1888 Railway Adventure On The Northern Rail Line

THE SIGHTS AND EXCITEMENT AS EXPERIENCED DURING AN 1888 RAILROAD ADVENTURE TO MUSKOKA

SETTLE BACK FOR A LITTLE EXCURSION NORTH TO MUSKOKA UNDER STEAM POWER

     SUZANNE'S FATHER, NORMAN STRIPP,  FORMERLY FROM THE VILLAGE OF WINDERMERE, AND BEST KNOWN FOR HIS RESTORATION WORK ON MUSKOKA'S VINTAGE WOODEN BOATS, PASSED ON A HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT BOOK, TO HIS DAUGHTER, AS PART OF THE FAMILY INHERITANCE.

     THE 1889 BOOK, WAS WRITTEN BY W.H. WITHROW, AND PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM BRIGGS OF TORONTO. WITHROW HAD PREVIOUSLY WRITTEN THREE OTHER BOOKS, INCLUDING "THE HISTORY OF CANADA," "THE CATACOMB OF ROME," AND "A CANADIAN IN EUROPE."

     THERE IS A FASCINATING ACCOUNT OF A TRIP THE AUTHOR TOOK NORTH, ON THE NEWLY EXTENDED NORTHERN RAILWAY, WHICH I BELIEVE HAD MADE IT TO THE COMMUNITY OF NORTH BAY BY THIS POINT. THERE ARE SOME EXCEPTIONAL ENGRAVINGS OF MUSKOKA SCENES, THAT I HAVE INCLUDED WITH THIS HIGHLY INTERESTING TRAVEL STORY FROM A BYGONE ERA OF STEAM LOCOMOTION, ON LAND AND WATER.

     THE TRAIN IS ABOUT TO DEPART FROM THE CROWDED PLATFORM AT THE STATION, AND INSTEAD OF WAVING GOODBYE, PLEASE JUMP ABOARD, AND WE'LL RELIVE WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO VISIT MUSKOKA IN THE 1880'S, ONLY TWENTY YEARS AFTER THE FIRST SETTLERS BEGAN ARRIVING BY HORSE AND CART, AT MCCABE'S LANDING (NOW GRAVENHURST). THE STEAM BELCHING OVER THE PLATFORM, THE BELL AND WHISTLE, AND ALL THE COMMOTION, TO START THOSE MASSIVE IRON WHEELS ROLLING DOWN THE RIBBON RAILS. THE CARS LURCH, WE ARE JOSTLED, THERE'S A FAMILIAR SMELL OF SMOKE MIXED WITH STEAM IN THE AIR, AND THE DIN OF PASSENGERS YELLING BACK AT RUNNING LOVED ONES, AND EXCITED CONVERSATION, START US ON OUR JOURNEY TO AN ENCHANTED PLACE……THE PLACE MANY OF US LIVE AND VACATION TODAY. HOLD ON. BE CAREFUL WALKING ABOUT.

THE MUSKOKA LAKES

     "The Northern Railway, the first iron road constructed in Ontario, opens up a vast extent of rich agricultural country, valuable lumber districts and picturesque lake region. The beautiful, island studded, forest-bordered Lakes Muskoka, Joseph and Rosseau, furnish one of the most admirable camping, fishing and summer resorts to be found in the province. We borrow the following description from an accomplished writer:

     "Leaving Toronto by one of the express trains, the passengers will pass through many populous and prosperous towns and villages, and through a rich agricultural country, which is highly picturesque, and illustrates a very high standard of farming and its wealth. At four miles is Davenport, a hill-side locality fast filling with suburban residences, and whose pretty station with flower garden and high gabled roof, conveys reminiscences of English neatness and finish. Between this station and Weston, to the left, is seen the Valley of the Humber, and the Caledon Hills, closing in the distant view.

     "The height of land between Lakes Ontario and Huron is reached at the summit (twenty-six miles from Toronto), which is seven hundred and fifty-five feet above that of Lake Huron. A few miles beyond King the line passes, by not a few curves, through 'The Ridges,' and then enters the finely farmed district especially noted for the excellence of its horses and sheep. The Village of Aurora lies to the left. Four miles farther on is Newmarket, population 3,000, a place of considerable age and importance, and the headquarters of some energetic manufacturing interests. Near the Town of Bradford, the line passes over what is known as the Holland River Marsh, a locality celebrated amongst sportsmen for its abundant supply of snipe, wild duck, and for maskinonge and bass fishing.

     "To this point Governor Simcoe constructed the great northern road of the province, Yonge Street. Till the construction of the Northern Railway, this was the great artery of commerce. During the war of 1812-14, all the naval and military stores for the naval station at Penetanguishene were conveyed over this road. At the Park at Holland Landing is to be seen a huge anchor designed for the British gunboat on Lake Huron, which was drawn by twenty-four teams of oxen from Toronto to its present position.

     "Allandale is situated on the shore of Kempenfeldt Bay, one of the arms of Lake Simcoe, and is one of the neatest and most charmingly situated of railway stations. Having enjoyed this first glimpse of beautiful lake scenery, the train is again taken, and, passing Barrie, the county-town, a prosperous place of 6,000 inhabitants, whose houses, built on a hillside, facing the lake, rise picturesquely above one another. A short run follows over a line of exceptional excellence of construction, and through a country of great agricultural promises, as yet but partially under cultivation. Lake Simcoe is the largest of the inland lakes of Ontario, being thirty miles in length and sixteen in breadth. Its shores are characterized by great sylvan beauty. At Keswick is seen the charmingly situated resort of one of the great lumber kings of the country, (Booth?) and many of the other choice spots begin to be occupied with the summer residences of the more wealthy inhabitants. Passing Snake Island, the isolated home of a fast dwindling Indian Tribe, and Lighthouse, and other islands, the open lake is reached.

     "The steamer then skirts the upper shores of the lake, past deep bays, whose wooded promontories jut out picturesquely into the water, and, sighting Atherly, after an easy run of two hours, passes Grape and other islands closely clustered together, and enters the 'Narrows,' the water channel joining Lake Simcoe with Lake Couchiching, of which the first view is here gained. This lake is the highest in Ontario, being seven hundred and fifteen feet above Lake Huron, and three hundred and ninety feet above Lake Superior, as is plainly evidenced by the flow of waters which run northward, and thence by a succession of falls down the Severn River, gain the Georgian Bay, and so by Lakes Huron and Erie, find their way to the 'Great Leap,' of the height of land separating the Lakes of Muskoka from Lake waters of all Northern America, the Niagara Falls, thus reaching Lake Ontario by a circuit of eight hundred miles to attain a point but forty miles from their original source. The elevation and clearness of the atmosphere, and the cool breezes, consequent thereon, would, apart from any other consideration, be sufficient to commend the locality as a favorite summer resort.

     "After crossing the Narrows' swing bridge, the line passes through forests, through which distant views are obtained of Lake Couchiching, to the left, and Lake St. John to the right. Having crossed the Severn upon a lofty bridge, it passes the Couchiching. False impressions of the Free Grant District are frequently taken from the appearance of the country seen along this part of the trip; but as, on the south side, there are tracts of fine farming land, so, to the north this ridge being passed over, lies the wide, arable country which is being rapidly peopled by thirty settlers. The Kasheshebogamog, a small stream with a very long name, being crossed, the granite rocks raise their lofty sides, high bluff cliffs overhang the railway as it curves around their bases, in some places the front portion of the train is lost to sight from the rear, but finally the 'Granite Notch,' is reached, and the railway slips through a natural pass, fortunately left for its passage by nature.

