Gathered Fragments By John A. Clark, 1836

THE FATAL DISASTER, AS OBSERVED BY REVEREND JOHN A. CLARK, IN HIS 1836 BOOK, "GATHERED FRAGMENTS"

THE SCARCITY AND EXPENSE OF MEDICAL CARE WAS, BY NECESSITY, OFTEN OVERTAKEN BY FAITH IN GOD

     Looking back in time, as romantic and sentimental as Hollywood can color it, for audience approval, visions of hardship enter the picture soon after the nostalgia wears thin. Along with the hardships of living without contemporary conveniences, we must also look at the problems associated with a limited health-care efficiency, akin to "living in the past." Today, if we have to wait a half hour in the hospital emergency department, we feel seriously disadvantaged, thinking our ailment, must, therefore, be of little concern to medical professionals. Or, we would be looked after soon after arriving for care. At least that's the opinion you hear, while sitting in the hospital waiting room, or for that matter, at the doctor's office.

     This has a relevance to the story I want to share with you today, about a child, in the early 1830's, who sustained serious burns, while making breakfast for her siblings, in the absence of her mother, who had left earlier for her work place. While medical care was available eventually, it was too little, and too late, to promote proper healing. The saving grace in this case, wasn't the medical community, but rather, divine intervention. The outcome wasn't a good one from a medical perspective, but in terms of the child's belief in God, it was a peaceful, hopeful end to a short life. She was like many folks who lived in antiquity, when faith was a powerful force of healing, as medical assistance was often denied because of living circumstances. Living rurally was a big disadvantage when it came to getting medical care in a timely fashion. In the pioneering years of Muskoka for example, which began in 1859, an ill settler would probably have suffered considerably, without relief, and would have had to be transported south to the community of Orillia. This would have been a torturous cart ride.

     Churches however, began to appear early in most regional settlements, in Muskoka, and in fact, non-denominational congregations first met in neighborhood homesteads prior to church construction. Faith was an important reality in those pioneer communities, and prayer was the most exercised health remedy, when medicine and medical assistance were unavailable. In concert, prayer and medicine, were optimum resources, moral and physical, but in the case of those isolated in the wilds of the district, a strong belief in God represented most influence, serious illness could be overcome by regular prayer.

     "No present health and health ensure, for yet an hour to come; no medicine, though it oft can cure, can always balk the tomb."

     The above passage, penned by Cowper, was the verse used by Reverend John A. Clark, to open his chapter entitled "The Fatal Disaster," in his 1836 biographical text, "Gathered Fragments," which was in fact his 3rd revised edition. The reference he makes to "Little Ann," and the crisis that was to unfold, reminds us of the very great burden of ill health, at a time when medical care was a fraction of what it is today; and doctors were much less abundant in rural communities. Many died awaiting medical assistance, and it was especially grim in the countryside, where it would take a long horse and buggy ride, to attend a doctor's office or hospital. As it was in Muskoka, on a par with doctors, were the rural preachers, like Anglican Minister, Gowan Gilmor, in the late 1800's, serving the Diocese of Algoma. Gilmor would be called to a "sick house," at his own risk of contracting the disease, and assist the family with their recovery, for as long as it took. He would even cook their meals. He travelled thousands of miles on foot, along the bush trails all over the Diocese, to administer to his flock, and that included all religions when it came down to his humanity and sense of commitment to all God's children. Faith played a huge role in medical care in many of the pioneer farmsteads of this district, as it did in the northeastern United States, where Reverend Clark tended his flock, also a large one representing thousands of square miles he was known to travel each year.

     Reverend Clark writes in his journal that, " Anna Wenman was the child of a poor widow, who supported herself by the labour of her own hands. Perhaps the thought may cross the reader's mind, that it is hardly worth his while to stop to read the next dozen pages of this volume, inasmuch as all they promise is to conduct him into the lowly tenement of want, that he may learn how a poor sick child, whose intellectual powers were not above mediocrity, and in whose religious exercises there was nothing remarkable, felt and acted, on a dying bed. And yet if the reader loves the Saviour, and bears in mind how much it cost to redeem the soul of a poor child - if he can find pleasure in tracing the workings of divine grace, in the humblest subject upon which the Holy Spirit operates, we think he will find, even in this lowly instance, around which no feelings of sentimentalism can be gathered, enough to awaken the emotions of adoring love, and cause him to exclaim, 'This is the mighty power of God!' Into that abode of poverty, whither we purpose to conduct the reader, the Lord Jesus Christ, condescended to enter; yea, the Holy Spirit thought it not beneath the exalted work on which he was sent, to visit that humble spot daily with his sacred presence.

     "As we have already remarked, Ann's mother was obliged to earn her livelihood by daily toil, which usually took her away early in the morning from her family, whom she did not see again till evening. Ann, being the eldest of the children, was usually left in charge with the other children. She was now about eleven years old, and uncommonly sedate and womanly for one of her age. On the morning upon which the fatal accident occurred, to which allusion has already been made, Mrs. Wenman, went from home at a very early hour, leaving Ann to prepare breakfast for herself and the children. About the time her mother left, Ann arose and entered upon the duties which had been committed to her. She had already made a fire in a moveable furnace which stood on the hearth, in the fire-place, and had placed the lamp with which she had kindled the fire down on the floor beside her."

     Reverend Clark continues, writing, "As (Ann) she proceeded in these preparation for breakfast, while in the act of stooping down to place the tea kettle on the furnace, her clothes, which were of a cotton fabric, came in contact with the flame of the lamp, and were in a moment in a light blaze. No one that has not witnessed a spectacle of this kind, can scarcely conceive the agony of such a moment. What could she do? There was no one near her that could render any assistance. Her screams brought some person in an adjoining tenement to her aid; but before relief cold be rendered, her back from her neck to her feet was so burned, that the physician remarked, that had the flame continued unextinguished two minutes more, she would have been a corpse. The first thing that Ann said, after her wounds were dressed, and her mother sat down by her to try to soother her suffering, was 'Will you not send for Mrs. R____, my Sunday School teacher. I think I shall not get well, and I wish to see her.' Mrs. R____was immediately informed of the dreadful accident that had befallen Ann. Very much distressed with the intelligence, she hastened to the spot, to see what relief or assistance she could render. The remark that this little sufferer made when Mrs. R_____ first entered the door, shows that pious remarks addressed to children are seldom lost. 'Do you not recollect,' she said, 'that you told me last Sunday, that very likely some one of us would die, or would be laid upon a dying bed before the close of the week? I think this is my case - I do not think I shall ever get well'."

     According to Reverend Scott, ""Mrs. R____ was deeply affected by this burst of deep and ingenuous feeling on the part of Ann, and gave her that kind and salutary advice which her case seemed to demand. Ann had no personal acquaintance with her pastor. She had heard him address the children frequently, and speak to them about their eternal salvation, as from Sunday to Sunday he came into the school, to see how they were progressing. Her mind was impressed with the conviction, that there was but little probability that she could get well, and she now felt anxious to do all that she could to be prepared for death. She thought her minister could tell her what she must do to die happy, and she, therefore, besought Mrs. R____ to invite him to come and see her. Several days, however, passed after this occurrence, before he could visit her. The impression made upon my mind, at my first call, will never be erased. The spirit of this child seemed to be in strange and striking contrast with every thing around me. It was a hot summer's morning, the weather exceedingly sultry and oppressive. All nature appeared to droop, and the feeble and unsteady step of each passer-by, indicated the universal sense of lassitude that was felt. Ann's mind alone seemed unenfeebled, and full of wakeful and active energy. The place where she was lying was a low basement room, in an indifferent looking house. The room itself, however, bore the aspect of cleanliness and comfort.

     "As I entered, Ann recognized me, and announced my name although I had no recollection of every having seen her before. Though suffering much and intense pain, a smile lit up her countenance at the sight of one who could speak to her about her soul. I sat down by her bed and remarked, 'Ann, I feel grieved to hear of the dreadful accident that has befallen you; but God, I doubt not, means to do you good by this affliction. Perhaps he has let the fire burn your body, so that your soul need not be burnt up for ever. If all the suffering you feel shall lead you to pray and seek God's face and favour, so that in the end you become his child, you will not regret that this dreadful accident has happened. I was very happy to know that you wished to see me. I presume you wish me to talk to you about hour soul. I trust you have learned by your attendance upon the Sunday-school, that in order to die in peace and dwell with God in life everlasting, it is necessary we should be changed and made new creatures. Are you aware Ann of this?' Yes sir,' she replied, 'and it was on this account I wanted to see you."

     After a lengthy discussion between the injured child and Reverend Clark, he "then kneeled down by her bedside, and prayed; she repeated with me the Lord's Prayer, and appeared deeply affected by this devotional exercise. As I left the room, Ann begged of me that, if it would not be too much trouble, I would call again. Her widowed mother followed me out of the door, and with wide eyes full of tears, said, 'Ann is indeed an altered child. She used to be fretful, and easily irritated; but now, she is as meek and patient as a lamb. O, sir, you cannot think with how much patience she bears all her pains; and she is talking constantly about religion. Last night, as I was lifting her up in the bed, she said, 'Dear mother, I expect I shall die, but I hope we shall meet at God's right hand.' The mother was not professedly pious. Like hundreds of others in our large cities, who seldom attend upon any place of public worship, though the streams of earthly happiness were dried up around her, she was still looking to the broken cisterns of earth for relief. The Lord saw it necessary to lay the rod of affliction upon her again and again. One and another were taken, till she was a childless widow. These multiplied afflictions, it is hoped, led her to the fountain of living waters."

     Reverend Clark, in a poignant passage writes, "Eight or ten days before her death, her mind seemed somewhat clouded and depressed. The Lord was evidently revealing to her more of the evil of sin. There was a hymn that she recollected having heard, although she had not committed it to memory. She wished her mother to read it to her again. The hymn was the following: 'O for a closer walk with God! A calm and heavenly frame; A light to shine upon the road, that leads me to the lamb.' About a half hour before she ceased to breathe, she intimated a wish that this hymn might be read to her. It was; and while the fourth verse was being read, 'Return, O heavenly Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest,' she smiled, laying her fingers upon her breast, as much as to say, 'I now feel his holy and peaceful influence within. She then closed her eyes, and lay for a while. Her mother went to her bedside, and said gently, 'Ann, my dear, do you still know me?' She opened her eyes, and replied by a faint smile. 'I fear,' continued her mother. 'I fear that you will soon leave us; do you feel willing and resigned to go?' 'Yes, yes,' was her reply. Shortly after, she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, and said aloud, 'O God receive_______.' Her breath had left her motionless body before the petition was concluded, and doubtless her soul was received into the rest of the blessed. It was early in the morning that the liberated spirit of little Ann winged its way to the bright abodes of everlasting peace."

     Sure, we like to re-enact history, as long as we don't sacrifice too much of contemporary convenience; that exists for us, just out of sight, maybe down the road a few miles, or a modest drive away. Even the bravest of contemporary historians aren't crazy about the idea, of forwarding the cause of time-travel, just for us, in order to immerse ourselves further back in our studies, to enjoy (or not) all its unpleasant actualities. We know too well, the hardships our ancestors had to suffer with, because of these shortfalls of medical attention and treatment options. It takes a trip back, via stories like this, to recognize how good most of us have it these days, being in close proximity to emergency medical care. Ann suffered with her burns for upwards of two months, all of the time, spent at home with only occasional medical intervention. If the same injury was sustained today, the survival rate would obviously be much greater. Alas, history is what it is! And most of us, hope that it will never repeat! Historians included!

