a terrible opinion of that apartment building. I was wrong. I came to appreciate this shortly after graduating university, and returning to Bracebridge…..and another new residence on upper Manitoba Street….the former home and medical office of Dr. Peter McGibbon. It all began, really, when my girlfriend, at the time, didn't respect my plan to move home, at a time when she was turning-on to the great aspects of city living. I tried it her way, and it didn't work. It was okay going to school, but not living in Toronto year round. This is odd, because both my parents had long relationships with the city, and my grandfather, a builder, has a street named after him…..Jackson Avenue, where some of his houses still exist. I was living in the area of Jane and Runnymede, where my mother's family lived, but it didn't matter. My decision to move back to Muskoka cost me a girlfriend, two jobs I quit within hours of starting, as well as losing many of my friends, who left Bracebridge for good, around the same time.

I can remember the Christmas season, that Gail gave me the proverbial heave-ho, wandering in a stupor, around the streets of the town, over by Bracebridge Public School, the High School, down along the tracks by the train station, and up eventually to Alice Street. I went to the variety store, we used to know as Black's, and then Lil and Cec's, and bought a pop and chips, and despite the snow, I stood there and weathered all the memories I'd turned my back on previously. I came back to Muskoka for a reason. As my family left Burlington, in the mid 1960's, as an escape from city life, to the Muskoka wilds, the prodigal son had returned…..humble, alone (all our friends were hers too….and they had to choose and it wasn't me), and looking for answers. Why had it been so important to come back to Bracebridge? What compelled me to wander up, tears in eyes, lost in love, to retrace the steps of an Alice Street kid……who, I realize now, had been having the time of his life. It had never been a hell on earth. This most likely came for the fact my parents fought a lot in those days, and my father enjoyed the drink to excess……and all the problems this can cause a family with financial woes. But it was also a comforting place, in many ways, and if it's true what some sage folks claim, that buildings can have a soul…..then the soul within that three story complex, must have been related to Burl Ives. Every time I see that "Frosty The Snowman" cartoon, with Burl as the host snowman, I always think of that Alice Street apartment, circa 1966 to 1974.

Merle and Ed are deceased now, and when I look up at that third floor window, on a frosty night as this, I know that in the heart of that home, once, the three of us are together this Christmas Eve, enjoying the simple pleasures of the season. We didn't have much but it was enough to make us feel wealthy in spirit, if nothing else.

Suzanne and the boys, understand my pilgrimages up to Alice Street, each Christmas, and although I won't make it a stipulation in my will, I kind of expect they would turn up there in my absence, to connect with the once, long ago, of a fellow who felt a strange debt of gratitude about a place, a time, and a circumstance; like the faded old family photograph, Merle stuck in a beaten-up family Bible she left behind. She knew I'd find it…..and pause in that confluence of contemplation, of whether to tuck it back inside, or let it inspire a little warmth on a cold, cold Christmas Eve. She knew me well!

I come away from these short, silent vigils, with good memories. I don't wish for my own return to those days, and I don't feel any necessity to make amends now. More than this, I suppose, I want to keep those few memories fresh…..and these little editorials in a modest biography, for my sons, for their knowledge….and for their children, and grandchildren…..to know what it was like growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario…..in an era that was an awful lot of fun.

Christmas in Muskoa 2016 History Is What It Is

HISTORY IS WHAT IT IS! A COLLECTION OF FACTS AND STORIES THAT REMIND US WHO WE ARE - WHERE WE CAME FROM!

AND THEN THERE'S A LITTLE COLOR, FOR THOSE WHO CAN HANDLE A LITTLE MORE THAN THE TRUTH!

     DID YOU KNOW THERE WERE HOUSES OF ILL REPUTE, OPERATING IN BRACEBRIDGE, BACK IN THE LATE 1800'S. IT SEEMS THE LOGGERS, WOODWORKERS, TANNING INDUSTRY LABORERS, ETC., WERE KNOWN TO VISIT SEVERAL PROSTITUTES, WHO HAD SET UP THEIR ENTERPRISE, IN A COMFORTABLE ABODE IN "THE HOLLOW," IN CLOSE PROXIMITY TO THEIR CLIENTS' RESPECTIVE PLACES OF INDUSTRY. THE TOWN CONSTABLES, ACTING ON COMPLAINTS, MOVED IN ON THE LADIES, AND DID MANAGE TO CLOSE ONE HOUSE, AND THEN THE OTHER, TO THE CHAGRIN OF SOME WHO LIKED THEIR COMPANY. NOT ONES TO GIVE UP EASILY, THEY WERE SAID TO HAVE SET-UP FREE RANGE NATURE RETREATS, FOR THOSE STRAY SOULS PINING FOR LOVE, SITUATED CLOSE TO TOWN; SOMEWHERE ON THE BANK OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER. THE THIRD VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST, AND SECOND. THE CONSTABLES HAD TO KEEP STOMPING ON THESE BREAK-OUT FIRES, THAT WERE GIVING THE WIVES AND MOTHERS OF THE TOWN SOME HEARTACHE. 

     OVER THE PAST FEW WEEKS, I'VE BEEN ATTEMPTING TO SHED SOME LIGHT ON THE FOLK HISTORY OF MUSKOKA.  THE BAND OF HISTORIANS, SERVING THIS REGION, SINCE THE LATE 1860'S, HAS GIVEN US MODERNISTS, A PRETTY GOOD FOUNDATION OF RECORDED, FACTUAL HISTORY. IT'S THE SKELETON WE NEED, TO UNDERSTAND THE WAY WE HAVE DEVELOPED, FROM THOSE FIRST FEW HAMLETS AND LOG SHANTIES, TO THE PRESENT. THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF BOOKS WRITTEN ABOUT MUSKOKA'S HISTORY, AND OVERALL, I'D SAY WE'VE BEEN PRETTY WELL SERVED BY OUR RECORD KEEPERS. I DO FEEL, HOWEVER, THAT WE STILL HAVE A SHORTAGE OF FOLK STORIES, TO APPLY TO THAT SKELETON, TO GIVE THE MUSKOKA STORY A MORE HUMAN COMPOSITION. THOSE PEOPLE WHO HAVE MADE IT TO THE BLACK PRINT, IN OUR HISTORY TEXTS, HAD PERSONALITIES, AND CURIOUS HUMAN ATTRIBUTES, WHICH WERE PART AND PARCEL OF THE HISTORY THEY IMPRINTED. UNFORTUNATELY, A LOT OF THE BARE BONES HISTORY, WILL NEVER HAVE ANY MORE FLESH ATOP THEM, BECAUSE HISTORIANS OFTEN DIDN'T FEEL IT NECESSARY; TO THINK OF THIS HUMANITY-THING, AS BEING IMPORTANT TO THE OUTCOME OF THE STORY. WHAT I HAVE PRESENTED OVER THE PAST MONTH, HAS BEEN DIRECTED SPECIFICALLY, AT PUTTING SOME ACTUALITY AND EMOTION BACK INTO THE WAY WE INTERPRET OUR HISTORICAL PAST. ANECDOTE IS PART OF OUR DAILY LIVES. WHAT WOULD A STORY ABOUT A DAY SPENT AT SCHOOL OR WORK, BE, OR REPRESENT IN POSTERITY, WITHOUT THE COMPANION ANECDOTE, ABOUT SOMEONE'S FOLLY ON THE JOB….OR IN THE CLASSROOM. IT'S WHAT MAKES HISTORY MEMORABLE. NOT JUST THE BARE FACTS. THE COLOR AND EMOTION OF THE NEWS MAKER, IS WHAT COMPELS US TO REMEMBER THE FACTS OF SOME EVENT OR OTHER.

