Gravenhurst in Winter’s Embrace

It’s one of those damp-cold days you hear oldtimers talk about, a seeping-in hurt that penetrates your bones. I’m told it differentiates us in climate from the Arctic, where it is a drier less invasive bitterness. All I know is that this latest trip out with our dog Bosko was damn cold, and my fingers are still numb. I’m kind of fumbling at the keyboard as I can’t feel any sensation in my fingertips. On my errands today I’ve already been cold, hot, chilled to the bone, too, too hot, even colder with ice forming in my beard. Now I’m feeling winter-saturated sitting at this computer keyboard. A Muskoka winter has always meant curious extremes and this year has been no exception.
A few weeks ago most people had given up on the normal fare of a Canadian winter striking us here in the hinterland. While I do appreciate the effects of global warming, I knew this was just a weather anomaly and a green period of extended autumn I’d seen before. As is usually the case, a Muskoka winter is can unleash severe conditions, whether it is short or longer is the subject of debate. A shorter winter can be brutal versus winter that arrives in ice late in November, and remains moderate until the first weeks of April. These have tended to be fewer in the last half of my lifetime than shorter, with profoundly harsh shorter-term winters. Even after only several weeks of what I would call tough winter weather, most around here have forgotten the dry spell at Christmas, and the growing grass of early January. As a number of sage individuals, with considerable credentials in winter survival used to tell me, a late winter is always more dramatic when it finally arrives than the long drawn out affair that commences shortly after Hallowe’en.
With numerous business interests between our home here in Gravenhurst and Bracebridge, I am in and out of vehicles for a good portion of the day. I get to see a lot of Muskoka nature on the drive in between the two centres, and on many occasions I can’t resist a stop at Muskoka Beach, to admire the snowfield and colorful fish huts sculpted into the drifts on Lake Muskoka. There are many places along the daily trail that I find amazingly beautiful this time of year particularly, including the cathedral maples further up the Beach Road, a short distance from the intersection with the narrow lane that connects to the Stephen’s Bay Road, and eventually the Muskoka River. The scene is tranquilizing all seasons of the year, but in February it is quite enchanting, the boughs laden low overhead by newly fallen snow, the cathedral effect quite impressive.
I might argue with my wife Suzanne that it is a great hardship having all this running around to do, but truth be known, I can hardly call these sightseeing ventures “work,” by traditional definition. I arrive back home with many new observations that are soon to wind up in columns like these, some for publications in Southern Ontario where readers seem eager to know Muskoka’s seasonal happenings. In the summer season, Suzanne and I stop frequently to snatch some “actuality,” having a picnic while watching a windswept meadow flower-forth in afternoon sunglow. It’s a little chilly for dawdling this time of the year but an experience I wouldn’t sacrifice by reducing travel miles and opportunity. I have watched storms thundering across the farm fields in early summer, and been ecstatic to come upon wild turkeys grazing on the hillsides during the chilled mornings of late August. I’ve had the pleasure of chasing rainbows to their end in early September, and been thrilled to see the painted leaves of mid-autumn. So far this winter, I’ve driven through snowstorms and freezing rain, coming upon an almost concealed roadway at times, and then as suddenly and profoundly as the blizzard roared across my path, be amazed at the other end to find a tranquil sunlit scene as if a world apart. I have driven on evenings illuminated by a full moon, and been impressed beyond words, to find the country farmstead bathed in milky white from horizon to horizon, the grey plume of smoke from the chimney rising straight toward heaven. I have seen the snow covered cedars being shaken clear by the wind, and felt comfort watching the sunrise engage the crystal ice of the winter forest.
It’s true, of course, that I will find any excuse to explore this amazing District I call home. For work or pleasure, it’s always an experience, in this pleasant and invigorating embrace of nature; snowing but calm this very moment, as I prepare for the next road-trip to somewhere down the road.
Thanks for taking the time to read this blog submission. More travels to come.

Please visit my other blog www.thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com