A Profile of "Old Style Funerals," by Redmond Thomas

A PROFILE OF "OLD STYLE FUNERALS," BY REDMOND THOMAS, FROM HIS BOOK OF "REMINISCENCES"

1969 HISTORY, PUBLISHED BY THE FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS

     If you've been a regular reader of this blog (column), you will remember my previous reference, to having an interest in funerary collectables. Yes, I did once own a portable embalming machine, and I loved having at our former shop, in Bracebridge, as a matter of some irony, in a storefront built onto the former W.W. Kinsey home, on upper Manitoba Street. Mr. Kinsey, of course, being one of two undertakers at the turn of the 1900's, in Bracebridge. When customers asked what the contraption was, they'd jump back, when I told them it was an embalming machine, that could be taken to any site, to perform the pre-funeral preparations. Well sir, it always got a hands-off reaction, that's for sure, although I was surprised by how many people did ask questions later, about the device, while, of course, standing well back; much as if there was still a spirit residue contained inside. I eventually donated it to my friend Dave Brown, a Hamilton teacher, who was planning to use it in an education display, for students, about early medical equipment, and how it was used.

     I also got a good deal on a beautiful spindle bed, circa 1875, made in Ontario, that was once the comfortable accommodation, on which the newly deceased were placed, for viewing, in the church manse, of the Alhambra United Church, in Toronto. We call it our death bed, but it isn't haunted. It doesn't levitate, or occasionally show up the form of one of those corpses, which had been laid out, prior to the coming funeral. It is however, a short bed, as from this period, folks were generally a little shorter than they are today. We sleep on it every night, and well, it's quite comfortable. You'd sort of expect we'd have nightmares or something, but honestly, it is quite benign in terms of paranormal anything. Suzanne was mad at me for buying it, but as I told her, being an antique dealer by itself, dictates that we are going to be handling possessions of the deceased constantly, in order to stay in business. Those folks didn't die in that bed. They were embalmed, and then placed there, for viewing. There are lots of antique beds, that were a lot closer to the precise moment of death, than this fine piece of Canadiana.

     I have a sea shell memorial cross, that was hand made, following a maritime boating accident, that is definitely creepy, in the Victorian style. I've turned down lots of funerary antiques and collectables, including a child's casket with a window, for public viewing, without needing the lid open. I've also had many photographs of the deceased, some appearing as if the subject of the photograph was just sleeping. I had to point this out to an antique clerk once, that a vintage photograph, they were advertising as a Victorian portrait, was actually a death image; the man lounging on a chair, had been situated that way, for purposes of this final photograph. This wasn't uncommon, and in the previous blog, regarding the folding casket, for Mr. R.B. Browning, it was created to appear as if a parlor couch, to make it appear the subject was only relaxing; not actually deceased. Death pictures do creep folks out, and of this, I feel much the same. But, it was done, and often, soon after the invention of the camera. I also owned, at one time, death images of children, painted with watercolors; each of the five portraits, given angel wings, and halos, via the artist's intent. These were painted in the early 1800's. Suzanne didn't like them whatsoever, and was glad when a gentleman insisted on making the purchase, against his wife's vehement protest. They got into an argument right in the hall of the shop, and she walked out on him, in the middle of the debate. Her concern was, that they would bring an unwelcome spirit, or group of spirits, into their happy home. As he had experienced the death of a sister due to a childhood illness, these portraits, in a way, reminded him, in a positive way, of her memorial tributes, that he remembered as a child himself. "What negativity could possibly come from these little angels," he said, as he thanked us for uniting him with this work of 'mourning' (memorial) art.

     "In my previous article, there was mention of the funeral of R.M. Browning, at which the horses, hitched to the hearse, plunged with such violence that the casket, broke loose from the fastenings, and crashed through the glass doors, at the back of the vehicle," wrote Redmond Thomas, in his popular book, "Reminiscences." "After publication of that article (in The Herald-Gazette circa 1967), it occurred to me that there are now many mature young men, and women, who have neither seen a funeral cortege, or horse-drawn vehicles; nor have heard about the very sombre trappings of death in such times.

     "Coffins had so nearly gone out of use by my earliest recollection, that I cannot remember ever seeing one, though I have seen the impression of the shape, of one, in the clay bottom of a grave, which had been opened to remove one. They were, generally speaking, form fitting, widening from the top downwards to the shoulders, and then tapering towards the feet. Caskets, now universally used, have in general appearance, changed very little within my recollection, except that no longer is seen the folding casket, such as the one to which Mr. Browning was buried; and gone also is the style in which, (until the casket was closed for the funeral) the face of the deceased could be viewed through a glass window, near the top of the casket. And no longer is affixed to the casket, a 'coffin plate' of polished metal, engraved with the name, date of death, and age, something which it seems to me, would be very useful if (as sometimes happens) bodies are moved."

     Mr. Thomas notes that, "Embalming was, when I first remember funerals, not in its present standard use. Of the two funeral establishments in Bracebridge, only the Kinsey one had an embalmer, namely Joshua L. Yeoman, who was a graduate of the Chicago College of Embalming, but in that establishment, embalming was optional. The other establishment, White's, had no embalmer, but if one was desired, would bring one from Gravenhurst. There was no funeral home. The two establishments engaging in undertaking, were basically furniture stores, and in fact, the Kinsey one, handled not only furniture but pianos, organs, and agricultural implements. A corpse was never taken to an undertaking establishment (even to be embalmed), unless the deceased had no home here, in which event, the body was placed in some secluded room, to await being sent away by railroad or being given burial here.

     "The bereaved household was a grim place. Crepe hung on the front door (and in case of a merchant, on the store door as well). Though the crepe was usually black, it was sometimes purple, if the deceased were very old, and was invariably white, if the deceased one was a young child. The door bell was muffled, until it gave apparently no sound. While in the room containing the casket, people spoke in whispers, or scarcely any louder. All the outer clothing of the woman, of the household, was dyed black, and many ladies added black borders to their white handkerchiefs. The men of the house wore black suits, and ties, and often had a black band of crepe sewn on an arm of the coat. The social stationary of the household, had black borders on note paper, and envelopes, hence a reference in an old song, to a letter edged in black. All this was 'full mourning' and lasted for a year. There were no sympathy cards. Friends wrote letters of condolence, and these in strict etiquette were of mourning (black bordered) stationary, though this strict rule was commonly ignored."

     The Herald-Gazette writer recollected that, "During the second year, after bereavement, the ladies wore half mourning which was a mixture of black and white. I have forgotten how (if at all) the men marked the second year.

    "Every pallbearer work a dark suit (preferably black) and a black tie. The undertaker provided him with black cotton or woollen gloves, and attached a bunch of long crepe, to whichever arm, was not to be used for carrying the casket. The undertaker wore formal attire, including black frock coat, and plug hat, and rode beside the driver of the (horse drawn) hearse. The hearse had large windows on each side, and the top of the vehicle was ornamented by metal imitations, of crepe-draped urns. (If the funeral to St. Joseph's Church, a cross was added to the top of the hearse). The horses pulling the hearse were a black team."

     Mr. Thomas adds, "Across the open grave were sticks on which rested the rough box, with its top removed. The pallbearers placed the casket in the rough box, to which the undertaker then fastened the cover. Using heavy straps of tug-leather, running from side to side, under the rough box, the pallbearers, three on each side of the grave, lifted the rough box until the sticks could be removed from under it, and then they lowered it to the bottom of the grave, after which those on one side, let go, and those on the other side, drew the straps up to the surface. The committal service, even in bitterest winter weather, was at the graveside, and all men present, stood bareheaded, hence the grim saying, that many a man got his death of pneumonia, while attending the winter-time funeral of a friend. I have been pallbearer at old style funerals in summer and winter.

     "As all horses in a funeral cortege proceeded at a walk, the progress was slow. If the deceased had belonged to a fraternal society, the members of the lodge walked at the front of the procession. When I was a small lad, before the motor age, I saw the two largest funerals every held in Bracebridge, and the like of which will never be seen again, or even approached in impressiveness.

     "They were those of Angus McLeod, M.P., from his home where the hospital now is, to the Methodist Cemetery, and of Dr. Samuel Bridgland, M.P.P., from his home, on the west side of McMurray Street, to the Anglican Church, and Anglican Cemetery. In fact, I rode with my father in a buggy, at Dr. Bridgland's funeral, which took place less than two weeks after that of Mr. Browning (yesterday's blog).

     "But I never saw a bang-up funeral, like the one described to me, many years ago, by an elderly gentleman, whom I met on a train. His early childhood had been spent in a remote rural part of Southern Ireland, where many old customs then remained, a century after they had gone out of use, in the more sophisticated parts of that land. He told me of the funeral of one of the gentry, whose elegant mansion was commonly called 'The Hall,' and who, because of his affability and generosity, was beloved by the poor people. So the poor folks decided to pay him every possible honor. Hundreds of them walked in the funeral procession, and among them was a group of elderly women who were known by a Celtic name, meaning wailers.

     "When the great Cortege (which included a vast number of carriages of the affluent), left the Hall, for the church, the wailers were much in evidence. All the way, they walked and shrieked at the top of their voices. One of them would scream, 'He was such a grand man,' whereupon the others would scream, 'and indeed he was,' and then the whole caboodle would shriek. The horses, in the cortege, did not take kindly to this display of feminine grief, and the steeds wanted to depart post-haste, to some quieter environment, in which desire they were restrained by only a most adept display of horsemanship by the drivers, whose arms were very tired by the time the church was reached; and the wailers quit their shrieks (as after the service, the coffin was placed in the family vault in the church yard). How did the bereaved family regard the wailers? Very appreciatively indeed. For the family knew that the wailers never appeared just because a deceased person was prominent. In addition to being prominent, he must have been beloved by those of humbler station."

     I have read a number of early Muskoka histories, that refer to the dreaded sound of the horses' hooves, clomping down on the hard packed rural trails, often late in the evening, with the undertaker and helper, at the reins. During the days of epidemics, it wasn't uncommon to have the hearses and sometimes just farm wagons, picking up the deceased from those homes, that had been particularly hard-hit by influenza, for example, amongst other outbreaks. What would happen, in these cases, is that the deceased, which could be as many as four family members in one night, would be picked up by courageous funerary staff, and taken immediately to the nearest cemetery for burial. They did not want any mourners, or sight-seers in attendance at these rush-funerals, for fear of contamination spreading. These homesteaders knew the sound of the wagon wheels, and the team of horses, that what was passing out front, had an omen attached; and these alerted folks, would take their lanterns out onto the road, to see what farm the undertaker and hearse were going to visit. An eerie scene unfolding. Just as much, to see the long weaving funeral processions, through the rolling countryside, with the casket (or earlier coffin), raised onto the pallbearers shoulders, on a footpath to the appropriate, or nearest cemetery, without a horse in the solemn parade, and no hearse as part of the transport of the deceased.

     I have to thank Redmond Thomas, for writing the column above, which contains a considerable amount of important heritage information, on a subject many of us would rather not think about. But it is none the less important to understand and appreciate, about what our forefathers and mothers had to content, when mortality was much higher than it is today; especially amongst children. There is a story in the Shea Family chronicle, of a deceased child, being carried from the hamlet of Ufford, to the churchyard in the hamlet of Falkenburg, just north of Bracebridge, a distance that would have taken two hours to walk, coffin on shoulders. When they got there, the open grave, dug in advance by cemetery caretakers, was full of water, and the family insisted it be drained dry, before the body was committed to the ground.

      Fascinating history. It really is!

      Thanks so much for visiting with me today.