     AS I'VE MENTIONED ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS, I HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF A CLOSE APPRENTICESHIP WITH NUMEROUS HISTORIANS, LOCAL, PROVINCIAL AND NATIONAL, AND I'VE SPENT QUITE A BIT OF RESEARCH TIME, WORKING ON BIOGRAPHIES; PARTICULARLY HUGELY INTERESTING BIOGRAPHIES OF MUSKOKA ARTISTS, SUCH AS RICHARD KARON, ROBERT EVERETT, AND PIONEER PAINTER, ADA FLORENCE KINTON. I KNOW QUITE A BIT ABOUT OTHER LOCAL ARTISTS, SUCH AS THE LATE BILL ANDERSON, THE BRACEBRIDGE BARBERSHOP ARTIST, AND ROSS SMITH, THE UPTOWN GAS STATION ATTENDANT-ARTIST, ALSO FROM BRACEBRIDGE. I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH ROSS, AND WATCHED HIM MATURE AS A PAINTER OVER MANY YEARS. WHEN I WAS GROWING UP, IN BRACEBRIDGE, YOU COULD BUY A PAINTING OFF ROSS, FROM THE UPTOWN ESSO THAT HIS FATHER OWNED, (HE WORKED AT HIS PAINTINGS BETWEEN CUSTOMERS), AND BILL ANDERSON WOULD SELL YOU ONE OF HIS LANDSCAPES, WHICH HE ALSO WORKED-ON BETWEEN CUTTING GIGS, AT HIS BARBERSHOP, ON THE SOUTH CORNER OF THE FORMER PATTERSON HOTEL, ON MANITOBA STREET. BOB EVERETT, ONE OF MUSKOKA'S BEST KNOWN PAINTERS, USED TO SKETCH AND PAINT IN THE BACK OF EVERETT'S DRUG STORE, AT THE SOUTH END OF MANITOBA STREET, ON CIGAR BOX LIDS…..AND SHOULD YOU EVER FIND ONE, IT'S WORTH A "PRETTY PENNY" AS THEY SAY. HERE IN GRAVENHURST I'VE GOT A PRETTY FAIR FILE GOING, ON FRANK JOHNSTON, THE MAN RESPONSIBLE FOR THE WONDERFUL WATERCOLORS OF MUSKOKA STEAMSHIPS, THAT USED TO HANG ON THE WALLS OF THE FORMER SLOAN'S RESTAURANT, ON MUSKOKA ROAD. ALL FASCINATING STUDIES, OF THE CHARACTERS WHO FOUND INSPIRATION IN OUR REGION OF ONTARIO. BUT WHAT WERE THEY LIKE, AS INDIVIDUALS. THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO KNOW. IN FACT, I'D LIKE TO KNOW MORE ABOUT ALL OUR HISTORY MAKERS, BECAUSE THERE WAS SO MUCH MORE HERE, THAN JUST BARE BONES HISTORY, BEING NOTCHED HOUR AFTER HOUR, DAY AFTER DAY. BY THE WAY, WILLIAM ANDERSON WAS A WELL KNOWN LOGGER IN MUSKOKA, AND KNEW A LOT ABOUT THE LORE OF THE WOODLANDS. HE PUT THIS SENSORY PERCEPTION INTO HIS LANDSCAPES, SUCH THAT THEY OFTEN APPEARED, AT LEAST TO ME (WHO SAT IN HIS CHAIR TWO SATURDAYS A MONTH)  AS IF YOU COULD WALK FROM THE BARBER'S CHAIR, RIGHT INTO THE RAINY HAZE OF A MUSKOKA FOREST….IN ITS AUTUMN FINERY.

     ONE OF THE FIRST BOOKS THAT GOT ME THINKING ABOUT THE LACKING COLOR OF MUSKOKA HISTORY, WAS WHEN I CAME UPON A BOOK WRITTEN BY REDMOND THOMAS, Q.C., ENTITLED "RECOLLECTIONS." REDMOND WAS THE SON OF G.H.O. THOMAS, ONE OF THE TOWN'S GREAT MOVERS AND SHAKERS, WHO BECAME KNOWN IN THE LOCAL NEWSPAPER GAME, WITH THE BRACEBRIDGE GAZETTE. REDMOND, WHO HAD WRITTEN A NEWSPAPER COLUMN FOR MANY YEARS, PUT SOME OF HIS FAVORITE STORIES INTO A SMALL STAPLE-BOUND TEXT, THAT CONTAINED THE KIND OF STORIES A FLEDGLING HISTORIAN LIKE ME, WANTED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT. MY FAVORITE IS THE STORY HE SPUN, ABOUT A HUGE STEAM-POWERED MERRY-GO-ROUND, THAT WAS OWNED BY SOMEONE IN THE GRAVENHURST AREA, AND RENTED OUT TO FALL FAIRS AND COMMUNITY CELEBRATIONS. IN HIS DESCRIPTION, HE TELLS HOW THE BEAUTIFUL CARNIVAL PIECE, WAS SHIPPED IN PIECES, ABOARD A TRAIN, COMING NORTH FROM GRAVENHURST, AND LOCATED IN AN AREA OF THE MAIN STREET, BUT SEEING AS I DON'T PRESENTLY OWN THE BOOK, I'LL JUST HAVE TO GUESS THAT IT WAS WHERE THE CARNEGIE LIBRARY WAS BUILT, ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET…OR IN THE VICINITY, BUT NOT MEMORIAL PARK.

     REDMOND DESCRIBES THE SCENE BEAUTIFULLY, OF THE GAS ILLUMINATION FROM THE TORCHES, MOUNTED ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE MERRY-GO-ROUND; THE SOUND OF THE STEAM ENGINE PUMPING AWAY, AND THE SONG BEING PLAYED, "MEET ME IN ST.LOUIS," IN RECOGNITION OF THE ST. LOUIS WORLD'S FAIR. THE WAY HE DESCRIBES THE NIGHT, THE SIGHT OF THE TORCH LIT MERRY-GO-ROUND SPINNING, THE CROWD HUDDLED AROUND, AND THE PASSENGERS THOROUGHLY ENJOYING THEMSELVES, YOU FELT AS IF YOU WERE STANDING THERE AS WELL, THE SMELL OF FOOD AND CANDY PERMEATING THE COOL AIR…..AND THAT'S WHAT I CONSIDER THE MASTERY OF A GOOD STORY TELLER.