     "At one hundred and fifteen miles is Gravenhurst, a rising town at the foot of the chain of the 'Lakes of Muskoka.' From its position, is the key to the great Lake District of the Muskoka, Magnetawan, the Nipissing regions, possessing excellent facilities for first-class railway system to the southward, and by steamers on the lakes, and by rail and stages on the colonization roads, to the northward. The town occupies a most eligible site, crowning elevated but not too hilly ground, and encircling pretty bays in the form of huge amphitheaters. The railway has recently been extended through a rugged country to North Bay, on Lake Nipissing, where a junction is effected with the Canadian Pacific. It is probable that before long a further extension will connect the waters of Lake Ontario with those of Hudson Bay. At Gravenhurst the steamer of the Northern Lakes Navigation Company may be taken, and, passing out of the bay, through the 'Narrows,' after a run of an hour through Lake Muskoka, during which dinner is served, the steamer enters Muskoka River. The river is rapid, deep and dark in colour, the steep banks fringed with forest, and the course full of quick, sharp turns. Six miles from the mouth of the river is Bracebridge, the chief village, and capital of the District of Muskoka, situated at the head of the Muskoka River navigation. The village is incorporated, and has obtained a position of prominence and importance in advance of all other villages in the Free Land Grants of Ontario. The site of the town is elevated and well chosen, commanding magnificent views of the fine valleys which abound in the neighborhood. The North Falls, a cascade of about sixty feet, is in the centre of the village and can be seen from the steamboat landing, but the tourist must stop over to see the grand South Falls of Muskoka, which are some two miles from Bracebridge by road, or three by boat or canoe. The falls are composed of a series of cascades, and are well worthy of a visit, the total height being one hundred and fifty feet. A good view can be obtained by descending a pathway down the bank; at about half way down, turn to the right, to where a good solid cliff projects, which commands a view of the entire cataract. 'Wilson's Falls' and 'High Falls,' are also within easy reach.

     "After returning down the river, and regaining the lake, in one hour we reach Port Carling, on the Indian River, connecting Lake Muskoka with Lake Rosseau, the higher level of the latter being gained at this place by a lock. The village might not inaptly have been called Interlaken, from its position between two lakes. At this point, Lake Joseph is entered. The waters of all the other lakes of Muskoka are dark in color, but the waters of this are beautifully clear, deep and soft, experienced tourists speaking highly of their bathing qualities. The islands are numerous, the shores rising into bluff headlands, and prominences peculiar to this lake. After a run of sixteen miles is Port Cockburn. This place, better known perhaps as the head of Lake Joseph, is pre-eminently well adapted as a quiet, plain, pleasant, and healthful family summer resort. A very good road connects the lake here with the Parry Sound Colonization Road, a distance of a little less than two miles.

     "Proceeding from Port Carling direct up Lake Rosseau, the steamer touches first a Windermere, on the east shore, the outlet of an important settlement, and shortly reaches the head of the lake at Rosseau; the place commands an important commercial position, in addition to its great natural beauties and attraction for tourists and sportsmen. One of the charms of visiting our beautiful Northern Lakes is their association with the memory of the early French explorers of Canada. At Orillia, for instance, was the great rendezvous of the Indian tribes, whither, by the way of the Ottawa, French River and Georgian Bay, came Champlain, who, first of white men, saw these inland water, two hundred and seventy-three years ago (from the year 1888) in 1615, and where he dwelt among the Indians one whole winter. The islands that dot the surface of the lake gleam in the golden light like emerald gems upon its bosom. The islands of Lake Joseph are of a more rugged character, rising often abruptly in craggy rocks from the deep pellucid waters. Dark spry spruces also predominate, keeping, like sentinels, their lonely watch on solitary island or cape.

     The greatest fascination of this northern wilderness of lake and stream is the numerous rapids and waterfalls with which they abound. Many of these are of exquisite beauty. To those who are fond of fishing, which we confess, we are not, these streams furnish great sport. But nothing, in its way, is more delightful than gliding, almost like a bird, over the transparent waters of these crystal lakes; or darting, almost like a fish, down the arrowy rapids in the Indian's light canoe. It is the very poetry of motion, and the canoe is, in skillful hands, the very embodiment of grace and beauty."

     When someone asks me why I didn't chose to become a writer in New York , or in Hollywood, Toronto, Montreal, or Ottawa, I might suggest they read the passages published above, because what was an allure to the writer, Withrow, in 1888, was the same attraction to this writer, in 1966, when I first arrived in this beautiful place…..in the heart of the Muskoka Lakes. It is, and will always be, my Walden.

     Thanks for joining today's history blog, for train and steamboat lovers. Please join me again soon.

It Was December 2011 When Frank Johnston Idea Popped Up

A LITTLE BIT MORE ABOUT FRANK JOHNSTON FROM A PREVIOUS BLOG, AND THE REASON IT IS IMPORTANT FOR THIS TOWN - TO RE-INTRODUCE HIS ACCOMPLISHMENTS, FOR OUR CULTURAL, HISTORICAL POSTERITY

A SHORT ANGRY NOTE ABOUT COMPUTERS AND SUCH TO BEGIN WITH……

     I AM STILL WITHOUT THE LAPTOP I PUT IN THE LOCAL COMPUTER HOSPITAL YESTERDAY, WITH UNDETERMINED INJURIES. WAS IT A CASE OF ROUGH HANDLING? AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR? A FISTFUL OF ANGER? GEEZ I DON'T KNOW. I'M STILL WAITING FOR AN ANSWER. THEY WON'T TELL US ANYTHING ABOUT ITS CONDITION.

     I'D FEEL A LOT BETTER IF I FOUND OUT IT WAS A FAULT OF THE MANUFACTURER, VERSUS MY MAN-HANDLING OF A DELICATE PIECE OF TECHNOLOGY. I MUST CONFESS HOWEVER, TO CLEAR MY HEAVILY BURDENED CONSCIENCE, OF HAVING SIMILARLY BUSTED HUGE IRON BEASTS, LIKE MY OLD UNDERWOOD, AND SEVERAL MASSIVE SMITH CORONA UNITS, BUILT FOR INDUSTRIAL TYPING. I EVEN DESTROYED A BEAUTIFULLY DECORATED UNDERWOOD THAT HAD COME FROM A LOCAL RAILWAY STATION. IT'S OKAY IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME. NO ONE ELSE DID EITHER. BUT THAT NEVER MADE IT ANY LESS TRUTHFUL. I BROKE THEM GOOD. THEY WERE BOAT ANCHORS AFTER A JAG WITH ME. I GUESS I'VE GOT SOME MELLOWING OUT TO DO……., AND GOOD REASON TO DROP MY GEORGE CHUVALO "HEAVYWEIGHT SLAMMING" OF THE KEYBOARD. WHICH I'M ASSUMING WILL COST ME DEARLY TO REPAIR. I EVEN TRIED TO REVAMP A FEW PORTABLE TYPEWRITERS WITH HOLE-FILLED RIBBONS, TO GET ME OVER THE HUMP, BUT I CAME UP WITH MORE INK ON MY HANDS AND FACE, THAN I EVER WOULD HAVE CONFINED TO A WRITTEN PAGE OF EDITORIAL COPY, ON A BEAUTIFUL SHEET OF WHITE PAPER. IF I HAD TO FIDDLE WITH THE RIBBON……JUST ONCE, I'D HAVE IT TANGLED LIKE LAST YEAR'S CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. THE SMALL TYPEWRITER ALWAYS REMINDS ME OF THE MOVIE "THE LOST WEEKEND," WITH RAY MILAN, ABOUT AN ALCOHOLIC WRITER, WHO TRIES TO HOCK HIS TYPEWRITER FOR SOME BOOZE, TO CARRY ON HIS DRUNKEN BINGE. I HAD THE DRUNKEN BINGE BUT IN MY CASE, I FOUND THE TYPEWRITER ON THE "OPEN MARKET," WOULDN'T HAVE FINANCED MORE THAN A CUP OF ALCOHOL FREE EGG NOGG AT CHRISTMAS. MY MANUALS ALWAYS LOOKED LIKE THEY'D BEEN IN A CAR CRASH. I MAY HAVE TOSSED A COUPLE OF THEM IN ANGER. I CAN'T REMEMBER. I DO RECALL  FINDING ONE HANGING OUT OF THE DRYWALL ONCE OR TWICE, WAKING UP WITH A MASSIVE WRITER'S HANGOVER. I'M SOBER NOW, SO I DIDN'T TOSS MY SON'S LAPTOP.

