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

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

Please visit my other blog at thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com

April Snow on this old Gravenhurst hideaway

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


PLEASE VISIT MY OTHER BLOG AT THENATUREOFMUSKOKA.BLOGSPOT.COM

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

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

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


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

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

Gravenhurst – Those Crazy Days and Writing Ways – I’m Home at Last

I have always been unsettled and unpredictable as a writer. There is a recollection of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson which has always seemed particularly familiar to my own reactions to the prevailing weather situation. Those close to Thomson, during his Algonquin Park painting years, saw his mood change when, for example, a storm was rolling up from a distant horizon. He would become disjointed from the group he was with, and it was obvious his attention was directed at how the storm would change the scene over the lakeland. Some went as far as to suggest he became moody and withdrawn as if a manifestation of the storm itself. The same was observed with his study of the Northern Lights on cold autumn evenings, painting the spirit-sky over the black expanse of Canoe Lake.
Maybe Thomson was watching the prevailing weather and natural occurrence from a painter’s vantage point, learning more about the colorations of the cauldron lake, the tumbling stormfront, and the veil of rain misting over the Algonquin landscape. Possibly he had found an ecstasy of supernatural experience, discussed by others from his company of artist associates as integral to the creative process. An illumination, an inner spiritual awareness you might say, about a more soulful connectedness beyond the actuality of thunder, lightening and tempest at its core.
I have always been moved to write by the prevailing weather circumstance. In the beginning however, I wouldn’t have admitted this because I was too busy being tuned in, turned on, and tuned out, to admit my inspiration came from the forest not the Yogi’s spiritual enlightenment. My first foray as a “nature” writer was a 1974 unanticipated adventure in poetry, when I found some modest good fortune, having a half dozen poems published, more requested, and a manuscript successfully completed. My girlfriend Gail, at the time, and her family weren’t too sure how to react, having “a poet” in their company. I admit to being a strange, even contradictory mix of beatnik, hippy and self proclaimed prophet, who also really liked history, classic music, and romantic walks in the woods. Most of what I wrote “then” I don’t revisit today, on the advice of a number of Canadian writer friends, who have warned about the horrors of any retrospective examination of what came first…..the sloppy, sappy bid for attention, or the grossly lacking, unprofessional mission to be the world savior.
I would sit for hours on end, at our Muskoka Lake cottage, watching out over the dramatic autumn transition, then the calming, gentle snow of early December, and my creative enterprise seemed to quadruple in output. Unfortunately I drank two glasses of wine at fireside for each poem composed. By the time I’d written five or six poems that stormy winter night, the result was a simpering, awful, melodramatic impersonation of every other writer. I didn’t recognize my own work the next day.
Over the years I have routinely enjoyed my most prolific writing jags at times when the seasons were on the verge of their profound regional change. I looked forward to the autumn season most of all, particularly the month of November. I always felt sorry for this rather lonely time of the year, being so barren of autumn color yet not quite the maker of winter either. I spent a lot of time wandering the lakeshore back in my brooding poet days, and I always found its eerie, lonely shade of abandonment, enough to stir the perfect blend of melancholy yet hopefulness; one that seemed to amalgamate my interests in history, nostalgia, and redemption for time arrogantly wished away. It seems at times as if I have made a lifetime mission, making amends for something I did or didn’t perform as I should have, according to my capability. My hockey coach used to tell me this a lot when reviewing the games lost.
I felt as if I had to fully explore the spiritual essence of November before December’s good cheer could be fully appreciated. Of all the places I have holed-up over a lifetime to write, especially to benefit from such creatively powerful months as November, my present abode in Gravenhurst has provided me with every vantage point to watch the intricacies of the changing seasons.