     HE WROTE ANOTHER ONE, THAT FASCINATED ME, ABOUT, I BELIEVE, MR. BROWNING'S FUNERAL PROCESSION, THAT HAS ALWAYS STUCK IN MY MIND. FIRST BECAUSE WE USED TO HAVE OUR SECOND ANTIQUE SHOP, BIRCH HOLLOW, IN THE BASEMENT OF THE FORMER FUNERAL DIRECTOR'S HOME, W.W. KINSEY, ON NORTH MANITOBA STREET. REDMOND TELLS THE STORY, (ALTHOUGH SOME DETAILS NOW ARE A LITTLE FUZZY), THAT MR. BROWNING, ONE OF THE TOWN'S PROMINENT CITIZENS OF THE LATE 1800'S, (BROWNING HALL, CONNECTED TO ST. THOMAS ANGLICAN CHURCH),  WAS IN HIS COFFIN, PLACED IN THE BACK OF KINSEY'S HORSE DRAWN HEARSE, PARKED, AWAITING THE BEGINNING OF THE FUNERAL PROCESSION NORTH ON THE MAIN STREET. APPARENTLY, SOMETHING SPOOKED THE HORSES, AND UPON REARING UP IN FRIGHT, SENT THE HEARSE UP AT THE FRONT, AND THE OCCUPANT SMASHING OUT THE GLASS DOORS OF THE BACK END, ONTO THE GROUND, IN AN UNCEREMONIOUS CRASH AND ROLL. ONE OF THE ATTENDANTS, AT THE TIME, WAS HEARD TO YELL OUT, "NO, NO, MR. BROWNING…..WE'RE NOT THERE YET," MEANING THE CEMETERY. AS FAR AS THE NORMAL COURSE OF HISTORICAL RECORD, THIS WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MENTIONED OTHERWISE. IT WAS CONSIDERED IRRELEVANT AND UNNECESSARY, AND MORE LIKE, VERY UNFLATTERING TO MR. KINSEY, AND TO THE BROWNING FAMILY. BUT IT HAPPENED. WITNESSES SAW THE FLYING COFFIN HIT THE ROAD. AND BECAUSE IT WAS ONE OF THE TOWN'S MOST BENEVOLENT CITIZENS, OF COURSE IT WAS NEWS. IT SHOWED THAT WE MUSKOKANS WEREN'T SO SERIOUS, TO HAVE LET A MOMENT LIKE THIS OCCUR, WITHOUT A LITTLE ACCOMPANYING ANECDOTE. IT WASN'T DISRESPECTFUL TO MR. BROWNING, OR A SIGN OF BAD BUSINESS BY KINSEY, JUST ANOTHER UNPREDICTABLE MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND GOING ABOUT HIS OR HER BUSINESS. THINGS HAPPEN. MR. BROWNING WAS GIVEN A FITTING SEND-OFF NONE THE LESS, BUT I THINK HE MIGHT HAVE GOT A CHUCKLE ABOUT IT HIMSELF, AS HE WAS SAID TO HAVE HAD A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR IN LIFE.

     NOW THIS STORY HAS BEEN AROUND FOR LONG AND LONG, BUT I CAN'T ATTRIBUTE IT TO ANOTHER HISTORIAN; BUT RATHER TO A PUBLISHED NEWSPAPER ACCOUNT. IT IS THE SHORT NEWS STORY ABOUT A BRACEBRIDGE DOCTOR, WHO I WILL LEAVE UNNAMED, FROM THE EARLY YEARS OF TOWN HISTORY, WHO DECIDED TO AVOID THE NUISANCE OF HAVING SOME OTHER DOCTOR, REMOVE HIS TONSILS, NECESSITATING A HOSPITAL STAY. YES, YOU ARE RIGHT, IF YOU WERE THINKING HE DECIDED TO REMOVE THEM HIMSELF. UNFORTUNATELY FOR THE GOOD DOCTOR, A RESPECTED PRACTITIONER, HE WAS UNABLE TO HALT THE BLEEDING FROM HIS FIRST INCISION, AND BLED TO DEATH AS A RESULT. A LITTLE HARD TO BELIEVE, BUT IT HAPPENED.

     ANOTHER FASCINATING STORY TOLD BY REDMOND THOMAS, CHRONICLED A MAJOR TOWN EXPLOSION, THAT OCCURRED WHEN SOME TEENAGERS GAINED ENTRY INTO A STORAGE AREA, ON THE ROCKS ADJACENT TO BRACEBRIDGE FALLS. IT WAS A HOT DAY, AND THE FOREMAN OF A CONSTRUCTION PROJECT NEAR BY, HAD GONE FOR LUNCH, FAILING TO LOCK-UP THE DYNAMITE STORED WITHIN. SOMEHOW THE LADS WERE ABLE IGNITE A FUSE, ON PURPOSE, AND WHEN THE STOCKPILE EXPLODED, THE MASSIVE VIBRATION FOLLOWED THE ROCK LEDGE, IN AN "L" PATTERN, BENEATH ALL THE BUILDINGS ON ONE SIDE OF MANITOBA STREET, HEADING NORTH, AND ALL THE WINDOWS THAT WERE SHUT, BLEW OUT; THE ONES THAT WERE OPENED, WERE SPARED, AS THE VIBRATION WAS THUSLY INTERRUPTED. IT WAS FORTUNATE THE STOCK PILE WAS A LITTLE LESS THAN IT HAD BEEN PREVIOUS IN THE WEEK, SUCH THAT THE ENTIRE STREET MIGHT HAVE BEEN LEVELED, BY THE LARK OF YOUTH PLAYING A PRANK. NO ONE WAS HURT ACCEPT THE FEELINGS OF THE CHAP RESPONSIBLE FOR KEEPING THE EXPLOSIVES UNDER LOCK AND KEY…..WHO HAD A LENGTHY AND LOUD REPRIMAND FOR HIS LACK OF DUE DILIGENCE.

     I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT POWDER KEG EXPLOSION, NOT LONG AGO, WHEN WORK CREWS WERE INSTALLING NEW SEWER CONNECTIONS, AND UNDERGROUND SERVICES, AT THE SAME INTERSECTION, ABOVE THE FALLS, ENTRANCE DRIVE, QUEBEC STREET, AND MANITOBA. THE ROCK SHELF IS STILL THERE, AND I TALKED TO LOCAL BUSINESS OWNERS, WHO FELT THE DEEP VIBRATION BENEATH THEIR BUILDINGS, EACH TIME A CHARGE WAS DETONATED. BUT THESE WORKERS USED THE RIGHT AMOUNT, AND RUBBER BLANKETS TO STOP DEBRIS FROM FLYING ABOUT.

    THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF NEAT STORIES LIKE THIS, THAT WERE NEWS, FIRST OF ALL, BUT THERE WAS ALWAYS A SIDEBAR FOLK STORY ATTACHED….THAT ADDED THE COLOR TO THE BLACK AND WHITE NEWS ACCOUNT. I GREW UP HEARING ABOUT THESE TALES, LIKE THE TIME THERE WAS A TRAIN DERAILMENT RIGHT INTO THE BRACEBRIDGE STATION…..DESTROYING THE ENGINE, CARS, AND MUCH OF THE BUILDING. WAS IT ON TIME? THEN THERE WAS THE TALE ABOUT THE MISSING TRAIN BELL, STOLEN FROM A WRECK THAT HAPPENED ONCE IN THE HAMLET OF FALKENBURG, NORTH OF BRACEBRIDGE. I HAVE HEARD THREE DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF THE STORY, AND WHO WAS SUSPECTED OF GRABBING THE BRASS BELL, THAT HAD BEEN RIPPED FREE OF THE STEAM ENGINE. I ONCE HAD THREE NAMES, OF THOSE FAMILIES SUSPECTED OF HARBORING THE STOLEN BELL, AND I KNEW ALL OF THEM. EACH WOULD CAST DOUBT ON THE OTHER CLAN, BUT LEGEND HAS IT, THE BELL IS STILL GLEAMING AND ON DISPLAY, SOMEWHERE IN THE BRACEBRIDGE AREA.

