I wish at this time to express my deep concern and protest about the potential sell-off of an important greenbelt, wet land and buffer zone on the north side of Segwun Blvd., and abutting the west side of Oriole, to the property of the Ontario Fire College, as recently considered by Town Council.
In this supposedly enlightened period of enhanced environmental awareness, infilling this small but significant lowland to faciliate increased urban density is distressing to say the least. The woodland nature of this neighborhood is the reason we re-located to Gravenhurst from Bracebridge in the late 1980's.....because it didn't look like every urban neighborhood in North America.....it looked like Muskoka....something that is drastically changing the character of the entire region. The staggering rate of urban change, and forest reduction is accelerating at a dangerous speed throughout the region, and it should be of great concern to the stewards of our region,....members of our elected councils, to exercise caution with this developmental surge that has quality of life implications.....as it will be adversely affected in our neighborhood if its character is hacked down by the developer who will not live where he/she constructs their vision of paradise on earth. Paradise right now is in the wonderful shade of hardwoods and evergeen, the cool greens of fern and cat-tail.....the wildflowers in early summer and the autumn crimson in September. This is paradise. It is Muskoka. And for those who appreciate these characterisitics of Muskoka, cottage country.....the hinterland of Ontario, we have no choice but to stress our objection.
Please reconsider placing this property on the "surplus" listing, and instead help conserve it as a an important remnant of what this town was.....there's more to this community than steamships and The Wharf.
For more information on this mission to Save The Bog, you will be able to access a new blog in preparation.
Thank you for your consideration of this letter of protest regading the sale of the Segwun Blvd. North property.


We have commenced to seek opinion from the neighborhood to protect this 20 acre greenbelt.
I would be delighted to take any or all councillors on a site inspection.....so before you entertain the idea of destroying nature.....you can experience it up close and personal.

Selling off the woodland - it sucks big time



Our family has just found out the Town of Gravenhurst is considering the sell-off of the woodlands that abut properties on Segun Blvd. and Oriole, amongst other town assets.
The wonderful lowland known in my own writing work as "The Bog," was the reason we purchased the property in the late 1980's, and decided to make Gravenhurst our new home town. I was assured by a number of residents that this was a guarded greenbelt, as part of an agreement when the Calydor subdivision was developed. Apparently someone was wong because the town has made the property an item for consideration, for possible future disposal. Meaning that it will be sold for more housing, condominiums or whatever can fit these days onto 20 acres.
I have vowed to fight any compromise to the quality of this neighborhood, and the green belt plays a huge role, and as I am true to my word, the battle has begun. We invite those residents interested in this latest town foray into our neighborhoods, to contact me at the number 687-3629, email at birch_hollow@sympatico.ca and watch for the "The Blog" soon to be prepared to "Save The Bog".
Ted Currie
Muskoka History Resources

Gravenhurst and me – I just want to write

There was a time when I couldn’t remain uninvolved despite the most dire warnings from my wife, my kids and my friends…… that I was about to get sucked up into some vortex, a condition of non-dimensional rural mind-melt if I joined the latest community initiative I entered most of the region’s contentious debates and never let a bygone be a bygone without my initials sharply imprinted somewhere within. Even now when I sit back and let yet another nasty issue go by without getting involved, I think of myself as a craven coward. Yet there is a time in every muckraker’s life that it becomes necessary to look at the bigger picture of life fulfilled. I just can’t function as part of a committee or protest group these days without getting furious with the array of personal agendas that pop up at the worst possible times. I’ve found committees to have more inherent problems with conflicts of interest and associated personal ambitions, than with the target mission which becomes a smaller issue of concern, once all the gratifications of committee members are pocketed…… prior to even a modest effort forward to deal with the contentious issue at hand.
I get asked to join at least two action committees a year now which is down from the dozen or so I was recruited to serve on, back in my kick-arse columnist days for the local press. I’ve got pretty good at turning down such positions today because I’m not hesitant whatsoever asking about some inconsistencies I’ve found with their subject group, members and mission statement. They usually drop me as a political “hot potato” shortly after I begin asking sensitive questions. The committee seeking transparency of government is often just as evasive and shadowy about their conduct as the group they are trying to reform. So I find it’s better to be a consciencious-objector these days and stick to the power of the pen….or in this case keyboard, to make present my point of view.
As a long-serving historian in this region I have never subscribed to the “good time was had by all” crap offered up by some contemporaries, who would rather leave real history alone in favor of a nicely shined-up version, that seems to have experienced no real strife from then, our founding to the present. I’ve been asked to attend a number of events that were being promoted by these revisionists, some who claim to be full ranking historians. Undoubtedly they wish me to be there boast yet another speaking gig to a guy on the “outs” with nary a speaking engagement in sight. First of all I don’t have much in common with most of the self-proclaimed historical types these days and as far as sitting listening to them spout off about “history as they see it,” I’d rather sit here at Birch Hollow and pen actuality than fiction.
I’m disgusted by many of the fly-by-nighters who pen the volumes of tripe these days about “the way we were,” without any reverence to the critical approach of historical research. There is relatively little counter point used, and they routinely side with the source most verbose on the subject, in total disregard for “what is accurate,” and not just “a good story.” I have never witnessed so much baloney in print about the Muskoka I know from decades of research. I don’t read much published locally any more because I get too mad about the liberties with what I take so seriously…..the record of the past. Apparently it’s in vogue to be called an “historian,” these days…., however, I never once felt that my task at research had any “vogue” value whatsoever…..it was about as generic an operation as you could inspire from the historically inclined.
Every year I get the opportunity to work with university students and some family historians who are genuinely interested in pure, un-tampered-with heritage, who don’t care a lick about color commentary, or popular presentation but instead want to know the truth as it effected the region and its humanity.
As a long time writer working in this region, I will only offer my writing services for publications out of the region because frankly I don’t have much use for the editorship or leadership generally of the local press. Unless of course, one day some enlightened newspaper type agrees the local press should have a columnist who brushes his teeth every morning with “critical approach,” and sees great danger in complacent thought.
And then there is “The blog!” I adore this opportunity to write without the intrusive hot air of the publisher blowing down my neck……telling me in no uncertain terms…..”you can’t write that…..you’ll offend an advertiser…..you’ll offend a club member, church goer, candlestick maker!”
Yup, I like it pretty much here with this endless horizon I see from Birch Hollow. It just makes you want to write. Thanks for joining me for this most recent blog entry.