When my contemporaries ponder intrusively why I have spent so much time attempting to represent Muskoka’s changing seasons, there’s nothing I can remark in return that will satisfy their apparent need to know more about “purpose.” They have already judged my work long before they ask the question, and as I prefer to chat with those open minded souls who cherish unfettered honesty, meetings to discuss my writing are few and far between. They don’t like my bluntness. Which is fine by the way. I feel that explaining myself is a little like an Alice in Wonderland overview, that in order to make sense, has to be dissected minutely….. to understand the cogs and levers and eccentricities of what can be considered “the whole.” The reason for creating this blog site in the first place, was to provide for my enquiring reader-friends, a no-holds barred journal with all its inherent anger, frustration, impatience, and contempt, with its untailored, non-sculpted periods of joy and satisfaction, enlightenment and unfettered privilege to explore and create.
After so many years being unsettled and impatient with my surroundings, having been employed by the “uninspired,” the past two decades working from Birch Hollow can only be considered heaven-sent. And while there have most definitely been periods when pen was cast down in frustration, and notebooks left unmarked for months at a time, the fact seasons change so dramatically in Muskoka, has kept the poet at his mission despite those desperate periods of self loathing and artistic strangulation every artist must endure.
I have thought about this a great deal lately and as I have noted earlier in this collection of journal entries, Gravenhurst has provided me with the opportunity to live in a smaller, less intrusive urban community; a place where I can escape into our neighborhood forest in about one hundred footsteps, and remain there until I’m spiritually replenished. It is a great privilege here and I do not take one moment in this company of nature and good citizens for granted. If I should ever produce some masterpiece of written composition, I shall of course give credit to Gravenhurst first, because it is my home; the place that has assisted my writing for all these splendidly enhanced years.
I enjoy a rather anonymous relationship with my hometown. There are only a few of the people I meet day to day, that have any knowledge I have been a career writer. They know me as an antique dealer, book collector, husband of a teacher and father of two fine musicians. They don’t know or care about my writing highlights or even disasters, and seeing as I’ve never composed a best seller or important “how-to” book, I’m not likely to win their affection by written accomplishment alone….especially with my burdensome tomes about nature conservation, the haunted west wind, the enchanted seasons of Muskoka or whatever else comes from my busy fingers upon this keyboard.
A writing colleague of mine, back in my newspaper days of the early 1980’s, said to me one night during a drunken diatribe, …. “Currie you’ll never make it as a writer living here in Muskoka.” More than 25 years later and I can still hear that cutting remark as if he was standing beside me now. In many ways, according to his standard and the ways and means of determining all successful writers in this dominion, on this continent, he was right then and now. As I had no argument to refute his claim, it wouldn’t do the least bit of good to fashion, for my critic now, the successes and profitability I have enjoyed ever since. I have lived the life of a writer despite the absence of a Pulitzer Award adorning my mantle, or a Booker Prize noted on my resume. As Dickens’ character, Old Fezziwig, from the book, “A Christmas Carol,” suggested to a colleague when asked to sell his business to the “new vested interest,”…. “there is more to life than money sir,” and that one’s enterprise is “a way of life one knew and loved.” I offer an apology to the memory of Mr. Dickens for any liberties I’ve taken with wording, seeing as I don’t have a copy of the book close at hand.
I have always felt a kindred spirit with the character of old Fezziwig because his opinion of business and occupation have paralleled my own possibly ill-fated desire, to live and die the same profession as I began. Fezziwig did lose his business to the vested interest, and I suppose my fate may be the same. What should become of an unpublished author? No matter how many times I’ve told my wife that I was, in that occasion, abandoning authordom, there have been just as many returns to the old ways and writing days; despite ongoing periods of unbridled chagrin at life and creativity’s shortfalls. Yet in retrospect, writing has always made my life more interesting, and my days so much more fulfilled with expectation and potential, than I would enter each morning otherwise; not having an urge to find time in the day to pen some thoughts or observations about local encounters. To some people I’m the eccentric, sloppily dressed, tangle-bearded collector, the passing silhouette of unknown character, slipping quietly from antique and thrift shop, day after day after day! What a surprise it would be for them to find out I have been observing from close quarters all the components of our mutual home town, as if it was the perpetuity clockwork, the ticking heart, the soul I’ve been so pleased to companion with, even subtly, these many years of residence.
I suspect my collected works may go unnoticed after my death, until such a time as my sons, their offspring, or some distant relative finds them tucked away in a box and decides they deserve some modest release to an historian making the rounds. It will thusly be an honor to be of some help then, when a retrospective is mounted that I might play a small part, in the recognition and celebration of a good and worthy home town.
Thank you for reading along this journal entry of January 2006.