     SO WE'RE ALL STILL HOPEFUL THAT THE SUBJECT, INJURED LAPTOP, THAT WAS LAST YEAR'S CHRISTMAS GIFT, WILL SURVIVE THIS LATEST TWO FISTED ASSAULT BY THE WRITER IN RESIDENCE. I KNOW ANDREW THINKS I WAS HITTING THE KEYBOARD TOO HARD, JUST LIKE I'M DOING NOW, ON OUR HOME "APPLE," PLAYING THE SUCKER LIKE A CATHEDRAL PUMP ORGAN. I DO FEEL BAD, ABOUT THAT POOR LITTLE LAPTOP, LAYING UNDER A SINGLE WHITE SHEET, TECHNICIANS HOVERING OVER IT, IN THE BRIGHT WHITE LIGHT OF INNOVATION, TRYING TO BRING HER BACK FROM THE DEAD. THAT'S DRAMATIC EH?  SO IN THE MEANTIME OF THIS LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE, I'VE HAD ANOTHER DAY OF TRYING TO WRITE MY BLOG LONG-HAND, AND THEN READ THE NOTES I'VE MADE, FOR THIS TRANSCRIPTION INTO CYBERSPACE. SO FAR SO GOOD. I STARTED DOUBLE SPACING, WHICH I REFUSED TO DO WHEN I WAS WRITING FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE IN BRACEBRIDGE. I WAS FRUGAL ABOUT THE PAPER I USED, AND DOUBLE SPACING MEANT I'D USE TWICE AS MUCH AS NECESSARY. I WAS HATED BY OUR TYPESETTERS. I'M SURE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THIS.

     I'VE NEVER HAD LUCK WITH ELECTRIC TYPEWRITERS, MDT TERMINALS, THAT WE UPGRADED TO, IN THE NEWSROOM, BACK IN THE MID 1980'S, OR COMPUTERS……BECAUSE I'M A SLOB WHEN IT COMES TO DRINKING WHILE WORKING, AND WHILE I COULD GET AWAY WITH IT USING A MANUAL, BECAUSE IT WAS JUST DRIP THROUGH AND ONTO THE DESK, THE ELECTRIC UNITS TEND TO SMOKE AND SPUTTER. SO AT LEAST WITH PEN AND PAPER, THE CARNAGE IS LIMITED.

     HERE NOW IS SOME MORE BACKGROUND ON FORMER GRAVENHURST ARTIST, FRANK JOHNSTON:

NOTE: THIS WAS A BLOG FROM DECEMBER 2011 THAT FITS THE LATEST NEWS ABOUT THE PROJECT ACTUALLY BEING APPROVED:

IT WAS JUST OVER TWO WEEKS AGO TODAY, THAT I ASKED SUZANNE (MY RESEARCH PARTNER) IF SHE COULD DO AN ONLINE SEARCH FOR A FORMER GRAVENHURST ARTIST, WHO HAD ONCE DONE MY PORTRAIT. FOR THE PURPOSES OF SOME INTERESTING HISTORICAL BLOGS, FOR THIS WINTER, I WANTED TO DO SOME BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL WORK ON CANADIAN PRINT-MAKING LEGEND, AND AMAZING WATERCOLORIST, FRANK JOHNSTON. IF YOU'VE BEEN IN MUSKOKA FOR THIRTY OR SO YEARS, YOU'VE PROBABLY COME UPON HIS NAME OR ART IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER….FROM LARGE PRINT DEPICTIONS OF OUR HISTORIC BUILDINGS OR TRADITIONAL COMMUNITY SCENES ON GREETING CARDS. I FIRST GOT TO KNOW FRANK'S WORK, WHEN WE'D GO, AS A YOUNG FAMILY, TO GRAVENHURST'S SLOAN'S RESTAURANT, ON MUSKOKA ROAD, WHERE NUMEROUS LARGE FORMAT WATERCOLORS HUNG, PROFILING MANY OF THE FAMED MUSKOKA LAKES STEAMSHIPS. THEY WERE MAGNIFICENT AND COMPELLING, AND ONE OF THE REASONS ANDREW, IN HIS EARLY YEARS, BECAME A STEAMSHIP FANATIC. HE COPIED FRANK'S WORK BUT IN LEGO INSTEAD OF PAINTS. BUT THE PRESENCE OF THOSE PAINTINGS, GAVE SLOANS AN AMAZING AMBIENCE TO LOCALS AND VISITORS. IT WAS A PLEASANT PLACE TO SIP A COFFEE AND HAVE SOME OF THEIR FAMOUS BLUEBERRY PIE…..AND GLANCE LONGINGLY AT THOSE COLORFUL PAINTINGS BY AN ARTIST FEW KNEW MUCH ABOUT.

MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO FRANK JOHNSTON, WAS WHEN HE SKETCHED MY PORTRAIT, FOR A NEW COLUMN I WAS WRITING FOR THE FLEDGLING LOCAL PUBLICATION, "MUSKOKA TODAY," RUN BY THE CLAIRMONT BOYS, HUGH AND MARK. THE COLUMN WAS HEADED "HOMETOWN ADVANTAGE," AND HOW PLEASED I WAS THAT FRANK REPRESENTED ME SO HANDSOMELY. A TOUGH TASK. I LOVED THAT SKETCH. FRANK HAD DONE IT FOR ALL THE WRITERS THEN, AS A FAVOR TO HIS OLD FRIEND HUGH, ONE OF GRAVENHURST'S MOST POPULAR TRUMPET PLAYING COLUMNISTS.

I STILL DIDN'T KNOW TOO MUCH ABOUT FRANK AT THIS POINT, OTHER THAN I WANTED TO OWN EVERY ORIGINAL WORK HE EVER PAINTED.

In fact, it wasn't until long after his demise that I quite accidentally picked up a biography of Canadian artist Harold Town, one of the Group of Eleven painters of the 1950's, that had been written by a close friend, author Iris Nowell. The book is titled "Hot Breakfast for Sparrows," referring to what Town's father used to say, when the horsedrawn delivery cart passed their family home……suggesting the birds would soon be benefitting from what had been left behind. I've long been a follower of Harold Town's work, and as a kid, I used to watch him as a frequent guest of Lunchtime with Elwood Glover, and it was always interesting when columnist Paul Rimstead was booked as a guest at the same time. (Rimstead had gone to Bracebridge High School.) Both were practical jokers and Elwood had his hands full……if I remember correctly, pies in the face were a regular occurrence. Back to point, while reading the book, I kept coming across the name of print maker, Frank Johnston, without really putting our artist, and Harold Town together, until I saw a black and white image showing the both of them, and I knew it was the same chap who had so capably made my face look human. It was referenced in the book, that Town considered Frank Johnston one of the finest print makers in Canada. When you read about Town, you'll appreciate just what kind of man Johnston had to be…..on two levels, not to strangle him. One as a persnickety, attention to detail print maker, and the other as a patient, level-headed, compassionate partner in the process. Town was, by all accounts, almost inhumane about those who dealt with his art work……whether on the printing press, or hanging it for an exhibit. For Johnston, it nearly drove him nuts, because Town seemed to be able to find the most minute flaw…..and force another round of adjustments before a full run of copies could be made. There were plenty of arguments, and although some observers might have felt a fisticuff was about to occur, the professionals worked it out, to make exceptional products.

And it was common to find both Johnston and Town, and other celebrity guests, like art historian David Silcox, out on the printmakers sailboat, the "Cara Mia," that he stored at the side of his Hughson Street house for years. There are a few references to these party-outings on the Cara Mia, in Iris Nowell's book. By the way, Silcox and Town were co-authors of the landmark biography, "Tom Thomson; Silence and The Storm," published in the early 1970's.