Enjoyment of home – a celebration of Gravenhurst, Muskoka, Canada
With only pennies in the pocket

On my first visit to Muskoka in the summer of 1965, I knew it would one day be home. We had been staying at a retreat property on beautiful Bruce Lake, a short distance from the shore of Lake Rosseau, where my future wife’s family had a large homestead built by her grandfather, Sam Stripp.
When we moved from Burlington to Bracebridge that winter, 1966, it was a dream come true. Even though we were residing in town, we were a short distance from river and lake, and thousands of beautifully forested acres. Although we did eventually rent a cottage on Alport Bay, which links to Lake Muskoka, and I rented another wee cottage on Lake Joseph, as a fledgling reporter working for the Georgian Bay Beacon (in the 1980’s), my relationship with the District of Muskoka has been mostly from a town neighborhood existence versus the waterside life.
My wife Suzanne enjoyed the best of both worlds plus, I guess you could say, by having a home in the Village of Windermere, a business on the lake known as the Windermere Marina (which had lodging above), and a cottage only a few kilometers away. As she notes however, every summer, to make ends meet, the family rented out the house and cottage and the family lived above the marina. It wasn’t until after the marina was sold that they had more time and financial capacity to enjoy their own cottage property….which I might add had been the Stripp family home from early in the 1900’s. This beautiful property was sold because of the crunching tax burden, the house was sold off as part of the estate when my wife’s father passed away, and the connection with both Windermere and Lake Rosseau as much a sentimental relationship with photo albums, scrapbooks and shared memories of a time spent, once long ago. Many, many Muskokans have faced the same reality, having to give up the family lakefront holdings because of ever increasing taxation. Some of course were rewarded handsomely by the new vested interest, who have been speculating on lakefront properties with reckless abandon……earning Muskoka a rather unfair distinction of being the place for the rich and famous…..the celebrities and hockey players who have the money to afford so called paradise.
I guess until we pass from this mortal coil, there will always be regrets we hadn’t hung onto a slice of lakeshore for our family. We used that money to make the most of being inland, and in reflection, I still believe we have a much greater appreciation of the nature of Muskoka, than many folks who have cottages…… but don’t really care a hoot about the future of the hinterland except in their own ballywick. While it’s unfair to use the broad stroke to paint all cottagers with the same bias, it is an alarming trend. I heard one cottager telling another about how it would be a wise move on the local government’s part, to shoot all the troublesome bears giving cottager owner’s grief. What she meant is that we should cleanse Muskoka of everything natural that causes inconvenience. I’ve heard similar statements for years and from people who are supposedly the leaders of the financial empire in this country.
I do know many cottagers who dedicate a great deal to improving the environment and ensuring local water quality of lakes and rivers. There are not enough of them however, and the majority think only of their individual properties and their adjusted, somewhat insulated hinterland experience. I don’t read the summer publications around here any more because they remind me of the frivolous, surface-scanning, good-time-was-had-by-all attitude that only exists in their editorial mandate…..not in real life. As a former editor for these publications I fought tooth and nail against the publishers who wanted to treat our summer customers with toothless features at the expense of oh so many “trees to paper.” Every piece I wrote was aimed entirely at awareness, either of history, local developments of concern, local politics botching up, and correcting an under-appreciation of just how much pollution is fouling our region. While I confess to occasionally selling out in order to keep my job and the rent money coming, I never let an issue go by that I wasn’t flogging some aspect of Muskoka’s history or environment, which I adamantly believed was being under recognized by not only the seasonal residents but the folks who lived here year round. I suppose it was this meddling with editorial content that eventually resulted in a life-long shunning from the local press. Being known as anti-development, even a smidgeon, does not make a majority of advertisers happy, and they had to choose backing me and my environmental bent, or selling those whopping big ads to development interests….the land sharks and speculators carving up our district into subdivisions and commercial icons as far as the eye can see. Just having my name on a letter to the editor can make developers cringe, and no publisher in our region would take a risk on an alleged progress-hater like me…..I can’t count one municipal councilor, who knows of my position against urban sprawl and development at all cost, who would support a tell-all column today from my pen…..because it would get in the way of the constructive attributes of shameless good publicity, from those oozing positive attitude, and possessing in great volume, the “never say never” commitment to fend off the pesky naysayers who tirelessly warn about impending eco disaster. Nuts to that!
Being outspoken is the way I’ve operated throughout my editorial life and times. While other writers make sure you know they’re the best advocates for a safe environment you’ve ever met, there are only a slim few I have any faith in at all, to save us from a risk-taking future in this region. There’s too much political correctness and editorial sniveling to influence municipal councils away from their “progress at all cost” agendas. When I tell them that “progress can mean environmental protection,” they wait in anticipation for the punch line.
We don’t own a lakeshore property in Muskoka. Although we can’t and won’t deny some regrets about what the taxman caused the family to sell-off, I have never felt disadvantaged about the relationship we have with our home district. There isn’t a summer night that we come indoors before midnight (unless in the midst of a violent storm). We travel extensively in our region over the four seasons, and we know its social, cultural history inside out. Every stroll through the woodlands here is a powerful invigoration, and each season has its inherent wonders. We celebrate the beautiful parklands, and enjoy many lakeside sojourns here in Gravenhurst, and around the district, and we have with great pleasure, consumed the scenery from every country road and laneway our vehicle can navigate. We have watched sunrises in West Muskoka, enjoyed a noon hour hiatus at Lake of Bays, a late afternoon tea in downtown Huntsville, and been enthralled by a magnificent sunset on Muskoka Bay back home in Gravenhurst. Winter, summer, spring and fall. We have taken our holidays since 1984 in our beautiful Muskoka, with nary a regret. And always on the budget we can afford. We’ve never yet been disadvantaged by our humble appointment in life, and our vantage point has always been unobstructed by any other bias than an enduring love for the home district.
While many, or most of my writing contemporaries disagree with my aggressive stand against urban sprawl and progress-mongering politicians and sundry other capitalists, with nothing grander in their lives than the prospect of bathing in cash, I encourage those who think of me as a kill-joy of prosperity, to travel the same roads and country lanes, to witness the last great bastions of hinterland before they are gone. I wake up each morning with the good conscience, that I have been blessed by residence, to have Muskoka as my writing partner, and such is our relationship that I will never, I can not, take her welfare for granted. We’ve been through a lot together since our introduction in 1965, while lodging at Bruce Lake…..soon to be, by the way, a neighbor of one of the largest resort-recreation developments in the history of Muskoka. I expect many more of these mega projects in the future. It worries me constantly.
If ever once I left this abode at Birch Hollow, here in Gravenhurst, and didn’t look at the abutting woodland and feel heartfelt respect, and then regard myself as fortunate to be in its proximity, I would thusly and regrettably believe myself amongst the desensitized of our population. If I should awaken one morning to find the chainsaw being employed to fell this haunted wood, it might well be the mortal blow in an old author’s chronicle, of a life’s mission invested in vain.
Enjoy natural Muskoka. Protect it. Spare it from the progressives who see capital prosperity as the meaning of life.