I’m sure it’s tough to stare down a developer and say “No, we don’t need anything more!”

It seems that nary a month goes by these days, without a notice about a new development project, a condo unit, a new retail centre or massive, sprawling (largely unnecessary) subdivision. For those people who might think of me as an anti-development, fear mongering, protest-everything,” kind of guy, well you’re only partially correct. As I’ve made clear through this blog collection, I actually only physically protest about one in several hundred projects slated for Muskoka, and the only one I resorted to carrying a protest sign, was in defence of a century old park in Bracebridge, sacrificed most recently to build a new university campus.
What upsets me is the reality the character of Muskoka is being seriously compromised and very few people care. It is more alarming because of apathy. Few people really want to fight town hall on anything these days because of the potential cost of hiring lawyers and planners, and the emotional cost when the rest of the community turns on an opponent for daring to exercise free speech and democratic right.
The development matters through Muskoka are serious ones and despite what any pro-expansion group might think, the compromises in our region are absolutely huge and clear evidence Southern Ontario money is exploiting our region from every vantage point. They are re-shaping our communities because our councils can’t say “No”. With huge project budgets and the most competent legal and planning eagles, town councils and municipal staff are pretty much dust in the wind when the gale blows through.
I would love to see just one line in one paper some time, where a councilor in this region asks the question, “Who the hell will be buying all these condos….these homes?”
Here’s what you won’t hear or read about otherwise. Unless Muskoka is tripling in population, which it isn’t, we will assume that many new homes and condos are being purchased by investors, speculators, multi-property owners. The danger? If we ever now come face to face with a real estate decline, as we were forced to endure in the late 1980’s, when property values plummeted and took years to return to where they had been, this same investment excess could be dumped onto the market in a frightening volume. The developers couldn’t care less about this, as long as the houses have been sold prior to a downturn. If such a real estate settling occurs, and investors sense it could be many years down the road to realize the profits they had anticipated, could there be a major flood of properties put up for sale? You bet! And the whining, like a choir of scorched cats, to borrow a plume from Charles Dickens. I’m pretty sure I understand the intricacies of supply and demand, and what I do appreciate is that there are many more houses being built than new permanent residents in our respective communities. Thus, they are building these more for investment, retirement living, than for young, growing families moving to our region. In fact, if you take an evening drive around Bracebridge condo projects and residential neighborhoods in mid winter, you will notice a considerable number unoccupied at the time. No lights, no signs of life. Seasonal, investment homes, for the retirement age community, have become a major influence on residential development but they don’t reflect accurately on the expansion forces on and within the community. If these houses weren’t being built, investors would put their money somewhere else. People are not moving to Bracebridge, Gravenhurst or Muskoka in droves, but investment money in property is abundant. Confused? You should be concerned. If there is a property value decline, and too many investment properties are unceremoniously dumped, should you genuinely need to sell your house for financial or personal reasons such as re-location, good luck….there are a lot of wealthy investors that would be jumping ship at the same time.
I am glad to see certain commercial developments in Muskoka, in Gravenhurst particularly, and in an area long planned for urban expansion. While I don’t get turned on by large retail complexes, and generally stay away from box stores on principle, democracy and democratic privilege have allowed for this urban growth. I recognize the need for more and better job opportunities and hopefully the latest news of large-scale development on Gravenhurst’s south end will bring some new interest to revamp what already exists of my hometown.
The main street business corridors, in both Gravenhurst and Bracebridge are in serious economic peril unless property owners, retailers and professional offices decide to mount an effective campaign to revitalize their business appeal. The blow from competition will be staggering in the next twelve months as the new retail nodes expand. I’m not confident there will be any serious support from respective councils because they have long subscribed to the war-time reference of “acceptable loss.” In any engagement there is calculated loss of personnel. In the business setting, no councilor can be as daft, as to be unaware that by approving huge new retail expansion, for example, a portion of the present retail community could falter and fail. “So what?” “Stuff happens, right?” Well, it certainly does when you line up the dominoes and provide the first topple onto the community that exists.
Many Ontario communities within a reasonable commute to the Big Smoke are being inundated with new investment and expansion stresses. Bracebridge might believe it stands above the crowd with all this new money coming in but the reality is, it is a speculation bonanza during what appears to be a time and zone of considerable prosperity. If there is an economic downturn, the same councilors that approved this orgy of development will say, “It’s not my fault….how can I control the economy?” For starters, say “No” some of the time, when a developer tells you how much your community can benefit from another condo project or three or four hundred homes. There’s always a responding reaction to an action taken. Selling your soul to the devil? Depends if you believe in the devil, I guess.
I’ve only lived 52 years but I’ve known quite a number of small and medium size recessions. I missed the Great Depression. As an historian however, I’ve read a lot about the Hungry Thirties, enough to appreciate that if history does repeat, as some economists have warned….crap, we’re in a lot of trouble…. but hey, the real estate will be cheap.
We are a greedy society and at the rate we are presently gobbling up land in this country, and polluting with reckless abandon, is there any possibility the issue of global warming will ever be seriously considered……unless someone can make money at it, probably not!
I am going to get lost in the snowy woodlands today because that is what pleases me. Maybe I’m an idealistic fool, thinking I can change attitudes with a simple, run-of-the-mill excess of words. It does feel important to at least try, just as I joined with a group of good neighbors last winter, to protect an historic park; another battle lost to the almighty buck.
If there is one major concern I have these days, it’s that councils in the District of Muskoka, are too complacent about the development impact on respective communities. As with the University campus debate for Jubilee Park, I was more disturbed by the fact councilors were unanimous in their decision to destroy an historic park. If you follow council proceedings, it’s important for every citizen to pay attention to those who go with the flow, and approve profound changes to the community, with nary a second thought about what they have approved in fact. The impact? The positives weighed against the negatives? These days there’s far too much unanimous acceptance of progress without serious recognition of long term impact. They should care! But who is going to make them?