As for the online search for information on Frank Johnston, it is dominated by information on Group of Seven, founding artist, Franz (Frank) Johnston, who also had a family connection in Muskoka. I began looking through boxes of archives material, trying to find one of about twenty print images I own, made but not signed by the artist. In two weeks I tore into about thirty boxes, with no result. I won't say I'd given up, but certainly decided to give myself a little wiggle-room to do the blog on his work. What was possibly the strangest aspect of the past several weeks, was that something told me my luck was about to turn. Seeing as I'm always working on paranormal stories, and research, it's not uncommon to get this feeling of impending discovery. It does happen, that if I seek something hard enough, eventually the log-jam breaks, and there's a flood of connected materials to satisfy my needs. But it's how these finds are made that's quite unusual. I'll have books fall off a shelf by themselves, that are the ones I'm looking for. I don't argue with the ghost librarian. I get what I need. End of story.

Yesterday afternoon, Suzanne and I were antique hunting in Muskoka, as we have done every weekend since we got married in the mid 1980's. In a Bracebridge antique shop, (second hand items as well), I had exhausted my search, and was just about to ask Suzanne if she'd found anything we couldn't live without…..and that if not, I was ready to move on to the next shop down the line. I made one last turn of an aisle, looked down, and sitting on a little dresser was my holy grail for the year. My Christmas present. It was a small, handsomely framed Frank Johnston print, featuring a train pulled into the Gravenhurst Train Station, circa 1987, in the midst of a winter snowfall. Best of all, it was titled and signed by Johnston himself…..with a bonus biography adhered to the back. I would have paid quadruple the asking price for that important piece of Frank Johnston art. Now here's the coincidence…..whether any Christmas spirits were involved….well, that depends on whether you believe in stuff like this. Not only was I actively searching for some biographical material, as well as a print to use in this blog, in one purchase I got both. Even before I got into that shop, I was still trying to think where I might have stashed some of this greeting cards in the house. And add to this, the fact that on at least three occasions this week, I wrote about trains in my respective hometowns (in the winter)……Bracebridge, while growing up, Gravenhurst ever since. Now considering the deep immersion in the quest for Johnston, and the huge whacks of copy written about my life with trains here in South Muskoka (blog entries this week), it's more than a little unusual that I would find it all in one shop, on one dresser-top, and all inclusive on one piece of art. In a second blog, tomorrow, I would like to re-print Frank's own biography, on the back of the small art piece, for future reference.

The story of the steamship art from Sloans is a long story, and I only know a small portion of it…….disallowing me any kind of expertise to provide appropriate, factual enlightenment. I do know that the artist was not a happy camper, when he learned the paintings had been sold to a Huntsville institution…..as it was understood by him, that if the paintings were ever removed from the restaurant, for any number of reasons, the Town of Gravenhurst would become stewards of the small collection. This didn't happen, and to the best of my knowledge, feelings between the town and artist never healed…..and may have never even been addressed, as a matter of protocol, to a well known artist who had served the cause of history and culture so well, for so many years. He moved away, and spent the final years of his life in Picton, Ontario to be closer to family. I stand to be corrected, and would appreciate hearing from anyone who knows more about the life and times of Frank Johnston…..that I could use to provide a clearer biography of a truly fascinating man.

More to come in tomorrow's blog.

Frank Johnston Biography, A Go! Gravenhurst History

THE COMPUTER GLITCH …….. I WANT TO TOSS IT INTO THE TRASH

     JUST A PREAMBLE TO TODAY'S BLOG. I HAVE NOW RESORTED BACK TO HANDWRITING MY BLOGS, AND THEN SIMPLY TYPING MY NOTES ONTO THE "APPLE" WE HAVE AT HOME. I HAVEN'T DONE THIS IN YEARS BUT AFTER LOSING THREE LENGTHY BLOGS THIS SUMMER, DUE TO TECHNICAL ISSUES, I DECIDED TO GO BACK TO THE GOOD OLD DAYS, UNTIL I CAN GET A HEAVY DUTY LAPTOP THAT DOESN'T MIND BEING PUNCHED ABOUT FOR TWO HOURS A DAY. THE COMPUTER IN MY OFFICE HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, KICKS BACK, AND BEGS FOR MORE ABUSE, AND FOLKS, I'VE DEMOLISHED HUGE MANUAL UNDERWOODS, AND SMITH CORONAS, AND ALL KINDS OF ELECTRIC TYPEWRITERS, MADE FOR THE DEMANDS OF THE OFFICE. ONE OFFICE SUPPLY CLERK, AFTER MANY RETURN TRIPS TO REPLACE WORD PROCESSORS, ASKED ME TO SIT DOWN, AND SHOW HER HOW I TYPED. SHE ASKED ME WHETHER OR NOT I WAS A MUSICIAN, WHO PLAYED THE ELECTRIC KEYBOARD (ORGAN). WHEN I SAID "NO, I'M MUSICALLY DYSFUNCTIONAL," SHE SAID WELL, "THEN DON'T TYPE LIKE YOU'RE PLAYING A CHURCH ORGAN. THE KEYBOARDS ONLY NEED A LIGHT TOUCH. YOU'RE POUNDING ON THE KEYS, AND THE STAFF (AT QUITE A DISTANCE AWAY), CAN HEAR YOU AS CLEAR AS IF THEY WERE STANDING BESIDE YOU. THEY SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO HEAR YOU, HALF WAY ACROSS THE STORE. GET SOME ANGER MANAGEMENT."

     IN THE LATE 1990'S, AFTER DESTROYING ABOUT A DOZEN TYPEWRITERS IN A DECADE, AND ALL KINDS OF ELECTRONIC TYPEWRITERS, AND WORD PROCESSORS, I RESORTED BACK TO A PAD OF PAPER AND A BUNCH OF BALL POINT PENS. ONE SUNDAY MORNING, I HEARD A SHREIK FROM THE LIVINGROOM. "MY HARVEST TABLE, MY BEAUTIFUL TABLE…..LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE," SUZANNE LAMENTED, DRAGGING ME BY THE ARM TO SEE THE END OF THE TABLE WHERE I SAT DAILY, TO PEN MY COLUMNS. "LOOK, YOU TOOL….., YOU'VE WRITTEN SO HARD ONTO THE PAPER, IT HAS GONE RIGHT THROUGH INTO THE PINE. YOU'VE ETCHED OUR HARVEST TABLE WITH YOUR COLUMNS." SHE WAS "WRITE." DO YOU KNOW, I ACTUALLY WROTE "WRITE" IN THE PREVIOUS SENTENCE INSTEAD OF "RIGHT." SEE, I'M LOSING MY MARBLES OVER THIS COMPUTER THING. BACK TO THE PINE TABLE-TOP, GEEZ, I'D BEEN PUSHING DOWN SO HARD ON THE PEN TIP, THAT IT HAD GONE THROUGH THREE OR FOUR SHEETS OF PAPER, AND INTO THE WOOD. I CHECKED THE BACKS OF OLD COLUMNS, AND IT WAS UNBELIEVABLE THAT FOUR SHEETS DOWN, YOU COULD FEEL THE PEN'S IMPRINT.

     WHEN A READER EMAILED ME ONE DAY, AND ASKED WHY I USE UPPER CASE TYPE, TO BEGIN MY BLOGS, I COULD ONLY EXPLAIN, THAT IT WAS A CARRY OVER FROM MY EARLY DAYS AS A FRUSTRATED WRITER, GETTING ALL EMOTIONAL WITH EMPHASIS, AND BEATING THE HELL OUT OF MY SUCCESSION OF TYPEWRITERS, (I STILL OWN FOUR BROKEN ONES TO REMIND ME OF JUST HOW EMPHATIC I COULD GET), AND APPARENTLY, A HARVEST TABLE, THAT HAS NOW BEEN RELEGATED FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY, AT OUR NEW GRAVENHURST ANTIQUE SHOP. I COMMENTED TO SUZANNE THE OTHER DAY, THAT WE HAVE THE ONLY HARVEST TABLE THAT YOU CAN READ. SO THE STORY HERE, IS THAT I FRIED ANOTHER KEYBOARD, ON MY SON'S LAPTOP, AND HE DOESN'T WANT ME TO USE IT ANY MORE. IT WAS CONVENIENT WHILE I WAS WORKING AT THE SHOP, AND SON ROBERT WOULD PUT THE FINISHED COPY ON A MEMORY STICK, TO TRANSFER TO OUR MAIN COMPUTER AT HOME. NOW I'VE JUST GOT THIS BOOK OF NOTES I CAN'T READ, SO PLEASE BE PATIENT, WHILE I WORK MY WAY TROUGH THE QUAGMIRE OF WORDS THAT I'M NOT SURE OF, AND HAVE DEFINITELY SPELLED WRONG. TODAY'S BLOG LOOK'S LIKE A DRUNKEN SAILOR'S BREAKFAST. I HOPE IT DOESN'T READ LIKE THIS, BUT IT SURE LOOKS BAD ENOUGH. IF YOU WERE TO FEEL THE BACKS OF THE PAGES IN THIS SAME BOOK, THERE IT IS AGAIN……THE "RAGE OF THE WRITER," WHO HAS IMPRINTED THROUGH ABOUT EIGHT OF THE PAGES, WORKING ON ONE. NO WONDER WRITING GIVES ME A STIFF NECK.