     AND THEN, THERE'S THE FOLK STORY TOLD BY UFFORD / FAMILY HISTORIAN BERT SHEA, ENTITLED "WILLIAM SHEA AND THE BEAR":    "BEAR, AS PEOPLE, SEEM TO TAKE NOTIONS TO DO STRANGE THINGS OR DEVELOP DIFFERENT HABITS OR TASTES FOR FOOD. THIS ONE IN PARTICULAR, DEVELOPED A TASTE FOR OATS IN THE RIPENING STAGE. WHILE STANDING IN THE STRAW, HE WAS CREATING CONSIDERABLE DESTRUCTION BY BREAKING THE STRAW DOWN IN LARGE PATCHES IN THE SETTLERS' OAT FIELDS. MR. WINFIELD, SQUATTER, OWNER OF LOTS 12, CON. 4, CUT HIS SMALL ACREAGE OF VERY FINE OATS WITH THE CRADLE BOUND, THEN INTO SHEAVES BY HAND, AND STOOKED THEM IN ROUND STOOKS WITH A CAP TO CURE, TILL STACKING TIME, A MATTER OF A FEW DAYS.'

     BERT SHEA WRITES, " BY THE LIGHT OF THE FULL HARVEST MOON, FROM THE DEPTH OF THE ANCIENT WOOD, BRUIN CONTINUED HIS HAVOC WITH THE STOOKS, TEARING THEM APART, DESTROYING THE GRAIN, EATING SOME. SO THIS FINE NIGHT THAT PROMISED TO BE MOONLIGHT IN THE EVENING, WILLIAM SHEA VOLUNTEERED TO PLAY A SURPRISE ON BRUIN, AND MAKE HIM PAY FOR HIS DAMAGE BY HIS HIDE. ARMED WITH A MUZZLE LOADER, HE PICKED HIS STAND IN THE SMALL CLEARING, ARRANGED THE SHEAVES AROUND, IN THE FORM OF A LARGE STOOK AND CRAWLED INSIDE, GUN HAND PEEKING THROUGH THE HOLES BETWEEN THE SHEAVES; HE COULD SEE ALL PARTS OF THE FIELD. THE NIGHT WAS BEAUTIFUL; THE FULL MOON ROSE OVER THE FOREST IN ALL ITS SPLENDOR, CASTING DEEP, DARK SHADOWS ABOUT THE CLEARING EDGE. THE CRICKETS CHIRPED IN THE STUBBLE, A SLIGHT MIST AROSE FROM THE SWALE, A WARBLER PERCHED IN A THICKET SANG A SHORT SONG, AS IF IMPRESSED IN HIS SLEEP BY THE MAJESTY OF IT ALL. WILLIAM SHEA'S KEEN EYE NEVER CEASED TO SURVEY EVERY PART OF THE CLEARING FOR A MOVEMENT OF THE BLACK VISITOR. BY MIDNIGHT, THE OCCASIONAL CLOUD PASSED ACROSS THE FACE OF THE MOON, SHROUDING ITS LIGHT. BY ABOUT 2:30 A.M., BENEATH ONE OF THESE SHADOWS, WILLIAM COULD HEAR SOUNDS CAUSED BY MOVEMENTS ABOUT HIM, AND IN THE MIDST OF IT ALL, SOMETHING WAS WALKING DIRECTLY TOWARD HIS HIDING PLACE, BUT LOOK AS HE COULD, DARKNESS HID HIS VIEW.

     "HE THOUGHT IT WAS THE BEAR, BUT IT COULD BE A SETTLER'S COW; TO SHOOT COULD BE FATAL, PERHAPS KILL A COW THAT A SETTLER DEPENDED ON TO FEED HIS FAMILY MILK AND BUTTER, WOULD BE DISASTROUS. AND THEN TO SHOOT THE ONLY ROUND FROM A MUZZLE LOADER, DIRECTED BY CHANCE IN THE DARK, AND PERHAPS WAS A BEAR, COULD BE DEATH (TO THE SHOOTER) BY WOUNDED BEAR. HE WISHED FOR LIGHT AND FELT HIS CHANCES TO SHOOT THE BEAR WAS NOW AND IN CLOSE QUARTERS IF HE COULD ONLY SEE. ALL OF A SUDDEN, A SHEAF WAS TORN FROM HIS HIDING STOCK AND IN A MATTER OF FEET AWAY, HE COULD HEAR THE BEAR'S TEETH CHEWING ON THE OATS' HEADS. SECOND WERE AS MINUTES; WOULD THE LIGHT COME? WOULD THE CLOUDS PART? WILLIAM SHEA WAS A MAN EXCEPTIONALLY SWIFT TO ACTION, BUT NEVER IN CHANCE. SUDDENLY BRUIN SENSED THE PRESENCE OF A HUMAN BEING TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT, AND FLED, LEAVING ONLY THE SOUND OF THE CRACKLING OF THE BRUSH,  AS HE BOUNDED OVER THE BRUSH FENCE THAT SURROUNDED THE LITTLE CLEARING. BEFORE THE EARLY DAWN, WILLIAM SHEA WALKED QUIETLY HOME, SLIGHTLY DISAPPOINTED, YET WITH A THRILL OF A RARE EXPERIENCE, AND A REALIZATION OF THE PERFECTION OF THE PLANT OF THE MAKER FOR THE PRESERVATION OF ALL HIS CREATURES."

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 Gowan Gillmor

"TO FEED AND PROVIDE FOR THE LORD'S FAMILY"

     IN THE 1967 BIOGRAPHY, "GILLMOR OF ALGOMA - ARCHDEACON AND TRAMP," AUTHOR E. NEWTON WHITE, (PUBLISHED BY THE DIOCESE OF ALGOMA, ANGLICAN CHURCH OF CANADA) WRITES OF GOWAN GILLMOR, THAT "THE THREADS OF HIS HOME AND FAMILY FRAYED BEYOND REPAIR." HE RECORDS THAT "GOWAN WENT ON WITH THE FABRIC OF HIS PARISH MINISTRY - THE SERVICES, THE TRAMPINGS, THE VISITING, THE SICK NURSING, THE APPROACH TO CHILDREN. PERHAPS MORE THAN EVER NOW, THE CHILDREN. (HE HAD LOST HIS, WHEN HIS WIFE MOVED WEST). TEN YEARS AFTER GOING TO (VILLAGE OF) ROSSEAU, GOWAN WROTE THIS COMMENT ON THE LIFE HE HAD THERE; 'WE LIVE HERE SOME TWELVE MILES FROM A RAILWAY STATION. THIS MEANS THAT THROUGH THE WINTER WE ARE VERY MUCH ISOLATED FROM THE OUTSIDE CIVILIZED WORLD. NOT THAT WE OURSELVES ARE WITHOUT CIVILIZATION, AND WHAT WE DO POSSESS - AND IT IS CONSIDERABLE, WE ENDEAVOUR TO EXERCISE AS WELL AS WE CAN, DURING THE LONG LIVING SNOW SEASON.' HOW MUCH GOWAN APPRECIATED FRIEND AND FAMILY CIRCLE GATHERINGS, WITH MUSIC, READING, SINGING, DISCUSSIONS AND JUST PLAIN FRIENDLY TALKING, CAN BE GATHERED FROM HIS WRITINGS AND DIARY ENTRIES. ON A VISIT TO THE REVEREND A.J. COBB, AT SEGUIN FALLS, ALONG WITH MR. WILSON OF MAGNETAWAN, 'IT WAS JUST LIKE A SMALL-SCALE CLERICAL RETREAT.' SEVERAL YEARS LATER, ON ANOTHER VISIT TO THE SAME MR. COBB, HE PLAYED SOME VERY DIFFICULT AND BEAUTIFUL PIECES OF MUSIC FOR ME; AND THEN MRS. COBB ACCOMPANIED WHILE HE SANG SEVERAL GREAT SONGS, ONE OF THEM THE 'FINE OLD VICAR OF BRAY.' DID WE HEAR A VOICE; WHAT A WAY TO SPEND AN EVENING!' BUT THERE SPOKE A POOR UNDERPRIVILEGED MODERN."