Across the Moor, the Shadow of a Wanderer

As a curious wee lad prone to getting into any number of sticky wickets on any given day, growing up in an urban neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario, I used to spend most of my free time in the valley sliced in two by the black ribbon of Ramble Creek. It was a shallow, frothing gem of glittering stretches and small crystalline waterfalls, a few deep, dark pools where suckers used to thrive, and many flat rock stepping-stones to cross all the way down toward the open expanse of Lake Ontario. We were in our own world down there, and it was marvelous. The adventures we had! And when told repeatedly not to cross through the tunnel beneath Lakeshore Boulevard, and onto the shore of Lake Ontario, well, I stood on that rocky shore hundreds of time despite so many parental warnings.
When I moved to Bracebridge, Ontario in the mid-1960’s, I played in two particular woodlands in our Hunts Hill neighborhood; one being The Grove, and the other being Bamford’s Woods, named after the owner of the rental cottages on the eastern corner of the small block. It wasn’t a big slice of land but there were enough trees and places to hide from our enemies (mostly parents), that it became a favorite respite from whatever was hounding us at the time. I dodged a lot of chores and homework hiding up a tree in Bamford’s Woods. The Grove was a shared safe haven with another local kids’ gang, older than us, who knew a lot about “girl-guy” relations, and cigarettes. We were the “no smoking – no girls” gang.
In Gravenhurst, I came a little late in life to be hiding in the woodlands from my daily chores and business responsibilities. Still, I found the small acreage of open space across from our Gravenhurst home, ideal for stealing away for an hour or so, and wandering down and around the large basin of bog thriving with all sorts of hinterland creatures. My young boys loved to escape into these woods and we have always considered it a great asset of our urban subdivision, to have this green belt directly across from our modest abode. Since we arrived here in the late 1980’s, this birch and evergreen forest and lowland has been my greatest single source of writing inspiration. Every season of the year blossoms in its own magnificent way, throughout this small, haunted woodland setting. There are amazing portals along the paths, where I settle down to watch over the lowland in transition. How pleasing it is to watch the deer graze, the squirrels tossing back and forth through the tree-tops and the birds, the crows and blue jays particularly, calling all day long from the uppermost branches.
Just as folks watched my youthful silhouette float along the pathways of our neighborhood woodlands of once, I’m sure I draw as much attention today, skulking down into the moor and meandering wherever the tree cover and terrain affords safe passage. I quest into the woods these days with my canine companion, Bosko, a part border collie etc., that keeps me guarded should a bear pop out of the thickets. It’s likely Bosko will attempt a retreat in event a bear does cross our path but I would at least like to think I’m semi-protected from an unknown assailant, man or beast.
The Bog across from our home, is a natural softener between the hard urban realities of the modern community, and the gentle graces of Muskoka hinterland I adore. In a subdivision agreement made between developers and the town, the green belt was to be protected as parkland in perpetuity for the common good of the neighborhood. The concept of park to most residents has been to keep the site in its natural flora and fauna.
I will often wander over into the woods at sunset to watch the amazing spray of late afternoon light, especially in the autumn, paint the scene with a sepia tone of historic, nostalgic grace, such that you might think, for a moment you’ve slipped back in time, to be found in the middle of a forest in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, or a haunted woodland in Maine, Connecticut, or Quebec. Here it is, this amazing vista, in the South Muskoka region of my hometown, Gravenhurst. I might expect to find an artist sitting on the embankment overlooking The Bog, or witness a mandolin player composing in an alcove of old leaning birches made famous in that Robert Frost poem of the same name. A poet-writer might be comfortably settled on a grassy knoll to confront the west wind, and confront the spirits on their invasion of darkening hollows through the forest. This has always been a haunted place. If Tom Thomson had painted this same scene of hardwood and evergreen in winter, it would be a portrait of enchantment. If Robert Frost had strolled through these grounds on a snowy evening, he would have stopped and been inspired by the tranquility and silence offered by laden boughs. If a wandering musician had taken this path from here to there, the melody would have been romantic, sweet and reminiscent. A song inspired by illusion and analogy. If the philosopher pondered the woods at sunrise, from the hazy alcove above the tumbled over birches, it would be revealed insightfully, there is much to be learned about life generating from death; much to be gained as a watcher in the woods.
I can visit The Bog five or six times each day and enjoy the differences of light and shadow, sound and silence. It may be silvery and misted-over at daybreak because of the frigid moist air, yet be dripping with nourishing golden droplets just shy of noon. I have stood on the slight elevation of land, overlooking the entire Bog, and watched the wind off the lake rip away the rotting birches and tired old pines, and beat the cat-tails into a white oblivion, as golden grasses are thrashed in waves over the frozen earth. I’ve sat in the shade afforded by these evergreens on miserably hot July afternoons, and recall the sad feelings that encroach, watching the painted autumn leaves come mournfully down, in long, slowly descending spirals, from the azure blue canopy of sky in late September. How inspiring it is to watch the strong sunglow fracture down through the ice-cover on the little creek that winds through this valley, in April, and what great rise of life it exudes, when the peepers have made their presence known, and crickets sing through the night. I’ve stood out in the centre of this Bog in the light of the silvery moon, the full moon, the harvest moon, the winter moon, and felt privileged to have this wee bit of nature to buffer the urban life thrust upon me.
I have fought many environmental battles in my life, particularly in the region of Muskoka, but I have saved up the fight of a lifetime to save The Bog, should some future council decide to rip this nature away in the name of progress. There is nothing man-made that can be better than what exists here today. It is a sanctuary for both man and beast. A sanctuary of a trillion little life forms from plant to aquatic, thriving in a remarkable eco-system only metres from the trail of tarmac that divides rural and urban existence.

