The Story of Bernardo Boy, Johnny Moon

THE STORY OF BERNARDO BOY, JOHNNY MOON, ONE OF MY HIGHEST READ BLOGS OF THE PAST YEAR


MY GRANDMOTHER WAS SENT TO CANADA AS A BERNARDO CHILD TO WORK AS A DOMESTIC

     Suzanne, my long serving, long suffering captain of research, has been tying up loose-ends of heritage stories, for me, from the beginning of our relationship. She thought I was marrying her for the money, but it was actually her research skills that were more important to a fledgling writer, trying to make a name for himself amongst iconic Muskoka historians. I'm only kidding, of course. Love came first. It's not like she wasn't aware of the tangle of history she was getting into, by marrying not only an historian, but one who was also an antique dealer. Not only did I bug her constantly, to help me solve research impasses, but I also filled her apartment with antiques and about a thousand books in the first year of marriage.
     If she had her doubts, they were mild enough, and unspoken, to thusly allow me further excesses, and as my mother used to critique me, as a child, "If you give Teddy and inch, he'll take a country mile." I suggested Suzanne could use that reference as a title of the biography she will want to write about me, when I'm finally pushing up daisies. "Why would I want to write your biography?" Oh, that's cold! "I'm going to finally write my own," she quips. "What are you going to call it," I ask. "Living with a Jerk!" "How's that," she asked? "Well, I was sort of thinking that instead of 'Jerk" you might wish to use a more appropriate word, like 'Prince,' or 'genius' which works for me." "Okay," she shot back. "Living with the Prince Who Was Also A Pauper?" "Nice one," I retort, suggesting she will sorely miss me when I'm gone. "What will you do when I'm no longer inviting you on my very excellent adventure?" She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and went back to her sewing, while mumbling something that sounded a lot like, "I can live well and with prosperity, without what you consider a great adventure." Now it's all coming out, you see. She wants equal billing as "Currie and Currie - Heritage Professionals At Your Service." She's earned it that's for sure. I would have a lot of unfinished projects without Suzanne's dogged determination to dot those pesky "i's." She has, in so many ways, saved me from my inherent shortfall of impatience, by catching errors before they hit print, or are published online. Some of the biggest mistakes I have made, in the past, were because I felt there was a shortage of time for a second-edit, and, having the mistaken belief I couldn't possibly have made a misprint in the copy. Suzanne would have caught each one, such that I wouldn't have had to offer apologies to readers, and those families, I was writing the material about.
     In the case of Bernardo child, Johnny Moon, Suzanne followed up on a suspicion she had, about our own family chronology. She had long believed my grandmother, Doris (Harding) Currie, had been from Doctor Bernado's famous orphanages, in England, because of talks she had, with my grandmother, whenever she would visit Bracebridge to see my parents. Her son, Edward, my father, never had any serious interest, in finding out too much about his mother's past. He didn't have a great relationship with her, and my mother could barely tolerate her visits. It wasn't unusual to have visits ends badly, with the three of these adults criticizing each other until finally, Doris would go and pack her bag, and my father would drive her to the bus station. In later years, everyone seemed to mellow-out and we had nicer, longer visits without any fireworks. But Suzanne was given a considerable time on these visits, to ask her questions about her childhood growing up in England. She had been from a prominent family, of considerable financial standing, but due to a string of deaths in the family, and no one being left to look after the child, she was sent to a Bernardo home as an orphan. But Doris would never admit to family, that she was a Bernado child; yet would allude to the fact, a catastrophic turn of events, put her in a position of serious jeopardy, at the age of 13, that she could never have expected; the failing security of the family home, her parents dying, and then being forced to live with her grandfather, Mr. Nicholson, until he too passed away. We suppose she felt it was dishonorable, to be lumped-in with street urchins, pulled off city streets, and offspring of poor families, and sent to Canada to work as domestics, and farm hands, on frontier homesteads. She had gone from a privileged life, to considerable disadvantage, in her way of estimating the situation, none of it, the result of her own decisions.
     As a result of finding more out about Johnny Moon, Bracebridge's famous Bernardo Boy, who left a journal behind, with accounts of his joys and hardships, in turn of the century Muskoka, Suzanne obtained a contact number for the Bernardo head office, in England, still operating its archives after all these years. She was able to determine, once and for all, with their assistance, that Doris Harding had definitely been a Bernardo child. By this time, unfortunately, Doris had passed away, taking her secret to the grave. I don't know how she would have reacted to Suzanne, asking her further, about the life she had, coming to Canada as an orphan, to work as a domestic for a minister, in a small Ontario town. We have most recently learned, that Doris Harding's name, is on a special Bernardo memorial wall, in the City of Peterborough, which was one of the transitional houses for Bernardo orphans, fanning out to homes and farms in that part of Ontario. We were both amazed by this revelation, which came as a direct result of contact with specializing Bernardo historians in Ontario, regarding the story of Bracebridge's Johnny Moon, which I believe is one of the most fascinating human interest stories I've worked on, in forty years, of chasing down unique aspects of our local heritage. Suzanne has been my equal partner, in this hunt and gather of regional history since 1983, and that has included research of the Mystery of Canadian Artist, Tom Thomson's death, in 1917, allegedly due to misadventure, while traversing Algonquin Park's Canoe Lake; the story of the Icelandic Settlement of Hekkla, in North Muskoka," and the biography of National Hockey League Goaltender, Roger Crozier, of Bracebridge; plus hundreds of related feature stories, Suzanne has helped me research and turn into successfully published histories.
     Here now, is the story of Johnny Moon, and his relationship with both Muskoka, and the Town of Bracebridge, which owns his original handwritten journal, found in his half-fallen shanty, up on the shore of the North Branch of the Muskoka River, on the east side, between Wilson's Falls, and the Bass Rock rapids. The content of the journal, offers a clear view of the hardships that were experienced by many of the ill-prepared young Britians, who were sent to the colony, to work for their room and board, in often adverse and physically abusive situations. I wish my mother and father had known about the fact my grandmother had been a Bernardo Child, because, in all likelihood, it would have led to conversation about the past, or at least a more sincere appreciation in this regard, softening their opinion somewhat, about her misunderstood disposition. The story of Johnny Moon is a sad one, in so many ways, yet his determination to survive and succeed, is what one takes away from the journal entries, as they are presented. He didn't ask for pity from anyone. Just a fair deal. He didn't often get this for his efforts, but yet he persevered. He was a kid on a harsh and unforgiving frontier, and it etched on his character through his life.

ONE OF BRACEBRIDGE'S MOST PROMINENT, UNIQUE, AND UNDAUNTED CITIZENS, WHO YOU PROBABLY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT; JOHNNY MOON

THE BERNARDO BOY - WANDERER, PHILOSOPHER, STORY-TELLER WHO TOLD IT THE WAY IT WAS!

     I HAVE LONG BEEN FASCINATED BY THE STRANGE STORY OF JOHNNY MOON. IT WAS ONE OF THE FIRST MEMORABLE FOLK TALES I HEARD, THE SUMMER AFTER MOVING TO BRACEBRIDGE, IN 1966. A MATE OF MINE, FROM BACK THEN, WHILE WE WERE WALKING ALONG RIVER ROAD, ONE HOT AFTERNOON, TOLD ME TO WATCH FOR THE GHOST OF OLD JOHNNY MOON, WHO IT WAS SAID, HAUNTED THE MUSKOKA RIVER VALLEY, WHERE HE USED TO LIVE LONG AGO. ANOTHER CHUM TOLD ME, THAT IT WAS COMMON TO SEE THE GHOST OF JOHNNY MOON, ROWING HIS LEAKY SKOW TOWARD TOWN, TO PICK UP SUPPLIES; A TRAVERSE HE DID HUNDREDS OF TIME IN LIFE. THEY AGREED, THAT IT WAS ON MISTY EVENINGS, ABOVE THE BASS ROCK RAPIDS, THAT JOHNNY REGULARLY MADE HIS APPEARANCE, IN A SPIRITED ATTEMPT, TO SCARE OFF INTERLOPERS, WHO MIGHT BE TRESPASSING ON THE PIECE OF PROPERTY, WHERE HE HAD BUILT A SMALL SHANTY BETWEEN THE TREES. I NEVER DID SEE HIS GHOST. BUT AFTER READING HIS JOURNAL MANY TIMES, AND KNOWING THAT ROAD VERY WELL, FROM YEARS OF HIKING IN THE VICINITY, I HAVE IN A SMALL WAY, COME TO RECOGNIZE HIS PRESENCE, WHEN AT TIMES, I VENTURE TO THE ROCK SHELVES OF THE BASS ROCK NARROWS, TO TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH; OR JUST TO PAUSE DURING A LENGTHY WALK TO WILSON'S FALLS. BASS ROCK, IS WHERE, WE AS KIDS, USED TO SWIM. I THINK WE ALL FELT THAT SOMEONE WAS WATCHING US BACK THEN, BUT WE HAD NO PROOF. JOHNNY MOON HAD BEEN DEAD FOR MORE THAN A DECADE BY THAT POINT ANYWAY. THOSE WHO KNEW HIM, REALIZED HOW POWERFUL HIS CHARACTER, AND AURA WERE, SUCH THAT ONCE YOU MET HIM, YOU WOULD NEVER FORGET THE OCCASION. HE HAD A PENETRATING GAZE, THAT SEEMED TO REACH INTO YOUR BODY, TO SHAKE HANDS WITH THE IMBEDDED SOUL. HE WAS GENERALLY A LONER, BUT WHEN HE LIKED YOU, HE COULD WEAR OUT HIS WELCOME VERY SOON, BUT ACTS OF OVER INDULGENCE, AND PERSONAL INTRUSION. THERE WERE PEOPLE IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHO VIEWED THE YOUNG MAN AS BEING STRANGE, AND ECCENTRIC; A LAZY LAD, WHO COULDN'T STAY EMPLOYED FOR MORE THAN A FEW DAYS AT A STRETCH, AND AT TIMES, WAS DISAGREEABLE AND ANNOYING TO EVERYONE IN HIS COMPANY. NO ONE WOULD MISTAKE THAT HE WAS KINDLY, AND APPROACHABLE, BUT HE WAS ALSO INCREDIBLY DETERMINED; AND POSSIBLY, THIS IS WHAT, AS LEGEND, WHY THEY STILL SAY HE STILL HAUNTS THE MISTY EVENINGS, ON THE NORTH MUSKOKA RIVER, BETWEEN BASS ROCK AND WILSON'S FALLS.