     E. Newton-White writes, "We are told that Gowan's housekeeping methods were unique, and that his cooking was atrocious; one can well believe it from a few remembered visual evidences. Because of circumstances he was batching for a greater part of his ministry, and later on, a good deal of his batching was done in forlorn empty rectories, and parsonage shacks, while he supplied for a vacant parish anywhere, between the Head-of-the-Lake and Gravenhurst. At Rosseau, the ladies of the congregation would clean up the Rectory in his absence - where they might. Part of his study was a spider preserve; not because of a possible feminine abhorrence of spiders, but because they, the spiders, were his friends. Sometimes Gowan would remonstrate with the cleaner-uppers. 'Let the nice dirt be!' Once, finding a lady dusting the Altar, he said, 'Just leave that dust lie, it's holy dust!'

     "In his parochial duties, the parish of Rosseau provided Gowan with some very respectable walking mileages. The area was comparatively small as related to his previous charges, but he covered it intensively. On Sunday, he would preach at Rosseau in the morning; walk to Ullswater, via Rosseau Falls, and the mouth of the Skeleton River, 12 or 16 miles (and eating a lunch as he walked); then walk to Bentriverdale (now shrunken to Bent River), or North Cardwell or Windermere, for evening service; then home. With modern changes of road location, the actual distance in now hard to estimate; but made a full Sunday and meant three different sermons - he made no rehashes. When they could, and he would let them, the farmers would drive him from one point to the next, in their old buggies, and with sometimes tired horses. Farming was hard on man and beast in those days also."

     The biographer, E. Newton-White records, that "a one time old parishener, says that Gowan preached in a small frame school house near her home, for fifteen years, yet never allowed a collection to be taken up, or anything else given. The epidemic diseases did not spare Rosseau, and Gowan took up his self-appointed duties again. Small-pox broke out in Ullswater, and he closed up the Rosseau Rectory to take up residence there, to minister to the sick. When diptheria was rife in Rosseau, he had his parsonage quarantined and spent all his time among the stricken homes; only stopping when, as he said, 'there are no more throats to look down.' Years later, when preaching in New Liskeard, he told of an episode of that time. Late on very cold and stormy night, word came to him of a family eleven miles down the lake, where eleven children were all down with diptheria. Gowan went into the village, to get groceries and medicine, and some neighbours gathered. As he was pulling on his heavy outgoing clothes, someone said, 'Where are you going now? An' where would I be going but to get these things out.' And swinging his pack, to his back, he stepped out to face the wild storm. Arrived safely, he nursed the family until all were well. That was Gowan's story but we can be sure that he belittled the conditions. After the service, a lady introduced herself to him. She was one of the family, she said, but wanted to correct one of his statements. There were not eleven sick ones, but fifteen!

     "Gowan used to tell Rosseau people what he told many others in his long experience, that only he and Death had undisputed entry into the homes where contagion had taken hold; quarantines notwithstanding. Death kept very close vigil while his own presence lent help, hope and consolation. He did not tell them that he often disputed Death's sentry, and many a time was able to bar the door to him. Gowan's diary of those days sometimes noted extraneous matters as this; 'June 22nd, at Rosseau. Voted for Beattie for Provincial Parliament.' Or this, 'June 22nd. at Rosseau. Met Col' O'Brien.' But who was Beattie? Was this the O'Brien of Rebellion days? Did his Irish name gain him Gowan's vote? Seventy years from now, the names of many a politician, now local household words, will be equally in limbo. About voting, Gowan would have made one of his usual kind of observations; 'Voting,' he would say, 'was not nearly as much fun in Canada, as in Ireland. There you fought your way to the polling station, and then you fought your way home again!"

"THE WORD GOD TO GIVE ME SPEECH!"

     "Let us try to picture Gowan, once again, as he would have appeared at this time in his life, and as Rosseau knew him. We have said he was tall and upright - a big man. Although he always showed the effect of his R.I.C. training, he had in no sense the military bearing nor the voice; rather those of the Irish gentleman. His clothes were nondescript; with his clerical garb a sort of foundation, he wore whatever made for protection against the elements, and convenience, in his peculiar modes of travel - like the outdoor workers he moved among," wrote E. Newton-White, his biographer.

     "His distinguishing badge was his black cloth bag; no one else carried one like it. The prospectors, bushmen and their like carried canvas bags and packsacks; settlers and farmers used bean bags and grain bags. Gowan toted his black bag from the construction days onward, until his final activities in Sault Ste. Marie; and became a well known figure in consequence. Said a Canon friend once, 'I never had a look into that black bag,' (which sounds as though he would have liked to have done that) but I do know that it held his vestments, his Bible, Greek Testament and Prayer Book.' As he said himself, 'Tramps were never known to carry excess gear.' Nevertheless it was actually crammed to capacity, and that would have been with things for the needy, and for his 'fairies.' People who were children in the Rosseau days, say of Mr. Gillmor, things like this, 'I shall always remember him as I used to see him in my growing-up years. His jolly chuckle and cheerful smiling face, which wrinkled all over when he laughed, which was often. And the brogue in his voice when he spoke.' Gowan loved to hear the Irish manner of speech, sounding in the Canadian born. Once during a spell of intensely frosty weather, he was visiting a parishioner family, and told them that he had just been out to see a man, who told him to sit in the dark these nights because, 'the kyle-ile was froze!' The brogue, indeed, seemed always ready to take over in Gowan's speech, even as he read the Prayers and the Lessons - even in the Communion Service itself. His reading with its curious flow of runs and hesitations, always at the same places, made delightful music. As for his sermons, sometimes they were in the brogue entirely. Any mention of his sermons, and speeches, must try to convey his manner of long pauses - or rather, abrupt and lengthy stops, during which the listener could only wonder, as perhaps he had intended; 'What next?' That the method was effective is shown by a Priest, who says he can still remember Gowan's sermons; a fact he regards as remarkable, because he can say the same of no other preacher."

     E. Newton-White writes, "Then this at a Synod Meeting, many years after, at which Archbishop Thorneloe announced his impending retirement. In his own speech, Archdeacon Gillmor said, 'The first time I met his Grace, he was at sea! - on the Muskoka Lakes - At Rosseau; I boarded the ship, and he had two bags. When he saw me he put them both down. He came toward me with out-stretched hand. And d'ye know, I have felt the warmth of that handshake ever since'."

