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!