     THERE HAVE BEEN THREE MAJOR MUSKOKA RELATED DIARIES / JOURNALS, I HAVE STUDIED IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, THAT HAVE EACH, IN THEIR OWN WAY, CHANGED MY OPINION OF PREVIOUSLY UNDERSTOOD, FORMALLY DOCUMENTED LOCAL HISTORY. ONE WAS THE DIARY OF GRANNY BOWERS, WHICH I RE-PUBLISHED LAST EVENING ON THIS BLOG, IN CASE YOU MISSED IT. THE SECOND WAS, "JUST ONE BLUE BONNET, THE DIARY OF ADA FLORENCE KINTON," PIONEER ARTIST, SALVATION ARMY MISSIONARY, WHO SPENT TIME EXPLORING AND WRITING ABOUT MUSKOKA, PARTICULARLY HUNTSVILLE, DURING THE LATE 1800'S. IN ADA KINTON'S CASE, HER SISTER, SARA RANDELSON, FOUND THE JOURNAL, AFTER THE ARTIST'S DEATH, AND BECAUSE IT WAS SO INTERESTING, AND IMPORTANT, PARTICULARLY TO THE SALVATION ARMY, SHE HAD IT PUBLISHED EARLY IN THE 1900'S. I'M SO GLAD SHE DID. I DONATED A COPY OF THE HARDCOVER FIRST EDITION TO THE MUSKOKA COLLECTION, OF GRAVENHURST PUBLIC LIBRARY. THIS BRINGS ME TO THE DIARY OF BERNARDO BOY, JOHNNY MOON, BORN IN ENGLAND, IN THE YEAR 1882, WHO WAS LATER SENT TO CANADA, FROM A BERNARDO ORPHANAGE, IN ENGLAND, TO WORK AS A LABOURER, ON A FARM, IN THE BRACEBRIDGE AREA. THE PARTIAL DIARY WAS RESCUED FROM THE RUINS OF JOHNNY'S FORMER CABIN, ON RIVER ROAD IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN THE PROPERTY HE USED TO LIVE ON, WAS BEING CLEARED. THE DOCUMENT WAS ACQUIRED BY THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, FOR SAFE-KEEPING IN THEIR MUNICIPAL ARCHIVES. THIS MAY BE ONE OF THE MOST REVEALING JOURNALS IN TOWN HISTORY, BECAUSE IT DOES TELL THE STORY OF HARDSHIP, AND HARSH TREATMENT, AT THE HANDS OF HIS OVERSEERS, AND EMPLOYERS, OVER HIS YEARS IN MUSKOKA. IT IS NOT WHAT WE FIND IN THE NORMAL COURSE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH. THIS IS THE KIND OF STORY THAT INFILLS THE COLORS, ONTO THE BLACK AND WHITE CHRONOLOGY, AS I HAVE BEEN WRITING ABOUT, FOR THE PAST COUPLE OF MONTHS. IT IS AN ABSOLUTELY REQUIRED INSIGHT, TO HOW THE CITIZENS OF THE COMMUNITY ACTED BACK THEN, AND THE EARLY DECADES OF THE 1900'S. IT IS A SAD STORY IN MANY WAYS, BUT FEELING VERY CLOSE TO JOHNNY MOON, BECAUSE I'VE READ THIS PORTION OF HIS BIOGRAPHY, AT LEAST FIFTY TIMES, THAT LIKE ADA KINTON, AND GRANNY BOWERS, I LIKE TO THINK, HE WOULD FEEL PLEASED, HIS OBSERVATIONS WERE HAVING A RELEVANCE IN THIS NEW CENTURY. ALTHOUGH HE DIDN'T INTEND TO HAVE IT PUBLISHED, AS IT WAS MORE OF AN OUTLET, FOR HIS PAST FRUSTRATION, MEMORIES OF PROFOUND LONELINESS, AND FEARS, THAN TO ACTUALLY WRITE FOR EVENTUAL PUBLICATION. LIKE GRANNY BOWERS AND ADA KINTON, JOHNNY MOON'S JOURNAL IS HONEST AND HEART-FELT, MAKING IT SO MUCH MORE ILLUMINATING, AS TO WHAT IT WAS LIKE IN HIS ERA, TO BE STRUGGLING FOR SURVIVAL IN A YOUNG TOWN TRYING TO FIND ITS ECONOMIC BALANCE. WE CAN LIVE VICARIOUSLY THROUGH THE YOUNG MAN, THROUGH THE PAGES OF HIS JOURNAL. AS THE DOCUMENT BELONGS TO THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, AND NOT THIS WRITER, I WILL USE A SMALL AMOUNT OF HIS ACTUAL QUOTATIONS, AND OVERVIEW, AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, SO AS TO NOT LOSE THE FEELING OF THE PRECIOUS NOTES OF JOHNNY MOON.

BORN IN 1882 TO LOVING PARENTS

     There is every reason to believe, the infant child of the Moon family, of Bethnal Green, London, England, born on August 31st, 1882, was joyfully welcomed, when he uttered those first gurgling sounds of a newborn. The crying that could be heard, coming from the Moon family's residence, on Robinson Road, was the vigor of the young fellow expressing himself, something he would become highly skilled at, in writing, and in articulation every-after. His stay in Bethnal Green, lasted for only a short while, when his family, moved to Peckam, and the reason given, was that his parents did not want to have their young son vaccinated, for personal reasons that are not specified in the journal. It must have been a situation that followed them around, because they then moved once more, to Old Ford, the the district known as Tiny Hamlets.

     The young Mr. Moon began school at around seven years of age, and he remembered his mother taking him, and another neighborhood lad, he names as "Albert Hobart," his neighborhood chum, on the walk to the school both were to attend. Albert wasn't placed in the same class as Johnny Moon, as the young diarist had enjoyed the benefit of home instruction from his mother. Thus he was advanced in the school system, based on this advantage given to him by his mother, who by admission, he was exceptionally fond.

     He remembers there being an unsettling thunderstorm, on that first day, and his mother came to the school after the heavy rain subsided, to take him and Albert back home. She was doting of her boy, and shocked the day her son was carried home, in a state of unconsciousness, after a school yard injury. He wasn't sure how the accident occurred, other than he hit his head when he fell off a piece of outdoor gymnasium equipment, and still unconscious, was lifted-up by a number of older students, and undoubtedly with the teacher's knowledge, carried back home for his mother to make the decision, as to whether to take him to the hospital or not.

     The doctor, tending the small-framed, delicate, Moon child, who came out of the incident without permanent injury, suggested that the boy would be better looked-after, in a school that was private; one having less physical demands for him to cope with. The suggestion being, that as he was not athletic, and considering it could not yet be determined, if there was going to be a lasting brain injury, of undetermined severity, the slower pace of a private school would be best suited, the recovering youngsTer. So he was enrolled in a private school, on Cadogan Terrace, across from the landmark of Victoria Park.

     His father, James Moon, was originally from the village of Tavistock, which was a border community between Devon and Cornwall. His mother was born, Mary Jane Bolham, the daughter of John Bolham, an Irishman from Dublin, who had come to England, settling in the district of Northumberland, and this is where he would eventually come, to marry a woman of Scottish ancestry; Johnny's grandmother.