Please visit my other blog at thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com

Gravenhurst is my chronicle-
The place where I can write in peace

In the late 1980’s I had grown weary of my editorial responsibilities with the local press. While I had always provided publishers with twice as much copy as they paid me for, I was getting pretty aggressive with my forays into the sacred zones of the local political and social elite in central Muskoka. I was reprimanded weekly for challenging authority and bucking the in-house convention, to obey at all cost, the advertising department’s initiatives……performing editorial feats for the good cause of advertising revenue, not for journalistic integrity. I felt the cold knife-blade of professional compromise every time I was asked to shill for the business community…..sent out to do another good business review in return for an ad they had placed in the very next edition.
My notes home from public school used to inform my mother, “Ted doesn’t mix well with others,” and “Ted spends a great deal of time daydreaming.” Both are true and I can remember my mother Merle stomping off to parents’ night at Lakeshore Public, in Burlington, itching to unleash a steaming tirade against anyone who would suggest that “mixing with others,” has relevance to her son getting an education, and be damned any one who would even think about restricting a free thinker’s privilege to daydream. My mother Merle was quick to defend her son’s artistic integrity, as if she knew in the early grades of elementary school that her son would somehow put individuality and daydreaming into art, music or maybe even the writing profession. There were many other occasions, through my school years, when Merle went to bat for my lackluster in-class performance, without any real evidence it was going to help me become a great Canadian “anything!”. She just didn’t want teachers messing with her kid’s creative ambitions.
I was sitting on our verandah one summer afternoon in the early 1990’s, with my old and eccentric bibliophile friend David Brown, of Hamilton….the man who gave me my start as a book collector…..and we started comparing what people though of us respectively. Dave Brown, who at the time of his death, had over 100,000 books stacked in his small Hamilton bungalow, said he was tired of people thinking he was nuts just because he loved books. I said in response, I was really tired of people thinking I was nuts because I like to write all day and night. You know, by time we finished adding up all the public scrutiny about our personal interests, we agreed that at the very least it gave our friends and adversaries alike something to gnaw-on in our absence. In other words our eccentricities kept them from getting bored. Funny thing, I’ve never felt it necessary to analyze others for entertainment purposes. Dave said, “Well Ted, we’re at least popular if that means anything…..I guess we should feel flattered to have created all this fuss about whether or not we’re crazy.”
Dave would not argue that he was eccentric. I was his biographer and he was never once disturbed to be referred to as “eccentric.” In every finite definition of eccentric, Dave Brown was a textbook example. He was brilliant. He had the kind of inquisitive nature that demanded ongoing education, and I never once felt in our years working together, that he thought of himself too old to learn new things. When Dave Brown, who was also one of the country’s well known outdoor education specialists, wanted to talk…..about anything…..gads, I listened like a sponge handles spilled water. His knowledge was brimming and I had so much to learn when we first met in the early 1990’s. Everyone in our family listened to Dave Brown talk about history and his many adventures canoeing throughout Ontario, and we were reluctant to close down our evening chat, despite being at the brink of exhaustion. If Dave Brown was labeled eccentric, then I wanted to absorb as much eccentricity as he was willing to share.
I learned more about Canadian history and the outdoors from Dave Brown than I ever acquired through high school and at university. Suzanne told me once that Dave found us Curries to be kindred spirits because we continually quested for information, and challenged accepted thought when necessary. When Dave Brown passed away, and left me to write his biography, I mired for months fearing it would be impossible to capture this scholar’s character, such that he would reach out from the great beyond, and chastise me, as he did others in life, for unfounded generalizations. Could he ever approve of my written assessment of his life and times? I was his student! His apprentice! The job seemed immense. I did finally write the book and most of those who bought the biography agreed I had captured his most interesting qualities. I’m still not sure how Dave would have appreciated the over-view although he’s sent a few messages from the grave that our work isn’t quite done yet. Dave has some subtle reminders like pulling out books from the shelf, leaving them askew, if not dropping them to the floor as evidence a directive hasn’t yet been followed. A playful, mindful haunting you might say. I still validate Dave’s presence here at Birch Hollow, and keep him in my thoughts whenever I’m pawing through my thousands of old books and document. On visits he slept on a couch in my library and every night before slumber he sorted through these same titles, looking for something interesting to digest….as the last detail of learning for that day.
Dave and I shared a number of professional habits that obviously earned us the label of “eccentrics.” On our book hunting missions we were both so focused in the work (fun for us), we could ignore all other distractions. If there were any intruders into our respective domains, we could become a tad standoffish….and we were both quite capable of blowing off interlopers who got too close to our nitty gritty searches of book aisles, in dozens of shops and sales in this region of Ontario. This intent-focused mission of discovery gave others the opinion we were being rude, self absorbed, anti-social and disjointed from the demands of social conscience. If you interrupted Dave Brown at an estate or auction sale, to socialize or ask his opinion about a book, it was as if the hounds of hell had been set loose on their prey. You just didn’t! And while I have been known to exercise a far more tempered, gentle retort to any one bothering me, I’m still branded as “ignorant,” and “high and mighty,” just because my focus and mission are more intense than their own.
In Bracebridge, my reputation as an old miser, a writer who lacks self-restraint, an activist, someone who defiles the protocols of “getting along,” and shows disrespect to the rights and privileges of the power elite, has little if any relevance here in Gravenhurst, my hometown since 1988. For whatever reason here, I just don’t draw a lot of interest or busy-bodied attention. I’m just they guy who collects books and antiques and keeps to himself. I like that. I’m pretty sure there are those who view me as “a strange chap,” and somewhat “odd-in-habit” but by and large I’ve enjoyed a wonderful anonymity here, and can avoid having to defend myself in shops and at sales because I shy away from social interaction. In fact, I believe adamantly this “live and let live” relationship in Gravenhurst has been the reason I’ve found the perfect writing conditions here at our in-town homestead, we call with affection…..Birch Hollow.
There have been times when I thought possibly we should re-locate elsewhere in Muskoka. Suzanne will quickly remind me how much I’ve suffered living in homes in the past, that didn’t offer the inspiration I needed to quest-on at this typewriter. She’s right of course. I owe this little ranch bungalow a great deal, for housing so safely and happily its writer in residence. When I begin work here in my office, where my window looks out over The Bog, I feel confident my concentration on a project won’t be disturbed by a neighbor or friend on a mission to save me from myself…..the writer alleged to be swallowing the humanity of the real Ted Currie. The most distraction I will get here is when a squirrel darts along the walk outside, and our dog Bosko hears the footfall, letting loose a warning growl just to inform the critter the enforcer is on the job. You know, I haven’t won that Pulitzer yet, or even felt a single literary award in my grasp yet I couldn’t care less about measuring up to someone else’s standard. I do like having readers however, and I’ve been fortunate over the years to have reached hundreds of thousands….some who appreciate my perspective and others who don’t but read on anyway. I have especially appreciated the increases I’ve found most recently with internet exposure. I’m not writing to win awards. I’m writing as a person who loves his craft. While those who know me can’t get past the word “eccentric,” when describing my actions, reactions and obsessions, I now consider it all complimentary despite their intent. A female friend once said to me, “you spend so much time writing and collecting; you need to take a vacation!” Geez, for me, writing and collecting is a life-long vacation. It’s just a little hard to explain to someone who thinks it all sounds like a lot of work.
Birch Hollow here in Gravenhurst is a haunted place. I will always feel Dave Brown’s spirit hovering in my office, or sitting with me out on the verandah on still, moonlit summer nights. I will still get inspired to write some tome or other when I hear the shrill loon-call out over Lake Muskoka, and feel the ecstasy of discovery when I wander through the restorative woods of The Bog, the hollow across the lane. I owe this place, this town a debt of gratitude for being relatively free of the kind of social protocols that inhibited me during my much-loathed newspaper years. I think about my mother Merle’s defense of my creative enterprise as a wee lad, and hope now she feels the forays at parent-teacher nights were worth the fury…..to give a writer-in-waiting a chance at independent thought and unfettered imaginative freedom cum graduation.
I think I’ll stay here for awhile, and write a few more pages….maybe go off to the local book seller and see if anything new “that is old” has arrived since my last visit….and I shall thoroughly enjoy this freedom found living amidst the pines and birches, of my humble and accommodating home town. Thank you Gravenhurst.