Gravenhurst – the writer’s quest for something different

For those who complain about the Gravenhurst of 2007, and its shortfalls as compared to other communities of a similar size, I’d like to yank them back in a tumbling time-travel a century or so, to see if they would like life here any better. Maybe back forty years. Seventy years possibly. Or by springing forward forty years or so. Would they have any less to complain about than at present? It has always surprised me a tad, as a resident here for almost twenty years, how the naysayers never really find satisfaction with life here, yet they refuse to move somewhere more appealing. I have a few issues of complaint, from time to time, but I’ve had those in every other locale in which our family has resided. If for example, the business community decided it was time to put the naysayers to work finding workable solutions to all the alleged shortfalls of main street commerce, it would I believe, be a watershed moment in Gravenhurst history. The business community has been at odds with itself and the governance of the day for decades, and I don’t really expect a resolution any time soon. This isn’t nearly as important as recognizing that we need diverse opinion, opposing concepts, disruption in commonplace from time to time, to instill new plans, better ideas, and future mindedness.
I like Gravenhurst regardless of the critics and doomsayers, who believe it is either expanding too quickly or too slowly. My only concern about progress is that the character of our town not be lost in the process, and yes this is worth fighting for long into the future. When we moved to Gravenhurst from Bracebridge, in the late 1980’s, our friends thought we had lost our mental capacity to reason. “Why would you ever move to Gravenhurst?” What they were saying quite clearly was that Gravenhurst was a town going nowhere quickly, had no ambitions to better its commercial base, and was mired in self-loathing. At first I wasn’t sure if we had made a mistake. As a news editor for The Gravenhurst Banner that first year of residence, I was aware that even long-time citizens were doubting the town’s future, and they were making concerns public such that it was pretty hard to avoid friendly fire; Gravenhurst citizens attacking their own town. I wasn’t used to this coming from Bracebridge, a town reasonably competent at bestowing the positives even if a few of us reporters sleuthed out more than a few negative actualities. While the Bracebridge business community had tough issues with the expansion of the Highway 118 commercial corridor, they kept disagreements within the governing group and committees. In Gravenhurst there was anger where there should have been the pro-active address of lingering, stubborn problems. Issues seemed to be layered over by first anger and then neglect, only to resurface time and again in the same folly. My only question was the “would there ever be harmony in Gravenhurst?”
When I gave up the news business and began freelancing feature material, I started to ignore the headlines and scathing editorials, and began instead to investigate Gravenhurst media-free. Gradually, I learned what many long time citizens had figured out years earlier, and that was to live life to the fullest, and make the best out of the combined qualities, of what has been a wonderful hometown for its citizenry since the late 1850’s….regardless of the hardships and tragedy, successes and failures each decade brings forth. I just refused to allow editorialists to influence my opinion about the true identity of the community. I had to experience it for myself. What I found was a jewel buried beneath the rage of conflicting opinion. The fact that we as a family, found the heart of the community when we did, is the reason we still dwell and I dare say prosper here now. Today we operate two successful businesses from Gravenhurst and have never once felt, or experienced any disadvantage being in Gravenhurst as compared to any other comparable rural community. We have never once believed our hometown to be the proverbial “sinking ship”. It’s the reason that when our sons Andrew and Robert graduated high school here, they decided to invest back in the town that provided them a safe, nurturing home, despite the deficiencies highlighted by the local press, and vocalized by the disgruntled among us. While all of us can be seen at some time during the week glancing over the pages of the local newspapers, we do so for the news and community profiles only; not the plethora of critiques about the failures of this, that and everything else.
Maybe we are idealistic to a fault but we’re chugging along none the less in respective enterprises, finding little if anything to complain about other than there not being enough hours in the day to get everything done. A few times I’ve thought to myself that Gravenhurst was my Bedford Falls, from the Christmas movie, “A Wonderful Life,” and in jest I have probably called my neighborhood both “Mayberry,” after the Andy Griffith Show, “Hooterville”, after the television show “Green Acres,” and even “Petticoat Junction,” a television community where “Uncle Joe was moving kind of slow….at the junction.” In a literary sense, it is remarkably similar to Stephen Leacock’s fictional Mariposa made famous in his book, “Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town.” While it might seem to some a slight of protocol, rude, or uncomplimentary to refer to one’s community as a work of humorous fiction, I never once, in reference, intended it to be derogatory. They were all places for one reason or another, I adored, from T.V. Land, and facing the parallels between fact and fiction, by golly, isn’t it true to life that every community has its share of characters and unique situations….. that might at times appear the work of a scriptwriter on a roll? I have always gravitated toward the truly eccentric characters cohabitating in the ballywicks I have spent time. We’d be a pretty dull hometown without our present share of colorful, opinionated, action-full characters, to make the rest of us dullards look more interesting. Like the movie (and play) “Our Town,” we need to appreciate the composite, the mural of respected individuality, partnership yet community that unfolds in pockets, in boisterous gatherings and generally around us every moment of every day; since the 1860’s, and of course these have been the amazing “days of our lives!”
Most of us preoccupy with our own immediate family matters, and those of the neighborhood but forget about the “actuality” of a constantly changing and diverse dynamic of town existence. Yet when there is an emergency, a family crisis, an economic disaster for someone or other, it’s truly pleasing to the heart, to witness how this dynamic contends and adjusts to the problem; comforting those in turmoil and fundraising to avert an otherwise imminent collapse. I’ve watched this community close ranks many times in recent memory, around someone or a family in need, a child in a health crisis, a neighbor in distress, or a displaced family left homeless the result of fire;…. and felt a sense of awe that we are very much a caring, compassionate, pro-active community regardless of the faults some folks love to play upon. Despite what you might read about the ineffective work of local politicians and the infighting in the business community, the weighty number of town critics and protestors as far as the eye can see, well, there’s a beating heart under all that verbiage and all it takes is getting out there to find it up close and personal. Even the harshest of critics, the most distant politician, and the seemingly indifferent civil servant, can be seen working at a fundraiser, side by side a sworn half-adversary, tending a Communities in Bloom garden project, carting donations into the Salvation Army, and generally being good citizens. So who really cares about occasional adversity, even fundamental disagreement, as long as everyone pulls together during those moments of greatest need?
Our family has explored every nook and cranny in our town. Admittedly we may be a little oddball about our most adored places to visit, such as local cemeteries and fly infested swamplands; open pastures, forest trails, and rolling, winding country lanes. We are including photographs, taken by son Robert (given lessons with a digital camera by our family friend, Fred Schulz) taken of places we love to visit in Gravenhurst. Some obvious locations we share with everyone, and there are other images of mysterious portals where we stare out, undisturbed, at the workings of our home town.
I have always looked at Gravenhurst through the eyes of a writer. Since the late 1980’s, I have not written a single line of editorial copy that hasn’t been influenced by my residency here. I would say without the slightest doubt, it has been a haven for my profession and there are few if any days that I’m void of inspiration to sit at this keyboard and compose until exhaustion. As Thoreau basked on the shore of Walden Pond, I watch over The Bog with equal admiration. I can never be removed from inspiration, as long as I have this forest nearby to wander in from sunrise until past midnight; bathed in sunglow during the day, and attired in an eerie, poetic wash of moonlight in the cradle of time between late night and early morning. I see a marvelous town full of interesting people and curious architecture. Great artists have painted here, great poets have recited here, great authors have composed here, and great musicians have performed here. Great lives have been created here, great careers have been initiated here. Just as many fulfilled lives have been invested here. This is why we live here!
Ongoing entries published in this blog journal, about life and times in Gravenhurst, Ontario, Canada, from a writer’s perspective, will take you on some Thoreauesque walks about my Walden Pond, and on visits to some other familiar places we find quite inspiring about living in the urban community of South Muskoka.
Until we meet again.