     Johnny Moon's mother, was a sister to two brothers, Albert and David, and three sisters, being Anne, Elizabeth and Ruth. Her father, John Bolham, was a tailor by profession, and what was called a "home missionary,' when time afforded. He notes though, that his mother, was his father's second bride, which meant that the youngster had two step brothers, Frederic and William, and two step-sisters, Anne and Elizabeth. He pays special attention to the fact, his step brother William, ran away from home at the age of fourteen, to pursue a life on the high sea, where it was said he was employed, for some time, on schooners (windjammers) as a ship's cook.

     The Moon family moved again, to Ripporth Road, for several years, up to 1890 or early 1891, and once again, re-locating to 18 Bristol Road, in East Ham.

     The elder Mr. Moon was a professional in the print industry, as it existed during this period in England, working for the firm of Waterlow and Laytons Printers and Lithographers, situated at "Broken Wharf, Upper Thames Street, London. The company bonus, you might say, was that employees were given vacation outings, if they so desired, once each year, to what Johnny Moon suggested was a "seaside resort," on the west coast of England. The youngster recalled several of these fascinating excursions, to both Bournemouth and Brighton, including on one of the trips, a side-venture to the village of Swanage, accessed by a small coastal region steamship. This was something special to the astute young Johnny Moon, who adored the idea of travelling and having outdoor adventures, like the ones he read in his story-books. He could understand why his step-brother William, had wanted to escape the city, by signing aboard a sailing ship as a crewman.

     Johnny also keenly reminisced about a family trip to Epping, via Chingford, and travelling through the forest where he caught a glimpse of former Queen Elizabeth's (then Queen Victoria's) hunting lodge. It involved a period of enjoyable hiking along the Epping Forest's trails, and rail travel with his mother and father. His most memorable visit, was to see the famous "Crystal Palace," near the community of Sydenham, the beauty of its architecture, even at fifty two years of age (when he wrote the journal), was still clear in his memory.

     His mother had been prone to illness, throughout her adult life, and when the family was living in East Ham, she became seriously ill, such that she was removed entirely from the Moon household, which may have been considered too damp and cold, and sent to live in Chatham (England), at a home owned by her brother, David, in Kent, in order to have the peace and quiet she needed, in order to recover. Johnny's step-sister, who he called "Bess" took him to visit his mother, circa the summer of 1892, and the young man recalls the enjoyment of going blackberry picking, with his cousins. He recalls that it was most likely in the month of August when they visited Kent, to see his mother, who it was said on some authority, was on the mend. Most of all, he enjoyed the steam train ride back home to London, following the short stay. Unfortunately for the family, Mrs. Moon, having returned back to her home in London, had never regained all of her strength, and a year later, in 1893, suffered a second bout of her illness, and this time, passed away as a direct result. With great sadness, Johnny Moon watched as his kindly mother, who had looked after him so well and thoughtfully, for the early years of his life, was buried in Manor Park Cemetery, amidst floral tributes to her life's work. One can imagine the little fellow, tears running down his rosy cheeks, hanging on to his father's hand, as the minister concluded the ceremony, being ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But he claimed later, that he had dreamt about this scene sometime before.

     One of his greatest characteristics, is that he made friends easily, no matter where they lived, or where he went to school, something he was known for even in his Muskoka years. He was a particularly affectionate child, something characteristic, presumably given to him by his mother, who was well liked, as was his charitable father, the printer. There were times, especially in Muskoka, that he became obsessive about friendships, as it turned out, with children many years younger than himself, and this did not please some of the parents, wondering about his intentions. As it would turn out, as the journal entries mature, that Johnny was not adverse, to intervening between his younger mates, and their parents, and in one case, contacting a doctor directly, because he felt a serious affliction, hurting the child, was being ignored. He went so far as paying the doctor to treat the ailing youngster. It was just his nature, and something that developed very early in his life, when for example, he refers in the journal, to Albert Hobart, and Ernest Harcourt, as being his close friends when they lived in Old Ford. He referred to Harold Cook, for example, as not only a "special friend," but a boy he loved the first. His other close chum was James Burt. Keeping it in perspective, however, and with some respect to modern times, there is nothing to suggest any of his affections toward male friends, was perverse in nature, but in later references, if one reads between the lines, it's likely some of the parents who wanted him to stay away from their sons, may have suspected there was more to the friendship, than what was being confessed by Johnny Moon. It was just his nature, and it went all the way back to childhood, but these concerned parents had mo way of appreciating this, as they didn't want to talk to the young man, let alone give him the benefit of the doubt.

     Johnny Moon loved to talk about his gad-abouts, in his region of England, with trips to Illford, Barking, Leytonstone, and other locations, in and around the famous woodlands of Epping Forest. He remembered vividly the "little River Roding" and other of the scenes he had studied in passing, that were still vivid memories forty or more years later, when he penned his journal.

     Johnny Moon's mother passed away, when her child was only eleven years of age, and he remembers moving from place to place with his newly widowed father, one being a short stay in Plaistow, lodging at the homeplace of a Mr. Barlow, known as a dockside worker, and a "market gardener". As a matter of ongoing misfortune, it was in this locale, that his father was seriously injured in an unspecified accident, at the Uptown Park Station, while coming home following a day's work in the city; landing him in the hospital, in London. Johnny was told his father was likely to recover, but like his mother, he knew better of the situation. It's interesting to note here, that the younger Moon, had a privileged vision, first of all, of his mother's imminent death, well before she passed away, and it had happened similarly, prior to his father's demise. Call it premonition, but it seemed Johnny Moon may have had an "in" with the so called paranormal side of life. He was known to be very intuitive in his observations, and this is in evidence throughout the journal. Johnny, at the time of his father's death, was only fourteen years old. Now an orphan, who would have to be cared for by family members, until he was of working age. It was a period of great turmoil, temporary residency, and part-time employment, at the firm his father had been employed; he would work as a printer's assistant and messenger, but for only a short time. He clearly recalls the adventure of carrying messeges, letters and parcels, on the underground railway, (early subway trains), that ran under the city, which was then known as the "District Railway."

     It needs to be recognized, at least in my opinion, and knowledge of the story, that the earlier injury to they young man's head, may have involved a serious concussion, and potential brain injury, that effected in some acute cases, his emotional stability. After only two months, at a job he might well have kept for the rest of his life, he became dissatisfied with the opportunity, and like many of his employment positions yet to come, was dispatched from the company payroll. His brother Fred, had tried to look after the teenager, but he was not secure in his own residence, or with finances, to take on the roll of guardian. Especially under the circumstances, of Johnny's disinterest in gainful employment. So he was taken, quite without understanding the whole situation, and all its implications, to the offices of Dr. Bernardo's London Homes. As he points out, in retrospect, "This event marks the first turning point in my career," although, it can be said with some accuracy, that Johnny Moon never really had what could be considered a career, except as a sort of undefined hobo, who would stay at a job long enough to earn a little money for provisions, and then retreat into his private world; which in Muskoka, became a tiny rustic, riverside shanty, with a row boat pulled up on the shore near by, which he used to navigate to town for supplies.

     It is known that he stayed at the Stepney Causeway home, for two months, before being placed in Canada, by Dr. Bernardo's staff. During the stay at the orphanage, he was given an opportunity to pursue some skill training, in the trades, as there were imbedded facilities, and equipment, to foster this hands-on education. Johnny however, when asked by staff, insisted that he wanted to become an "engineer," and when he was told there was no capability of staff helping with this, he opted instead, to train as a carpenter. He couldn't deal with either the nature of the work, or the fact he had been placed in a wood working shop, with much more aggressive youth, from much poorer backgrounds than his, and he found himself being bullied right out of the classroom. He left after less than two full days, and refused to go back to the shop. But he was intrigued about going to Canada, which he considered a great life adventure, especially considering he had nothing holding him, as far as family that wanted him, in England. His brother Fred, had been advised, by Bernardo's staff, after the initial paperwork, admitting him to the home, that it was most likely he would be sent to Canada; so it was no surprise to Johnny, when word finally came, that he was going to be sent across the ocean for farm placement. There were four trips abroad, for these orphan children, each year, and because the teenager didn't want to learn a trade, which may have kept him at home, the only other option was being sent to Canada, to work as a farm labourer. There was no down side to this, as far as he was concerned. It was instead, a glowing opportunity, to be, in part, like his step brother William, working the high seas.

     His cross-Atlantic adventure began officially on September 23rd, 1897, and with a legion of others from Bernardo homes, were transported via rail, to port at Liverpool, where, on the platform, he recalled the "Home Band" playing two memorable songs; one being "Auld Lang Syne," and 'Till We Meet Again." The youngsters were probably teary eyed, for this part of the adventure, but soon were too full of anticipation, to worry about such trivial matters, as the early stage of homesickness. The trip was from London's Euston Station to Liverpool, which is a distance of 180 miles, taking a total of four hours in transit. Later that evening, the train arrived at Riverside Station, and the young emigrants had to walk to the dock in Liverpool, to where the Dominion Liner, "Labrador," was tied up. A party of Bernardo girls came aboard shortly after.