Please visit my other blog at thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com

April Snow on this old Gravenhurst hideaway

Yesterday afternoon I stood on the thick grass-laden mounds, dotting the basin of this Muskoka District topography, I fondly refer to as The Bog. I was listening to the geese calling from a hiatus of flight, down along the shore of Muskoka Bay. There were only trace amounts of ice and snow down in the heavily sun-blocked areas. This morning the spring scene has been wintered over once again, and it’s as if a month of advances on the weather front have been lost. Yet it has given this lowland sanctuary a magnificent aura, a brightness that invigorates the senses.
There are people in this ballywick of mine, who will complain today that this white misery has intruded upon their expectations of an immediate spring; what was supposed to be a warm, flower-filled Easter holiday. They won’t treat this as a special event. They won’t think beyond the motor trip to school or work about the striking beauty that prevails, only steps from their front door. It is all to be endured as one of life’s many challenges. They pass this on to their children who come to see this white mantle as an obstruction to spring games and outdoor recreation…..the Easter egg hunt. How intrusive and insensitive to our plans that nature should perform…. well, “naturally.” I wish for a moment of their time, to show them this painted landscape. I’d like to show them the animal tracks that have already been imprinted across the lowland, made by deer and raccoons, a few rabbits and I believe the neighborhood fox. It’s all intriguing to me and my dismay is that anyone who lives in this beautiful, life restorative Muskoka, can find annoyance with what is so tranquil and picturesque.
Sometimes I have to snap myself abruptly, almost stingingly back to the reality that I’m rather unique in my relationship with nature, and in this place where I so passionately wish to dwell. I can stand out on this same hump of dried grass and watch a summer storm come raging over the western pine ridge, and be thoroughly intrigued by how all the life here, even the leaves on the hardwoods, react in this preamble to a potentially violent weather pattern. I can get great enjoyment watching the northern lights out here, on some bitterly cold autumn night when everyone else is tucked into bedlam. I’ve stood here and watched dozens of winter storms pound ice and snow against the gnarled old landscape of leaning birches, time etched stumps, rotting logs and tormented, windswept evergreens. I’ve heard the gunshot cracks of frigid February air resounding throughout the frozen basin. I’ve watched gusts of wind snap off trees at their base further out on this bog, when a spring gale cuts a swath across the lakeside; flooding this basin and eroding the creek banks, turning shallow pools into expansive overflowing quagmires infilling every habitat hollow visible from here to there. And I will have nothing but awe and satisfaction that I have been a witness to these critical, necessary transitions of a nature in season.
There are times when my boys or my wife will have to venture out in such inclement weather to haul me home for dinner, or to check up to see if I’ve been blown away by the autumn winds, or entombed in ice during a mid-January blizzard. As a writer specializing in these landscape essays, I must have this exposure to the elements. I don’t think any one can appreciate nature solely from the window of a passing car, or a head stuck out a patio door. I don’t think you can get the true measure of global warming from the television or the movie theatre alone. I can guarantee one thing for sure. You can find all you need to know by immersion. When you spend as much time outdoors as I do, during all four seasons in Muskoka, you can appreciate the changes that are occurring in our world. Changes, some quite subtle, we all need to be concerned about. We have too many armchair, “life of relative ease” addicts today including the youngsters, who may read or watch programming about global warming as entertainment but never offer one footstep toward these woodlands. Unless of course there is some exceptional circumstance; and in my neighborhood it means to dump off a retired Christmas tree they don’t want to ship to the landfill site, or various other household articles and garden debris they wish to cast-off without incurring any expense. The residents on my street only care about their own lawns, and how immaculate they appear beneath the flower baskets and sundry other veneer ornamentation. In the fall, like the tumble of hardwood leaves, the homeowners here, as tradition, will commence the cross road amble toting a wide variety of refuse from plastic pails to boards with nails, broken lawn ornaments to unwanted patio slabs. Just ask them at the time of this woodland desecration, whether or not they give a hoot about pollution and global warming. All they want to know about is that their property is crap-free and pretty to the eye.
I’m pretty hard on my neighbors and most of them have already read my barbs of assessment in the local press, when I once again beg them as a concerned citizen, to stop dumping their garbage indiscriminately into the hinterland. I haven’t had a lot of success stopping-up what I call, “the dumping for convenience” enterprise. It’s only the opening days of spring and already I’ve harvested a full basket of recycling bits and pieces, my mates here decided to discard into the “forgiving woods”.
It reminds me about an experience I had while supervising a group of public school students visiting an outdoor education centre here in Muskoka. The students were involved in a wildlife identification game in a planted pinery, when a small group of four or so students discovered a garter snake slithering over the brown pine needles. For whatever reason, one of the boys decided it would be the treat of the day to beat the creature to death. He picked up a stick and with great visual pleasure, and vocal encouragement from every student watching, began hitting the snake with lethal intent. It was in his eyes. There was no mistake that the objective was to render this creature lifeless. Why? Who really knows? His viewpoint was, “how convenient, a snake for the killing”.
I was in position to stop the assault, the first snake killing session I’d ever witnessed frankly, and it took several aggressive outbursts, to thwart the young man from his mission to rid the planet of this particular snake. I will never in my life forget the look in his eyes. He might well have turned his rage on me, instead of the snake. It took me physically grabbing the stick from his hand to put an end to the incident. No child in that group understood why I had intervened to save the life of a serpent. Not one of them. They thought of me as a bully and themselves as “perfectly within their rights,” to transform nature to their own likeness. For me personally, there has never been a more profound moment of understanding, about the true dangers of outright ignorance and indifference. The “don’t care less” attitude our world faces from the untutored and insensitive amongst us, is about to kill us all. These youngsters were doing what they believed was natural to humanity; to kill off what isn’t human….or what isn’t on their “want list,” of species. It was their uneducated, ill conceived measure and understanding of what should survive, and thusly, in their concept of nature’s balance, what should justifiably perish to make more room for the rights and privileges of mortal kind. I thought about developers and politicians, capitalists and urban promoters who would similarly find this poor snake an intruder.
This particular outdoor education opportunity failed because of its brief period of influence on students. Two days at the camp site was not enough to erase false impression and improve sensitivity to nature and natural assets. There will be no tangible progress in the effort to curb global warming unless outdoor education is offered to more students for longer periods, with the funding to make it a widespread school program….and not just a brief visit to a sugar bush, or a casual outdoor walkabout. From the first day of school a strong relationship with the outdoors needs to be encouraged and developed in progressive steps until graduation. Hopefully then we would have the future movers and shakers in our economic world who would recognize the importance to us all, of having a balanced, healthy, non-polluted environment in which to dwell.
When I visit this amazing little lowland amidst the urban sprawl of neighborhoods, I wish to thank personally the brave planner, the developer, who gave our burg this open space option, so folks who appreciate the peace and well being of nature, can sojourn here to watch the seasons in transition. I could remain here for hours on end being thoroughly entertained by what isn’t intruding upon the scene. There is no hustle, no bustle, no impatience anywhere to be found. It is a calm place amidst the profound changes occurring from horizon to horizon; from the tree tops to the snake and fish habitat. Other changes inspired by this final stage of transformation, from late winter to finally emerging spring.
And while in the natural world changes are occurring violently at times, as with its own balance and regimen, I can’t help feeling sadness that it has taken a tragedy of global proportion, to make us take notice of what actually sustains us through this mortal coil…..this purity of air we depend, the clean water that bubbles up from all the springs to be found in this modest, taken for granted acreage. Every resource here considered expendable by otherwise intelligent people. The same people who dump all types of cleaners and fertilizers, and assorted chemicals they wish to dispose of, right here in this fragile and vulnerable landscape; simply because it meets their requirements for cost efficiency and convenience. Then listen to them boast about their environmental awareness….the news they read or heard about but have never once actually practiced, except for their own personal, selfish reasons.
We’ve got a lot to learn about what sustains us.
It’s not just my neighborhood. My God, it’s the neighborhoods of the entire world desecrating these wild, important places. If we can’t stop it in our own area, how can we fix it globally? I like to think it will come about by persistence and education to begin with, education and then persistence evermore….. and it will only be consistent when outdoor education is required learning at every school in every town, over every year and in every city covering this grand old global enterprise of conservation.
Please take that all-important step into the hinterland. Before you endorse the next earth-moving, landscape altering project in your town, visit the site to be destroyed, and think for a moment how wonderful it would be if there was another solution…..a better way of being progressive than sprawling out across every available open space. Is it just possible that being a progressive community can parallel being a successful environmental steward. When a lowland thriving with life-forms is obliterated for the cause of convenient, multi-store shopping, on top of the venues already in place, it makes me wonder if one day we’ll all have to live in one of these malls permanently, due to the contamination everywhere else.
Thanks for reading this blog submission for April 2007.