What's In a Name

What’s in a name? Quite a lot actually!

Gravenhurst and Bracebridge share at least one thing in common beyond the geographical reference of belonging to the neighborhood known as South Muskoka. Both towns were named by a curious, scholarly character, working in the 1860’s with the federal postal authority. His name was William Dawson LeSueur, a greatly misunderstood individual frequently neglected in the re-telling of local history.
After considerable research which lasted over two years, I was able to clarify one particularly significant detail about the naming of Gravenhurst. I did this with the help of the Gravenhurst Archives Committee (one of our town’s most precious resource groups), and authorities connected with the Washington Irving museum in New York, and the Irving Historical Society in Irving, Texas. It had been written into Bracebridge history texts, for whatever reason of misinterpretation, that both South Muskoka towns had been named by Dr. LeSueur “after the name of a book he was reading at the time.” For example, LeSueur admitted, in an impromptu interview in the early 1920’s with a Muskoka politician, that Bracebridge had been named after the 1822 book written by Washington Irving, entitled “Bracebridge Hall.” The error which has passed down through the ages is that “he had named the town after the title of a book he was reading at the time.” There is no basis for this claim. LeSueur however, was a noted and revered literary critic and historian, and a widely published review columnist for many international literary magazines. What most likely happened is LeSueur decided, as an honor to the fledgling town straddling the Muskoka River, that the name “Bracebridge,” as made famous by Irving, would be a name with considerable provenance to carry-forth this new Ontario community. While those who had petitioned the federal office to grant the name “North Falls,” LeSueur opted instead to borrow “Bracebridge,” as a tribute to the recently deceased American author. I am told this greatly infuriated the local citizenry but I can find no evidence an appeal was ever launched to regain the original title.
This was made official in the summer of 1864. Now here’s the problem. It has long been written by Bracebridge historians, in error, that Gravenhurst was also a name taken by LeSueur from the text of “Bracebridge Hall.” When I asked to verify the name Gravenhurst, as used by Irving, I was surprised to find the author had never once used this name in any of his many books. This should have been obvious to me, as Gravenhurst was named by LeSueur, in 1862, two years earlier than Bracebridge. It would stand to reason that LeSueur would have thusly named McCabe’s Landing (which is what the citizen committee submitted for the naming of their new post office) “Bracebridge” instead, versus taking a secondary name retrieved from the text (which of course we now know didn’t exist in any of Irving’s books). When Dr. LeSueur decided against McCabe’s Landing as a suitable name for the pioneer community on the shore of Lake Muskoka, he may well have chosen a name from a book he was reading at the time. In the case of Gravenhurst, LeSueur was most likely reviewing a recently published philosophical study by British author-poet, William Henry Smith, entitled “Gravenhurst – Or Thoughts on Good and Evil.” The book is an examination of common-place and community, and Gravenhurst is a hypothetical village, ordinary and full of life’s most common elements. Its premise is that in order to appreciate fully the goodness of life, one must have a comparable misfortune; how does one recognize the emotion associated with tragedy, if there is never any human loss. To understand and appreciate triumph, one must appreciate the range of emotion associated with defeat. This is an unworthy simplification of a great man’s work, and I offer my apology for providing such a brief overview. It is in my humble opinion, and with considerable appreciation of the work of two fine authors, LeSueur and Smith, a great and lasting honor to be associated in name with such worldly accomplishment.
Dr. LeSueur has long been treated, in historical context, as the man who changed our name, against our wishes. Rather, it is my contention, we should recognize the tribute as it was intended by this loyal and respected Canadian historian. If he was negligent in an area of the process, it was that he didn’t send along accompanying information about the honor being bestowed.
I was able to secure a mid 1880’s memorial edition of the “Gravenhurst,” book, with a biography of the late writer included in the text’s preamble, from an American antiquarian book dealer, and my wife and I, on behalf of Birch Hollow Antiques, donated the copy in care of the Gravenhurst Archives Committee for their reference.
What’s in a name? In the case of both Gravenhurst and Bracebridge, quite a lot in fact. One might even expect a road or boulevard in each town could be named to honor both Irving, in Bracebridge’s case, and Smith in Gravenhurst; two important authors in the literary history of the world. Maybe some day!

What has Gravenhurst done for us?