     NOTE: I should make it known here, at this point in the story of Johnny Moon, that my own grandmother, on my father's side, Doris Harding, was also a Bernardo child, sent to Canada, as a domestic, quite a few years later in the Bernardo story. We found this out, via the Barnardo Home registry, still in operation, in England, one year ago, after a decade of suspicion this was the case of her emigration, as an orphaned teenager, to Canada.

     His was a feeling of excitement, about what was unfolding on the ship, and could be seen on the broadening seascape unfolding, as the tugs pulled the "Labrador" to mid-river, and the ship could thusly steam free into the ocean, on the first hours of the trans-Atlantic crossing. Before getting to the geographical mouth of the Mersey River, the Bernardo children onboard, were taken below deck to have their supper. It was one of many meals on that trip, of "corned beef," from a tin, which most of the children exposed to it, vowed, once ashore, to never eat again, including Johnny Moon. You see, the first meal, was just ahead, of what would be a rolling, early part to the voyage, meaning sea-sickness would prevail for most of the youngsters, unfamiliar with boat passage on a rough ocean. As most were able to get some sleep that first night, they awoke after being encouraged by a Bernardo representative, to come onto the deck, to see a wonderful sight. The steamship Labrador, at that point, was moored in Lough Foyle, of Port Rush, a short distance from Londonderry. This was the first time most of them had seen Ireland, a country in Johnny's blood, on his mother's side. He writes of the scene thusly:

     "The country to the west consisted of meadow and woodland, sloping gently to the Lough side, on which nearby stood the buildings of little Port Rush. To the east, some fair distance off, rose a lone mountain, with its top wreathed in hazy clouds. Meadows, woodland, mountain, village and lake-like expanse of Lough Foyle made a beautiful scene." Johnny Moon knew how to express himself in words.

     The first bout of seasickness had ended for most of the teenage passengers, but there was more to come, once the roughness of the ocean returned, to rock the smaller steamship. They stayed on the deck for a long time, consuming the scenery, and talking about the voyage yet to come. Some were homesick already. Others didn't want to go at all, wishing to return to the remnants of family, but not Johnny Moon, who felt there was nothing left for him in England, in the way of family, who would help him move-on in life. They were all struggling on their own, except for his step-brother William, who had also taken to the sea, as part of a windjammer crew, many years earlier. He makes the interesting observation, that amongst the passengers, who were boarding from this location in Ireland, were two priests, going on to do missionary work in the colony, and young men, with gear to tackle the bountiful fields of the Klondike, as it was around this time, that the well known gold rush, in Northern Canada, was unfolding, circa 1897-98; with thousands of new prospectors arriving to quest for buried treasure.

     The Labrador, under a full-head of steam, propelled itself back out on the ocean, and "Port Rush and the calm waters of Lough Foyle were left behind, and the ship rose and fell to the billows of the ocean, as we rounded the shoreline of the rugged north coast. Two priests were standing at the bow of the vessel, when the spray from a heavy wave, striking the ship, head-on, dashed over the deck, wetting both of them; they laughed and stood further back," penned Johnny Moon, about his vantage point on the Labrador, as it headed out to the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. "Before long, the deck was almost deserted; most of us retiring below. The previous night's experience (seasickness) had been bad enough; this was worse."

     Johnny admitted the next affliction with seasickness lasted six days and nights, a period where he wasn't able to take food and little water, so he was becoming malnourished and dehydrated. It wasn't until eight days later, that he was finally able to ingest some food and water, enough to stave off an impending serious medical crisis. "When we came in sight of Belle Island, I was able to move about a bit, though still very weak."

     He had made much more progress, with his health, by time the Labrador had reached the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, strong enough to climb on deck, to see his new home country, Canada. "There, I looked at the shores of the big river, as we sailed on upstream; viewing for the first time, the scenes of a new and strange land. In Canada now! Old England, very far away. That evening, of a day's sail up river, brought us, to the Levis dock, opposite the old city of Quebec. Just before tying up at the Levis Wharf, a rocket or two was fired over our ship; this evidently being a signal of welcome or 'all clear'. From Levis quay we, along with our boxes, were taken over across to Quebec, where we landed, for the first time upon the soil of Canada. The trip from Port Rush to Quebec, had taken ten days; so this must have been the evening of the 4th of October, 1897," according to the young traveller, who found the sights of the new land quite pleasing and full of untold potential."

     Following the landing, the Bernardo children were taken to the railway station of Canadian Pacific, to the lunch room made available for their large number. "Those of us who had money to spent, spent it in buying candies, drinks, etc. while those who had none, had to be content with either being treated by others or doing without. I was one of the latter; but that did not matter because just at that time, I was not feeling well, so was not hungry. Presently, we were led out of the lunch room to the platform, where our train was standing. We climbed aboard," wrote Johnny Moon, in reflection, when he was fifty-two years of age, with failing eyesight. He died legally blind.

     Some of the older Bernardo teenagers, were thusly ticketed to travel on the trans-continental train, heading for job placements with farms on the prairies. The others were headed to situations arranged, in the Province of Ontario. He penned that, "On we rode (via steam train), hour after hour, through rugged country, rural districts, by lakes, streams, hills and valleys, by villages and towns, coming to a stop at Peterborough, where the girls' contingent, alighted for Hazel Brae; the Peterborough girls branch of Dr. Bernardo's homes." Carrying on, the Bernardo boys arrived in Toronto, later that evening, at the Union Station. They disembarked, and were walked by supervisors, to 214 Farley Avenue, arriving at "our destination," according to Johnny Moon. Another Bernardo home for children, who had emigrated to Canada, and were awaiting placement. This was documented by him, as being the night of October 5th, 1897. He and the other boys were led to the back of the large building, and to a dormitory room, where there were rows of bunkbeds. He remembers sleeping well, and then being stirred back to life, at first light, by the crowing of a rooster, in a neighbor's yard.

     A significant entry is made by Johnny Moon, in his journal, at this point, that references what I wrote about earlier, as regards his friendships with other males, which to some degree, he became unusually obsessive. He writes, "That morning, the dawn of another day, was the sixth of October. Now, at this date, nearly thirty-six and a half years later, I know that the hand of destiny (and he really did believe this as true, just as having the premonitions of his parents deaths) was directed all my ways. For on that day was born Aubrey Foulkes, with whom, and his brother, Fred Foulkes, I was to meet some years later, and a chapter of my life to be lived and written, in which they played a part."

     One of the most profound insights, of the Bernardo situation, and the lives of the boys compromised, was covered in the following explanation offered by Johnny Moon. He writes:

     "Occasionally some boys returned from farms, remaining a short time until news situations were found for them. I remember two boys who had been together a few years at some place, on a Muskoka farm, I think, and had become attached to each other. After a short stay at Farley Avenue (Bernardo facility in Toronto), one of them, the eldest of the two, I think, was told that a new place had been found for him, and that he would shortly be sent away. When the other heard of it, he broke down and cried; and tears were in the eyes of the other one also, when they parted. This incident, so clearly remembered by me now, took place in the small school room which was a part of the Farley Avenue lay-out."

     On December 4th, a Bernardo supervisor, from the Farley Avenue home, took Johnny Moon, and another boy, William Price, to Toronto's Union Station, to catch the 1:45 p.m. train to North Bay. Their destination, on this journey, would be the Town of Bracebridge, where they would disembark, and be picked up by property owners, and then transported to the farms they had been assigned. This would bring about a new misfortune to Johnny, and make his stay in Canada, quite unpleasant. The host families were not generally known for their kindnesses bestowed on these orphans.

      Please join me for the continuation of the story of Johnny Moon, in my next blog. Thank you for joining me today!

Redmond Thomas Q.C.

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

1969 HISTORY, PUBLISHED BY THE FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Fascinating history. It really is!

      Thanks so much for visiting with me today. It was a hot day, but sitting out here tonight at Birch Hollow, is wonderfully cool with a nice breeze. Smells like the harvest. It smells like we've got a change of season coming.

The Boating Near Miss With A Happy Ending

THE AMAZING JACK MCVITTIE AND THE BOATING NEAR-MISS ON A BEAUTIFUL MUSKOKA LAKE

     This is a story about misadventure with a happy ending. Historians may read it, and decide amongst themselves, that it is unworthy of inclusion, in the general chronicle of town history. I won't dispute their opinions, in this regard, but it will never thwart me from presenting the story as it is, because of what a second or two of time, gone differently, might have meant for the history of both town and district; as it is very much a story about the near loss, of one of Bracebridge's most progressive, enterprising citizens, critically important to investment in the local economy. If Bracebridge had lost J.P. McVittie, in a boating accident on Lake Muskoka, that day, history as we know it, in this town, would have been denied much of its ink. The ink we historians have given to J.P. McVittie's work and investment in both Bracebridge and Muskoka. A legend would have been denied its full living tenure.