PLEASE VISIT MY OTHER BLOG AT THENATUREOFMUSKOKA.BLOGSPOT.COM

The Curmudgeon of Birch Hollow
Another blog in the “not-requested or even desired” learn to write tutorial series. If you’re at all squeamish or a sensitive writer don’t read this. It’ll sting!
It’s been brought to my attention that some folks around here, those who I thought would love me to death, now believe me to be somewhat of an ogre. A curmudgeon. A snarly old fart one dare not approach for anything, any time. The guy you won’t be inviting to a party, ever! As the song alludes, the one you don’t bring home to mother!
I suppose there’s some truth to the curmudgeon characterization. Yes, I can be quite sharp tongued, sporting a frown as big as all outdoors, reclusive and miserly, and woefully uninspiring. I’ve been known to spit fire especially at the poor sod who shows up on this doorstep selling something, anything. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time you might say. If I’m in the middle of a paragraph of a tome I’m particularly dedicated, and you bother me in my safe haven, you shall pay dearly for the intrusion. In the old days I could keep a thought for more than a few moments. An intrusion now at the right time, and I just lose the whole point of the affair.
As I’ve strongly endorsed and subsequently inscribed as a motto on my future tombstone, (recorded in other blog entries this winter of 2007), the middle age crazy period of my life has definitely eroded my patience for pointless discussion and ridiculous negotiation. I’m not going to be nice solely to please society. Buzz off, I say! In my mind I’ve jumped onto my imaginary chopper and begun a mental mission of self discovery on the road to nowhere in particular. With some chagrin, I sheepishly admit, my wife has made it clear I am not to purchase any motorized two wheeled machine. She can’t stop me reading the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.,” however; a well worn text that I keep at my side for periodic fantasy road trips. But the problem here is that there is always something or other thrust in front of my creative escape. Such as the rigors of family enterprise and the need to make money. I have a fair amount of guilt about not winding-out the ink trail on some great new novel that will pay the bills to eternity. Alas, I’m not a novelist. Historians have a bitch of atime thinking outside the box. History is a box. I suppose if I had to do it all over again, sure, I probably would have toyed with fiction writing as a paying profession. I would probably still be a starving artist but I guess the perks of wandering around as a depressed novelist, and hanging around hole-in-the-wall coffee shops with equally unfulfilled musicians would at least make me feel like I was a writer cause it’s says so on my business cards.
I have always lived a journeyman writer’s life. I’ve wordsmithed many pieces for those who couldn’t compose for lover nor money, and there has never been a subject yet that I wouldn’t entertain a minor foray for the right price. There was an occasion when a piece I wrote was so well received by readers, that the author got some serious extra perks…..only he wasn’t the real penman. I got my money to perform the task, and he got the additional writing opportunities and I never heard from the bloke again.
Every year I work with several fledgling writers, not for pay but by choice, something I believe the veterans of the industry must share with future torch bearers. Each time I spend about a week’s worth of time trying to convince them to pursue anything else in life but writing. That’s also my responsibility, and I do take it seriously. It’s true that I’ve scared a few teetering authors out of the industry but truthfully, I’ve encouraged twenty times that to carry on with their dreams. A few have come back and offered thanks for my advice and several have told me that my description of what their lives would be like, as a struggling writer, was remarkably accurate. It’s always a special moment when a doomsayer’s predictions have some merit.
I can usually see it in their eyes; the sparkle of insight, letting me know that they recognize how difficult it will be in the future, to gouge out even a meager existence in the writing trade. I have had enormous conflict with those writing coaches and teachers who give false hope to their underlings about the attainability of writing milestones. I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve had with those who inflate student expectation with unwarranted praise. The last thing a rookie writer needs is to go into a newspaper position, for example, with a viewpoint their work is stellar, only to be ripped apart by the publisher and editor as too wordy, too weak, and of the high school paper variety. Instead of pointing out the boiling, frothing cauldron that is the writing profession at its heart, these tutors have avoided the unpleasantness of reality in favor of giving the “we’re all winners,” motivational speech that destines the apprentice to fail quickly.
I’ve watched many talented young writers in our region fail because they got knocked off their high perch by the carnivorous, murderous reality of the dog eat dog publishing industry. I’ve watched dozens turn to other professions because they could not tolerate anyone criticizing their work. Gads. I’ve worn the barbs of criticism like a badge since I was a rookie columnist for the local press, writing about antiques and collectables for God’s sake. For every gain I’ve made as a writer wishing an audience, I’ve suffered a parallel set-back. In fact, if I didn’t have a crushing defeat after every so called milestone achievement, I’d feel the Devil had come to the belief I was an unworthy object of scrutiny. That would be a disaster, as set-backs are the counter balance I now depend on to actually move forward. Now try to explain this to a wide-eyed young writer, who has already set out how the royalties will be spent on creature comforts.
I let my apprentices know up front and personal, that before all is said and done with my instruction, they will appreciate the concept of trial by error, sense the bowel of depression before it digests them, see the horizon barbs hidden in that radiant sphere, and believe that without adversity there is no victory. I’ve had several fiction writers dismiss me as the curse of the old-author-kind, to be bypassed like the keeper of the bridge in the Monty Python Quest for the Holy Grail.
Every one who has called me the bearer of really bad news, the rainmaker over their parade, has failed to step one writing credit forward ever since. They didn’t want to hear about the pain and suffering an artist must endure in order to achieve even modest success. It was my impression they wanted it NOW! They wanted to be sitting in an ocean-front bungalow writing best selling novels, and thinking about shelving to accommodate their many literary awards forthcoming. They’re the ones who ask me, at our first meeting, if they can see my collection of writing awards, as reference I suppose to earning the right to teach others. I tell them to, “look into my eyes and if you see the flames of despair, and yet the twinkle of mischief within hope springing eternal,” you’ve seen my awards without need of even one pine shelf. They just look at me as if I’m a full blown nutter with a regular byline.
Another aspiring author wrote a manuscript that was horrible, and I didn’t, hell I couldn’t for his own good mince words. What I did say was that it was a work in progress, so keep upgrading until it hurts….I mean really hurts. Just at the point of tossing it into the garbage and swearing off writing forever, either it’s a work to let sit for awhile to revisit later, or a truly bad piece that deserves to be shed like any uncomfortable relationship. Instead the budding author decided I was a jerk and went ahead with self publication. I can now buy any quantity of these books at the local thrift shop for a buck or less, most appearing to have been thinly consumed if read at all by their respective former owners. Even as a collectable book dealer I will never sell one of these titles, autographed or not.
One young writer I have watched locally shows a tremendous potential simply by the fact she has, without complaining, adjusted to each new reality, which by my observation has been doggedly wicked. The fact she still returns to her craft after each disaster and self imposed hiatus, is proof she isn’t easily cast out of the foyer of the profession. Usually by the fifth to tenth rejection letter, or an equal number of thwarted, ended-early projects, a fledgling writer without willpower has resorted to any other profession, temporary or long term just to distance from the devil’s breath.
When some of my associates who have known me for years, suggest that old Currie’s an example of “misery loves company,” I get a chuckle actually, and feel pretty good that they’re at the very least, still paying attention to the stuff I write. I love working with people who are realistic and can take a pummeling and request some more for good measure. I will work as long as it takes to inspire a young scribe to push onward, setback after setback, because in all honesty, there is nothing more awesome than to see a well deserved byline on a major piece, that is as strong in composition, content and argument, as the cut of the penman’s enduring jib.
I might be a grumpy old man by the measure of those who wish me to wear happiness like a clown suit. What they don’t realize, I’m sure, is that a writer’s life is an open book and the image between the covers isn’t a soul laden with optimism. Rather it is varnished, barnacle covered tangle of nerves and expectation, wrapped around a suspicious nature cradling an oft broken heart. Don’t feel sorry for me, or any other writer who seems precariously unbalanced. It’s just our bedraggled emotions hanging out for all to see. Our relationship with reality is an expression of half desperation, about a toe-hold and a half away from a feeding, soul harvesting inner madness. The writer’s rolling year imprints the grain of real time, real life, engraved in biography. All the blood that is squeezed forcefully through our ink blackened veins arrives in chapter of a soon to be finished story….. hopefully someone will choose to read.
So you want to be a writer. I know a tutor. He’s a bastard!
To sooth the savage beast, I will in a moment from now, find that old padded down trail through the woods here at Birch Hollow, and wax poetic about environmental good grace….and all will be the philosophy and salvation of another day, another few words expended, to record my humble place on this crazy old earth. Thanks for reading my blog submissions. Come on Bosko, it’s time for a walk! She doesn’t mind a little criticism from time to time, and I don’t half care when she bites hard on my leg, for just about any shortfall of protocol…..a shortfall in the biscuit jar particularly.