After a decade of being featured in the local press, with more than a few news coverage controversies to my credit;…. more than a few political adversaries hunting me down, my portrait in black and white and also cartoon, topping numerous aggressive columns, and then a lengthy run as a freelance, pain in the arse contributor, our home in Gravenhurst offered a pleasant respite from the otherwise public domain….. which could get pretty interesting at times, particularly when the subject character of a news story or column didn’t agree with the editorial point of view. I’ve stared down a fair number of threats. Several goomers have threatened physical harm and there have been a few sundry death threats over the years, and well, the writing goes on regardless. Gradually I removed my face from the stories I wrote, and because most of the material was district wide in the Muskoka Adavance, and Muskoka Sun, I started to enjoy being much less recognized and robustly encountered. Those who wished to secure my writing assistance or to give me the next “really big” story tip, found me alive and well, thriving here in uptown Gravenhurst. It was nice to be able to shop locally without a boisterous head-to-head with somebody wishing to give me crap because they didn’t like, for example, being mentioned in the drinking and driving story on the front page, or who otherwise felt compelled to down-dress this reporter about the less than stellar theatre review given his or her most recent performance. Gads, I heard it all from 1979 to the mid 1990’s, the sensible part of the last century when I assumed a lesser profile writing position here in my comfortable Gravenhurst headquarters. Instead I spent more of my work week on larger research, and historically themed projects. It wasn’t long before I was on the World Wide Web, which we installed for our boys’ educational pursuits. I stayed away from the technology until the day my son Robert asked whether I would be interested to see the results of an on-line search of my name. Being as vain as any artist-writer kind, I feigned modest interest, and found myself mesmerized within moments of viewing that glaring monitor screen. I couldn’t believe how many sites had my name attached for writing work that somehow and for some reason was published on-line without my knowledge. The rest is, as they say, history. Now I’m taking a greater hand in adding to my stock of editorial material available on-line, including this newest project.
I have always measured my place of residence as regards to quanity and quality of editorial output. Up until about the fifth or sixth year living in this Gravenhurst house, the only other place that inspired more editorial composition was in the attic office I once had, in the Manitoba Street residence, the former, quite haunted home and office of Dr. Peter McGibbon and his wife Mabel, situated in uptown Bracebridge. What appealed to the fledgling writer in this instance, was the view the attic provided, onto Bracebridge’s Memorial Park. It is still a wonderfully scenic little park site, with bandshell and fenced war memorial. It now has a beautiful Victorian era fountain at the northern corner of the park. The fountain was once on the site of Woodchester Villa and Museum, and my yearly task as director was to attempt to correct its askew, to the west, worsening, annoying lean. The point is, the view from three stories up, all seasons of the year, was a voyeur’s dream situation. I could watch the town without it watching me. I could study the citizenry all times of the day, criss-crossing the park, heading downtown then uptown, the school kids trundling off to school on weekday mornings, and running home in high spirits after that final bell.
I had positioned my chair to be parallel to the window, and my typewriter on a small table in front, so that I could take a side glance downward if I got stuck on any detail, or there was for whatever reason a shortfall of immediate inspiration. I was never stuck for more than a few moments before something else would enter the scene and invoke some memory of reconsideration worthy of print. It was hard to leave that house, typewriter in hand, at the end of my residency. The house was torn down shortly after my move, and long since its unceremonious demise, I still visit the site, a sort of impromptu pilgrimage on the spur of the moment, and think back about the days when I would write from sunrise to set, and beyond just because the mood struck.
Now if you know much about the writer-kind, artists and creators generally, you may appreciate that residence is a weighty subject, and that it’s just as easy to be suffocated by an environs as encouraged. When we moved to Gravenhurst’s Segwun Boulevard, my biggest concern was whether or not I would be afforded similar sources of inspiration, as I had enjoyed at the McGibbon house. We had purchased the property because the neighborhood appeared to be quiet, with well maintained properties, kindly neighbors, an abutting green belt I have long-called “The Bog,” running almost the entire length of two urban streets, Segwun and Oriole, and the fact it seemed to be the perfect home to raise our two young sons. Segwun Boulevard is a dead end, and the traffic is still, after all these years, sparse compared to other linking roadways in town.