     We had only lived in Bracebridge for a short while, after a move north from Burlington, Ontario, in the late winter of 1966, for reasons of my father Ed's employment. He had been recruited to be part of a new management structure, for one of Bracebridge's, and Muskoka's, historic lumber businesses. Ed was to become a manager of Shier's Lumber Company, working with an old family friend, from Southern Ontario, Robert Jones, who had just, a short time before this, purchased the company from the Shier's family. One of two major inroads the company was making, at that point, was in the development of prefabricated roof trussing, as a better, stronger, more efficient way to build a home. Certainly a worthy innovation for a region known for its heavy winter snow. We had a company car, because our own had died upon our arrival in Bracebridge, and this Shier's advertising vehicle, had a small version of one of the actual wood trusses, mounted on the car's roof racks. Yes it was a car that caught the attention of fellow motorists and pedestrians, and at a certain speed, it began to hum with air vibration. The second inroad of the company in Muskoka, was the real estate component, which heralded a new development period for the small town, of only 2,500 residents. The first property pitch my dad made, was selling lots with new cottages, built by Shier's Lumber, in the Sherwood Forest area, off the Fraserburg Road, on the south branch of the Muskoka River. I would often go with my dad on Sunday's, when he was on duty, as the sales agent for Shier's; and with the insects, and the river, preferred that I stayed close to the car. He might also stay there, if the cottage that was being used as the model, that week, didn't have either heat, on really cold days, or air conditioning, on hot summer days. The bugs in the late spring were unbelievable to city slickers like us, and you couldn't walk very far, unprotected, without being covered and painfully drained of blood. This is not a pleasant memory. I don't have any idea in retrospect, if Ed even sold a single lot or cottage, and this bush assignment only lasted for about four Sunday's that spring, thank God.

     There was a Saturday, that same summer, when Ed called my mother at home, to see if I would like to go on an afternoon boat cruise with him, Bob Jones and his son Robbie, to see some lakefront property for sale on Lake Muskoka. As I didn't have many friends at that point, I was jumping with joy to do something different, than just whipping a tennis ball up against the house, and trying to trap it in my fielder's mitt.

     Ed came home with the company station wagon, with the trademark Shier's truss, on top, and he was so excited about the trip as well, that I wasn't even securely seated, before he was already driving down the street; the door hanging open, and me yelling at him to stop. We drove through town, and down the huge hill, on the south side of the Bracebridge Falls, and down almost to the confluence of the North and South Branches of the Muskoka River. We had to travel past the Shier's Lumber Company on the east side, and we stopped a short distance away, just before the bridge, where there was a designated dock for the use of lumber company patrons. In years after Shier's ceased operation, it was used by the fuel supply boat, "Peerless".     Cottagers often came to town by boat, and for Shier's customers, it was a short walk up the road, to get to the main showroom. Here, we loaded into a sparkling Minett-Shields wooden launch, that had formerly been owned by the Shier family, the name which I have forgotten (this boat is still owned locally) and in great condition. It was a beautiful boat and an incredibly bright, sunny, and hot afternoon.

     If you have never navigated the Muskoka River, at a slow speed, from the falls to the mouth of the river, at Lake Muskoka, it is a long, winding, time-consuming but picturesque adventure. Bob Jones was driving the wooden beauty, and we were all enjoying the sites along the way. I overheard a conversation between Bob and my father, about meeting with a fellow by the name of Jack McVittie, at his cottage on the lake, but the names didn't help much, as Ed and I knew very little about local geography. Almost nothing when it came to knowledge of the Muskoka lakes.

    Outside of learning not to drink too much, in the way of beverages, without a clear idea when the washroom breaks were upcoming, I also picked up a valuable lesson about sunburns, and reasons why you should rub lots, meaning layers upon layers of suntan lotion, on your exposed skin, before taking a boat cruise. And here's the other thing about that! Early on in the cruise up the river, the sun was stinging my exposed arms with heat. There was no way of shielding from it either, and I was also wearing shorts. The sun was beating down, and as a temporary, and stupid measure, I started hanging my arm over the side of the boat, enjoying the sensation of cold river water washing over my skin. I'd even go from side to side, in order to cool off each of my arms, roughly the same way. What, of course, I didn't realize, was that the water droplets, were magnifying the sun rays, and while temporarily soothing, was actually serving to broil my flesh. By time I got home, I was lobster red, and my mother nearly fainted. For four hours in that boat, I was doing roughly the same thing, from departure at noon, to arrival back, at dinner time; and when the trip was over, the pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. My mother just started screaming at my father for not making sure I had lotion on, or long sleeves, but it was my fault entirely; as I had taken the lotion in the car, but not in the boat, or the long sleeve shirt I also left behind when the tour began. I felt bad for Ed, because he was burned almost as badly, and on the top of his head. He thought I had put lotion on, and I probably lied to him, as kids do, about being thorough with the application. Boys will be boys. But being sun burned was of much less concern that day, as compared to the memory, of coming within seconds of death, by impact, or death by accidental drowning. It happened like this:

     J.P. "Jack" McVittie deserved to have a book written about him. He was a legend in Bracebridge, and Muskoka, even in the mid 1960's. He had a strong personality, and an even stronger determination to do what he wanted, and whether it was speculation on real estate, canoeing alone on an isolated northern lake, in the middle of the bush, or prospecting in the barrens of this country, every one it seemed, in that locale, knew his name. His name was attached to sections of the local landscape, like "McVittie Island." He was known for his entrepreneurial skills, such as his major investment with former town mayor, George Parlett, in the future development of South Muskoka Curling and Golf Club, in the late 1960's, some seeing it as a risky project at a precarious time, which spawned much spin-off development in Bracebridge; yet, just as much, being known and respected, for his keen environmental stewardship in Muskoka, and interests and actions in re-forestation, of areas left barren by clear-cutting. To those close to him, he was respected for his benevolence and personal kindness, behind what others believed was a hardened, gruff character. The man we were about to meet, was well revered for his land investment choices, and there was probably a deal being considered by the owner of Shiers Lumber, at that time, to secure some of these lakefront lots for future cottage development.

     We met Jack, presumably at his cottage / home, although it's very vague to me now. I clearly remember him telling Bob Jones, that he couldn't take the Minnet-Shields launch, into the alcoves we would have to navigate, in order to get close to some of the cottage properties he wanted to show them. So he invited us into one of his fishing or utility boats, presumably, with an outboard engine. It wasn't a big boat, possibly cedar strip, now that I think about it, versus aluminum, and the five of us, fit into it comfortably. Of course, I was pretty burned by this point, and I knew I was in trouble, as the redness got brighter and brighter through the rest of the afternoon.

     Jack navigated us, by turning the outboard engine, (which I had never seen used before), and we slowly moved away from his dock, leaving the wooden launch behind. The smaller, narrower boat, skimmed through the water quite fast, and I was still, at this point, running my arm in the water, because it felt so darn cool and refreshing. We were listening to Jack describing the properties we were passing, and some of the cottages owned by people he knew. We came to one property, a few nautical miles along the shoreline, that he wanted to show Bob and my father up close, which meant Jack was going to bring the boat in for a landing. It didn't look like the best place to pull up tight to the shore, as there were a lot of protruding rocks, such that I had to pull my arm in frequently, to avoid injury. There was a high rock face, and very inhospitable looking rocks dotted along the shoreline. I wasn't a navigator, so my observations were casual, and only meant something to me. I did think that this man must have been a fantastic captain, because he was able to weave in and around these protruding, sharp rocks, without hitting any.

     I may have thought to myself, that he was travelling a little fast, considering the obstacles. The four of us, however, were not watching Jack, because we were looking forward at the property now directly and close ahead. If we had looked back, at the pilot, we would have seen the intense activity, of him trying to disengage the engine's throttle, which as he said later, was "wide open," or something like that, referring to the maximum output of the engine. He was trying to get us through the obvious rocks, and figure out how to cut the juice, to slow the boat down. When we got way too close, for the speed we were travelling, at that moment, we saw Jack with a worried look on his face, trying to fix whatever it was, that had caused the throttle to get stuck wide open. I never saw the man panic, or anything close to over-reaction, but regardless of his apparent confidence, all on board prepared for the impact against the rock face, directly in our path. We'd look back at Jack, and then at the shore, and once again; but at this point, in our collective fears, it was a matter of awaiting what seemed an inevitable impact. And, I suppose, reacting accordingly, when we were flung into the water. I couldn't swim. "Hang on Teddy," yelled my dad, over the roar of the engine. I knew then, we were in trouble, because my father was a die-hard optimist, and a former sailor of the North Atlantic Squadron. If he thought we were going to hit the rocks, I had no reason to doubt him. But then, I didn't know Jack McVittie, who apparently, was also die hard in these dire situations.