Antiques, collectables, art and the great open road here in Muskoka

For my first love, I wrote poems. Lots and lots of sickly sweet poems. When I’d find myself with a bottle of wine and an open midnight hour, and a vantage point looking out over Lake Muskoka, I mind pen away continuously until daybreak. I could ease my anger by writing, satisfy curiosity playing around with novel ideas, and by golly, when quite happy, I could fill a binder with observations, ranging from a description of the dock stretching out into the bay, to the curious silhouette cast by the lawnchair against the shimmering water at sunrise.
So what the hell happens when you get frustrated with all this “author-author”stuff? When someone asks why I became an antique dealer I tell them it was the result of hating my profession….writing. When they ask me why I took up the pen as a writer, I tell them bluntly, “because being an antique dealer was driving me nuts!” Of course I’m only kidding about this, as I haven’t got a worthy replacement for either.
Truth is I’ve been lucky to have two professions for most of my working life. Whenever I’m unable to turn a profit in one discipline, the other kicks over a few bucks to keep me going. Just now I’m going against the grain of creativity. I’ve had a number of political differences of opinion recently, and this should be quite clear if you scroll up a few blogs. I write for several weeks until I’m satisfied all contempt has drained from my body and then suffer through a couple of recovery weeks with back and neck disorders. This is usually the time when I revive my antique hunting (twin career) which could last in a binge-format for six or seven weeks until the next time I get riled at local issues and turn back to “the editorialist.”
It’s a strange, even awkward union that has worked well for decades, and I don’t see any reason for abandoning what obviously rolls without a flat side. When I’m out on the antique hustings, it’s a Zen-like experience. I could sort through shops and sales for hours on end, seeking interesting pieces from furniture to crocks, historic documents to elusive books, and never once think about the follies of a half-arse government official. In both pursuits, writing and antiquing, the common trait is uncompromised concentration. A lot of my antiquing associates find that I’m a tad rude when we meet up at a sale venue, and they don’t have any compunction letting me know I’ve been ignoring them….and stepping in their way a lot. It’s just part of the plan. I’m glad to speak with them outside the sale or shop, and I’ve always been willing to show finds when all transactions are completed. My wife calls me “intense” at the mission of discovery and I can’t really argue with that assessment. When I sit at this keyboard the rule is, “don’t come near,” unless there’s a sandwich in tow. It’s not that I’m a mean bastard but I don’t have the concentration capability of once. I used to work in a wild and wooly newsroom and found it invigorating. Now I can’t even have music playing. I’m easily distracted and find it almost impossible to return to task after any hiatus whatsoever. I just start working on a different column idea as a coping mechanism.
Questing for antiques is as much recreation for me, and I seldom return from a day trip feeling tired. I don’t find it taxing at all to drive several hundred miles and to wander through fifteen or more shops. Suzanne however, isn’t quite so keen so lately we’ve cut our outings down quite a bit to reflect our “old poop” collector status. We always pack a lunch and plan for picnic breaks between antique venues.
As for being absorbed with antiques, it dates back to childhood, as I contented myself for hours on end flipping over rocks and digging into the embankment looking for native artifacts along the snaking course of Burlington’s Ramble Creek; the enchanted valley where I spent every free moment of my young life. I was too invigorated at play to get tired. I can remember my mother Merle having to hike down into the ravine on Harris Crescent, to haul me home for lunch and dinner,…..because I hadn’t responded to her boisterous calls to come home. I never said I hadn’t heard them….I just didn’t feel like leaving the creek-side.
Today all I can think about is collecting stuff. Today I’ve already done the rounds of the local thrift shops and found only one book between them. I will hit the Gravenhurst shop a second time later today, and that should satisfy my daily sleuthing requirement for the mid week period. By time I hit the weekend on one of these collecting jags, I could be gone from early Saturday morning to late Sunday afternoon. And while it undoubtedly reads like, “A Man Obsessed – A Man Driven to Destruction,” I will come back from these junkets with a van full of treasures, and a good sense of humor. I will have enjoyed the Muskoka scenery along the way, met interesting shopkeeps, experienced history, culture, art and nostalgia in every store, antique auction, flea market and white elephant sale we attend. I will adore the art finds….competent paintings by established artists; folk art, colorful, naïve and inspirational. I will study books for sale by some of the world’s greatest writers, scientists, historians, and be only too pleased to spend the time necessary to review each vintage photograph stacked in boxes, or framed and hung on a wall.