     NOTE ABOUT TODAY'S BLOG: I HAD TO DIG INTO MY ARCHIVES FOR ONE OF MY EXTRA COLUMNS, THAT WOULD BE SUITABLE FOR THE OCCASION. I GAVE UP TRYING TO DECIPHER THE NOTES. I'M GOING TO TRY HANDWRITING AGAIN TOMORROW, BECAUSE THEY TELL ME THE LAPTOP HAS GONE INTO A DEEP COMA, AND MAY NOT MAKE-IT. APPARENTLY, JUST BEFORE IT FELL INTO ITS DEEP SLEEP, IN ELECTRONIC LANGUAGE, THE TENDING TECHNICIAN HEARD IT SAY….."CURRIE, YOU BASTARD! YOU'VE KILLED ANOTHER ONE OF US!"

     AS I AM VERY FRUGAL, I MAY HAVE TO MAKE LOTS OF PAPER NOTES IN THE FUTURE, SO I NEED TO GET SOME HELP WITH MY HANDWRITING…..AND SOME OF MY INHERENT ANGER ISSUES. OR AT LEAST, THAT'S WHAT EVERYONE IS TELLING ME. AND JUDGING BY THE FACT I'M STILL WORKING IN THE UPPER CASE, THEY MUST BE RIGHT. BUT I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING……WHILE I MIGHT ETCH EVERYTHING THAT I'M WORKING UPON, IN MY BID TO WRITE LIKE OUR FOREFATHERS AND MOTHERS DID, BY PEN, BUT BY GOLLY, THE POWER CAN FAIL ALL IT WANTS……AND AT THE END OF THE DAY, I'LL STILL HAVE THIS HARD COPY IN FRONT OF ME……….THAT I WON'T BE ABLE TO READ. BUT YOU GET THE POINT.

     THE COMPUTER GOT ME THIS TIME. BUT THERE WILL BE NO SURRENDER. I SHALL WRITE, AND BE ABLE TO READ IT, ONCE AGAIN…….OR, SUZANNE SAID SHE'D DO IT FOR ME……IN ORDER TO SAVE OUR NEW DINING ROOM TABLE THAT I'VE BEEN WORKING AT THIS EVENING.

     I CALL THAT PROGRESS AND INNOVATION…….ME BEING THE ROOT CAUSE OF HER CHAGRIN. WHAT THE HELL ARE OLD WRITERS GOOD FOR ANYWAY…..IF NOT TO CHALLENGE STATUS QUO?

FRANK JOHNSTON WAS ONE OF CANADA'S FINEST PRINT-MAKERS

GRAVENHURST SHOULD BE PROUD OF OUR CONNECTION

     The blog I lost on the laptop, by the way, was about Frank Johnston. The notes in the book, in front of me now, are the re-writes, paragraph by paragraph from memory, of the blog in the nearly-deceased laptop, under the whiter sheet, in the service department of a local computer shop. So I'm going to cut to the chase here, and give this subject artist, a third try, in order to tell you…..and the good folks of Gravenhurst, that I have been in contact with members of the former Gravenhurst artist's family, in Picton, Ontario, and I have received initial approval, to commence research on his life and art…..which I have to tell you, makes this one of the most exciting biographical projects for me, in the past thirty five years in the often storm-filled profession. I have had a fascination about the work of Frank Johnston (Not the Group of Seven Artist) since my family began taking me to Sloans Restaurant for Sunday afternoon treats way back when…….and you know that had to have something to do with their famous blueberry pie…..which by the way is still being asked for, to this very day, by visitors to our shop, (because we answer all Gravenhurst historical inquiries) who used to go there as kids too. "What happened to Sloans," they ask, and "you mean there's no more blueberry pie. It was a Muskoka tradition for God's sake!" Well, in my day, and when our boys were youngsters, as we sat there with our pie and ice cream, we were looking up at those fascinating, huge, and colorful Frank Johnston watercolors, depicting Gravenhurst's steam era…..of steam boats and trains, and the opening of the Muskoka Lakes to tourists from all over the world. I wonder how many pairs of eyes, studied those beautiful art pieces, for all those years, that they graced the interior of that great pine trimmed restaurant……that was our living history.  Well sir, I'm going to be re-living those days, when our historic wee town was being sketched and painted by one of Canada's well known heritage-proud artists……known well, by Canadian Group of Eleven Artist, Harold Town, as one of the finest print makers in the whole country. Town and Johnston worked together for quite a few years, and when they weren't print-making, they might have been out on Johnston's sailboat, the "Cara Mia," that used to dry-dock at the side of his Gravenhurst home. You can read about Town and Johnston, in the book, "Hot Breakfast For Sparrows," the biography written by Iris Nowell. There is a photograph, in the book, of Town and Johnston studying the printing press, during one of the art-runs, that often had both artists nearly coming to blows. Both men had considerable tempers, to go with their enormous talents.

     The purpose of tonight's blog, is to yell-out from the roof-top here at Birch Hollow, how great and proud it will be for me, a humble scribe (who has no luck with keyboards) to rekindle the days when Frank Johnston ran his printing press in a quiet local neighborhood, and could be seen in the company of Hugh Clairmont, the other giant among the townsfolk of once, in a debate about hometown politics, or the national stuff that ruffled their respective feathers. I'm going to take a year to work on this hunting and gathering mission, to piece together a reliable, balanced biography of this talented, prolific artist, who lived amongst us…..and appreciated our local heritage, as if he had lived here forever. I want to ask those who knew Frank Johnston, or who own one of his prints or originals, to participate in this community project, to celebrate his many accomplishments. I want to know more about him. I think you can help me. And as I will be working from a small cubby hole, at the former Muskoka Theatre on Muskoka Road, now Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables, (and antiques), please feel free to drop in for a chat about Frank Johnston, and contribute to this important community history. I hope to be able to track down where the famous steamship paintings went, after Sloans ceased business operation. I have had information that they had been purchased by a retirement home in Huntsville. Any information in this regard would be enormously helpful.

     Please join me again tomorrow, when I finally figure out what I wrote about the good Mr. Johnston today……that at present, looks as if a rooster had ink on his claws and did a little cocky jig on my notebook. But please know this……I don't get excited much these days, because I've done most of the really big stories here three times over, and I'm not permitted to stay out late, or go to parties that might get on the wild side……but I've got to tell you, this is a year I'm looking forward to, because of this rare opportunity, to work on a biography of an artist, I believe, was an exceptional Canadian…….a highly regarded artist, that we, to be honest, didn't really know as well as we should have. This is what I want to change. If you can help, I would be extremely grateful.

     Sorry for the screw-up with electronics. It was so much simpler in the old days. We just painted pictures on rocks……and clubbed you on the head if you didn't laugh at the joke. Good day to you!