     I mentioned this story, to Jack's long time friend, George Parlett, at a lunch several years, at the curling club, both men founded, and I remarked that throughout the near tragic event, which probably lasted for no more than a minute, Jack showed no signs of panic or resignation. George nodded his head, recognizing Jack to have been a confident, stalwart character, who would never give up on a responsibility. At that moment, instead of showing us some interesting Muskoka lake real estate, he was tasked with the responsibility of saving five lives, one being his own. At the speed we were travelling, any impact was going to be severe, and the water was deep. So it was potential, that if we hit the shore, with no soft landing in evergreens possible, we would be knocked unconscious, with broken bones, and cast into the water to either sink or swim.

     I remember looking to the rear, one last time, hoping the pilot had been able to fix the problem. As I looked back, I saw Jack violently turn the outboard engine, so the boat made a sharp, immediate change of direction, at literally the last moment, to the right, with a rough downward gouge into the water, that brought a flood of water overboard. I don't have any idea how we managed to get through the exposed rocks in the water, without so much as a scratch on the bow, or how we didn't hit the shelf of rock below the cliffside, that only had a few inches of water over top. I saw this, as we were wrenched in the boat, side to side, tumbling off our seats. I remember seeing these shallows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, as we whipped a wave of water at the shore, as if we were on water skis. The passengers wound up on the bottom of the boat, having slid from the bench seats, but a few bruises and a wet behind, were infinitely better, than what could have been the end result, of a collision with an unmovable rock face.

     When we all got back up, and re-seated, Jack shut down the engine, and after clearing his throat, and standing up to get a better look at the engine, told us the throttle had jammed at full speed, and he wasn't able to do anything about it, except navigate us out of the way, as quickly as possible. There wouldn't have been more than several seconds to react, and he was bang on, when he made that decision, to not worry about unjamming the throttle, to instead, make a sharp turn at all cost. This could have meant, that we tumbled out of the boat into the water, and possibly getting hit by the propellor. But at this point, hitting the wall of rock would have seriously injured all of us instead. So Jack McVittie made the right decision, and navigated us safely through dangerous, rocky water, back out to the main lake, relatively unscathed.

     I told George Parlett, that Jack had definitely shown his experience on the water, by the way he reacted to an emergency situation, where, for us, it looked like there was no safe way out of trouble. Once again, he agreed heartily, Jack McVittie was both stalwart and proficient at whatever he set his mind to, and on this day, by happenstance, it was the lives of four new friends and himself, he saved with his evasive reaction. If on that day, we had hit the rock face, Bracebridge history would have been seriously affected, as Jack McVittie had a lot of investment yet to bestow, in a town on the verge of expansive new growth. As for the passengers, we would have lost an air force pilot, with Bob's son Robbie, and a future writer, in Ed's son "Teddy." And the local lumber scene would have been minus one of its most historic businesses. But we lived to tell the story, of how Jack McVittie saved us from the grasp of the grip reaper, by an evasive procedure that was nothing less than miraculous. It was another of my numerous near death experiences, so believe me, when I tell you, how lucky I feel, sitting here now, tapping at this keyboard, in a comfortable studio, in uptown Gravenhurst; thinking back to that boat tour adventure, bordering on the catastrophic, with one of the legends of Muskoka, saving the day.

     My mother ran me a bath that night, and even though it was cool, I cried in pain from the extensive sunburn on my arms, legs, neck and face. But dammit, I was alive.

     Son Robert just handed his old dad, a bottle of water, because I looked thirsty, he said. I looked at his six foot frame, and wavy hair, and thought to myself, oh what a lucky man I was. This lad hovering over me now, is alive, because of the capabilities of Jack McVittie. So is the young fellow, Andrew, hitting the drums in the other room. Oh how history would have changed, from what it is at this moment, if not for the efforts of the courageous captain, of a tiny boat in great peril. This is how I came to know J.P. McVittie, a man and family well documented in the chronicle of Bracebridge, Ontario.

     Thanks so much for visiting with me today. Please join me again for more Muskoka tales and recollections

Where The Music Leads Us

WHERE THE MUSIC LEADS US - AND WHO KNOWS WHERE WE WILL ALL BE A YEAR FROM NOW

     When we helped our sons launch their vintage music business, on the main street of Gravenhust, well more than a decade ago, we wondered how we were going to keep the doors open, especially with both limited inventory, thin financial resources, and what we were facing of a typically long, bleak, low-business winter; as a new venture owner in Muskoka, not quite used to what that kind of hiatus between sales, can impose as a limit to business revenue. We have never had the kind of deep pockets that would have afforded us any real liberalities, or unrestricted speculation, but we did what we could, and invested as sensisably as possible; which is bloody hard in the retail sector at the best of times.
     Andrew and Robert were new graduates of Gravenhurst High School, and outside of a federal business course Andrew took, it was about the "greenest" way to start such an enterprise. Suzanne and I fortunately had retail experience to pass on! At least part of our early success, was that we made every effort to become a "local" business, and not one that catered to the tourist economy as a mainstay. We also stayed away from lending institutions, and funded our own success, or folly, depending on the month; so that we never got too deep in the hole financially, which limited our inventory, but not our enthusiasm to be good at everything else, including hosting guitar lessons, and recording local artists and bands. I had an antique associate, one day, tell me quite bluntly, that of course my sons had a successful business, because "you and your wife bought them one!" I was initially angered by this ridiculous statement, that was so far from the truth, it didn't warrant a response. I was mildly impressed she thought we were rich. I just walked away, and thought this was what a lot of other folks probably thought as well. It didn't seem imperative to correct this, by taking out a full page advertisement in the local press, or buying a radio spot, to tell listeners, and our customers, that we were, to the contrary very poor, but like the ant trying to move the rubber tree, we had high, high hopes, determination would would prevail where money was a shortfall.
     Andrew and Robert, like the reputation their ancestors forged in the 1800's, being the Three Mile Lakes Wolves (otherwise, the fighting Sheas), have honed a rather successful music business, by a massive dedication of time, despite those naysayers, who thought we would be gone by year two. We did get some satisfaction proving them wrong. The sad part, was that some of these critics were in our same business association, and as far as comradary, baloney! We have always networked with other local businesses, and in part, it has meant our survival. It hasn't always been easy, as you can imagine, or always financially fruitful, but for over a decade, we averaged the good with the bad, and always came up with the idea, that the best was yet to come. I mean, it would be pretty counter-productive to look at the future as bearing all bad news, just as it would, to naively believe, nothing life altering could happen either. Yet, even from position of sitting on the fence, and pondering what the future might present to the contrary, of what we call our normalcy, we have always understood, as a family of town investors, that the very next year would be the most adventure-filled, and unpredictable in our residency in Uptown Gravenhurst. Here's why this is the year with most potential for that happening.
     In case I didn't proudly boast this previously, Andrew and Robert are currently performing with two bands, one country, and the other folk-roots-Americana (alternative country), and both are doing very well with lots of bookings popping up, not only in the region, but well beyond. It's not the case, we didn't expect, that one day, at least one of them would be a member of a travelling band, but it is a little disconcerting, to have both boys in not only one band, but two, and to have demands that will tug-away at our day to day business; forcing, in many ways, us to inconvenience our customers at times this year, when both boys are "on the road." Both lads have been involved with music and bands since high school, and even before that, as playtime, were holding rock concerts in our backyard at Birch Hollow. This past year however, it has become a much more demanding involvement, with the two groups, including "Grant Tingey and Hired Gun," and "Bette Smith and the Currie Brothers." They will be having a CD launch tonight at our shop, and then on Sunday at Cameron House in Toronto. They have been getting some very positive reviews, and have a number of gigs already planned months in advance. Which, in fact, is good for us, because we can plan this out, with potentially alternate staffing. We've always been able to handle our own staffing shortfalls, by moving around the remaining family members, the real advantage of having four shareholders. The problem more so, is that the music end of the business, is far more complicated than Suzanne and I can handle, should technical questions arise beyond selling guitar strings and straps. In any given hour, when customers are in their wing, technical question abound, and we are glad to have experts aboard to handle them. Being without both lads isn't something we've had to deal with in the past. We're just not terribly confident, about our capabilities, working without their expertise over several days, or full a week, if they were, by chance, to have an opportunity for a minor tour with one of their groups. Grant Tingey and the Hired Gun, has already played three sold-out shows, locally, and a fourth one coming-up is close to be half-sold with a month to go. They may soon be recording a CD as well, and participating in some major venues this summer. Great for them, but not so much for the retail end.
     I am about as intimate with their music careers, as if I was a guitar string, or drum head. I have a chair in the studio, where I work six days a week, writing for various publications, Suzanne's facebook page, and my blog, and let me tell you, the stuff I've seen going on, in this humbly appointed studio, on Gravenhurst's main street, would shock you as far as the musicians and talent we have working here, and dropping by for a visit. Due to confidentiality concerns, we only reveal those musicians who aren't worried about being spotted in our studio, or the buzz it might create. I just sit in awe a lot, as these great and budding talents sit on the sofa and talk music with the "man in the chair," being me of course, with companion laptop. It's not just a fascination with "celebrity" either. So many of the musician who visit here, are not main stage performers. They're hobbyists who have a love of music, and very much enjoy playing a variety of instruments, and we help them in this regard. We've got a wide variety of instruments here to utilize for recording purposes, or for instruction. I love being in this place, because I have always been passionate about music and all its genres. I just can't play anything other than a phonograph or a CD player. I felt a little awkward, in the early going, sitting in this very musical place, but over several years, and having met many fine musicians, as humble about their accomplishments as they are, I'm actually starting to feel right at home amongst them; although admittedly, I don't always understand what they're talking about, especially when referencing amps and recording equipment. I can live with that, because they don't know what I'm talking about, when I start nattering about local history and the art work of Tom Thomson, for something completely different.
     When the studio here isn't hosting visiting musicians, or Robert recording someone, some local group, or from other areas of the province, he exposes me, the sitting duck writer, to the latest vintage records he's purchased, and honestly, I've learned more about the music of my life-span, from him, more than from any one else, including my favorite radio channels going back decades. At night, I always tune into WLS, an American channel, depending on the weather, that played the big hits of the day. Early 1970's. Remember answering your phone "I listen to Chum?" I freaked out a lot of our elder families members, who couldn't figure out what place they had accidentally called, trying to get a hold of my mother. I have developed a serious appreciation for music, from Robert and his vintage vinyl, and just this morning, I was listening to his latest acquisition, by Miles Davis, who I knew very little about previous to this. He likes to see my reaction, and sure, some of the time, it's a look of shock and mild dismay. Yet it's all part and parcel of the music experience, I'm getting later in life, as taught by my sons, and their kindly cronies, who gather in this studio every week of the year. As far as being better for it, there's no question I have benefitted from this most entertaining exposure, although I don't expect to ever become so proficient in music history, as to trump their immense knowledge learned from childhood, first, from the 45 rpm collection of records, given to them by their mother; a hold over from the Windermere Marina snack bar, "The Skipper." The old discs from the juke box, were given to Suzanne by the owner of the music machine, Mr. Arney, in the 1960's, and they were then, in later years, given to both Andrew and Robert when they were old enough to appreciate them. It's where they got their start in the music business. They worshipped those scratched, eroded old discs, and they played the role of disc jockeys on hot summer afternoons, down in the cool family room, to their hearts' content.      Some advancements have taken us by surprise over the years, but they've all been in keeping with the prevailing situation. Today, we've just got a few more situations developing, on their side of the business, than we can be easily organized and sensibly scheduled. Simply because nothing has been finalized, such that we can plan more than a week ahead, let alone a month or two, which would suit us better now that we are entering the busy summer season in Muskoka.
     We are proud of both boys, and appreciate how they have welcomed us old farts into the fold, as outrigger business partners. We told them, when we joined forces, that our best before date is just around the corner, so we're not talking decades here, when we look forward to the coming business years. We have always hoped that one of their "significant others," might soon develop an interest in old stuff, of which we sell pretty well, which would allow Suzanne, and I, the opportunity to travel and vacation where we have long desired. It's coming. Hopefully it won't mean a hiatus of another ten years, because I'm getting too old to haul around flat-to-the-wall cupboards, and pine harvest tables and buffets. I already hobble with a wonky hip. It doesn't mean we plan to close the shop, or even revise what we do in the meantime, but after a long teaching career, for Suzanne, and what seems a lifetime dedicated to regional history and writing, for me, it would be kind of nice to explore other less binding opportunities, than the discipline of running a traditional retail outlet.
     In the next six months, the boys will be showcasing their work with partner bands, in many venues across the region, and potentially the province, and it is really too early to ascertain, what time they'll have left, to devote to the little shop they so passionately built, on a wing and a prayer, a decade ago, in the heart of the town they still call home. As for mom and pop, we are the followers now, and gladly so. Although it may take a few more years, to successfully, and seamlessly pass off our business to Andrew and Robert, it is most definitely our exit policy if all goes according to wishful thinking. Our pre-planning has always worked pretty well, until now, but then we didn't have to worry about touring bands, and new initiatives in performing arts. The gentle family enterprise of once, has in the past twelve months, morphed into something that is going to change our approach, daily and monthly, as well as our long term planning. A sort of contradiction of a "controlled free fall," from the way we used to run the shop and our outreach technical business. As parents, we worry a lot. As business associates, we are tickled by the possibilities developing week by week.
     So if we have to close the shop temporarily, because there has been an unforeseen development, that pulls both boys from the same old, same old, we will let our customers know by posted sign, and facebook updates. I wish we could tell you the exact dates already, but it's just not possible.
     That's the thing about progress, and the fact collateral damage is part of the cost of building new roads.
     Suzanne and I want the boys to succeed, and even if it means profound change to take advantage of new opportunities, we will have no hesitation making the changes necessary. We see it as follow through as parents, and as goodwill between business partners.