The writer, the reality, the world between
My boys Andrew and Robert (Gravenhurst musicians) have, for years, accepted their father’s eccentricities as “just another day with pop!” When I’m not the ever-brooding writer-in-residence, looking all poetic and mindful, I’m the “collector-gone-mad,” filling every space with old stuff, books, historic documents, art and just about anything else that looks or feels old. My wife knew I was a moody writer and an obsessive collector when we married. She has many different coping mechanisms to deal with either the cranky author or the spending-way-too-much collector. The lads however, have to warn their respective girlfriends and families about their artistic and quite historic father. All you have to say is “my father’s an historian,” and that’s usually enough to peak somewhat adverse curiosity. I initially wrote this short blog for Andrew and Robert….possibly something they can suggest potential inlaws read before they invite The Curries to any bonding event down the road.
When I began work as a fledgling reporter for The Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, a press operator at our sister publication, The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, told me that I was preparing for a life of “print!” With his hands black with ink and a couple of stains on his upper arm from some printing project that didn’t go according to Hoyle, he told me that once in the writing-publishing game, I would be forever contaminated with “printer’s ink!” While I had no idea what he was talking about at the time, I was interested enough to pursue the statement over three or four conversations with the printer that same week.
What he was trying to tell me was that becoming a professional writer, and working in the weekly newspaper enterprise, had destined me to the addiction of printer’s ink. He said that very few who join the printing-publishing domain ever fully recover from the exposure to the communication industry. “You’ll have printer’s ink in your veins forever,” he said with a hint of dire prediction. It turns out it wasn’t a poison raging through my veins but rather an “inspiration” injected that would command an ongoing relationship in the publishing industry…..until as they say, “dust to dust.” I thought it was an interesting bit of print industry folklore but being strong-willed from childhood, I couldn’t imagine anything so intoxicating that it would influence me over the course of an entire lifetime. Well, it’s within a hair’s breadth of thirty years, since he told me this ditty about printer’s ink, and I’m still in the business. Still writing. Still dreaming up new ideas for blogs, web sites and new books. Was he right? Of course he was! He had printer’s ink in his veins too.
Writing is an absorbing profession and those reporters from my time, who left the business entirely without regret, did not have the deep seeded fascination with the printing industry that I possessed. From my first exposure to the thundering old presses and the smell of wet ink on paper, I was truly mesmerized. I used to wander back to the printing shop of The Herald-Gazette at coffee time, to watch a project run through the presses. Might have been a book or a magazine, even a small newspaper. Our main paper was sent to a larger company with a much more elaborate press. I enjoyed watching the presses in action and the expertise of the printers who danced around those machines with grace and speed, watching for over-inking, poor inking, and a botch-up in paper delivery through the machines. It was a fascinating opportunity to watch a book go from blank page to the printed, compiled and bound word…..packaged in an attractive cover.
It wasn’t until I watched one of my own books being run through these machines that the issue of “printer’s ink” had now truly impressed upon me. I was thoroughly and agreeably contaminated by the enterprise of writing and publishing. I had gallons of printer’s ink in these veins. After all these years and a collection of published works that now easily touches the ceiling here at Birch Hollow, I now fully appreciate what it meant to marry the publishing industry. My wife and family certainly appreciate the extent and murky depths of the writer’s abyss. Of course I don’t think of it as an abyss but rather a profound, unyielding, dynamic obsession. Is that a good thing? Maybe not! Not much I can do about it now, seeing as my life-force chemistry is ten percent natural blood, ninety percent printer’s ink. I can write a story by using my fingertips.