     The biographer records of his subject, "One to who we are most indebted for memories, and pictures of Rosseau, the unofficial archivist of the Parish; a devoted church-worker and member of one of the first settler families, says of his appearance, 'he peculiar walking gait as he set out on one of this trips. It was as if his head was in a hurry to reach the destination before his body. It was a gait which made for great mileage.' The same lady remembers that Protestant settlers from a distance, would sometimes take Gowan for a Roman Catholic priest; partly because of the large silver cross he always wore. They would address him as 'Father,' when that title was quite unknown among Anglicans, and he would be pleased. One lady remembers her brother always calling him, but respectfully, 'Father Kelly.' He enjoyed that too. The cross he wore was often the subject of questioning by some people in those days. When asked he would explain that his work took him among all sorts and conditions of men, and those who did not respect him as a man, would at least have regard to the Cross.

     "The lady of the Parish tells how she once noticed a freshly blazed tree in the bush, well back from the road, she was walking, and went in to see it. She found a Cross cut into the blaze, and above and below it was written, 'The Tramp - His Mark.' Seeing that no kind of axe was part of his equipment, someone else must have blazed the tree, and Gowan made use of it. At Sault Ste. Marie, at least one home of his good friends has a treasured birthday book, in which Gowan hand-entered, for Nov. 22nd, 'The Tramp - His Mark."