Admittedly, it took a long time to adjust from the more inspirational qualities of our other homes, and a family cottage we lived in for awhile in the Village of Windermere. In each dwelling we had lived, I was always able to fumble around for a good vantage point and produce editorial copy either forced or gently persuaded from my usually active imagination. When we first arrived at Birch Hollow, our present dwelling, I was writing for a number of significant local publications, and I had pressing deadlines every week and a publisher who didn’t except excuses period. I hated this side of writing. I have always been prolific but my best work comes from enthusiasm for a subject, or because of an inspirational setting, not from the incentive of a pay cheque. So initially I hated writing from this house and tried on several occasions to sell it and move elsewhere. I could write in my home office if I truly had to, in order to make ends meet. If on the other hand, I was to write happily, and willingly for many more hours of the day, I simply required a new environment. I gave up on Birch Hollow because of a bad start. To begin with, we tried to sell (it was our first taste of recession) within a hair’s breadth of the 1989-90 housing crash in Ontario, and that seemed pretty much an omen to me. When we tried to sell it a half dozen years after that, the realtor cut up our abode so much, and asked for so many concessions in pricing and or physical changes to the property, such as converting to natural gas, that we decided as a family to drop the idea entirely and remain a while longer at good old Birch Hollow. This was pretty much the turning point. Sometimes resignation can do that to a person. I positioned myself in about thirty different locations in the house for brief periods, until I found a comfortable portal to watch clearly over The Bog, my raspberry patch in the front garden, and the lilacs we transplanted in our garden from our summer cottage on Lake Rosseau, planted originally by Mrs. Sam Stripp in the early 1900’s. Over time and with a few adjustments, and the coming of the computer era to our abode, my final adoption of Birch Hollow as the place to remain would never again be in doubt. I have produced an absolute mountain of editorial copy since I’ve been living in Gravenhurst, and that has translated into about five regionally themed books, and hundreds of feature columns for local and provincial publications. From a place I initially believed void of inspiration, and just a place to hang a hat and hammer out copy for cash, this blog site is my own humble validation about the good life my family, this writer, have been afforded living in South Muskoka, in the charming town of Gravenhurst.
As I noted earlier in my blog submission, this collection of “I Love Gravenhurst” personal testimonials has not been solicited, paid for, begged of me, or been designed in any way to promote anything more than the truly good graces of the town that first embraced our family in late 1989, and still holds us close in this new year of 2007. One of my own cornerstones of respect in this life, is to recognize the contributions others have made to my own sense of success and prosperity. In this case, these humble testimonials highly regard and bestow thanks generally, for what we have enjoyed and celebrated about our existence in this ballywick. It isn’t specifically about friendships, work partnerships, neighbors or bad neighbors. It will hopefully be insightful about the reasons we should all be more respectful and proud of our hometown, and show it by working hard to improve its well being from the centre outward. Sometimes it seems we expect too much from outside investment, to make the positive changes to our community, and defer making the kind of investments and changes that enforce the reality of kith and kin, and the initimate history of families that built this town from the Canadian wilds. We get upset when external influences and intrusions change our daily lives and revise our perception of the future. Yet time and again I have watched political will make historic changes while many of the most prominent, significant, historic families of Gravenhurst have remain subdued, only to complain later they weren’t consulted or aware of imposed changes. As a newcomer to Gravenhurst, I look to these founding families, the ones who have ancestral roots in every urban and residential neighborhood, (family names etched onto the stone slabs of our community cemeteries), for direction. What is “needed change,” “required progress”, and “sensible advancement?” What of this “change” and “progress” is in keeping with the traditions that have been honored here from the first humble homesteads? It’s not about resistance to change, that a long time resident may object to a project but rather the concern that a way of life, a small town culture, a neigborliness may be scuttled by the blind acceptance that strip malls and golf courses are symbols of the new and better way of life. If anything I despise today of our movers and shakers, politicians included, is the failing reverence and respect for the heritage they walk on and over, in their reckless, rapid pursuit for more expansion and investment than the town beside or down the road. This quest for more and better has not served the cultural, historic composition of respective towns, Gravenhurst included.