The Riders In The Night

THE RIDERS IN THE NIGHT - BRING OUT THE DEAD - THE HOMESTEADER'S DEMISE

MEDICAL ASSISTANCE WAS DAYS AWAY - AND DEATH COULDN'T WAIT

     MAYBE I AM "OLD BEFORE MY TIME," AS SOME OF OUR FAMILY FRIENDS CLAIM. I CAN BUY THAT. HAVING SPENT SO MUCH OF MY TIME RESEARCHING THE PAST, I SUPPOSE IT'S POSSIBLE I HAVE ABSORBED QUITE A BIT OF HISTORY WITHOUT KNOWING IT! I'M NOT UNHAPPY ABOUT THIS. I REALLY FEEL I'VE LEARNED SOMETHING IMPORTANT, ABOUT THE PERILS OF DISCONNECTING FROM THE PAST……BECAUSE IT MISTAKENLY SEEMS IRRELEVANT. I FEEL DIFFERENTLY ABOUT THIS, AND I HAVE A GRAVE CONCERN THIS INCREASING IGNORANCE OF HISTORICAL PRECEDENTS, WILL SNAP BACK ON US ONE DAY, WHEN WE ARE MOST VULNERABLE. WE HAVE SEEN EXAMPLES OF THIS RECENTLY; AND THERE HAVE BEEN HUMBLING CIRCUMSTANCES, CREATED BY THE HAND OF NATURE, THAT HAVE MADE US ALL OF A SUDDEN, WONDER OUT LOUD, WHAT OUR PARENTS AND GRANDPARENTS WOULD HAVE DONE, DEALING WITH A SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCE OF HARDSHIP.

     THERE SEEM TO BE A LOT OF PEOPLE THESE DAYS, WHO HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PASSED-DOWN STORIES, ABOUT THE INHERENT HARDSHIPS OF RESPECTIVE ERAS IN OUR FAMILY'S PAST. THE JOY AND TRAGEDY AS EXPERIENCED BY OUR ANCESTORS. MORE THAN EVER, I BELIEVE, WE ARE OBSESSED WITH THE RIGORS OF THE PRESENT, AND DRAW VERY LITTLE FROM THE EXPERIENCES OF THE PAST. WHICH OF COURSE, ARE LIFE EXPERIENCES THAT SHOULD MAKE US MORE RESOURCEFUL AND PREPARED. EVEN FOR WHAT WE ONLY PERCEIVE TODAY, AS ANNOYING INCONVENIENCES. YET IF YOU GO BACK INTO YOUR FAMILY TREE, YOU WILL CONNECT WITH A BLOOD-LINE THAT HAD IT VERY MUCH WORSE, THAN EVEN THE MOST TROUBLESOME DAY YOU CAN IMAGINE TODAY. AS AN HISTORIAN, I FIND THIS DISASSOCIATION WITH THE PAST RATHER DISTURBING, BECAUSE IN THAT SAME FAMILY HISTORY, WITH CENTURIES OF EXPERIENCE, THERE ARE LESSONS ABOUT SURVIVAL, AND ADAPTABILITY TO DO SO, THAT WE SUDDENLY FEEL WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

     WE ARE NOW BECOMING ISOLATED FROM A MEANS OF COPING WITH HARDSHIP THAT WAS ONCE COMMONPLACE. AS IF WE KNOW IT ALL, IN THIS MODERN TECHNOLOGICAL ERA, IT'S AS IF WE HAVE EVERYTHING WORKED OUT IN ADVANCE. WE CAN HANDLE CRISIS. THERE IS NO STORM BIG ENOUGH. NO EARTHQUAKE VIOLENT ENOUGH. NO FAMINE. NO DROUGHT SERIOUS ENOUGH TO DESTROY CROPS. THERE IS THE FEELING THE PAST WILL NEVER RETURN. SO WHY WORRY ABOUT THE WAY OUR ANCESTORS LIVED THEIR DAILY LIVES. WELL, THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM FOR MODERN SOCIETY. THE RECENT HURRICANE THAT HIT THE EASTERN SEABOARD OF THE UNITED STATES, TOOK THOSE AFFECTED, BACK TO PIONEER DAYS IN A MATTER OF HOURS. IF THEY HAD FOLLOWED SOME PIONEERING ADVISE BEFORE THE STORM, MAYBE THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS HARDSHIP AND DEATH ASSOCIATED, WITH THIS VIOLENT BUT NATURAL TURN OF WEATHER.

     OUR PIONEER COMMUNITY DIDN'T HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF ANYTHING MORE THAN BASIC PROVISIONS, IN ORDER TO SURVIVE THE HARD LIFE IN THE WILDERNESS. THEY HAD LITTLE CHOICE BUT TO PREPARE FOR THE COMING WINTER, EVEN IF IT WAS THE EARLY SPRING. IT WOULD TAKE THE BETTER PART OF A YEAR, TO MAKE SURE THERE WAS A FULL SUPPLY OF FOOD AND WOOD IN TIME FOR THE TURN OF WEATHER IN OCTOBER. AS FOR PROFIT, IT WASN'T NEARLY AS IMPORTANT AS PREPARING FOR WINTER WITH THE RESOURCES AT HAND. ANY PROFIT WAS TURNED BACK INTO THE FARMSTEADS, TO MAKE A MORE COMFORTABLE LIFE FOR THOSE KNOWING FEW COMFORTS IN A SMALL, DRAFTY LOG CABIN CARVED FROM THE MUSKOKA BUSH.

     ONE OF THE GREAT HARDSHIPS ENDURED, OF COURSE, WAS THE DISTANCE FROM MEDICAL ASSISTANCE. IT WAS BAD ENOUGH TO BE A CONSIDERABLE WALK OR WAGON RIDE TO THE NEAREST CHURCH, OR GENERAL STORE, BUT THE LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE IN ISOLATION, COST A LOT OF LIVES THAT COULD HAVE BEEN SPARED, HAD THEY BEEN RESIDENTS OF ONE OF THE LARGER SETTLEMENTS…..WHERE A DOCTOR OR TWO HAD SET UP PRACTICE. IN TERMS OF HEALTH, THE HOMESTEADERS WERE CONSTANTLY AT HIGH RISK, BECAUSE OF THE NATURE OF THEIR LIFESTYLE, SHORTAGE OF NUTRITIOUS FOOD, LACK OF MONEY TO PAY FOR A DIVERSE FOOD SUPPLY, AND THE PHYSICAL STRESSES OF THE HOMESTEAD. THERE IS A STORY TOLD BY SUZANNE'S UNCLE, BERT SHEA, IN HIS WELL KNOWN TALES OF PIONEER TIMES, IN THE THREE MILE LAKE AREA OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES, ABOUT AN ELDERLY WOMAN, LEFT ALONE AT HER CABIN, WHO WAS INJURED WHILE SPLITTING WOOD TO KEEP THE HOME FIRE BURNING. A SHARP FRAGMENT OF WOOD FLEW-UP WHEN THE AXE HIT THE LOG, AND HIT HER EYE, EDGE FIRST. THE WOOD SHARD IMBEDDED SO DEEPLY INTO HER EYE SOCKET, THAT SHE COULDN'T PULL IT OUT BY HERSELF. MEDICAL HELP WAS A LONG DISTANCE AWAY, AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO COME BY HER CABIN, SO SHE COULD ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. SHE LIVED WITH THAT WOOD SPLINTER IN HER EYE FOR SOME TIME AFTER, BUT THE INFECTION PROVED TOO MUCH FOR THE ELDER SETTLER, WHO EVENTUALLY SUCCUMBED. THERE ARE MANY SIMILAR STORIES ABOUT SICKNESSES THAT HAD TO BE TENDED BY THE SETTLERS THEMSELVES, AS DOCTORS OF COURSE, WERE NOT AS NUMEROUS AS THEY ARE TODAY.

THE SUDDEN ONSET OF A SICKNESS THAT COULD KILL OFF A HOUSEHOLD WITHIN HOURS

     DIPHTHERIA: "AN EPIDEMIC INFLAMMATORY DISEASE OF THE AIR-PASSAGES, AND ESPECIALLY OF THE THROAT, CHARACTERIZED BY THE FORMATION OF A FALSE MEMBRANE." BY ANY OTHER NAME, A KILLER DISEASE THAT SPREAD RAPIDLY UNDER THE RIGHT CONDITIONS.

     Suzanne's grandfather, John Shea, a former clerk in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and farm owner in the hamlet of Ufford, on the shore of Three Mile Lake, took it upon himself, to erect a fence around a small previously unmarked multi-plot gravesite, belonging to a family, wiped out by an outbreak of diphtheria, sometime, we believe, in the late 1800's. The Dougherty family, of which "Dougherty Road" was named, in Ufford, (near Windermere), had contracted the deadly disease, at a time when it was ravaging the pioneer communities in this vicinity of Muskoka. From what we can find, of this tragic circumstance, upwards of five family members died within twenty-four hours, and had to be hastily buried in the late hours of the night to avoid spectators, who could also become infected by close proximity. A number of lilacs were planted by neighbors at the gravesite, some time after, and it was how John Shea knew where to find the plots, when he decided to create a fence to mark the family plot as a latent memorial. This came many years after their deaths. Suzanne and I have visited the site numerous times, and it was always the same lilacs, that led us to the spot. The fence has long since deteriorated. It is located only feet from the route of the present Dougherty Road, not far from the present Ufford Community Cemetery.

     "Diphtheria, in the old days, took its course - whole families were wiped out. Burials after midnight by law," wrote family historian, Bert Shea. "The ghastly sound of wagon wheels and horses feet, or the thump of the jumper and the rattle of the bullchair, as slowly the oxen drew the caskets in the dead of night to the place of burial. I will not write more of the terrible procedure, save to say that there are cemeteries in Watt, where there were none present at the midnight burial, save the dim oil lantern…..two figures, one at each side of the grave, shovels in hand, and the good man at the head, conscious of the risk he was taking with his own family, but who, in faith, stood with his parishioners to declare the words of the Master….'I am the resurrection and the life."

     He also notes that fumigations were ordered by doctors to prevent diphtheria outbreaks, including after infectious events had occurred. Diphtheria was an agonizing ailment marked by severe fever, coughing, choking, and sore throat. Having a whole house infected, must have sounded horrible, to the attending doctors, nurses, and preachers, if in fact, they were able to attend, related to proximity from established villages. One can imagine the fury of activity around these affected homesteads, and the worry in the surrounding neighborhood, with rampant fear that they would be the next victims of this most vicious illness, that killed children in front of their helpless parents…..the weakest succumbing first. Then the elderly and parents meeting the same fate, often in the same day. There were survivors. But it depended on the care the victims received.

     Imagine hearing what Mr. Shea reported, on those fateful nights, the eerie sounds of wagon wheels on the hard packed dirt roads, and the twinkle of lamplights on the sides, helping to guide the way through the woods and partly cleared pastures, to the afflicted household, where death was imminent, some family having already succumbed, and been hastily prepared for a quick funeral before sunrise. This was not the work of an author penning a horror story, or a movie script for profit. It was reality at its most unfortunate, and there were many heroes from this period, and one of them was known as the "Tramp," an Anglican missionary of considerable acclaim, and compassion, by the name of Gowan Gillmor. From his Ministry in the Village of Rosseau, and the Diocese of Algoma, he moved his residence to nearby Ullswater, at the time of a smallpocks outbreak, (and circulated similarly during the diphtheria epidemic) and was one of very few who would tend the sick and those near death, medically and spiritually, and of this, he became a Muskoka legend in his time and beyond.

     "Gillmor of Algoma, (written by E. Newton White), is the story of a missionary's life, his struggles, heartaches and joys in those early wilderness areas, along the base of the Canadian Shield, which one Bishop used to describe as 'a land of rock of ages and Christmas trees.' It is the story of a beloved priest who tramped over those rocks and probably even slept under some of those trees, here and there, carving upon them, 'The Tramp'."

     "During the years Gowan Gillmor was at North Bay, the scourge of diphtheria was sweeping the north country. It was then a lethal disease and caused terror in the backwoods communities," notes E. Newton White. "What his son in Canada did, is best pictured in Gowan's own tribute to a predecessor in the Parish of Rosseau; the Rev. A. W.H. Chowne - "when there was a terrible epidemic of diphtheria and scarlet fever, he himself nursed the child patients; with his own hands, he prepared the dead for burial, put them in their coffins, dug their graves, and committed them therein, - in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal Life."