Tom Thomson's Northern Lights

 If you have ever found yourself in a northern lakeland setting, in the dark solitude of a chilly autumn night, and witnessed the haunting aura of the Northern Lights, wavering over the pine horizon, you will know the strange feeling of isolation, yet the very gentle, friendly touch of legend upon the soul. Some of us who believe in paranormal as "our everyday normal," would say this kind of natural experience, takes us into the legend as its participants. Not simply as its voyeurs. It is our awakening to the universality of existence, and beyond.
    As you watch the sky, and see the pulsating rainbow of spirit-lights, dancing just above the distant hills, you are calmed by the soothing wash of waves upon the sand, and the cool touch of autumn air against exposed skin. You are alive. Invigorated. Inspired. Fascinated by the spectacle of nature, yet interpreting it as a human experience, just as artist Tom Thomson attempted with his many sketches, more than ninety-five years ago, while camped out alone, on this same Algonquin lake, watching and wondering about the enchanting light display
  Tom Thomson was fascinated by such occurrences in nature, of wild stormfronts and the Northern Lights. The Canadian landscape artist, used to spend hours upon hours, in the cold Algonquin nights, on some promontory of rock, watching the light display along, and high above the contrasting silhouette of tall pines. He made quite a few sketches of the Northern Lights on different occasions, and was always pleased when someone, viewing the panels at Mowat Lodge, would remark how cold and lonely the scene looked. He wanted to capture that feeling of natural wonder, yet the sensation of other-worldliness, where one might feel the presence of heaven on earth; be nervous but accepting of such angelic light imposing on the harsh, rugged realities of the Algonquin landscape.
    I feel this way each time I view one of his depictions of the Northern Lights, as if I am side by side the artist, looking up at the fanning, and fading of colored bands of light, from earth into the universe, feeling physically cold, but emotionally in awe, being a witness to such fantasy as reality. Thomson immersed himself in these situations, and there are those admirers of his work, who feel he knew the legends of the lakeland intimately.....passionately. I am one of those admirers. He wasn't simply in awe of nature. He took up his art supplies, and immersed himself, sitting outside, late into the night this time of the year, to experience nature at its heart; not wanting to miss any of the characteristics of the vibrant environment, and always looked, and questioned beyond what most saw, and interpreted in writing, as "the picturesque," and nothing more. In his work, you see a bold strike forward, to test the texture and sensations of that exposed world, where even the most minute qualities, somehow influenced his quest, and peaked his imagination about the meaning of life.
    There are those who would claim this to be "bunk," and pure speculation for speculation's sake! They would claim he was as humbly mortal as the rest of us, and was simply a competent artist, who could paint what he witnessed. Yet just as there are philosophers, poets and dreamers, who refuse to be limited by the compartments of experience, set out by those of limited vision and imagination, Thomson has given every appearance of being a spiritual interpreter of these scenes; based on his knowledge of wild places, that can not be contained, or limited, as one might appreciate, of the unpredictable rage of an autumn gale pounding down over the lakeland; or a snowstorm sculpting these pines and barren hardwoods in the light, shadow and cold of a familiar winterscape. Nature is boundless. Endless. As are the explorations of those attempting to understand what rules the universe. Thomson was a free thinker, in this regard, and it shows in his art.
    Thomson wasn't a great bard, or a languishing philosopher, looking for the meaning of life. But he wasn't one to embrace commonplace because it was readily available, and economic in effort. He felt the spirit of nature, and he followed it as far as he could, until it eventually, turned on him, like a two headed serpent, and took him to the bottom of his cherished lake. Thomson allegedly drowned in Canoe Lake, ninety-five years ago, this past July, although many believe he was murdered, and his body dumped, with a weight attached to his leg, into the moonlit lake. I've heard some folks claim, that it was as if he knew the end was coming, explaining that spring's prolific schedule of painting, when Thomson sketched daily, to capture the maturing season coming into the deep greens and humid oppression of July.
    It was in the autumn season, that we most enjoyed our camping adventures to Algonquin. I preferred Tea Lake, and our family made many trips to the Tea Lake Dam, where Thomson used to paint and fly-fish in the rapids. We paddled in the early afternoons into Canoe Lake, and onward to Mowat, as a sort of pilgrimage, to see where Thomson's work became so poignant and compelling to those who knew his work......and those who would come to be his great supporters, and collectors. I sat at lakeside on many nights, thinking how grand it would be, to watch his ghost canoe pass by, against the rock and tree shoreline of Tea Lake. His slow, gentle, deliberate traverse from one universe of existence to the other, in front of our eyes. Many nights out there, with the Northern Lights dazzling across the horizon, I thought I heard the sound of his paddle, the water droplets trickling off the blade, so poetically to the story of a legendary Canadian artist, who left this mortal coil unceremoniously, tragically, violently. Each year, several campers will claim to have come upon Thomson's ghost, at the Gill Lake portage, where it was said he was headed, the day he disappeared, that July day in 1917. Others claim to have seen him traversing Canoe Lake, usually in the early autumn evenings, his canoe silently emerging through the mist hovering over the still water. As quickly as the craft and paddler emerged, they vanish after only a few seconds of profound visibility. Some ask where the canoeist went, who was just paddling in front of the campsite. Many of these haven't heard about Tom Thomson or the sightings of his spirit canoe.
    If ever a ghost had a right to haunt the ground where it once dwelled, in mortal form, Thomson's spirit has every right to be part of this Algonquin lakeland. Part of an enduring legend, of which I have felt, for long and long, he was a part, and of which he understood intimately, like no other. I have stood out on one of those bald rock promontories, watching the Algonquin landscape consumed by an autumn storm, and felt a shiver of awe, at how magnificent and powerful, the electrically charged atmosphere became in mere seconds, of those black menacing clouds pushing over the far hills.  Much as he would have experienced, trying to last as long as possible, hunkered down with his sketching, against the wind and sudden lightning, striking and sparking down against the rock face, as his mood reflected the intensity of the storm.
   Those who knew Thomson, understood this sudden intensity, turning to meet the intruding front, as if he knew something about the prevailing storm, no one else did, or could, and it is how he painted....and made us feel the awe of even the wind, sweeping over the bluffs of exposed Canadian rock…..buffeted by the trillion storms of history. Imprinted by all of the nature, through all of the centuries of existence, and Thomson undertook, to protect, and promote this integrity, he found so spectacular. Even in it most sedate sunrise or sunset, he connected with this energy within, and reason to look closer at his subjects. Thomson's landscapes have a strong invisible current, that if you look long enough, and dreamily at, you can feel tug at your own soul, as if an invitation to traverse where he crossed the Algonquin waterways; where he portaged, fished, and sat around a campfire, contemplating the potential of life, and the enjoyment of its attributes. And how, if it was composed into art, it would appear sketched upon a birch panel.
   He saw art, where we might see a sparking cedar log in a fire pit. He found inspiration from a small, largely concealed wildflower, in the midst of fallen limbs, and scruffy growth cluttered in its vicinity, deciding it deserved his attention, and was evidence of beauty in the eye of the beholder. This he shared with us, and we are truly enriched for his actions, and reaction to the nature he discovered by daily life, during the simple, basic pleasures of work, and trundling place to place, in this sprawling natural parkland.
    Did Thomson understand native legend? Was he reverent of such things, and mysteries of the universe? Life, death and the afterlife. God? A heavenly reward?
     One thing is for sure, and of which his biographers and historians agree. We will never know how he perished, on that July day, ninety-five years ago. Or what he felt before his death. And for some of the paranormalist ilk, if there is any truth to the legend, Thomson's apparition, still traverses Canoe and Tea Lakes on these autumn nights, below the fanning aura of Northern Lights....on these still Algonquin lakes. 
    Whether he believed in the afterlife, or in legend and lore, or left it all to his imagination to sort out, Tom Thomson gave us a portal into the innermost energy of nature to inspire.....and of this, we accept the illumination he so generously provided, tempting our imagination, to step outside the barriers of perception we have been told, for long and long.....are imposed for our own good.
    When I am at a loss for words, I think of Tom Thomson out on that promontory, finding inspiration from what we have all been afforded....but many fail to recognize in this hurried pace of modern living. In the company of his art, I can find a lot to write about. I give you this column as evidence.