Richard Karon Part 11

RICHARD KARON BIOGRAPHY - OUR CONCLUSION IS ACTUALLY OUR BEGINNING

THE LEGACY OF A MUSKOKA ARTIST -

     The cycle of life. This blog-biography has been written in journal format. Daily entries. Carrying inadvertent judgements about good or inclement weather, and how it affects my arthritic fingers. Curious activities in the neighborhood. They always inspire me to be happy or angry. Like when a chainsaw is being wielded by a neighbor, unfamiliar with the lot lines, between his property and ours. All with the burden of strange moods, like wearing a cat on my shoulders, but feeling obliged to let fate run its course. I am not an island, you see, and each day brings about new interests, and initiatives I wish to launch. I get bored easily, so I try to self-inspire by reading and walking in the woods, numerous times each day.

     I have incorporated updates on the weather, what it was like during my walks down into the boglands, here at Birch Hollow, in the Town of Gravenhurst, and included news of the recent passing of an old friend here, by the name of John Black, who worked with me when I was an editor with Muskoka Publications. I most recently learned of the passing, of another friend, and former hockey teammate, Kim Hammond of Bracebridge, and this has been within one week, while finishing up the text of this biography of Muskoka Artist Richard Karon. I awoke this morning, at 5:30 a.m., to get a head start on this final chapter, only to find one of our house cats, named Fester, on the brink of her demise, and Suzanne and I spent the final hours of her life, passing her from one lap to the other, until the end. I buried her in a level bit of ground near where the trilliums will soon burst through the soft earth, and blossom in the May sunlight. I stood out in our little woodlot, listening to the chatter of birds and squirrels in the overhead boughs, thinking about the cycle of life, and how despite the passing of one life, budding new existence is in evidence all around me. Every day that I have sat at this keyboard, I have been influenced by all kinds of events and activities in this house, on our property, and over in the calming woods, situated above The Bog, here on Segwun Boulevard. Some days I have wound up here, at this old and familiar desk, full of vim and vinegar, and sat for hours typing the Karon biography. On other days, I've had several of our other rescue cats (that had been dumped in our neighborhood), resting on my lap, or on the window sill, their gentle, non-intrusive purring, settling my impatience to get more done, at a faster pace.

    There have been other times when I felt the urgent need to wander through the woods, and experienced some unanticipated resentment, having to work all day to meet deadlines. On other occasions, with Mozart playing in the background, I felt as if I was born to write. The next day, the complete opposite. I hated being a writer. After having just buried our own bandy-legged wee beastie, we called Fester, inspired by the Addams Family, I didn't feel up to writing at all. I stared out the window, trance-like, for what must have been a half hour. All of a sudden, just before making a decision to take the day off, I had this thought about the cycle of life, and how I've written this biography in journal format…..so that I would reflect the mood of the moment…..the light and shadow of each day. This was intentional, because I wanted it to be personal. While it would seem preposterous to put news of a cat's death, into the body copy of a book, as it was unrelated to the story, it wasn't so ridiculous to include the event in this blog……at this moment. And after I'd decided to make a little tribute, to my old friend Fester, I felt better.

   Writing has always been a release for me, in this regard. Funny thing, though, that after eleven chapters of the biography, about the personal challenges of being an artist, I had just put myself in the very same position, as Mr. Karon had found himself in…….throughout his artistic career. He had to paint through the same fluctuations of inspiration and moodiness, contentment and frustration, happiness and sadness……, that I have experienced and worked through, every day of this biography, from early January. Without thinking about it before, it took the last of an old cat's nine lives, to make me realize the actuality of the creative process. What Karon faced each day, to produce his landscapes, I had been subtly etched, by precisely the same ups and downs, of too much inspiration, or not enough. I sat for a few moments pondering this epiphany. Realizing that every mood I studied, about the artist, was exactly the same enterprise, that I was utilizing to write his biography. On positive days, when I felt rested and excited about the day's work, I'd write twice as much, with a lot fewer corrections to deal with when editing. When I found myself, by circumstance, melancholy, and frustrated, I not only wrote less, but had hours of work, to correct mistakes. I thought about Karon having thrown still wet, rolled-up canvases into storage, because he was unhappy with his work that day. I often re-wrote chapters three times to make improvements. Of course, that is the forgiveness of a computer screen versus stretched canvas.