My first serious ventures as an antique dealer in training, were exercised rigorously (during my late teenage days of the mid 1970’s), digging bottles at old homestead sites throughout Muskoka. While my mates joined garage bands, smoked dope and tinkered with hot rods, here I was, this crazy Currie kid digging holes all over god’s half acre looking for old bottles and interesting other cast offs. You wouldn’t believe all the intact, unbroken lightbulbs I found buried under tons of rock and metal. Dentures. A couple of pair. It was a solitary endeavor and I seldom if ever took a partner along. I spent hours immersed in the task, and most importantly, in the embrace of nature which has long maintained its hold on me.
I think in some ways my antique quests today are a modest parallel to those initial forays to dig sites. While I don’t dig for bottles any more, my missions are still pretty much the same as they were, except for the fact I don’t dig up the antique dealer’s floor to find artifacts. I satisfy myself instead, digging through boxes packed with old paper and maps, documents and booklets, and anything else where a treasure might be hidden for a collector of my diverse interests. And I enjoy the route to and from these antique shops and auctions, frequently stopping to admire a beautiful sun-scape across a meadow, or the glittering light dazzling down through a misty woodland; the wildflowers blooming in a lowland or upon a sun engulfed hillside.
I can sit at an auction all day long, and enjoy the event unfolding. I particularly appreciate the natural enhancements of outside estate and farm auctions, and even if I don’t bid on anything the whole day, the outing is always a restorative, invigorating venture. In fact, that’s what I would enjoy today; having the privilege of attending an auction; watching the bidders and sightseers (who may become bidders) going through the motions, trying to one-up the other to take home the prize piece(s). My son Robert informed me that, “just before bidding dad, you always stroke your chin with your right hand….and when you start fondling your beard, we know you’re going to spend a lot to win the bid.” He was right by the way. I wouldn’t have known this otherwise unless I saw a video clip. It is true I zone out from the general public and concentrate on the auctioneer. Geez I’ve lost concentration on a number of key pieces I really needed for my collection, and missed getting in a final bid. That’s why I distance myself from family and friends entirely when the bidding on a chosen item commences. I used to be able to down a hot dog, a cola and carry on a full conversation and still follow the auctioneer’s cadence, back in the old days…. but now I have to lock-in and ignore everything else to get what I want on the block.
While having to be mindfully intent for the project at hand may seem obsessive and tiring, and a long way from meaningful zen-anything, I have been following these patterns of interest for so long now, that being absorbed as a writer or antique collector is a lot like swinging the afternoon away in the comforting embrace of a porch hammock. As I finish a feature article or column and feel that natural high of accomplishment, pulling out an old pine rocker, a couple of paintings, and an assortment of crocks, runs a parallel thrill and sense of contentment. While it’s possible I’m mistaken, and the stress of having fun might one day kill me, truth is I’d rather die working at something of passion, than snuffing-out in the middle of life’s stuffy little routines…., like day to day work; or growing fungus out your ears doing nothing meaningful at all.
Whether it shows up in my bio-blog or not, I’ve had a hell of a good time in this strange jumble of obsessions, chasing elusive pots of gold at the end of all my perceived rainbows. I’ve had my share of disappointments but never such that I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to try the same adventure one more time. I’ve enjoyed success as a writer over the past thirty years and my antique hunting days have all been thoroughly celebrated whether I’ve come home with a truck full, or one really nice piece. I’m as contented with this blog contribution, as if I’d just penned a Broadway play.
I’ve had a lifetime of people saying “you can’t make a living like that,” and, “grow up and get a real job!” If there’s any point to this column other than words stacked upon words, it’s to prove to you, and them, “they’re nuts, and deserve their dead-end jobs and unattained objectives.” I’ve had a ball all these years and I couldn’t muster a regret if I tried. It’s been a wonderful life of exposure to actuality and discovery; inspiration and creativity. I’ve had the most enjoyable time questioning everything imaginable and digesting oh so many answers. Each adventure into the Muskoka I adore, is like a jolt of electricity from the pages of the book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” and yet another chapter in my own personal mission of self discovery.
A friend asked me yesterday if I was ever going to “settle down and retire.” “I’m already retired to the life I want to live….forever,” I replied with a wink of the old writer’s eye. “It doesn’t get better than this……today I will write until the urge to travel bites down, and when I tire of the quest for history, I will write once again…..and never enter a lull without feeling satisfied in conscience, I haven’t wasted life’s precious resource.”
Thanks for joining this blog-entry. Enjoy your life pursuits. Sculpt them to suit your needs. To hell with the critics. Let them eat cake!