Christmas in Muskoka 2016 The Old Oak Tree

HEAR THE OLD OAK TREE - THE SOUNDS AND SUBTLE WONDERS OF CHRISTMAS ABOUND THE OLD LEAVES RUSTLE IN THE WIND - I REALIZE HOW MUCH I WOULD MISS ITS GENTLE WHOSH...IF ONE MORNING, I FOUND IT GONE      IN THE MIST OF SPARKLING ICE CRYSTALS, FAR INTO THE FROZEN DISTANCE, THERE IS THE UNMISTAKABLE, NOSTALGIC SOUND, OF CHILDREN SCREAMING....LAUGHING, AT PLAY. UNDOUBTEDLY FROM THE EXCITEMENT, THOSE NEW SHINY SLEDS STIR, IN THE WHIPPING RACE DOWN THE ICE-COVERED HILLSIDES, OF OUR OLD TOWN NEIGHBORHOOD. SOMEONE NEARBY HAS A BACK YARD RINK, BECAUSE I NOW HEAR THE CLINK AND CUT OF SILVER BLADES, GNASHING AGAINST THE CRYSTAL ICE.     THERE ARE THE USUAL SOUNDS OF SNOW SHOVELS BEING UTILIZED, TO WIDEN DRIVEWAYS, IN PREPARATION FOR GUESTS COMING FOR DINNER. I HEAR THE ECHO OF ICE SHIFTING FAR OUT ON MUSKOKA BAY, AND THERE ARE SNOWMOBILES RACING ALONG A NEARBY TRAIL; THE CARESS OF A LIGHT WINTER WIND, SHAKING THESE DRY, BROWN OAK LEAVES, STILL CLINGING TO THE BOUGHS, ON THE VENERABLE TREE THAT WELCOMES US TO THE PATH INTO THE BOG. I HAVE STOOD OUT AT THE END OF OUR LANE, ON MANY CHRISTMAS DAYS, LIKE THIS, AS A SORT OF SEASONAL RITUAL, AND I REALIZED THIS AFTERNOON, JUST HOW THOSE VIGILS HAVE BEEN INFLUENCED, AND ENHANCED BY THE MUSICAL RUSTLE OF THE DRY LEAVES, ADHERED NOW TO THE ICE AND SNOW COVERED BOUGHS. AS THE SONG REFERENCES THE "MURMUR OF THE COTTONWOOD TREES," I AM SO PLEASANTLY REGALED BY THE SING-SONG OF THE OLD OAK TREE, THAT I SEE EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE....THE SAME BEAUTIFUL TREE, THAT FOR THE PAST TWENTY-FIVE YEARS, HAS PLEASANTLY GREETED US EACH MORNING, AND WELCOMED US BACK TO BIRCH HOLLOW, WHEN OUR DAY HAS GROWN WEARISOME. IT HAS WATCHED OUR BOYS GROW, AND IT WAS THE ICONIC TREE, SUZANNE AND I STOOD UNDER, A FEW YEARS AGO, WHILE WE TALKED WITH NEIGHBORS ABOUT FIGHTING FOR THE BOG'S CONSERVATION; NEEDING TO BE RESCUED FROM THE TOWN'S INTENT TO SELL IT. IT'S THE TREE I STOPPED TO LOOK AT, THE DAY MY MOTHER DIED, WHILE I STOOD AT THE CAR, AWAITING THE REST OF THE FAMILY TO TRUNDLE DOWN FROM THE HOUSE, FOR OUR UNFORTUNATE TRIP TO THE PINES, IN BRACEBRIDGE, TO CONSOLE MY FATHER. THE NIGHT MY FATHER PASSED AWAY, I LEANED UP AGAINST THE BACK OF THE VAN, AND JUST STARED OUT AT THE CLEAR WINTER SKY, WITH THIS GIANT, FANNING OAK, WHISPERING TO ME ABOUT LIFE AND ETERNITY; AND I FELT BETTER IN ITS PRESENCE, BUT I HAVE KNOW IDEA WHY.      WE OFTEN DISREGARD THESE SMALL DETAILS OF LIFE AND TIMES, EXCEPT WHEN WE FINALLY FEEL THE NECESSITY, IN OUR IMMEDIATE EMOTIONAL STATE, TO PAUSE, AND TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THESE LONGSTANDING, BUT MOST OFTEN IGNORED, CHARACTERISTICS OF THE PLACE IN WHICH WE LIVE. IN THIS TOWN, SO FULL OF INTERESTING NOOKS AND CRANNIES, AND BEAUTIFUL WOODLANDS LIKE THE ONE HERE ABOVE THE BOG, WE OFTEN FORGET HOW TRULY SIGNIFICANT THEY ALL ARE.....WHEN CONTEMPLATED QUIETLY, THOUGHTFULLY, BEYOND THE BACKGROUND BLUR WE SEE OF THEM, IN THE WHIR PAST, OF A SPEEDING AUTOMOBILE. LAST EVENING AND AGAIN THIS MORNING, AS THIS TREE MURMURED SO SOFTLY IN MY PRESENCE, JOYFUL CHURCH CHOIRS COULD BE HEARD AS A FAINT ECHOE IN THE MINUS TWENTY AIR; THE BELLS RESOUNDING OVER THE FROZEN LANDSCAPE; THE SWEET REFRAIN OF "MERRY CHRISTMAS," THE FESTIVE WELCOME AT MY NEIGHBOR'S FRONT DOOR. THERE'S A THE DISTANT SOUND OF A TRAIN HORN, AND THE VIBRATING RUMBLE OF THE IRON HORSE, OVER THOSE SPARKING RIBBON RAILS...CUTTING THROUGH THE FRIGID AIR MAKING IT SEEM, THAT AT ANY MOMENT, THE HEADLIGHT WOULD SOON BEND AND BEAM THROUGH THE TREES IN THE DISTANCE, AND LIKE THE POLAR EXPRESS, WIND RIGHT ALONG THIS ROADWAY AND STOP FOR FOR ME.      WE GENERALLY DON'T TAKE MUCH TIME TO "PONDER," AS A MEANS OF REFLECTING AND ANTICIPATING LIFE EVENTS, IN THESE DAYS OF TECHNOLOGICAL STIMULATION. METHINKS IT IS A DIEING ART; THAT OF STOPPING CASUALLY, TO REFLECT IN THAT GLORIOUS, TIME-HONORED PONDERING, SO FULLY RIPE OF CHILDHOOD FANTASY; A TIME WHEN WE SAW MYTHICAL CREATURES EMERGING THROUGH THE MOONLIGHT, AND THEN AMBLING DOWN THE FOREST PATHS TO PLACES UNKNOWN. THOSE PRECIOUS DAYS WHEN THE "FANTASTIC" WAS ORDINARY FARE, AND WE KEPT WHAT WE SAW TO OURSELVES, FOR FEAR THAT A REALIST MIGHT DASH OUR EXPECTATIONS.....OF MAGIC LEFT TO COME. DAYS WHEN IT WAS A PERFECT RESPITE JUST TO PASS THE HOURS, BRINGING ALL THOSE ENCHANTMENTS TO ONE PLACE, FOR INTIMATE ENTERPRISE. SOME WOULD CALL THEM WILD FICTIONS, AND THE FOLLY OF AN OVER-ACTIVE IMAGINATION. YET STANDING BY THE OLD, RUSTLING OAK, AT THIS TIME OF LIFE, I FIND MYSELF A CHILD AGAIN, TRYING TO IMAGINE ALL THAT THIS TREE AND ITS NATURE, ARE TRYING TO TELL ME.....WHAT I MIGHT EXPECT IN THE FUTURE. WHAT ETERNITY MUST LOOK LIKE, IF ONE DAY I WAS SO PRIVILEGED TO EXPERIENCE IT? IF ANY TREE COULD BE CONSIDERED SAGE, AND WISE, IT IS THIS ONE AT THE END OF MY DRIVE....THAT OVERSEES EVERYTHING WE DO IN THIS HOLLOW-SIDE NEIGHBORHOOD....WITH ITS RESIDENT DEER AND GREY RABBITS, WILEY FOXES, AND DANCING SQUIRRELS; BLUE JAYS AND CHICKADEES, CHIPMUNKS AND SKUNKS, INTERACTING WITHIN THE WOODLANDS, WHILE WE PASS ALONG THIS LANEWAY, ON OUR MERRY WAY.....IN OUR PARALLEL PROGRESSIONS OF A WORKING DAY. A CRANKY YOUNG SQUIRREL WAS CHATTERING AT ME A WHILE AGO, WHEN I APPARENTLY IMPEDED ITS PROGRESS TO THE BIRD FEEDER ON OUR VERANDAH. SO HALFWAY DOWN THE TRUNK, POINTING TO THE GROUND, THE SQUIRREL AWKWARDLY RAISED ITS HEAD, TO WARN ME AWAY FROM MY SOUJOURN, OR ELSE. BUT I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE IF IT WAS A WARNING OR A BOISTEROUS GREETING, BUT I FINALLY MOVED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE VEHICLE, AT THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY, AND THE SQUIRREL AMBLED ACROSS THE ROAD, AND UP THE HILLSIDE TO HAVE HIS DINNER.      