     "The epidemic diseases did not spare Rosseau, and Gowan took up his self appointed duties again. Smallpox broke out in Ullswater, and he closed up the Rosseau Rectory, to take up residence there to minister to the sick. When diphtheria 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'." Additionally, according to White, there was also a case further north, when, on a bitterly cold winter night, with a storm brewing, he planned to attend a family suffering from diphtheria, more than ten miles away. He was to travel on foot, as he usually did. Before he left, he had secured groceries and medicine for the family. Eleven children were infected. According to Gillmor, "Arrived safely." He nursed the family until all were well.

     "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 entry, and many a time was able to bar the door to him," notes the author / historian.

     There were others throughout our district who defied the deadly disease, to help those in need. It is known that amongst the bravest, were those who tended the burials of the deceased, risking the possibility of carrying the contagion into their own homes. Often there were no doctors attending, and it was family that had to send for help to bury the deceased. This was life and survival on the frontier.

     "I have heard the voices of his loved ones in mourning, and the men of the river in silent groups, standing around, the slow tread of the horses and wheels of the carriages, as they bore him away to the quiet burying ground." From the book written by Bert Shea.

     Thanks so much for joining today's historical blog. It's always good to have you aboard.

A Memorial Tribute To Father Bernard Heffernan

FROM THE ARCHIVES

A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO FATHER BERNARD HEFFERNAN

What Father taught me about hometown values - it only hurt a bit

I didn’t have a clue what a "hometown" was until after our family moved to Bracebridge, Ontario, in the spring of 1966. On that first morning, full of fear and trembling, amidst gangly strangers and glaring eyes everywhere, my new teacher at Bracebridge Public School, asked me to stand up and tell her, and my fellow classmates, from what hometown I had haled. In a sputtering, tongue-tied half panic-stricken, dry throated response, I honked out something like.... "I don’t know what the hometown was called but I used to live in Burlington,... Mam," then looking quickly all around before sitting down again, to see who was laughing or angry. No one laughed. Not the teacher. Not a peep from the classroom. No visible anger anywhere They just looked at me, the teacher, and back at me as if waiting for some profound reaction. Maybe I had sounded sarcastic. "Great, the new kid’s a smart ass," I surmised they were thinking.

"You mean Burlington was your hometown, Teddy," she asked, looking down at a piece of lined paper sitting askew on the corner of her desk, which I’m pretty sure was my unflattering biography up to Grade Five. I nodded to Miss McCracken that Burlington had indeed been my home but I was pretty confident it was a city.....so I wasn’t really sure a city could ever be a hometown. "Well," she said with a wink and smile, "I’m sure a city-boy is going to like his new hometown,..... won’t he class?"

Well, for a few moments at least, I felt,... quite at home. Until I got beat-up at lunch by both the girls and the guys, the ones who had smiled at me earlier. I was told the shellacking was a pretty ordinary, nothing special initiation to the "home" school. When I didn’t cry or make any attempt to run away from my adversaries, even after a whole week of fun-for-them initiation, I must admit the "home-town" thing was a little disconcerting. Was this the way hometown life was going to be.....forever? By comparison, Burlington had been a less "giving" hometown because I never once found it necessary to wrestle for acceptance before and after class.

On that second Monday of my new hometown adjustment period, the recess began just about the same as all the others. Only moments in the schoolyard, I was back on the bottom of a nasty little dust-up, and between hooks, jabs and hoofs to the nether region, all of a sudden, as if heaven-sent, there was an aggressive parting of the mob.....a hand clenching my shoulder, pulling me up out of the tumbling humanity of half bullies-half buddies. "Hey guys, let’s play some football," said the tall handsome stranger in the bulky knit sweater, who had spared me another round of "hey, let’s make Teddy feel welcome!"

From the quagmire of feet and fists, this chap they all called "Father," had already picked sides by the time I had brushed the imbedded schoolyard stones from my arms and knees. "Come on son....you’re going to play on this side," he yelled at me over the din on the grid-iron. "One hand touch okay," he asked us, while clearing a little patch in the stones with his shoe, to set the football down for the opening kick-off. "Okay Father......we’re ready," the other team yelled out to the trim and athletic father of some kid. Or at least that’s what I presumed of the guy they called "Father."

Well, he could run like the wind, do pirouettes around us all, leap to make impossible catches, and hand-off to us running backs while making two or three bootlegs to confuse the attackers. If he told you to button-hook at twelve yards, he wasn’t off the mark by an inch. When he flipped out a lateral to an innocent bystander, he knew the receiver would learn by immersion that one hand touch was the protocol not the reality. It was tackle. A big one. But valuable experience about the significance of Father choosing you to be the lead man on a huge march up field.

Every recess and lunch this nimble sportsman showed up to run another game. Even if you weren’t interested in playing, Father wouldn’t take no for an answer, and pretty soon there was a football in your rib cage and a dozen drooling opponents ready to drive your face into the gravel. You had little to no chance of survival unless your knees hit your chest in a pumping zig-zag down-field to the goal-line.

I can remember a large fight breaking out one day on the sidelines, between several of the more aggressive inmates I had learned to stay away from, and in a ballet of leaps and bounds, Father had jumped in between and wrestled the combatants apart. He had a powerful influence on the young and vigorous because by the very next down, the same still-growling gents were playing on the same team, and very much contributing to the pass and pass and pass offence he employed to keep the came exciting. He had a curious way of bringing the pacifists, the boastful, aggressors, thugs and bashful into a fun game of Canadian football suited to the school yard.

On my own first run against Father, I had a huge head start off a nice twenty yard pass from the quarterback, and the goal-line was a modest footfall away. And then I heard the train coming behind. Feet pounding that rocky turf like a racing locomotive over the ribbon rails. I made the near fatal mistake of looking back.....glancing to see what on earth was coming behind....and it was Father, awfully determined the rookie running back wasn’t going to score. Out of amazement at the unfurling rage of humanity coming behind, I lost my grip on the ball, tried to recover at the expense of knowing where my feet were headed, and the grand arse over tea-kettle spill had commenced. What I didn’t see through the dust and stones flying up, was the Cadillac bumper bullets of the parked car immediately in my future. Somehow Father had grabbed the back of my shirt just as I lost my footing, and I’m telling you honestly, by the grace of God, he stopped my head from hitting the metal. We wound up in a twisted ball of football good humor with my head still stuck awkwardly on my neck. Father also had to pick a few stones out of his elbows and knees but two lives were spared a head-on crash with a Caddy..

Miss McCracken had seen the whole ugly tumble. On the way into the school after that recess, she took me aside, dusted off my shoulders, patted down my hair and said, "so, how do you like your new hometown?" "Ah, it’s okay, I guess, Miss McCracken," I answered. "Don’t be afraid to toss the ball to one of your team-mates," she said about my down-field run. "It’s what he wants you to do." Undoubtedly with a bewildered second glance at my teacher, while passing into the school, she added, "Father Heffernan wants you to play as a team.....remember that the next time." "Father Heffernan?" I asked. I looked at one of my team-mates, who added, "Pretty fast for a Priest aint he?"

What Miss McCracken meant was that Father wasn’t interested in the heroics of the downfield romp but rather the unselfish passing back and forth between team-mates to make the touchdown. Just as he wanted to occupy bored kids with sport, he wanted us to appreciate each others strengths and capabilities. It worked. The guys who had been beating me up ten minutes earlier were now passing and then blocking for me on the grid iron.

There was a moral to the story of my introduction to this new hometown. I had met our own Father O’Malley.....he was a dear man by the name of Father Bernard Heffernan, of St. Joseph’s Church next door. He had been coming over for recess and lunch games for years, and he had very much instilled a prosperous sense of goodwill each time he arrived.

One morning about fifteen years later, I was playing shinny at the Bracebridge arena, and on a down-ice rush I could hear what sounded like a train coming behind, the blades hitting the ice like two axe blades strapped to my opponent’s feet. I got just past the opposition blue-line when, against Don Cherry’s sage advice, I looked back......it wasn’t just a train. In a hook right out of Peter Pan, a gnash of teeth, and a chin on my shoulder, we were both icing our way like a curling rock into the boards. I pulled up onto my knees and started to scream at this jerk who tripped me up.....and well, it came down to this.... "Good morning Father......I thought that was you! Nice to have you back in town.....staying long?" "What gave me away Mr. Currie?" he quipped. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe the crashing to the ice thing," I retorted, wiping the ice out of my eyes. "You should have passed the puck.....your winger was all alone in front of the net," he advised with a wee Irish grin. Talk about the Flying Father. He was a much a hometown icon as anything I ever experienced growing up in Bracebridge....the town straddling the 45th parallel of latitude.

I thought back to when I believed he was someone’s kindly father who just happened to have some free time. Well, he was everybody’s Father, and we loved him.

Hockey Clubs From Pasadena Visit Bracebridge

THE SUMMER WHEN HOCKEY CLUBS FROM PASADENA, CAME TO BRACEBRIDGE FOR A VISIT - AND TO KICK OUR ASSES

CALIFORNIA AND THE HOCKEY PROGRAM WE UNDERESTIMATED

     On a hot summer day like this, what finer remedy for what seems so oppressive, than a look back at local hockey. Even if you don't like hockey, this has kind of a local, national moral attached. Just read between the lines.

     I was brought up on a diet of hockey. That made me just like the rest of my mates, back then, who had also been dragged off to the arena, to be exploited, I suppose you could say, for what talent on ice, we may have possessed. Even then, we had parents who were living vicariously through us, and it was their high hope, we would make it all the way to the National Hockey League. In Bracebridge, like Billy Carson, and Irvin "Ace" Bailey, of the early years of pro hockey, and Roger Crozier, of the contemporary hockey scene, with the Detroit Red Wings. Our parents told us, that if we played hard, and never gave up, we would be professional hockey players one day. Well sir, there were a lot of parents telling porkies back then, because an overwhelming majority left hockey after only a few seasons of play. They were looking for "naturals" like Bobby Orr, the amazing talent from Parry Sound, and most of us fell way short. But this was the standard by which we were being judged. In retrospect, I liked to play, but not the part about living up to unrealistic expectations.

     The best it ever got for me, was when the starting goalie was a no show, on a trip to Bramalea, one season in the early 1970's, to play one of their Bantam "A" teams. In house league play, I was often the only goalie in the game, which meant, if I got hurt, a forward or defenceman had to become a sudden netminder. When going to Bramalea, I was scared out of my wits, that I would get pummeled, and there would be no relief from the bench. As it turned out, we won the game, and Scott Hammond and I were selected as the top players of the game; and because of this, we were treated to an NHL game that night, between the Minnesota North Stars and Toronto. I felt like a star, but that was short-lived. Hockey gradually became a part-time job instead of a recreation, and there was just too much expectation that we had to achieve what our parents wanted. I was so scared of my father's criticism, that when he asked me the score of our away games, I'd lie to him about the number of goals I let in; hoping that the local press wouldn't run the scores in the sports section, that my dad might read. Now that's not the way to enjoy what is supposed to be recreation. That's why I was so surprised, when a local reporter, asked Roger Crozier, at a press conference we were holding, how he would like to be remembered; as either an all star hockey player, or an accomplished corporate executive. This by the way, was during the launch of the Crozier Foundation, in 1996, of which I was the new public relations co-ordinator for Muskoka. Roger answered immediately, that he wanted to be remembered as "a successful bank executive." Many of the reporters found this hard to grasp, but it was true. The best part of a game, Roger told me in casual reflection, was when the buzzer went at the end of the third period. This from a man who was often sick to his stomach before games. Hockey for him had been a damn tough job. Period.