Every now and again some fledgling author will show up at my doorstep, wondering if I would be willing to share some wisdom about the writing industry. How can I explain the significance of “printer’s ink?” How can I soft-sell how it determines the life-committed writer-authors from the “happenstancers” who will never fully adopt the writer’s lifestyle? A way of living, which by the way, is as much handshake acceptance of poverty and untold future suffering. How do you explain to some wide-eyed “keener” journalist the torture yet to come; the miles to be traveled often for little more than self gratification, and the occasional byline that recognizes persistence only.
I’ve scared off quite a few writers in my time and I’m so pleased to hear they’ve found more profitable, gainful employment far from the pungent aroma and stains of printer’s ink. There are occasions when I happen upon some half-deranged soul determined to make a go of the writing game. They listen and seem to understand what it will cost to commit to the mindset of the writer apprentice. What it means to live with the quirks of the creative process every second of the day. The horror of not being able to shut it off just because you’re exhausted. In the dim light of the midnight hour, you might have just sat down to the keyboard, necessitated by inspiration, fueled by the thought this might be the start-up to the long anticipated novel. Maybe not! Just a false alarm. There’s nothing on that start up page but the brightness of the computer monitor. No opening line. No poetic beginning. Just another failed attempt to wrestle inspiration from mind to screen, ink to paper. I tell them to view the movie, “The Lost Weekend,” to stress the point there’s more suffering enroute. Just wait!
I’ve had a few other writers show up in tears about yet another rejection of a novel submission, or failed job interview with the local press. “Suck it up,” I tell them, with a grumpy, seasoned growl. There is no way of diminishing or soft-landing the heartache of writing failure. It’s part of the sculpting exercise to create an enduring author; one willing to suffer deeply for the most minor success, the most miniscule credit in a published work.
For the past 30 years of sundry publishing credits and a few memorable moments of recognition, I have wandered around in the stupor generated by creative enterprise. I have never arisen from slumber one day since, feeling anything but a tired, frustrated writer. Each day, as I wander through the exercises of productivity and self preservation, I do so as a writer, ever watchful, always creating story-lines for new projects, looking for inspiration for the next paragraph of an ongoing body of work. Sometimes I pull a great idea out of the air that smacks of decent authordom, and I will race to put it into print. Too late! Old age has fried my retentive capability. A blank page in an old Smith-Corona used to make me crazy. Now it’s this infernal white screen inspiring nothing but snow blindness.
As tangled and mired down as one can come to feel, when thinking about this crazy profession, I have long given up on the idea of evacuating all this printer’s ink, to make room for normalcy, complacency and a sheltered existence. I carry-on, the weary foot soldier of writing enterprise, hoping for the next big break….the words that come after the title and the byline, which resemble something of a story…..anything that might employ the grand presses to engage printer’s ink onto every blank page in sight.
I’ve often wondered if the pressman, who told me about the haunting of printer’s ink, was looking for a wayward soul to harvest for his master. It’s been a semi-hell ever since. Yet despite the brimstone and carnage, it’s had its moments. The uncomplicated joy for example, of blogging these dark secrets of authordom, under the influence of printer’s ink!
Now back to the eternal quest for the grail! A book deal and something to write about!
Note of explanation: While it’s certainly true the writer, any author anywhere in the world, suffers for his or her craft, I have never once succumbed to doubt….the doubt that maybe I should have tried something other than writing. I’ve enjoyed all the ups and downs and as strange as it may read, I’ve always felt the suffering, the anxiety and sudden bouts of depression were part of the writer’s life…..a writer who doesn’t wear the profession’s scars like badges of merit, is unworthy of being called “an author.” I’ve never once asked my sons what they think of dad as a writer because I know for fact they don’t read my work. Suzanne will only read a piece I’ve composed if I ask for her opinion. For all they know I could be writing pornography. I don’t blame them at all. Maybe when I’m dashed out of this mortal coil they’ll reminisce about good old dad by reading a few of these blogs at my wake.
Thank you for visiting this blog-site.