The "Good" About Tradition, Music on The Barge

WHAT A NIGHT FOR OLD TIME'S SAKE  -  THE GOOD BROTHERS ON THE BARGE

THE FINAL SHOW ALWAYS A NOSTALGIC WAY TO END A GREAT "MUSIC ON THE BARGE" SEASON

     IN THE YEAR 1889, A DESCRIPTION OF GRAVENHURST WAS INCLUDED IN A CHAPTER ON "THE MUSKOKA LAKES," WRITTEN BY W.H. WITHROW, IN HIS POPULAR BOOK, OF THE TIME, ENTITLED "OUR OWN COUNTRY;" A REGION BY REGION EXAMINATION, MUCH OF IT OBSERVED FROM ON-BOARD STEAM TRAINS, CHUGGING ALONG THOSE SILVER RAILS CONNECTING OUR COUNTRY SEA TO SEA. THE PASSAGE READS AS FOLLOWS:
     (ON THE NORTHERN RAILWAY) "At one hundred and fifteen miles (north from Toronto), is Gravenhurst, a rising town at the foot of the chain of the 'Lakes of Muskoka.' From its position, is the key to the great Lake District of the Muskoka, Magnetawan, the Nipissing regions, possessing excellent facilities for first-class railway system to the southward, and by steamers on the lakes, and by rail and stages on the colonization roads, to the
northward. The town occupies a most eligible site, crowning elevated but not too hilly ground, and encircling pretty bays in the form of huge amphitheatres."
     Just before three thirty, there was a black sky, and static on the AM radio, that seemed to indicate a return for all the Dorothys, to the Wizard of Oz. By four thirty, it looked like it might just rain a bit. By five thirty, my two feet were resting upon my venerable old birch, the one by the Gull Lake shore, that leans precariously over the walkway to The Barge. At six fifteen, there was people fuzz all over "Bald Man's Fringe," (the embankment above the lake). The Canadian flag was blowing briskly from north to south, and there was an expanse of blue sky with an August sun glow, as far as the lawnchair-bound man could see. The canoe traffic was a little light, yet colorfully red and yellow, due to the wind, and a few brave swimmers kept low in the water, out of the chilly air. By six thirty the party had begun, and the beachfront was filling up with concert-goers. By seven, Bald Man's Fringe was again a full head of hair (people), and the exposed beach in front of us, had its share of arm chair loungers. A couple of concert watchers found the Lifeguard's tower a perfect height for a clear view of the stage. The patrons brought everything from winter parkas, wool blankets, vintage car robes, and even some mittens, to go along with the toques. It wasn't that cold, but it was a big change of pace from most of the Sunday nights this past summer. Hot! Really hot!
     It was the kind of night, you know, that old writers cherish for all its contrasts and curiosities; it's flavor of community history, the tradition of summers in Muskoka, the sepia tone of nostalgia, in the gathering of old photographs of previous Barge summers, tucked into old albums and pressed into good books. It was a night when strangers became acquaintances, and the aroma of hot french fries permeated the air, and it was hard to deny that this was a special time of unrestricted, unfettered contentment, no strings attached…..no worries about the coming week, the business of the day, or expectations further ahead than the very next song. At times, during the evening, it felt as if somehow, the voyeurs had inadvertently stepped back in our own time, reaching for some comparable moment, when the gang was all together, and no one wanted to think about tomorrow, while today was as good as it was…..
     It was a night of pleasant fictions, so fascinating and inspirational, endearing and entertaining. It was a little haunting, as for many of us, we have been here before. The Good Brothers have appeared on The Barge for the past twenty-two years, and have become, unknowingly, the harbingers of late summer traditions. There is an echo when the show has concluded, and it will resound faintly across that lake, until they arrive back, once again, the very next August.
     Gull Lake has one of these magnificent natural amphitheatres, along its shore; and an island entertainment venue, known around the world, as "The Barge," is situated perfectly, a few metres into the lake, to entertain thousands of concert-goers who come each Sunday evening, through the summer season, to participate in the "Music on the Barge" concerts. Sunday evening, was the final performance of the year, and it was a memorable season-closer, with the outstanding performance by one of Canada's best known musical families, The Good Brothers. The park was packed, and after what began as a rainy early afternoon, it eventually cleared, as it has many times already this summer, heralding another perfect Muskoka evening.
     It is always a nostalgic evening when the Good Brothers come to town, because they are always the final act of the nine concert season, which began at Rotary Gull Lake Park this year, at the end of a hot, hot June. Only one concert had to be cancelled this year, due to threatening weather. So it was heart-sparking, to see some blue sky after the rain, and realize the show would go on, as scheduled. Barge Manager, Fred Schulz was on those proverbial pins and needles for the past seven days, particularly so when the fine weather folks, gave us some bad news about potential thunder storms. So to get a nice clear and dry night, and a whole evening with the Good Brothers, it was a gift to the patient....a bonus to the faithful, and a joy to all those who cherish those neighborly moments in the old home town, when we play host to folks from all over the region. This was one of those nights, that as a Gravenhurst citizen, you had to be beaming with pride, because there were a lot of out-of-towners, and many of our seasonal resident friends. And we were there too. We ended the concert series together, and it was a din of ovations, for one of Canada's longest serving, hugely talented bands, that continue to remind us, with their music, just how fantastic it is to be Canadian.
     What I appreciate so much about the Good Brothers, is that they are so appreciative of our venue, here in Gravenhurst, that they will talk about our town, and Gull Lake, while on tour throughout the world......saying that there's a little wooden platform, out on a sparkling lake, in a region known as Muskoka, that is one of their favorite places to play. And when someone, at one of these international performances, knows this place, "Gravenhurst," and possibly has watched a "Concert on the Barge" performance, sometime in the past......truly, we know we've got a good thing here......and that the money spent this year to restore The Barge, now more than fifty years old, was well worth the re-investment.
     It was a terrific show, and I think everyone in the audience felt a little pang of nostalgia toward the end, wishing that this night, this concert, this star-laden Muskoka sky was a forever moment, and we wouldn't have to fold-up our lawnchairs and head home to face the coming harvest.....the soon-to-be autumn season. As the opening of the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, reminds us it's the final chapter of the summer, The Good Brothers performance in Gravenhurst, marks as well, a changing of the seasons......but on a very positive, contenting recollection, of our time spent together, celebrating the good things in life. Of this, we are very wealthy people in spirit. Thank you Good Brothers, for ending the Music on the Barge season, with such joyful enthusiasm, for the Canadian way of life, and the nature that binds us together in this beautiful lakeland of Muskoka.
     Once again, thanks to all the Barge volunteers, and of course to Manager Fred Schulz, for once again, coming through with a solid season of enterainment at Rotary Gull Lake Park, on the newly refurbished Barge. I hope Gravenhurst Councillors had the chance to see this final concert of the season, and bask in the glory, of one of the most successful seasons in Barge history. It is to their credit, that The Barge was spared for another half century of entertainment, on-board. I hate to think of it having been removed from this lakeland setting, that has become so deeply imbedded in the social / cultural history of our fair town.
     Thanks to all those who came out to support Fred and this final concert of the summer season. Thanks for offering a donation. You can still make donations to Fred, if you so desire, which will be used to help fund future Barge concerts.
     When those stage lights go dim, and the volunteers close the hatch of Fred Schulz's Blazer, and wander on up the hill, for that last time this season……, the only sound now, being the waves lapping on the shore…., if you were to watch, patiently, from the edge of Bald Man's Fringe, you would notice, as a silhouette in the shore light, that Fred has stepped out of the vehicle, for one last look back, thanking, in his own soft-spoken way, an old friend, The Barge, that has once again, made it through another demanding season……a partnership that has meant the world to him……and, pretty much the same for us. This, my friends, is the spirit ingrained in tradition.
     Thanks for joining today's blog. Please visit again, soon.