By the morning light, I see the way – Birch Hollow

At 6:30 this morning, I took our dog Bosko for a walk into The Bogland. The moon glow, its halo, just above the tree-line was an enchanting, fantastic vista for this first day of February 2007. We walked down into the hollow of the landscape and stood beside some of the frozen cattails that line this winter pathway across The Bog. It was the last few moments of darkness, except for this striking illumination of moon reflecting off the snow. It was a peaceful solitude. It was the kind of scene, while not rare during a Muskoka winter, that couldn’t help but inspire a spark of wonder and expectation; thoughtful speculation about what was lurking out there beneath this soft illumination, the bewitching, the wolves waiting to pounce upon the interloper.
I wish more people could witness these life-precious moments. These walks in the woods have offered me so much insight about environmental issues, its welfare and its uncertain future. It’s on a morning like this that I wish to have a parade of students to see for themselves, a true enchantment up close without nary an electrical outlet or television screen. I would as much, adore the opportunity to guide local politicians and developers along this same pathway to nowhere in particular, to see by chance, if they could enjoy, as I do, the rugged, hauntingly beautiful surroundings….., and appreciate more fully the quality of all life within the hinterland. What a true joy it would be to find a flicker of sensitivity, a pause of judgment, an enlightenment about this scene being important. Important enough to reconsider as necessary open space. Important to the survival of natural species, of critical relevance to each creature that calls this land “home”. Important to us, as humans, having a nature that thrives in its intricate cycle…., versus killing habitat for the cycle of money bundling around more money until every last acre is compromised by human greed.
It’s difficult these days to look out upon this magnificent vista and imagine the vast destruction of habitat going on throughout our region in the guise of progress for the masses….when in fact it is profit for the asses. I have never known a more desperate time in my fifty-two years, to impress upon citizens the necessity of conservation. First of all, the behemoth difficulty is trying to instill appreciation of what is actually at stake when we, as a general public, continue to turn our back on environmental threats in our community. It alarms me to find, amongst the rank and file of the business and community leaders, for example, an unwillingness to re-educate about the world beyond capitalist enterprise. The world that gave us life, that maintains our lives, and that gave freely to enhance our lives without even one dollar changing hands. I’m not on a breathe-and-pay program at present, although I suspect that will arrive one day soon, as we come to require breathing equipment to deal with the solids in our polluted air.
I have never intended to frighten any one with my editorial opinion. I have however, tried most often in vain, to lead readers onward to personal discovery by immersion. Walk into a woodland near you. Stroll along a farm lane or meander through a meadow. Stand for awhile on a lakeshore and pay attention to the loon call. I suggest readers immerse in the nature they’ve grown distant from, in order to more intelligently understand up close and personal, just what mankind is on the verge of committing, that will destine our offspring to a horrible future existence. To witness this amazing moonlit woodland, only a few metres from a rather busy urban avenue, is the type of daily invigoration of the senses we all require….every mortal needs to experience this thriving, surviving hinterland while it exists….before someone concocts the plan to erase nature and put up a parking lot; undoubtedly to service the condos we certainly don’t need to be prosperous.
Ten years ago when I wrote about these same issues, I was branded an “alarmist,” an “activist,” a “trouble maker.” Now it’s not being an alarmist, an activist or a trouble maker but rather a purveyor of serious reality. We’re in the “green” time of history, which is both long over due and frankly too late to save much of the planet’s future, which according to some experts in the field, will take thousands of years to restore from past abuse.
I watch in our neighborhood as parents walk protectively with their children to the bus stop at the corner, and others who triple check the braces and buckles of their car-seats to make sure all is secure. They worry about their kids’ safety at school, careful play at recess, and whether or not they’re being treated fairly by respective teachers. They guard their child’s rights with passionate resolve. Imagine the raw edge of contradiction when they allow their children the opportunity, in this same neighborhood, to participate in the apparent God given right to discard home refuse into these same beautiful woodlands. I have watched wee ones pulling wagons of sundry cast-offs from their residences, and joyfully dumping them amongst the ferns and wildflowers that thrive within this small vestige of natural habitat. Here they are then, side by side, parent and child, casting garbage, (things they don’t want) into the accommodating interior of the green space, much as if they are doing the environment a favor.
The parents conveniently or ignorantly forget that the safety of their children, over a lifetime, depends very much on the well being of this natural world. Yet this doesn’t apparently trump the need for a good place to dump refuse. Obviously the urgency of environmental protection and “safe family,” isn’t drawing the parallel consideration it should.
I spend a lot of time in these woods picking up this same refuse, and on many occasions I’ve overheard neighborhood youngsters ask their parents “what’s that man doing over in the woods.” You’d almost think this action alone could inspire a new attitude about cross road dumping. It hasn’t yet. Each year I fill a half dozen large garbage bags to clean up their debris field, in this small otherwise congenial neighborhood. I will be able to clearly measure by volume of collected items, the impact of today’s environmental conscience, how our “green” outlook nationally, affects attitudes locally. This isn’t a problem in Gravenhurst alone obviously, and if you look along the roadsides throughout our region, you will find a similar desecration.
I have long fantasized that Muskoka could be a leader in environmental issues, and a trend setter in matters of local conservation and parkland creation. I’ve been disillusioned by numerous local events and decisions most recently throughout our district but I never give up hope that the shift to the green viewpoint nationally, will bolster efforts regionally to preserve what is presently considered expendable…., in that never ending quest for enduring and ultimate prosperity. The true prosperity here is enlightened perspective and that will serve as the discipline of sensible proportion….knowing when to call progress “urban sprawl,” instead of “economic development” in the bid to create jobs. On a dieing planet priorities simply have to change.
Thanks for reading through this blog submission. Happy Ground Hog day. I prefer the groundhogs allowed to reside in their natural environs….here for example, in the Bogland of my neighborhood.