Please visit my other blog at thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com

History uncensored is more than some can take

Working from my cluttered, Dickens-like home office here in Gravenhurst, I seem to have a fair amount of time to reminisce about how it all began. How this writing affliction came about in the first place. How in the world I got caught up by this obsessive mission to keep notes for future posterity. What is it that commands me to this keyboard every day, whether I’m up to a writing jag or not? I keep threatening my adversaries that with all this time-flexibility, one day soon I’m going to pen a tell-all book about the local power elite, and their shenanigans dating back to my early reporting forays into their magic world. I just might. I don’t think it would make a best seller by any means but it might curtail some of the big-wheeling, cavalier, “screw-you” movers and shakers free-ranging here in Muskoka.
Back in the days when I worked for the local press, I had a fairly limited editorial capability. I had a beggar of a time doing my job, conscientiously, telling the news, and giving honest, well researched opinion while at the same time making sure it didn’t offend the multitude of VIP’s, their friends, the political honor guard and the local clubs and institutions that might be angered…… if as they say, the editor colored outside the line. I did it all the time just to see if they were paying attention. I snuck quite a large number of stories through just before the crunch of press time, when my overseers had ducked out early for a normal dinner hour in a comfortable setting. Editorial staff and layout artists had to stay frequently to nine or ten on a press night and on a few miserable occasions until midnight. Seeing as I was boss and I couldn’t resist the temptation to exercise true freedom of the press, I’d often find a little extra room for a story that might not have made the flats in preparation, earlier in the production day. Management was known to “pull” a story because of some disruption it might cause in the community, or some chagrin it could bestow upon a faithful advertiser……one looking for any reason to hate our publication or score an ad for free on account of hurt feelings. I got tired writing to suit the wants of so many. I put my job on the line a thousand different times because I adamantly believed inclusion of a particular, maybe controversial story, deserved the light of community-wide readership. By golly that meant for some interesting press mornings with a lot of tell-tale whining, door slamming and statements in anger that usually started like, “I can not believe you ran that story Currie! I oughta fire you right now!”
I’ve been out of the day to day operation of local newspapers since the early 1990’s, and it’s taken quite a few years of contemplation and reflection to appreciate just how much fun it was dodging and darting through the management’s many advisories, and ever-changing, hour by hour protocol. What kind of stories should we run in the community press, and what stories should wind up on the paste-up room floor ….,or on the bottom of the publisher’s shoe?
I had the privilege of working with some exceptionally talented writers who were miles ahead of me in capability. Each of my staff members was highly skilled in research and story development, and when they composed a piece, well, it was pretty much an editor’s delight. Few errors if any, and so well composed that I felt guilty getting a paycheck for pretending to edit. They did however, ride me pretty hard about challenging authority, a more latent skill I’ve honed in the past decade. I was the go-between on many stories, and feature article proposals, trying to seek approval of management to provide space for what might bring a tad more response from readership than the usual two or three letters a week. I loved representing their work but despised the mountain climbing it took, to sell an idea especially if it got too close to a sacred, sensitive wing of the community, they were bent on protecting.
Here’s an example. When I got a new reporter there was always that period of adjustment, which always seemed more for our paper because we needed first of all, to explain the pillars of local society we had to respect….the people we had to please and businesses that needed to be stroked constantly. I hated myself for these start-up tutorials but they could see by the twinkle of a rogue’s eye, I didn’t always follow the rules as set down by the big cheese. On one occasion I was asked to edit through this chap’s critique of a play he had attended, put on by a local summer theatre. It was handed to me by management with the request I provide a little attitude adjustment to the rookie scribe. He had been absolutely ruthless in his review, enough to make any director cry, any performer quit the profession. I had previewed the production myself and his reference to it being parallel to a “rail disaster,” with “toxic fuels leaking out,” was pretty much how I would have written it….with a few compliments sprinkled in just to hang onto that contract ad. He was bang on most of the way through the article but we in the community press (during my years) never used words like “awful” and “of little talent,” to describe a performance by one of our major summer season advertisers. Now put yourself in my shoes, and imagine what it was like trying to tell a high ranking university graduate, in journalism, why he had to give a somewhat more pleasing, encouraging review…..or he might lose his pay envelope. “If they pull their ad contract, they (management) will pull you,” I explained.