     I can remember playing squirt hockey in Burlington, which was I guess, like the "tykes" division of minor hockey today. I became a rink rat at a young age, and when I shouldn't have been out and about, especially alone, or with equally young chums, I was most likely to be found in hockey season, sitting up in the bleachers watching whatever was going on, down below. I wasn't given an option, as we gave our boys, as to whether they wished to play hockey, or spend their recreation money elsewhere. I was told that I would love playing hockey, and led by the hand to the registration table each fall, until I was in my mid-teens, and could attend sign-up without parental involvement. All I know, is that my family was hockey crazy, and when it wasn't the time for regular season play, they talked hockey instead. My mother was a Toronto supporter, and my father was a die-hard Montreal fan. I didn't have an option about playing, and I suppose I should be mad at my parents, for getting me involved in something that has added some physical misery for all these years. My hands have been beaten with sticks and pucks, and my knees are both wonky, and if I removed my beard, you'd see scars from slap-shots where the mask provided little coverage. But I did come to love the game, and yet, today, not having cable television, I confess that I didn't watch even one game all this year. My boys chose music and instruments, over hockey registration and equipment. It turned out far more expensive for us, in the long-run, but the rewards have been quadruple what I ever achieved, dedicating most of my time, trying to make it to the big leagues. Roger Crozier told me, that back in the late 1960's, I had been scouted as the goalie who had potential to make it into the junior ranks. I came close, let me tell you. But I just couldn't take the injuries any more. We've lost a lot of fine hockey players this way.

    This story, today, is not a condemnation of hockey, but a casual reflection on a particular circumstance of competition, with another country, that provided some early enlightenment to Canadian coaches, who thought, that if we could ice the best of the best,  we would never been overtaken at our national sport.

     I still have a patch we were given, at the time, Bracebridge Minor Hockey, played host to touring clubs from Pasadena, California. If memory serves, and it doesn't always these days, the four team exhibition match, occurred at the time we had a hired head coach, for minor hockey, by the name of Bucko MacDonald; reportedly one of the best hip-checkers ever to play in the National Hockey League. I'll explain just how good, later in today's blog. By the way, the story is told, that it was Bucko, when he was coaching up in Parry Sound, who convinced the Orr family, and Bobby, to become a defenseman instead of a forward. So Bucko, from Sundridge, changed sports history, if this story is true. The point of bringing up Bucko's name, is that he brought a huge new prominence to Bracebridge hockey, and did increase the quality of play, with the all star teams at that point. I'm not sure what went on behind the scenes, as far as organization went, for us to play the lads from Pasadena, while they were on tour in Canada, but our lads were looking to spoil their Canadian holiday.

     As a typical hockey-playing Canadian kid, it was entrenched in our minds, that we were born to excel in hockey. Somehow I felt as a lesser citizen, when we came off an unexpected loss instead of a win. Both my parents were hockey nuts, and the parents who were in the class of "screamers," and "complainers," no one wants to sit beside in the bleachers. How bad were they? Well, I can remember in one minor hockey playoff game, I was really getting annoyed by the fans behind, who were calling me, the netminder, "sieve!" It's the number one insult to call out to a goaltender. When I finally had to look, to see who was yelling this out, every time I let a goal in, there were only two people behind me, and that was mom and pop. Jesus, they were calling their own son a "sieve." I eventually had to ask my parents not to attend my games, or I warned, I was going to quit entirely. They seemed aghast that I wouldn't want their support, but their idea of support and mine, were quite opposite. So when our team was scheduled to play Pasadena, and they asked permission to attend, I ordered them to sit way up in the bleachers, at the west end of the arena. Yup, big mistake. I could hear them as an echo, making it twice to three times as irritating, as their voices rattled around the iron girders above. They were also prohibited from calling me names. They actually kept their verbal critiques low-key for most of the game. But it was noticeable, when they started yelling at the starting goaltender on our team, Tim Morrison, calling him a sieve instead. They kind of forgot the protocol of cheering for the home side. They wanted the coach to pull Tim after the first eight goals, in favor of their son.

    First of all, we were told over and over, that because we were hardy Canadian lads, brought up on the frozen ponds of the frontier, we couldn't be beaten by kids from the southwest United States. It was a time in history, in the late 1960's, when there was no way, any Americans could play our national sport, with any proficiency; and when we were told, that the teams from Pasadena were very well trained, and good all round hockey players, we laughed it off, as nothing more than an attempt by our coaches, so we would take the exhibition games seriously. They knew the truth. These California kids were outstanding athletes, first of all, and from families who could afford extra coaching, and lots of ice time in the sunny south. To us, we just couldn't see this as being an issue, and so, the hubris kicked in, and we wondered instead, if there would be any "mercy" rule imposed. This meant, that once a score hit an eight to ten goal lead, the winning team would let-up, and it would just turn into a game of shinny instead. There was no need to humiliate these nicely tanned lads, who were probably surfers in the Beach Boys model of the good life, with sun, sand and music. The only ice these lads were familiar with, were the ice chunks in the sodas. This by the way, was our fundamental oversight, and as far as the mercy rule, by golly, we were the ones begging for the terrible drubbing to cease.

     When we got to the rink, we immediately, as Canadian lads did back then, began calling "hat-tricks," and "shut-outs," just like Babe Ruth would point to a place in the bleachers, where he was going to deposit the very next home run. We were so confident in ourselves, that we only gave a half effort at the pre-game warm-up. I don't even think I got a chance to have some shots against me, seeing as I was the back-up, and might not see any action at all. Then it happened. The Pasadena club, we were going to play, hit the ice for their pre-game warm-up. (There were four teams, I believe, who played in that Sunday exhibition series) We just stood there, in awe, and benefitted in a way, from the cool and refreshing breeze, their skating in a circle, in the end zone, created in the warm arena climate. There was a bit of mist in the air, and they despatched it to the rafters. They looked as if their uniforms were tailored, whereas ours were torn, sewn-up by our mothers, with blood stains on the sleeves. But honestly, it was their incredible skating prowess that amazed us the most. We had seen nice uniforms before, but not the whole hockey package. They were flying around their end-zone like we'd never seen before, except in the N.H.L. When they set themselves to warm-up the goalie, they did so with precision with great organization, such that the back-up goalie was getting some action on the side-boards, with several players taking close-in wrist shots. Compared to them, we were one up from road hockey players, or at most, a pick-up bunch for some afternoon shinny.

     Tim Morrison got the call, as usual, to start in net, and of this, I was very appreciative. I had a feeling that our cocky approach to the capabilities of our southern friends, was going to teach some lessons, and I was happy to get my lesson while at the end of the pine bench. When the game got underway, gosh, the Pasadena players figured we must be holding back, because our forwards couldn't connect on a pass, or stick handled more than a few strides, without losing the puck. They played the first five minutes, anticipating that we were trying to suck them in, to a sort of false sense of security. So they just ragged the puck, and passed it from side to side, and finally, when it appeared the charade was over, they started rushing the net with beautiful stick handling and passing, and sliding them past Tim, as if they were simply and accurately threading a needle. Now to Tim's credit, he made some big saves, but probably in the first half of the game, he would have faced fifty shots. That was a lot for any minor hockey team, and I think it was at the eight to nothing point, that the coach gave me the nod; which means I had to jump over the boards, and face the horrors of incoming shooters without much in the way of defense. One of my favorite defensemen, came back to welcome me into the game, saying, "Well Teddy, we're in deep crap now. It's all up to you!" Paul never took the game too seriously and as long as he was on the ice, he'd come back after a goal, to protect me from my team-mates, who wanted to eject me from the game themselves.

     It was frightening, and unrelenting, as one rush after another, cruised without even a tender ruffling, through our defensemen, and each shot on net was both accurate, and hard enough to take the glove right off my hand. We couldn't clear the puck, and even when we did, there would be an icing call, and the face-off would be to my right or left, and typically, the centre would get it back to the point, and there would be this wicked shot to my right or left. I had sticks in my face, of forwards looking to make deflections, but no dirty plays, like jabbing me in the crotch, or trying to trip me in the crease. They played clean and we didn't. So imagine then how hard it was to play this precision squad, with men in the penalty box. We were getting clobbered playing five a side. Now, I'm not writing this to highlight my stellar play between the pipes, but holy mackeral, did I ever get the job done. For me, the best time to go into the nets, was when the score was lopsided. There was a lot less pressure, and as a rule, I always played better. Now the score of the game, finished at 11-0, and I'm pretty sure they imposed their own mercy rule. I think they could have scored more on me, if they had played as hard as they might have, if the score had been closer. So I caught a break, and only let in four goals over a period and a half. The fact that we lost by eleven goals, at our own national sport, didn't enter into it, until much later that week, while we were licking our wounds, and wondering how we would ever get over the humiliation of being beaten by Americans; and ones from California. By the way, all our teams lost on that day. Some teams played better than others, but we all lost by considerable margins.

     The American teams were gentlemanly, good sports, beginning to end, and refrained from taking penalties. They didn't smash us around, and for all intents and purposes, they played closer to International Rules, as they were then, without the heavy body checking. They played with finness and it meant an exciting game for the spectators to watch. The fact it was lopsided, was one thing, but it was quite another, to have to admit, like my parents had to, that day, Californians had an exceptional hockey program, much better funded and operated than our own. This is what hurt the most I think. We had good coaches, but California had the whole physical fitness program, on side, which was becoming part of the hockey program, even for the teams of the National Hockey League. I remember a story about Bracebridge born hockey star, Roger Crozier, being overwhelmed, in the early 1970's, when he played for the Buffalo Sabres, when new head coach, Floyd Smith, insisted on a higher level of physical fitness for his players, commencing a new exercise protocol during training camp. Roger was used to stopping pucks, and the sit-ups he did, were after making key saves against NHL sharpshooters. To be told he would have to doing running and gymnasium exercises, like sit-ups, made life in sport a lot less comfortable. A lot of the old NHL'ers would have felt somewhat the same, suggesting they were hired to play hockey to the best of their abilities, not become body-builders. So the Pasadena experience, showed us NHL loving youth, that there was a new order coming, and we should prepare for what it would mean, to become a true allstar performer.

     I do think the Pasadena exhibition series taught us a lesson, about the upper limits of play, we could expect from training and commitment. We were playing hockey because we loved the game, and even at our practices, we still preferred to play shinny instead of skating drills that made the game boring and a lot less enticing. After our friendly drubbing, our coaches became a little bit more demanding on us, and our practices were a lot more intense. I can't say that it marked the point where my interest in hockey decreased, but there seemed to be a lot more pressure on us, to win back our reputation. The word got around, that we had lost big-time to the American squads, and if you had been at the games, you would have understood why it happened. Unfortunately, our critics weren't at the game, and so the only thing they knew, was that we had been beaten by teams from the beaches of California. Of course, we were to be taught a lot more about hockey, as NHL expansion had moved into Oakland and Los Angeles. Of course, what was factored in then, in our defence, was that most of the players on these teams were Canadian. Like Wayne Rutledge, of Barrie and Gravenhurst, who was the starting goalie, that first year of expansion, for the Los Angeles Kings, with Terry Sawchuck as back-up. But we've also learned since, that the United States, and a lot of countries around the world, are producing exceptional hockey players, male and female. I don't think that our brief Pasadena experience changed hockey attitudes, except in Bracebridge itself. We were cocky, and suddenly we were humbled.

     Now as promised, here is a little anecdote about Bucko MacDonald. For the Toronto Maple Leafs, back in the war-time, and post war era, Bucko was one of the most exciting defenceman in the six team National Hockey League. His fame was, of all things, his ass. I didn't know much about his hockey prowess, other than what he did for us as a senior coach. And he was most definitely senior by the time he was coaching Bracebridge Minor Hockey. I wasn't really fond of him, in the way my team-mates were, because he made me "ride the pine," way more than I thought was fair play. I often didn't get to play a single minute of a game, when I played in the all-star division. If I complained, he would tell me I was lucky to get this opportunity, to elevate from the roll of house league players. I actually played on two teams, but I got more ice time in the house league. Obviously, though, it was the best case scenario to be invited to play on an all star team. I got double the practice time. But I don't think Bucko liked to be questioned in this regard, and I'm not saying he had it in for me, but on one occasion in particular, it did cross my mind that I had pissed him off generally; and he was going to remind me of my place on the team. Back bencher!