In both Bracebridge and Gravenhurst I have never once been requested by town hall, or even one politician, to make comment on a matter, just one, about local heritage and the importance of its recognition and preservation. While I’ve had reasonable relations with associate historians, Gravenhurst having some of the finest, most dedicated historians in rural Ontario, there really isn’t much interest in listening to old farts yarn on about the ways and precedents of the past. One of the reasons I enjoy living in Gravenhurst is this strong relationship with the past, and that descendents of community builders from the 1800’s still want to be stakeholders in the next century. I feel comfortable being in their company. My only criticism is that their passion for maintaining these respective legacies, and the heritage of their town generally, is a much too polite and gently wielded reaction, to be taken as serious opposition. Particularly to let those who show indifference to matters of local cultural heritage, know the full weight of historical precedent, family connectedness, and the true significance of being kin to the folks buried beneath those graveyard markers. The kin that built the foundation of the community in the first place. What a tremendous disservice to dismiss their contributions, their dedication, their base construction of what we enjoy as a community today. And while more than a few glad handers and glory hounds will claim it was their contributions that gave us these good graces, the historically inclined know differently. If I want to know who built this community, I need only take a casual stroll through our local and regional cemeteries to find the builders; the carpenters, bakers, doctors, nurses, businessmen, clerks, steamship staff, gravediggers, clergy, teachers and homemakers, and yes those true leaders in local politics who worked hard to get the town and district recognized abroad, for improvements in all our respective neighborhoods. I can browse through books like “Light of Other Days,” and read the names of Gravenhurst’s many builders from the first log cabin to the steamship empire that carries on to this day. It’s not that I spend all of my time dwelling in the past.
As an historian, I equally respect the role of present workers, leaders and policiticans, and all other visionaries who will take us into the future. Yet I still have a modicum of worry the modern day policy makers and investors, anxious to go forward with the redevelopment of our community, including the visionaries who might see advantages in even more golf course development, have no respectful appreciation of the premise history is a critical foundation to any successful future. My rather naïve hope is that our mutual pride and respect for this home town, and genuine concern for its long-term well being, will continue to motivate the citizenry to speak up and get involved in matters that appear disrespectful and intrusive, to the way of life we have enjoyed living in Gravenhurst. While the critics may argue we have already dawdled too much and scared away important investment because of our restrictive reputation, (some argue a town suspended in time between the 1940’s and 60’s), being reluctant to except progress at all cost may turn out to be our town’s greatest moral asset. Faced with stepping forward, or stepping back in the face of new age change, has been the damnation of many small communities, most abandoning good planning out of greed, in the bid to be more competitive and prosperous than neighboring communities. I concur that it is the problem of many good old hometowns in North America that opted for Jack’s magic beans in the ill-fated quest for economic fulfillment. Gravenhurst still enjoys an opportunity to defend its historic, cultural integrity, while at the same time being open to new investment and more expansive progress. It means however, that those who know Gravenhurst best, and who are ingrained in every decade of this town’s history, speak up and let it be known a legacy is worth its weight in moral character. This will be demanded many times in the coming decade as development interests in all areas of this town continue to experience growth pressures from external investment. Ten years ago I predicted that by early in the new century, Gravenhurst would experience tremendous new growth and its governance would be under increasing pressure to handle redevelopment of the existing urban neighborhood, and contend with the demands for outward expansion. I wasn’t wrong, and if anything I underestimated the present urbanizing pressures.
This is the time now that I would like to see the citizens of Gravenhurst, those who appreciate the sacrifices of the founding families, the first settlers to the courageous, visionary investors of our business community, who built and re-built our mainstreet, and all the painstaking work undertaken ever since, to take a greater, more personal interest in this community’s future well being and preservation. Folks with Muskoka in their blood, stepping up to take a leading role, is the only way of truly defending tradition. Gravenhurst has been a “survivor” community for decades, and has proven time and again, to be able to fight back to an even keel, despite the barrage from naysayers in perpetuity who believe it’s an inevitable, quite beyond salvage “sinking ship!”
I would like to make a start by detailing a rather important aspect of local history that gets very little attention, and frankly is deserving of a great deal more. I would like to introduce you to a chap by the name of William Dawson LeSueur, the bloke who named the newly established post office, “Gravenhurst,” in 1862.