Just before you judge us as sell outs to truth and honesty, we always found a way around management protocol. In fact, because I worked with some fine writers with great futures ahead, we simply wordsmithed our way through each week. We got so good at using positives as sarcasm, and writing honestly with subliminal messages that nobody knew at first reading, just how we felt about a particular performance, theatre or musicale, because it was so damn positive and light-hearted. Of course we had a number of intellects out there who let us know they appreciated our sly methodology of slipping a negative review into a smooth silk jacket. While the backers of the show, sponsors and actors thanked us frequently for our enlightening reviews, those who saw through the veil of flamboyance found clear evidence we hated the production, and could offer no reason whatsoever why any one would wish to attend.
I did this for eleven years. It was a laugh beating management’s protocol simply by being half-arse intelligent. Imagine how it must have felt to be sent out to do a business promotion (always in return for an advertising buck), interviewing some guy with one foot on a banana peal (business in the pooper), telling me about the great comeback he’s making. “Business is good,” he’d say, looking to make sure I was writing it down in my note pad. I can’t tell you how many times I was the last bloke (who gave any appearance of being a potential customer) in their business before it folded. I was the “management –forced-me-to-interview-you guy,” with the notepad soon to be filled with amusing anecdotes and doodling.
The problem I’ve carried further into my life’s work as an historian, is this century old (or more) habit of the community press and hobby historical types, rounding off fact to suit the requirements of the audience. We used to call it the “good times were had by all,” standard of operation, and it really screws us historians up today, trying to figure out what actually did happen, and what was the honest impact of a significant event. What angers me the most is that this “good news” pre-occupation to please advertisers is still a hale and hardy reality in the local media. I have to keep reminding myself I was part of the problem for quite a few years, being worried about offending the world around me who apparently all signed my paycheck.
In some ways I suppose, I have become in this sense, an historical revisionist simply by necessity. A lot of details of local history were smoothed and withheld for a wide variety of reasons, and there is no question there are miles between what has been recorded in newspapers and many early books, and the accurate descriptions of a particular event or tragic situation. I can find many occasions when news was sanitized, censored or omitted entirely because it was decided by the publisher at the time, to be too controversial or revealing for the good of the community. For example, there are many sources for the keen historian, to find out more about the appalling poverty and death due to starvation that occurred in Muskoka for decades, without any serious recognition at the time by the local press. Was it lesser news than details of the agricultural society meeting or town council minutes( which by the way always got lots of column space)? By using dozens of sources one finds out fairly soon into research that death by malnutrition was fairly regular from the early homestead days of the late 1800’s into the 1930’s (and to a lesser degree after this). I have read numerous privately published pieces and journals that draw attention to this period of suffering, amidst the pomp and circumstance, the elegance and extravagance of Muskoka’s famous resorts. You’ll find out a great deal of information about the resorts but not about the inherent suffering trying to eke out a living on a Muskoka farmstead.
Each year for about the past decade, I have helped three or four university students annually working on research projects regarding some aspect of Muskoka’s history. And each time I blow their minds by refuting much of what they believe to be the truth about the settlement of the region, and the true economic picture as it was characterized by some historians determined to put our region in the best possible light…..forever. Here I come and rain on the parade. Can’t help it! While I do confess to the positive reinforcement of some articles to please the audience back in my non-glory reporting days, I’m sworn off down-playing anything I happen upon. If you’ve heard that I’m a stickler for detail and a disturber of epic proportion, it comes from those who adamantly believe that you should never let “truth get in the way of a truly good story.” I’m tired of truly good stories and far more interested in seeking out the truth from what fiction is presented. There’s a ton of it to go through but I’m far more patient these days. Now that I work for myself.
I have considerable knowledge about the trials and tribulations that occurred in Muskoka from the 1850’s to the present, and it bothers a few of my contemporaries that the cork might indeed be out of the bottle. Simply stated, I don’t cover up or censor historical fact to please any one at any time, and when I’m asked to assist on a research project, or to advise about a particular time or struggle in history, I have nary a reason to harmonize any information for consistency’s sake, to make a sad tale seem inspirational.
I have become a watchdog today for those who interpret history by their own standard of misinformation. I make notes for posterity. I have confronted many hardcore revisionists recently, making real news read like poetry, and the reception hasn’t been all that welcoming.
So fire me!
I will never misrepresent historical fact. I will never admit to being perfect and I will correct any error so that it does not become an historical obstacle to researchers who follow me.
Thanks for taking the time to read this January 2007 blog editorial. Please read my other blog www.thenatureofmuskoka.blogspot.com