     He was running drills down the ice, where players had to stick handle from the end of the rink, to the red line, where Bucko was waiting, to knock the puck off your stick. We went through about twenty players, when he yelled out, that he wanted Tim Morrison and I to do the same thing, and try to stick handle past him on the fly. We both looked at each other, wondering why we had to do this drill, as stick handlers, but what Bucko wanted, he usually got. Bucko poke-checked the puck of Tim's stick without much fuss, and when it came to me, I thought it would be neat if I could be the one player on the team, who was able to fool the old fart with a clever deke. So I gave it everything I had, to whip down that ice, with goalie pads, mask, gloves and stick pushing ahead the puck. I was planning to deke him to the right, and I had a good speed built-up by time he started skating backwards, from our red line meeting. By time we reached the blueline, I was ready to execute a brilliantly evasive shift, with the puck going through his skates to meet me on the other side. And then it happened.

     I had no provenance on the man, other than I knew he once played in the NHL. I knew what a hip check was, but I had never administered one, and had, in fact, never received one either. As I was preparing to go around Bucko, he all of a sudden, with considerable momentum backwards, bent forward, tucked, and shot his ass right across my path, hitting deeply into my rib cage, while flipping me into a cartwheel over top of him. Bucko was a big man, with big arms, and massive legs, and his behind was big and bad. I actually watched the whole spectacular ride, with eyes wide open, and the roof of the arena and the ice changing positions during my summersault through the air. Keep in mind, that I was also wearing about seventy pounds of wet goalie pads. Thank God I was wearing a mask and helmet, because when I finally hit the ice, my head connected hard, and nearly knocked me out. I was winded that's for sure. And I saw stars that I'd never seen before. Bucko stood above me, and yelled back to my team-mates, asking if any one else wanted to take a second run down the ice. He certainly didn't fear for my health in any way, and it did take me a few minutes to regain my hockey wits. This stuff is supposed to happen in hockey, right? Well, this is how I grew up in the game, and you didn't cry when you got hurt, because it was a sign of weakness. I wouldn't have let Bucko see me cry anyway, because of the way I felt. I actually told him this to his face, one season, as I quit the allstar team; because he refused to give me any time during games. I got tired of being a practice goalie, and one he could hip check as a demonstration, of how to knock an opponent to the ice in one smooth, nasty shift of the big old arse. In the NHL he could do what he wanted. But not in minor hockey. It's the first time, I ever wanted to two hand anyone. It would have meant my suspension from hockey forever, because Bucko was like a god to coaches and parents.

     I gave up competitive play, when I tried out for junior one year, and found out, by chit-chat with other players, that the coach had given his sharpshooters, the mission of testing me, to see if I was puck shy. Being puck shy meant that, when an incoming player, wound up to unleash a wrist or slapshot, the goalie would raise his head in a defensive way, signaling a fear of imminent injury. But it kind of comes with the territory, because earlier that year, I had taken a slap-shot in the throat, during a game of shinny, that nearly killed me. So yes, I was a tad puck-shy.

    So after getting some pucks in the face, and mostly the groin, and being injured on just about every shot taken, that particular practice, I went to the boards, took my mask off, found a dint had been made in my heavy-duty jock, and decided at that moment, that life was too short to endure this kind of physical abuse. The coach came over to the boards, and yelled an insult at me for leaving the net. He asked why I was leaning over the boards, and didn't seem to be at all interested in my injuries. "Are you puck shy Currie," he asked, and it sure sounded then, that he had made me a project; and had been testing my tolerance for hard shots to the most vulnerable places. I answered that I was now, most definitely puck shy. I didn't wait for his overview of this admission. I just limped my way to the dressing room, and ended my minor hockey experience with the contenting resolve, that I was indeed, "a lover, not a fighter." Outside of playing at university and in recreational leagues for years after, I never again accepted that being pummeled into submission, was going to make me a good hockey player.

    In many ways, I did learn from that Pasadena experience, that you could be good at hockey, and win regularly, without the necessity of beating the crap out of each other. They played brilliantly without any requirement of being rough, or dirty in their play. I liked that. I respect that!

Antique Goalie Pads

ANTIQUE GOALIE PADS THAT SHOULD HAVE STAYED RETIRED

IT WAS JUST LIKE MY OLD BASEBALL GLOVE, THAT I BOUGHT AT BAMFORD'S CORNER STORE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONE SUMMER DAY IN ABOUT 1967. IT COST ME ABOUT FIVE BUCKS, THE MONEY RAISED FROM MOWING THE LAWN FOR OUR APARTMENT LANDLORD, HILDA WEBER. SHE GAVE ME TWO BUCKS FOR EACH CUT, SO AFTER THREE MOWING JOBS, I HAD A BUCK LEFT OVER THAT I BLEW ON BLACK-BALLS AND JUJUBES. BUT THAT GLOVE. THAT GLORIOUS, WONDERFUL GLOVE THAT HAD PRACTICALLY NO PADDING IN THE PALM. BUT YOU KNOW, I PLAYED WITH THAT BEAT UP OLD HUNK OF LEATHER AND WEBBING, UNTIL THE MID 1970'S. BY THAT TIME I HAD SUCH A LAYERED CALLOUS, ON THE PALM OF MY HAND, THAT I COULD CATCH BARE-HANDED WITHOUT ANY SERIOUS PAIN. I RETIRED IT TO THE CURRIE SPORTS HALL OF FAME. THEN, LIKE MY FAVORITE FOOTBALL, I GAVE THEM TO MY BOYS, AND THEY DISAPPEARED SOMEWHERE IN THE YARD OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL AT RECESS.

WHEN I GRADUATED UNIVERSITY, AFTER PLAYING FOR A NUMBER OF TEAMS AT YORK, I CAME HOME TO BRACEBRIDGE POORER THAN THE LOCAL CHURCH-MOUSE. I PUT AN AD IN THE CLASSIFIEDS OF THE LOCAL PAPER, AND BY GOLLY, I FOUND A TAKER SHORTLY AFTER THE HERALD-GAZETTE HIT THE NEWS STAND. A FEW YEARS LATER, WHEN I STARTED PLAYING SENIOR HOCKEY, I CAME BACK AS A FORWARD BECAUSE I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE SHELLING OUT BIG BUCKS FOR NEW PADS. A GOALIE FRIEND, WHO WAS RETIRING, OFFERED TO GIVE ME HIS GOALIE PADS, THAT HAD BEEN GIVEN TO HIM SIMILARLY BY AN OLD GOALIE WHEN HE RETIRED. THEY WERE PROBABLY MORE THAN 50 YEARS OLD. THEY WEREN'T ALL THAT PROTECTIVE ANY MORE, AND I WAS STARTING TO FEEL THE SLAPSHOTS THROUGH THE PADDING, TO THE POINT I WAS GETTING BRUISED. BUT I FIGURED I DIDN'T HAVE LONG TO PLAY ANYWAY, SO WHY SPEND A LOT OF MONEY ON NEW EQUIPMENT WHEN THESE WILL GET ME THROUGH A FEW MORE YEARS.

AT ONE POINT, YOU KNOW, I DID RETIRE THEM. I FOUND AN OPEN SHELF IN MY OFFICE, AND MOUNTED THEM ON THE TOP, WITH A LITTLE NOTE……TED'S GOALIE PADS FROM THE GOLDEN ERA OF HOCKEY. ALL MY FRIENDS WHO VISITED HAD TO TRY THEM ON, AND PLAY SOME INDOOR HOCKEY WITH A GOLF BALL, OR WHATEVER WAS ROLLING ABOUT THE FLOOR.

I GOT A CALL ONE DAY, FROM A FELLOW ON A TEAM I USED TO PLAY ON, THAT THEIR GOALIE HAD INJURED HIS GROIN, AND WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO MAKE AN IMPORTANT GAME THAT EVENING IN BRACEBRIDGE. WHILE I WAS TALKING ON THE PHONE, I WAS ALSO POKING AT THE PADS ON THE SHELF, WONDERING IF THEY HAD ONE MORE GAME LEFT IN THEM. SEEMED GOOD AT THE TIME. I PROBABLY COULD HAVE PREDICTED DISASTER IF I'D BOTHERED TO LOOK MORE CLOSELY AT THE FAILING FABRIC ON THE SIDES. BUT I DIDN'T, AND IT WAS A FEW YEARS BEFORE I MARRIED THE MAJOR-GENERAL, WHO MOST CERTAINLY WOULD HAVE GONE OVER THE PADS WITH A FINE-TOOTH-COMB, BEFORE LETTING ME GO OUT TO PLAY.

SO I MADE IT ONTO THE ICE WITHOUT HURTING MYSELF, AND ACTUALLY HAD LET IN ONLY A COUPLE OF GOALS AT THE END OF TWO PERIODS OF PLAY. I THINK, IF MEMORY SERVES, WE WERE AHEAD AT THAT POINT BY ONE GOAL. THE THIRD PERIOD WAS PRETTY INTENSE, AS OUR SIDE SEEMED TO HAVE A PLAYER IN THE PENALTY BOX CONSTANTLY. TOWARD THE END OF THE PERIOD, WE WERE DOWN BY ONE GOAL. BUT IT WAS A GOOD GAME, AND OUR LADS WERE POUNDING THEIR NET. SOON HOWEVER, WE WOUND UP IN THE PENALTY BOX AGAIN, AND IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF THE END FOR ME…..WELL, MY PADS.

IT WAS LIKE A MARX BROTHERS SKIT…..A LITTLE BIT OF THE THREE STOOGES. A PASS WOULD GO BACK TO THE POINT, AND THE DEFENSEMAN WOULD TAKE A SHOT, SPRAWL OVER THE ICE; THEN OUR FORWARD, ON HIS ARSE, THEIR CENTER LOOKING TO SHOOT, DOWN, WITH OUR FORWARDS, UP AND DOWN. GEEZ, NO ONE COULD STAY ON THEIR FEET. IT WAS HILARIOUS. THE RIGHT WINGER WOULD SKATE UP ALONG THE BOARDS, GET READY TO PASS, AND FALL ON HIS FACE. THE GUY GETTING THE PUCK WAS DOWN. EVEN THE REFEREE HAD FALLEN ONCE, TWICE, ABOUT THREE TIMES, BEFORE A LINESMAN BLEW THE WHISTLE. THE GUYS WERE STILL LAYING ON THE ICE CURSING THE GUY THAT TRIPPED THEM.

SO THEN THE REFEREE CAME UP TO ME WITH A HANDFUL OF STRAW AND SAID, "HEY CURRIE, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN REF?" I ANSWERED, STILL LAUGHING ABOUT THE PLAYERS GETTING UP OFF THE ICE, ONLY TO FALL BACK DOWN. "IT'S STRAW," HE YELLED INTO MY MASK. "WHERE'S IT COMING FROM," I ASKED. "YOUR PADS……IT'S COMING OUT OF YOUR GOALIE PADS." BY GOLLY, THE MAN IN STRIPES WAS RIGHT. BOTH PADS HAD EXPLODED. THERE WAS STRAW AND WHAT LOOKED LIKE HORSE HAIR EVERYWHERE ON THE ICE. THERE DIDN'T SEEM TO BE A BIT OF CLEAR ICE IN MY END. PLAYERS COULDN'T EVEN GET OFF THE ICE WITHOUT GOING ARSE OVER TEA-KETTLE. "CURRIE YOU BASTARD…..I THINK I BROKE MY ASS," ONE GUY YELLED AT ME, MAKING THE TRADITIONAL KNIFE-CUT MOTION ACROSS HIS THROAT, TO LET ME KNOW I WAS A MARKED MAN. YOU KNOW WHAT. IT WAS A GOOD THING THE GUYS COULDN'T STAND UP LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE A SHOT, BECAUSE THERE WASN'T AN INCH OF PADDING LEFT AFTER THE FATEFUL EXPLOSION, OF MY RELIC GOAL PADS.

I SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE. THE PADS SHOULD HAVE STAYED ON THAT SHELF, FOR INDOOR PLAY ONLY. THAT'S PROBABLY WHAT STRESSED THE FABRIC IN THE FIRST PLACE. SO I GUESS THE MORAL OF THE STORY, SOME ANTIQUES JUST CAN'T BE UN-RETIRED, FOR THE SAFETY OF ONE AND ALL.

The Old Hockey Jersey, Paul Rimstead and A Book About Eddy Shack

THE OLD HOCKEY JERSEY, PAUL RIMSTEAD, AND A BOOK ABOUT EDDY SHACK -

THE BOOK RIMSTEAD DIDN'T FINISH, BUT ROSS BREWITT DID

IN THE FIELD OF ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES, MY DEPTH OF APPRECIATION GOES MUCH DEEPER THAN SUZANNE'S. I WON'T SAY THIS TO HER FACE, AND SHE WON'T READ ANYTHING I WRITE. THAT'S NICE EH? SINCE WE MARRIED, THE ONLY TIME SUZANNE WILL READ ANYTHING I'VE COMPOSED, IS WHEN IT'S A NOTE ON THE FRIDGE , TELLING HER I'VE GONE OUT WITH THE BOYS FOR A BEER. GUESS WHAT SHE DOES WITH THAT NOTE?

AS WE ARE AN EFFERVESCENT COUPLE, ALWAYS READY TO DEBATE THE OTHER INTO GENTLE MEADOW-LIKE OBLIVION, SHE WILL ARGUE, FOR EXAMPLE, WHAT CONSTITUTES FULL FLEDGED PROVENANCE. IN REGARDS TO WHAT I WEIGH AS BEING IMPORTANT PROVENANCE, ATTACHED TO A SPECIFIC PIECE. WHILE SHE AND I DISAGREE ABOUT WHAT CASUAL PROVENANCE MIGHT MEAN……SUCH AS A BOOK MARTHA STEWART HAS SINGED, OR A COOKERY POT SHE MAY HAVE USED ON ONE OF HER SHOWS. I'LL TAKE THE BOOK OBVIOUSLY, BUT I LIKE WHAT IS ATTACHED TO THE POT. FOR ME IT'S SIGNIFICANT, THOUGH SHE CHALLENGES ME ABOUT HOW MUCH SOMETHING LIKE THAT IS WORTH. NOT A LOT, OF COURSE, UNLESS MARTHA SIGNED THAT AS WELL. BUT IF I CAN GIVE AN ACCURATE PROVENANCE FOR A PIECE, SUCH AS THE EXAMPLE GIVEN, IT WILL SELL FASTER THAN THE SAME COOKERY COLLECTIBLE WITHOUT A STORY ATTACHED. SO THIS IS THE PREAMBLE OF JUST SUCH A STORY……. ABOUT A SMELLY OLD HOCKEY COLLECTIBLE THOUGHT TO BE OF SENTIMENTAL VALUE ALONE. I DISAGREE. HERE'S HOW IT CAME DOWN, AT BIRCH HOLLOW ONE DAY.

AWHILE BACK, SUZANNE BEGAN CULLING OUR CLOTHES. KIND OF LIKE THE FEBRUARY 2ND APPEARANCE OF THE GROUNDHOG. SHE LIKES TO GET A HEAD-START ON SPRING CLEANING. THERE'S A PARALLEL GROUNDHOG-LIKE TRADITION HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WHEN SUZANNE GETS THAT GLINT IN HER EYE…….AND, LIKE A LASER BEAM, STARES AT MY CLOSET. SHE HAS SHOWN IN THE PAST, A WILLINGNESS TO GET RID OF A WARDROBE, WHILE I'M STILL CONTENTLY WEARING IT. WE ALWAYS SEND OUR GOOD QUALITY CLOTHES DONATIONS, TO THE GRAVENHURST SALVATION ARMY, AND I'M SURE EACH TIME I ARRIVE WITH DONATION BAGS, THE STAFF WINKS AT ONE ANOTHER……"MRS CURRIE'S MAKING TED CHANGE HIS CLOTHES AGAIN." IN FAIRNESS, SHE DOES THE SAME THING WITH HER OWN CLOTHING, AND LINENS, SEVERAL TIMES A YEAR. NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT UNTIL IT GETS PERSONAL. I HATE BEING TOLD, "YOU DON'T WANT THAT ANY MORE….SURELY!!!" ESPECIALLY IF I HAVE SOME STRANGE ATTACHMENT TO THE PIECE…..AS FOR EXAMPLE THE "WRITING SWEATER" I'M WEARING RIGHT NOW. IT'S DAMN-NEAR IMPOSSIBLE TO EXPLAIN TO MY DEAR WIFE, WHY AN OLD SWEATER HELPS ME COMPOSE. I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND IT, BUT I AM SUPERSTITIOUS ABOUT THINGS LIKE THIS. ARE YOU? MAYBE IF I ALSO EXPLAIN THAT I WAS A LONG-SERVING GOALTENDER, WHO I'M TOLD, HAD SOME PRETTY INTERESTING HABITS IN THE GOAL CREASE. I DON'T REMEMBER THIS MYSELF, OTHER THAN THE DANCE I HAD TO DO IN ORDER TO KEEP MY FEET FROM FREEZING, IN THOSE NATURAL ICE ARENAS, IN PORT CARLING, BALA, MACTIER AND BAYSVILLE. TEAM-MATES TELL ME NOW ABOUT MY "HITTING" THE GOALPOSTS WITH MY STICK, THREE TIMES ON EACH SIDE (NOW THAT'S NOT PECULIAR. IT WAS GOAL CREASE POSITIONING), "THE BOB-UP AND DOWNS" BETWEEN A WHISTLE AND THE FACE-OFF, THE CONSTANT SIDE TO SIDE SLIDING, EVEN WHEN THE PUCK WAS IN THE OTHER END, AND THE INCESSANT "TALKING TO MYSELF," THAT ALWAYS CONFOUNDED THE DEFENSE, WHEN THEY THOUGHT I WAS TALKING TO THEM ABOUT THE INCOMING FORWARDS. HECK I WAS TALKING TO JESUS, PRAYING THAT I WOULDN'T GET ANOTHER SLAPSHOT IN THE NECK OR WORSE. AS GOALTENDERS GO, THIS ISN'T STRANGE AT ALL.

ANYWAY, I DIGRESS FROM MY WIFE'S CLOTHING CULL. WHEN SHE CAME TO ME WITH MY ORIGINAL "RINK RAT" HOCKEY SWEATER, MOTIONING THAT IT WAS "GOING IN THE BAG," I MADE A ROGER CROZIER DIVE FOR THE PUCK, AND GOT A SWEATER INSTEAD. "YOU'RE NOT DONATING THIS HOCKEY SWEATER……IT'S IMPORTANT TO ME," I SAID. "ALL THESE CLOTHES ARE IMPORTANT TO YOU, TED, BUT SOMETIMES WE JUST HAVE TO LET GO," SHE ANSWERED WITH GLAZED OVER EYES, AND DEEP FURROWS ON HER BROW. "THIS WAS THE VERY FIRST RINK RAT SWEATER EVER MADE," I RETORTED, ANGRY I HAD TO DEFEND MY SPORTS HERITAGE TO SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T EVEN LIKE HOCKEY. "IT'S JUST A RATTY OLD HOCKEY JERSEY THAT YOU NEVER WEAR," SHE CHALLENGED. "IT'S TOO SMALL FOR ME NOW," I STATED RATHER BASHFULLY AT THIS POINT, LOOKING DOWN AT MY PROTRUDING GUT. "SO THERE YOU GO, ALL THE MORE REASON TO TOSS IT IN THAT BAG," SHE POINTED OUT, ONE HAND ON MY SWEATER, THE OTHER ON THE DONATION BAG. "IT'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE," I BLURTED, AND TUCKED IT UNDER MY ARM, AND DID A NEAT DEKE AROUND HER, AND OUT THE BEDROOM DOOR. I HID IT IN MY ARCHIVES ROOM. DON'T TELL HER. ACTUALLY SHE DOESN'T LIKE THE FACT THERE ARE SPIDERS DOWN THERE, SO SHE TENDS TO STAY CLEAR.

So here's the story of the Herald-Gazette Rink Rat sweater. First of all, there was a young artist by the name of Chris Minz, I believe, and he was asked by a friend of one of the players, if he could design a logo for our newspaper hockey team……which I had named The Rink Rats. The co-founder of the team was Brant Scott, one of the newspaper's star reporters. When we got the artist's drawing to peruse, we knew it was a winner and raced to get it transferred to hockey jerseys. They were done in the blue and white color tradition of the Toronto Maple Leafs…..which even at the time, kind of destined us to last place as a matter of routine. The problem was, the guy who had them made up for us, got the sizes mixed up very badly. When I say this, there is no exaggeration on my part. We were so excited to open up the box of new…..and very expensive sweaters, holding them up for the camera before trying them on, that it was too late to issue a warning about the fact……..well, they had been ordered from a minor hockey catalogue. Now at that time, the only lightweight on the whole team was goaltender Harry Ranger, who was about three feet tall standing on ten phone books. So his sweater fit. His was the only one. For about a half hour, the big lads of the Rink Rats fought a losing battle……and we hadn't even made it to the ice yet. We were so determined to make those sweaters fit, we just pulled those suckers down hard over the gear and the guts, and got stuck…..real bad, such that a few of us couldn't even drop our arms. I thought I was going to suffocate, tangled up in this tiny hockey jersey. If you can imagine the carnage of fat guys in small sweaters; it was all quite hilarious, and this was just the dressing-room scene. You should have seen us on the ice. Now that was funny. If we fell, we needed help to get up. Over the years, before we could afford new hockey sweaters, we had stretched the fabric pretty well, to use them for practice games at least.

So here was a special game. Brant had gone to work to arrange a benefit hockey game, in support of our Rink Rat team-mate, Harold Sher, also the coach of the Bracebridge Blades Precision Skating Team. He was able to secure the CKVR No-Stars, and the battle was touted as the supreme test between the durability of the print media, over the folks who have it easy in electronic news…..print versus television. We were tougher by far, and all you had to look at, was our snug fitting attire, to know just how aggressive we were. It took about fifteen minutes of grunting and twisting, and begging God for assistance, to get those sweaters on. Only the goaltender's sweater fit, and the rest of us looked really big and mean in those tight, short sweaters. True enough. Looks can be deceiving. Anyway, Brant thought it would be neat to invite Toronto Sun Columnist Paul Rimstead, back home to his native Bracebridge, to call the play by play from the arena gondola. Geez, we were stunned when he phoned back and agreed to the do the gig. So we went nuts on publicity. Brant wrote it up in his column, and I did the same in mine, which then was called "From the Bleachers." We both had lots of readers and with CKVR doing roughly the same type of promotion, it became clear, well before the actual game, that Harold Sher was going to get lots of money to help The Blades finance their travel requirements to competitions.

When I arrived at the rink early, there was Paul standing in the lobby with Miss Hinky, soon to be his wife, well known to readers of his daily Toronto Sun column. A lot of folks then didn't recognize Paul or Miss Hinky, and that was good, because they would have been mobbed by the huge crowd that had turned out. It would be one of the largest crowds ever at the Bracebridge Arena since its construction. We had know idea this was even possible. We found out later, hundreds had come out to see Paul Rimstead…..not the game.