Gravenhurst History and Future Combined

GRAVENHURST, MUSKOKA – TED CURRIE’S HOMETOWN JOURNAL

Mine has not been a particularly well traveled life. Compared to my associates in writing I have led a somewhat sheltered existence all these years. Although I can stake no claim to having composed poetry in Paris, begun the preamble for a novel in Madrid, or penned thoughts on a South Pacific beach, I have instead spent hundreds of hours by lamplight and camp fire, on Tea and Rock Lakes in Algonquin Park, researching, for example, the mysterious circumstances surrounding the 1917 accidental drowning of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson.
Sure I spent time in London, England, where I wrote my first modest journal, circa 1974, while staying at the Regent Palace Hotel. I penned many short stories while sitting on the sandy beach at Florida’s Ponce Inlet, motivated by the words of American poet, Wallace Stevens, who wrote the poem “The Idea of Order at Key West.” I’ve written short stories and journal entries all over Southern United States, on my travels in the 1970’s and 1980’s, most by the Greyhound milk run, village and town to town. I’ve written aboard aircraft over the Atlantic, and in those turbulent flights over snowy Buffalo and busy Atlanta. I wrote my earliest short stories from a small room with a tiny window, in a rooming house in Toronto, in the same area where my grandfather Stanley Jackson used to built many charming residences for customers back in the 30’s and 40’s. Like most urban writers, I became capable of writing just about anything while huddled in a back seat on a Toronto Transit run from Bloor and Jane, to Black-Creek Drive and on to York University. Sometimes I regret that I didn’t sojourn to Athens, or Glasgow to write. Most of the time however, I’m pleased with the adventures I’ve had as a regional Canadian author, and have enjoyed the company of all the folks met along the path.
Of all the places that I have holed-up for periods to write, I can tell you honestly and with definitely no regret about my place of lodging, that my years in Gravenhurst have been the most productive, inspiring, and enjoyable of my many years of authordom. I could find wonderfully exotic places to work, enchanted, historic portals to the world. Yet the comfort and neighborliness of a good home town is what impresses me the most, and in Gravenhurst I find so very much contentment, and fulfillment of what I have long searched for…..a cheerful, restorative, peaceful place to work. This is my author friendly Birch Hollow. Gravenhurst is my home town. Nothing could be finer!
Ted Currie is a long time Muskoka writer-historian living and working from his home in Gravenhurst, (District of Muskoka) Ontario, Canada. He is a past (news and feature) editor of the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon (MacTier), The Herald-Gazette (Bracebridge), The Muskoka Advance, Gravenhurst Banner, The Muskokan, and The Muskoka Sun. He was one of the founding directors of the Bracebridge Historical Society and Woodchester Villa and Museum, and has served on the board of the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling. He has authored numerous regional histories, and has been a research contributor to many other books and publications dealing with matters of Muskoka heritage. He currently writes for “Curious – The Tourist Guide,” “The Wayback Times,” and the web site, “Antiques Ontario.” With his business partner and wife Suzanne, Ted has operated an old and out of print book business, known as Birch Hollow Antiques, since 1986, initially from Bracebridge, and presently from Gravenhurst. The couple’s two sons, Andrew and Robert, operate “Andrew Currie’s Music and Collectables,” a vintage guitar and record shop on Muskoka Road in Gravenhurst.

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS FEATURED HERE WERE TAKEN BY ROBERT CURRIE

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