AROUND OUR COMMUNITY THIS CHRISTMAS DAY, 2013, THERE ARE A MYRIAD OF ACTIVITIES GOING ON, THAT ARE SMALL IN NATURE AND PURPOSE, BUT INTERESTING, AND SOCIALLY HARMONIOUS WITH THE SEASON. AS YOU WILL SEE FROM THE PHOTOGRAPH, PUBLISHED ABOVE, FRED SHULZ WAS OUT EARLIER TO CAPTURE ONE OF THESE MOMENTS OF SPIRITUAL REKINDLING, IN THE SACRED EMBRACE, OF CHRISTMASES PAST;  AMONGST THE FAITHFUL CONGREGATION, IN THE PIONEER CHURCH OF THE HOLY MANGER, IN BARKWAY. ACROSS MUSKOKA THIS CHRISTMAS, THESE OLD CHURCHES, SOFTLY ILLUMINATED AGAINST THE SNOWY MANTLE, WERE RE-VISITED BY FRIENDS AND FAMILY, SOME WHO CAN LAY CLAIM AS KIN OF THE ORIGINAL CHURCH FOUNDERS, AND ORIGINAL CONGREGATION, FROM THE EARLIEST SETTLEMENT DAYS OF THE DISTRICT. WHAT AN ENDEARING SOLITUDE, TO COME UPON ONE OF THESE REANIMATED CHURCH BUILDINGS, AND HEAR THE SWEET CAROLS OF THE SEASON, RESONATING SENTIMENTALLY OVER THE FROZEN EXPANSE OF ROLLING, BORDERED PASTURES AND HILLSIDES, AS IF HISTORY HAS JUST THEN, FOR THE WELFARE OF A WEARY SOUL, COMMENCED ITS HAUNTING REVIVAL OF HOPE AND GOOD CHEER.....RENEWED IN A GLOW OF WINTER'S PASSION....THE SUN HAD JUST THAT MOMENT, BROKEN THROUGH THE VEIL OF SNOWFLURRIES, SPIRALLING DOWN UPON THE EARTH LIKE AN AGITATED SNOW GLOBE; AND THE VOYEUR COULD SEE CLEARLY ONCE AGAIN. TO WITNESS THE TINY MARVELS OF THIS INTRIGUING PLACE ON EARTH.....SO RICHLY SPICED WITH THE UNEXPECTED PLEASURES OF NATURAL CURIOSITIES, THRUST AGAINST THE ARCHITECTURAL HERITAGE OF ANOTHER ERA....ANOTHER SOCIAL INTERCOURSE THAT IS LONG GONE, EXCEPT FOR THESE REMNANTS OF OLD BUILDINGS, LOG BARNS AND RAIL FENCES SNAKING DOWN ONE HILLSIDE, AND BEING LOST TO VIEW, OVER THE TOP OF ANOTHER. THE SOLITUDE. THE WAY THE WINTER MANIFESTS OVER POND AND CREEK, SUCH THAT LIGHT AND SHADOW FORM THE ONLY VISIBLE CONTOURS.      WE MUSKOKANS PASS ALL THIS BY ALMOST DAILY, WITHOUT PAYING MUCH ATTENTION. SCHOOL KIDS, HEADS DOWN, TRUNDLE BY THE WOODLANDS ABOVE THE BOG, HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WITH NARY A SIDE GLANCE PAST THE PHONE IN THEIR HANDS; WHERE ONCE UPON A TIME, THOSE MITTS WERE ROLLING SNOWBALLS, TO TOSS AT THEIR CONTEMPORARIES. THE MOST ATTENTION THE WOODLANDS IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD GET, THESE DAYS FROM PASSING YOUTH, IS AS A REFUSE AREA FOR THE CARROTS, APPLES AND BANANAS DISCARDED FROM LUNCH BAGS, SO PARENTS WON'T FIND OUT THE TRUTH ABOUT THOSE HEALTHY LUNCHES TUCKED AWAY NEATLY IN BACKPACKS EACH MORNING. HARRIED ADULTS SELDOM HAVE MUCH TIME TO NOTICE THE WILDLIFE IN THE FOREST, OR THE INTERESTING WAY THE ICE AND SNOW HAVE BEEN SCULPTED OVER THE CEDARS, BECAUSE THEY ARE DRIVING TOO FAST TO NOTICE ANYTHING MORE THAN WHAT THE HEADLIGHTS REVEAL THIRTY FEET AHEAD. ON MORNINGS WHEN THE SPARKLING SUNLIGHT DAZZLES THROUGH THE SNOW-LADEN LIMBS, AND SPARKLES THROUGH THE PRISM CRYSTALS OF NEWLY FALLEN SNOW, THOSE HEADING TO WORK, CELL PHONES TO THEIR EARS, HAVE LITTLE TIME TO SPARE FOR PICTURESQUE SCENES OF JUST ANOTHER WINTER....SENT TO BURDEN US WITH HARDSHIP. HOW SAD IT IS THAT SO MUCH WONDROUS PLEASURE, FREE OF CHARGE, IS IGNORED AND BYPASSED BECAUSE WE HAVE LOST THE PASSION FOR THE NATURE AROUND US. HOW MANY OF MY NEIGHBORS HAVE ENJOYED THE WINDSWEPT WHISPERS, OF RUSTLING OAK LEAVES, OR HAVE GIVEN ANY THOUGHT WHATSOEVER, TO THE CURIOUS HABITS OF LOCAL WILDLIFE, THAT BY THEIR ACTIONS, SHOW US IN MANY WAYS, HOW LONG AND SEVERE THE WINTER WILL BE; HOW COLD OR WARM, AND HOW MUCH SNOW WE SHOULD EXPECT. IT USED TO BE, IN EARLIER DAYS, WHEN MUCH COULD BE LEARNED BY THE PREPARATIONS OF OUR CREATURE FRIENDS, ABOUT WHAT MOTHER NATURE HAD IN STORE. IF I WAS TO APPROACH THE YOUNGSTERS, WHO PASS THIS WAY EACH DAY, AND POINT OUT SOME OF THESE PECULIARITIES OF NATURE, UNDOUBTEDLY I WOULD BE BRUSHED-OFF AND THEN SCOLDED BY AGITATED PARENTS, THINKING ME A POTENTIAL MOLESTER. YET WE ARE BUNDLED TOGETHER AGAINST THIS DYNAMIC MUSKOKA LOWLAND, WHERE SO FEW CARE TO SET ONE FOOT, TO INVESTIGATE ITS INTERIOR. MY BOYS WERE SONS OF NATURE, AND NEVER FOUND IT ANY IMPOSITION TO BE IN THE CARING COMPANY OF GUARDIAN TREES AND THE CREATURE INHABITANTS.      I WORRY ABOUT THE MIND-SET DISTANCING OF PEOPLE TODAY, ESPECIALLY YOUNG MUSKOKANS, FROM THE NURTURING REALITIES OF NATURE AND RURAL LIFE. I BECOME CONCERNED WHEN OUR TOWNSFOLK MISS THE SIGNIFICANCE OF ALL THE SMALL HERITAGE, SOCIAL AND CULTURAL ACTIVITIES GOING ON, THROUGHOUT THE TOWN, AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR.....AND I FEAR THEIR IGNORANCE, WHEN THEY INDIGNANTLY CLAIM, WITHOUT A THIN SHRED OF RESERVATION, THAT THERE IS NOTHING GOING ON, OR ANYTHING TO DO.....IN THE HOME DISTRICT. THEY HAVE BEEN RAISED BY ELECTRONIC TECHNOLOGIES, AND TO THEM, ANYTHING LESS THAN RAZOR'S EDGE-EXCITING, IS OF LITTLE CONSEQUENCE. THEY DON'T BELIEVE THEY COULD BE STIMULATED BY A CHURCH SERVICE IN A PIONEER CHURCH. THEY WOULDN'T FEEL A SMIDGEON OF EMOTION, HEARING CAROLERS REJOICING THE SEASON, OR SENSE ANY INKLING OF TRANQUILITY, CATCHING THE ECHOE OF A CHURCH BELL SOMEWHERE OFF IN THE DISTANCE; AND HAVE NO DESIRE TO GRAB-UP ONE OF THOSE FLYING CARPETS, TO CHALLENGE AN ICY HILLSIDE WITH TODAY'S WILDLY ENTHUSIASTIC SLEDDERS. THEY PREFER INSTEAD, TO STAND AT THE EDGE OF THIS WINTER CARNIVAL, AND TEXT OR TWEET THEIR MATES VIA THE NEBULOUS CHANNELS THROUGH CYBERSPACE. IF I WAS TO ASK THEM, AT THAT MOMENT, IF THEY COULD HEAR THE TINKLING OF A TINY CATARACT, FLOWING SOMEWHERE BENEATH THE ICE AT THEIR FEET, THEY'D UNDOUBTEDLY THINK ME MAD FOR ASKING SUCH A FOOLISH, TIME-DEMANDING QUESTION. YES, I AM OLD FASHIONED THIS WAY. SO MUCH SO, I WORRY ABOUT THE ROLE THEY WILL SOON ASSUME BY SENIORITY, AS THE EVENTUAL NEW STEWARDS OF THIS LAND, AND ALL THE RECREATIONAL TRADITION AND HISTORY I WITNESS DAILY; THE NATURE I SO ADORE, THAT MIGHT SOON BE PAVED OVER WITH A MORE DESIRABLE LAND USE....HULKING, SKY-DOMINATING COMMUNICATION TOWERS, THAT ARE MADE TO LOOK LIKE TREES....BUT NOT REALLY. WHAT ARE WE TO EXPECT OF FUTURE GENERATIONS, WHO FIND ALL THAT AMAZES ME TODAY, IRRELEVANT AND JUST THE DULL, CUMBERSOME, INTRUSIVENESS OF NATURE?      I SUPPOSE ONE BLEAK DAY, SOMEONE WITH A CHAINSAW AND A CONTAINER OF CAS, AND INTENT, BY MISGUIDED MUNICIPAL AUTHORITY, WILL COME TO HACK DOWN THIS ANCIENT OAK, THAT INSPIRES ME EACH DAY; AND FEEL THE TOWN BEST SERVED BY A STUMP INSTEAD. I CAN ONLY DEFEND IT FOR SO LONG. I'M GETTING TOO OLD TO CHAIN MYSELF TO TREES; BECAUSE FOR ONE THING, I KEEP FORGETTING WHERE I PUT THE KEY TO THE LOCK. SO I CAN ONLY REPRESENT IT IN THE POETRY OF BEST INTENTIONS; A LANGUAGE THE YOUNGER GENERATION CAN'T INTERPRET. AND CONTINUE TO BOAST OF ITS MAGIC, FOR AS LONG AS I CAN, TO GIVE IT A REVERENCE ABOVE ITS GOLDEN LEAVES, AND CALMING MURMUR, IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF NATURE TO KEEP US RELEVANT TO EVERYTHING ELSE.      WHAT I EXPERIENCED THIS CHRISTMAS, WAS A VIBRANT, CHARMING, ENGAGING LITTLE TOWN, FULL OF TANTALIZING SIGHTS AND SOUNDS, OF COUNTRY LIFE AND TIMES. IT WAS THE AURA OF A MERRY CHRISTMAS, AND IT WAS AS USUAL, THE PLACE I WANTED TO BE. I HOPE YOU HAVE ALL HAD AN ENJOYABLE CHRISTMAS DAY. I AM SO GLAD YOU DROPPED BY FOR A VISIT. IF YOU'RE FEELING A LITTLE CHILLY, PULL A LITTLE CLOSER TO THE HEARTH.....THERE'S PLENTY OF ROOM.