So we ushered Paul down to our dressing room to meet with the Rink Rats, who at this time, were performing the pre-game ritual of trying to get into the damn sweaters, which was never easy or done in a timely fashion. I don't know what was going on in my mind, but I offered Paul my sweater to put on for a photograph, Brant wanted to take, for the next issue of The Herald-Gazette. I knew it was going to happen, because Paul had a similar gut as my own, but that was the finishing-dilemma. It got stuck going over his head, and it didn't get any better after that. i though we were going to have to call for the jaws of life, or a taylor with shears to cut him out of the Rink Rat blues, before he suffocated. It took three Rink Rats to help pull the sweater down, so Brant could take a photo of Paul, in a rat-faced sweater, while wearing a white stetson. It made a great photograph. But trying to get that sweater off wasn't without adventure either. Let's just say it was a team effort to free the man. He went on to call the play by play from the gondola, and enjoy the ovation he was afforded, for his accomplishments in………of course, the print media.

Knowing my affection for Paul Rimstead, and his brilliant writing career, Suzanne dropped her case against the sweater, tied up the bag, and we agreed never to re-visit this issue again. And I also hid it, far, far away, just in case she was crossing her fingers, while she made that promise.

Quite a while after Paul died, I got to know hockey writer, public speaker Ross Brewitt, who I'd written a story about for the local press, when he appeared at a local book shop to sign copies of his newest book, which I think was "Last Minute of Play." I actually helped him get his regular syndicated column published up here, and we worked on a couple of other projects, including a public speaking engagement with the Crozier Foundation, when he gave a roast for Roger, and his days playing net for the Detroit Red Wings, Buffalo Sabres and Washington Capitals. One day we were chatting, and I happened to mention that he really should talk to his friend Eddie Shack, about the possibility of finishing what Rimstead had begun many years earlier. Ed and Paul were great friends, and there is even a famous picture of Paul and Miss Hinky following their wedding at Niagara Falls, with Eddie Shack, in a "novelty" barrel (backdrop), appearing as if they are tumbling over the falls together. Brewitt was the one writer who I thought could capture Eddie as well as Rimstead, so when I heard later that the two had got together, and the project was a "go," geez, that made me feel real good. I was invited down to the book launch but I got snowed-in, at home here in Gravenhurst.  I got signed copies of the books for sons Andrew and Robert.

I was just happy that Rimstead's promise to write Shack's biography came to some fruition after all. With the books, I'm giving the boys my Rink Rats sweaters. Andrew, the oldest, gets the new one that actually fits, and Robert, who shares my enthusiasm for Rimmer, will get the one he was trapped in…..for those nervous moments before facing the 1,700 fans, many who were there to congratulate the kid who made it to the big leagues……becoming one of Canada's best known and loved newspaper columnists. He lived hard and died young. And there were a million fans left to mourn his passing.

For about four years, I had my old Rink Rat Sweater hanging in our antique shop, on display-only, with a note attached, about the time Rimmer came home for a visit, called a benefit hockey game, and almost strangled in Ted Currie's hockey jersey. It's kind of a strange sports collectible but what the heck…..it's important to me. Suzanne kept trying to dust it off, subsequently knocking it to the floor, and then looking back at me as if I should apologize, for having hung it there in the first place. I should have kept the note attached when I brought the sweater back home. It might have been a deterrent to my partner, causing her to never, ever, touch that glorious hockey rat. I think she's jealous as well, of my cherished hockey certificate, framed above my desk, acknowledging my honorary status as a "Flying Father," as awarded to me, after another benefit game, by Father Les Costello. Which makes me "Holier than thou?" Just saying!!!!

So I must surely offer an apology to the Salvation Army. I will find an appropriate substitute hockey sweater to donate instead.

Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament March 10th-12th Part 4

WHAT THE RINK RATS REALLY MEANT, ABOVE AND BEYOND THE RECREATIONAL OPPORTUNITY, AND PLAYING FOR MEDIA ATTENTION

IN THE EARLY GOING, WE BECAME BEST FRIENDS - BUT WE CERTAINLY DIDN'T HAVE MUCH IN COMMON EXCEPT THE NEED FOR WEEKLY SHINNY

     The best hockey mentor I ever had, was a minor league coach, and by heritage, and oldtime Muskoka, who used to march us out of the dressing room, onto the ice for our weekly practice session, and then, before setting his skate blade on the ice, would toss out a puck, and watch a game of shinny suddenly break out. We wound up picking sides while chasing the puck. It's hard to imagine this today, where I'm sure practices are much more strictly organized, with emphasis on skill development. Elroy Terry figured that we would soon develop skills, if that is, we wanted to move on in hockey. He created an enjoyable on-ice relationship with all us kids, who so greatly enjoyed the opportunity to chase a puck up and down the ice, without a coach constantly blowing the whistle, and yelling at players about their performance shortfalls. The only time Elroy ever yelled at us, was to get us off the ice at the end of the hour practice. Some of those kids went on to play at much higher levels of hockey, and all of them I've talked with, had the same praise for Elroy's old fashioned coaching strategy, that came at no serious consequence of skill development. I think we played harder for him than any of our other coaches, who insisted on drills and speed skating instruction before we got to play shinny. It was, believe it or not, a philosophy that carried over to my years with the Rink Rat hockey club, and onward to the establishment of the Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament. I knew how having fun, and freedom in hockey, could inspire a hell of a fine team, if only in attitude. In other words, it didn't make us the best team, but we never got mad about losing. We just wanted to play, and like Elroy Terry's coaching philosophy, skills can just as easily come from chasing the puck, and trying to put it into the opponent's net, as being exhausted by repetitive drills screamed out over the ice by a humorless coach. Elroy gave us the basics of good hockey play, without any hacking, cross-checking, tripping, or spearing, and then gave us the puck to make it all come together. Elroy Terry, although few would know this, was embedded in our Rink Rat constitution, as loose and thin as it was. I know so, because I drafted up the constitution with fellow Herald-Gazette staffer, Brant Scott. We knew what we wanted long before we hit the ice, and brought in players who, we believed, felt and played in this old-time tradition, of fundamental, no frills "have a good time boys," shinny. We only got mildly serious, when we were playing an exhibition game at home, or on the road.

     After our rental hour, if you can believe it, we would hit the Albion Hotel on Main Street, for a few cool pops before bed, and to unwind from the big game. I was a big drinker back in those days, but I only lived a block up Manitoba Street, so I could always walk home after consuming several beers, and pick up my car the next morning. We just gathered there because it was, back then, a happening sort of place, and a lot of other of our hockey mates would be down there ahead of us, filling the air with stories of big plays and winning games. It was a hockey friendly kind of place. I think about all the hot stove league get-togethers we had there, from October to April, bragging about our hockey prowess. I'm especially nostalgic when I drive along Main Street today, in Bracebridge, and see the tarp covering the brick, that was once the facing of the old watering hole, the Albion Hotel.

     There were many more post hockey-hour get-togethers up at my apartment, above the Cheese Emporium, across from Memorial Park, on Manitoba Street, in the former home of former Muskoka M.P., and Muskoka 122nd Battalion Captain, Dr. Peter McGibbon. It was a small one bedroom apartment, but we could fit most of the Rink Rat team inside, and did on numerous occasions, keeping my neighbor up half the night with our loud hockey talks. We liked to replay hockey history, but the topics up for discussion, were wildly diverse every time we met; and sometimes the conversation got a little off-track, due to the celebratory liquid being consumed. I woke up one morning, to find that my Christmas present, which was a nice Otter Tail paddle, made specially for me by Dave Mahon Jr., of Grassmere Paddles, was in two pieces, protruding from the still illuminated evergreen in the corner of the room. I couldn't remember going canoeing that night, but something wild happened to break that sturdy paddle in two. The Rink Rats could get rowdy under certain circumstances, such as when attending the annual Balsam Chutes Invitational Golf Tournament, run by Rink Rat team-mate Alistair Taylor, and held at Al Pratt's Bracebridge Golf Club. We were all like Happy Gilmores out there, except Harold Wright, another Rink Rat, who had, at one time, been a junior golf pro in Manitoba. To even out the skill level, we used to play practical jokes on him, so he'd flub shots, and be more like the rest of us.

     Then there was the time, when we went north to fish, near Parry Sound, as pretty much a Rink Rat squad, and became one of the first groups in the lodge's history, to be barred for life (as a group). It seems we were better behaved with skates, a stick and a puck, more so than a boat and fishing gear. Oh yes, and the role beverages played in the unfortunate incident. The only thing I remember, was waking up early in that first morning in camp, and seeing Al Taylor and Gary Ford fishing from their little boat, about fifty feet off shore. I watched Gary catch the first fish of the trip, take it off his hook, holding it up for us on shore to admire, and then tossed it back into the lake. Unfortunately, Al Taylor's face was in the way, and what a terrible slapping sound that made in the quiet of early morning, on a misty northern lake. Al had that fish imprint, vividly red on his cheek, for the rest of the trip. So he thought he'd get even by letting off a fire extinguisher in the cabin, missing his target, but getting Brant Scott's father, Bob, right in the face with the fire retardant. He wasn't mad about the fact it had got into his eyes, but rather that it had ruined a perfectly excellent glass of scotch, steadied in his hand. Yup, there's more to the story than puck chasing for a good cause. But we won't delve beyond this revelation. There were other fishing trips, and golf tournaments that became just as storied and legendary in club history. Point is, we played together on the ice, in the winter, and relaxed in the off season, travelling to many other parts of the region, with either fishing rods or golf clubs in tow.

     I hope the hobby historian(s) with the club at present, will be able to fill in the chronicle of the Rink Rats and the Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament from the early 1990's onward to the present, because I suspect there is a great story to be captured for posterity. As I mentioned earlier this week, the history of the Rink Rat Hockey Team will likely never become a chapter in any future town history that might be written, in the near or distant future. In the tradition of local histories, there is a pre-occupation with politics, economic development, and major events, and only a dusting over of micro-histories, such as the chronicles of service clubs, sports associations and teams, if of course, there is something important attached. Seeing as I have always been a folk historian, more interested in social / cultural / recreational history, I have a soft spot for these micro-realities of our past.

    The Rink Rats from the beginning, had a strong commitment to the home community, and like other clubs in the town, charitable causes were actively supported from inception. The Rink Rats began their club history with huge media prominence, and from hockey start-up of play, every October, until the ice was taken out in early April, The Herald-Gazette would carry hundreds of references to our exploits, even during the regular shinny nights. We made sure the Rink Rat brand was out there, boldly and loudly in the public domain. The people of Bracebridge knew who the Rink Rats were, by name, and by action, and we kept it all very positive. This tradition, as far as this historian is concerned, has carried on with great distinction for all these years, and in my biased opinion, deserves a chapter in any town historical over-view. Of course I have a personal interest. I'm just determined that this small segment of our heritage, won't be lost in contemporary times, or hopefully in the future, which is afterall, somewhat the purpose of writing this stuff down before it is forgotten or simply iced-over by benevolent hockey clubs in the future. The Rink Rats didn't have prominence because our team members were celebrities, the social elite, or amongst the richest citizens of our town. They were just everyday folks, quite a few blue collar workers, who became prominent as a result of benevolence as a group. The Rink Rats became known as an approachable group of semi-athletes, who would consider funding requests, and exhibition game proposals, and that might have been the simple request of the Santa Claus Parade Committee, asking if our club would be interested in putting together a float. And we still had time to chase the puck and occasionally flip it into the mesh behind big Eddy Kowalsky or the stalwart, Ed Renton. So I hope there will be some infilling of the years I missed, such that it can be a complete club history, even if its just for the posterity of Rink Rat players then and now, to feel satisfied about the work they have done, to make Bracebridge a more prosperous, ambitious, and charitable home town.