Richard Karon in the forest

     "There is serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that enters into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations," wrote Washington Irving, in his book, "Bracebridge Hall." "They are haunted by the recollections of great spirits of past ages, who have sought for relaxation among them from the tumult of arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath their shade."

     For well more than a decade now, I have kept this book, by Washington Irving, on my desk, no further than my outstretched arm. I purchased it, in the late 1990's, when I was doing research regarding the official naming of the Town of Bracebridge. The name came from Irving's book, as granted by Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur. LeSueur of course, gave the fledgling post office its name, as a tribute to a great author of the time……and as much, a gesture of goodwill, for the future prosperity of a pioneer settlement. A name with considerable literary provenance, to one of the best known authors of the day, a parallel talent to writer Charles Dickens. LeSueur when he wasn't administering business for the federal postal department, was also making a name for himself, as a literary critic and historian. While it's been about 14 years since I started my research on Irving, and LeSueur, it's been roughly the same time, trying to convince the Town of Bracebridge they should be proud of their namesake. Hasn't happened yet. I'm not hopeful either. Point is, I found the writings of Mr. Irving to fit my own moods and outlooks, and I consult it frequently for inspiration. When I would pause to think about Richard Karon's landscapes, and about the panoramas he captured in the Township of Lake of Bays, I might find little gems like the following, that reminded me how storied our woodlands have been throughout history.

     "As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all noxious qualities of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy," wrote the American author, creator of the famous "Legend of Sleepy Holly," and "Rip Van Winkle."

     I wish, for the preparation of this biography, I had enjoyed the company of the painter himself. It would have been so much more insightful and complete, if I had even been able to read notes, he might have penned into a personal journal. I would have been contented to have read anything, the man had thought important enough to jot down, even hastily, on notes he made of paintings, and sizes he required for wood framing. For much of this, I have depended on the word of others. I've spent a lot of time and research, looking at the circumstances of his life, and his travels in Europe and to North America, without a shred of hard evidence, other than the papers he filed as a "displaced person" seeking refuge in Canada. While the Karon family has been very generous with all the information they possessed, and have held nothing back, that would help fulfill this biography, it is still the case, much of the story has been diminished because the artist, himself, didn't play a key role in the editorial content. The same situation, occurred for me, during the preparation of the biography for Outdoor Education Teacher / Canadian book collector, David Brown, of Hamilton. I needed Dave Brown at my side, because everything else had to come from friends and associates. He appointed me as his biography, and died before we had written the first word of chapter one. Dave didn't leave any journals behind, that would have helped me with actuality, and the personal integrity of the biography. It became my story, and the story as recalled by others. The same can be said for Richard Karon, that my regret remains, I didn't have the chance to conduct a sit-down discussion, in person, to converse candidly, about the artist's interests and objectives.

     As a matter of some irony, after twelve years, I have only just recently, received a large contribution of editorial material, regarding Dave Brown, and his Camp Comack (Haliburton) days, working as an outdoor instructor. These reminiscences came from a long time friend who contacted me recently, referencing what I had already written about our mutual friend. He hadn't been aware that Dave had passed away, in the late 1990's, as he had been in Western Canada. The information that he provided me, while late, is still very relevant to the story of this well known outdoor educator…..and will be used in biographical updates. I'm sincerely hoping this will be the case with Richard Karon, that new information will be submitted in the years to come, to infill what we presently don't know about his early years as an artist, traveling in Europe. The great advantage of composing this as an online biography, is that it can be easily updated and revised, as new information becomes available. As with Mr. Brown's book, I'm not likely to reprint it, but rather, bring it to cyberspace as well, so it to can be upgraded with newfound material when available.

     There is a dog eared letter, pasted into the scrapbook, Richard Karon kept for his cut-out press reviews, that deserves special mention. It was dated the second of November 1976, and was written by an individual who had read an article, published in the North Bay Nugget, about one of the artist's exhibitions. It may be the case, this art admirer also saw one of his paintings up close, possibly at a North Bay showing, but didn't actually approach the artist at this time. The letter is poorly written, somewhat difficult to read, and eccentric, but Karon found something important about the message within. It obviously contained something he identified with, because it is pasted side-by-side letters of thanks, from Frank Henry, former administrator of South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, recognizing the gift, of an original painting, the artist had just recently presented to the health-care facility. It begins, "Mr. Karon. Please be kind enough to read me. Sunday afternoon, again I was moved by your painting. Now to read how, you too, have been out of a job, penniless, also exiled from your country, because you have great courage; and with hard work and perseverance, you've done it. I will go on alone; the example of your life gives me the assurance that I've done well, to leave everything behind, to paint with oxygen. Well, I just want to say, I admire your courage - love your skies - thanks for being you - a person in a million, who is still able to impress me; a person (the letter writer) who has suffered, to conquer threats myself, in the beauty of the hour, leaving forever. One can be so lonely, in this field of time, to keep a vestige of a moment in color, of a deep emotion, surrounded by futility in this world of over-consumption - when the true soul is forever a foreigner. Thanks again and accept my respect."

     The Richard Karon biography has been remarkable in many ways, and very much different from others I have worked on, during the past twenty years. I was, quite frankly, unsettled, at the beginning of the project, to find out that this significant Muskoka artist, had been buried in relative obscurity, away from the District he loved so much. Without reference, at graveside, to him having been an established Canadian Artist, and a friend of Muskoka, seemed reason enough to start making amends…..for what we should have done, in his memory, much earlier than this. Even his obituary, in the local press, in March 1987, wasn't more than a few paragraphs of very few words. I have no idea now, whether I wrote anything in The Muskoka Sun, The Muskoka Advance or The Herald-Gazette, of which I was an editor at the time of his death. I can't imagine having let this event go without acknowledgement, but I long-ago, sent off my paper files for re-cycling. What should have been front page news, was relegated to the community news, and I realize how we missed an important opportunity, to celebrate a storied and accomplished life.

     I know the family is considering some type of memorial tribute, to the work of Richard Karon, in the Village of Baysville, but as of yet it hasn't been finally determined, what would be most suitable, and appropriate, to remind citizens and seasonal residents, of the landscapes he was best known.

     I would like to thank all the kind folks who helped us out, during the course of this research, with stories and images of original Karon paintings in their possession. They have helped us build a resource for the future, and it is already being sought out by those interested in the artist's life. It has been submitted, of course, to both the National Art Gallery and the Art Gallery of Ontario, for their respective reference libraries…..for use by researchers in the future. I want to add special thanks to Muskoka artist Janet Stahle-Fraser, of the Township of Lake of Bays, for sharing, with the artist's son, and his daughter, Mr. Karon's original easel, which he gave to her shortly after closing his studio in the mid 1980's. The photograph with today's summation, of the Karon Biography, shows the artist's granddaughter, Aurora, peeking through the easel, still being used by the Lake of Bays artist. The background, of course, is Janet's studio setting. The meeting occurred in March, and it was certainly a highlight for Richard Sahoff Karon, as he had been searching for the elusive easel for many years.

     One art patron, who possesses several Karon originals, invited the young Karon and myself, to her house to see his father's paintings, and the hospitality we were shown, was generous and heart-warming. She asked only that her name not be used. Just having the opportunity to see how she had hung these paintings in a pine-clad Muskoka room, made us feel pretty good, about the respect his work was still garnering, years after his death. Both paintings were of waterscapes in close vicinity to Baysville.

     We had many kind notes and so many offers to visit, to see his major paintings, in homes across the district. We made this connection, in large part, thanks to the kindness of our regional newspaper, The Weekender, which published two of our requests for information on Mr. Karon. The responses were amazing, and at least half of this biography, and the available art images, came courtesy The Weekender's readership. Only hours after the first request was published, and the free Friday papers being delivered to the driveways throughout the district, we had begun receiving emails, and all kinds of offers of assistance, we couldn't have anticipated from just a Letter to the Editor. It was almost non-stop for two full weeks, and it literally gave the biography its wings.

     My son Robert and his musical partner, Dani O'Connor, of Gravenhurst, provided the music for the tribute video, which I hope you will take time to watch again. Robert did the filming and created the video. Dani provided the vocals.

     Here is a list of those friends of this biography, who offered us, on loan, images of their Richard Karon paintings; Joyce A. Medley, Beverley J. Robinson, Ches. and Betty Fulton, Shirley Bullock, Marilyn MacDougall, Kristina Campbell, Lois and Barry Swan, Ken and Cheryl Mann, Leigh Beal, Ike Kelneck, Peter Jackson, Ellen Gofforth and Rhoda Moeller and the collection of paintings owned by Richard Sahoff Karon. If we have left your name off this list we have done so inadvertently. Please let us know we have left your name off and we will make the correction.