Being Polite to One Another, A Lost Art

MANNERS? HERE'S WHAT WE'RE LOSING, FOLKS - AND IGNORANCE APPEARS TO BE THE NEW NORMAL

CORRECTING BAD MANNERS EARLY IN LIFE - WELL, IT WORKS - I'M LIVING PROOF CHANGE IS POSSIBLE

     MY MOTHER MERLE, WAS INSANELY DETERMINED TO PROMOTE GOOD MANNERS. NOT JUST FOR HER ONLY CHILD, BUT FOR ANY KID OR ADULT IN OUR WHOLE TOWN, WHO CROSSED HER PATH.....BUMPED INTO HER, BELCHED, FARTED, OR SPIT IN THE SAME LOCALE AS SHE HAPPENED TO BE SITTING, WALKING OR TALKING. IT WASN'T A PIOUS THING, OR ANYTHING THAT CAME OUT OF HER ATTENDING CHURCH, TWICE ON A SUNDAY, GROWING UP IN A LARGE TORONTO FAMILY. ATTENDING CHURCH IN THE MORNING AND EVENING ON A SUNDAY WASN'T CONSIDERED RELIGIOUS FANATICISM. IT WAS WHAT IT WAS, AND THE ONLY REASON MY GRANDFATHER, STANLEY JACKSON LOST SOME OF HIS GOOD FAITH, WAS WHEN HE BUILT A CONGREGATION THEIR NEW CHURCH, AND THEY REFUSED TO PAY HIM FOR THE WORK. HE DIDN'T LOSE HIS FAITH IN GOD, JUST IN THE BASTARDS WHO SAT IN THE PEWS, WHO NEARLY PUT HIM INTO BANKRUPTCY, SO THEY COULD HAVE A WARM, AND DRY PLACE TO WORSHIP.
     IN MY GRANDPARENTS' TORONTO HOUSE, ALSO BUILT BY MY GRANDFATHER, PROTOCOL AND POLITENESS WERE DEFINITELY ON A PAR WITH GODLINESS. I WAS PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST FREQUENTLY CHASTISED CHILDREN IN THE WHOLE MESS OF GRANDKIDS, TO RUN THROUGH BLANCHE AND STAN'S BEAUTIFUL BRICK AND OAK HOME. WHAT AN ELEGANTLY APPOINTED HOUSE IT WAS, SO THERE WERE EVEN MORE CONVENTIONS OF ETIQUETTE BASED ON THE LOOK OF THE HOUSE. MERLE WOULD BECOME ENRAGED BY MY RUDE BEHAVIOR, BUT BY GOLLY, IT WAS NEVER INTENTIONAL. I KNEW ABOUT THE "BOARDING HOUSE" REACH BEFORE I ACTUALLY LIVED IN ONE, AS A UNIVERSITY STUDENT.
     "TEDDY CURRIE," SHE'D STERNLY REMIND ME. "YOU MUST ASK FOR SOMEONE, CLOSE TO THE BUN BASKET, TO 'PLEASE' PASS THEM DOWN TO YOU, IF YOU WISH ONE." I WONDERED IF, BY CHANCE,  IT WAS THE SAME RULE FOR EXPELLING GAS, SUCH THAT IF YOU ASKED POLITELY, AND IN ADVANCE, WHETHER BREAKING WIND WAS OFFENDING COMMON DECENCY. I JUST WASN'T ABOUT TO ASK MERLE, AND WIND-UP HAVING MY EAR TWISTED OFF. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU.......NEVER, NEVER REACH OVER SOMEONE'S PLATE," SHE SAID, ABOUT THE GREAT BUN REACH. THE SOUND OF HER HAND HITTING THE BACK OF MINE, WAS A FAMILIAR DINNER-TIME SOUND, NEXT TO THE SOUNDS OF LADLES IN SERVING BOWLS, HEAPING OUT THE GENEROUS PORTIONS.
     I HEARD THESE GRUFF ONE LINERS,  A LOT OF TIMES IN THE FORMAL DINING DAYS, OF MY YOUTH, BUT BEFORE I ACTUALLY DEPLOYED THE OUTSTRETCHED ARMS, I'D HEAR THE FAINT RUMBLE OF MERLE'S VOICE, DEEP IN HER THROAT, REMINDING ME ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF "MINDING YOUR MANNERS." LONG AFTER MERLE'S PASSING, I STILL HEAR IT, WHEN WE'RE OUT FOR DINNER SOMEWHERE, AND THE URGE TO GRAB-UP A WARM ROLL STRIKES ME WITH HOPEFULNESS.......I WILL GET TO IT BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE. BAD MANNERS. YUP, IT'S HOW I WAS RAISED, AND IT WAS THE RIGHT WAY. IT'S HOW MY WIFE, SUZANNE WAS RAISED, AND OUR TWO BOYS, AND IT IS THE WAY WE WISHED TO BE TREATED. WE DON'T THINK IT'S TOO MUCH TO ASK EITHER.

BAD MANNERS ARE PREVELENT EVERYWHERE

     Since we began the antique shop extension, here at Andrew's Music and Collectibles, back in July, we have not only enjoyed brisk and successful business, and fair profit for our efforts, but have met up with some wonderful people and even some folks who used to visit us, when we had our store in Bracebridge, back in the early 1990's. We've had some compliments, and the very fact that what we have painstakingly collected over the years, is actually selling, we're at least optimistic, our multi-year hiatus from day to day retail, hasn't hurt our ability to buy for others. A huge majority of our customers and otherwise visitors to the shop, have been polite and appreciative of the materials in the collection. A small but significant number, have been horrible, as far as the standards of polite conduct, and fair comment. As we don't engage in arguments with customers, and never have, in any shop or sale that we have been a part, we are now left to grimace in silence, with only the occasional mumble into our shirt collars. In most adverse circumstances, we know how to let off steam, without having to make any retaliatory comment, or correction to a mistaken impression. It wasn't always this way for our store helpers, particularly when my mother did some shifts in the shop to help us out. God help you, if you came into the shop and said, "This place stinks." Let's just say, even if it smelled like a barn full of manure, according to Merle's rules of conduct, you didn't blurt out insults no matter what......unless, as she used to say, "do you want a poke in the eye." She never actually poked anyone in the eye, that I know of, unless it was one of her sisters growing up.
     Merle was just a stickler for protocol, and was a guest lecturer, wherever and whenever the circumstance prevailed; such as how one handles situations with grace and politeness, even in the face of "bald face ignorance." She also impressed upon me the rule, that even if someone is ignorant to you, "you never drop to their level." Thus, I'm assuming this meant, don't be ignorant in retaliation. Merle did believe in corrective measures, and as she said time and again, "You have to nip ignorance before it becomes the rule of conduct." I was thinking about that this afternoon, after the last hour of knobs who have felt it imperative to make comment about the aroma of the shop, the inventory we possess, the displays we have created, and the music we happen to be playing. I have suggested that Suzanne might, in the case of difficult clients, tether me to some unmovable object, or pillar, and muzzle me from making any comment whatsoever, other than nodding appropriately......."yes, we understand how you must feel so terribly disadvantaged, to come into our shop, which we love dearly, and criticize, as is your right, even the most minute detail of the modest offering. Thank you. And come again, why don't you!" When in actuality, I want to tongue lash them into a stupor, and befuddle them with quick, stinging quips, to make them quiver all the way out the door. I am my mother's child. Polite to a fault but the protector of what is right and fair.
     We just had a group of jerks in, and that's all you can call them, because they were only killing time, knocking displays over, unfolding blankets for the hell of it, commenting that they "had never been here before," and then laughing, to the point of tinkling in their pants, about "never coming back." So as they laughed, so did I, and Suzanne came running out of the other room, thinking, I'm sure, "Teddy Currie is being rude to someone." In a month and a half of mainstreeting, we've heard comments like "look at this crap," and "boy, have you ever seen so much junk." Or my favorite, "I threw that out two weeks ago." They like to ridicule us for pricing too high, and believe it or not....."too low," and they don't like the fact you have to walk down a long hallway to get to the second of our two rooms. If we provided a motorized cart for them to make the short hike, they'd still complain that, "do you only have this cart in purple?"
      There are more people than I remember, from my past retail experience, acting like asses, and honestly, it does ruin the retail experience. Even though Suzanne and I bite our tongues through these negative experiences, there are times in every long day, when some clown just happens by experimentation, to find their way under thin skin, for too long; way too long. This would happen once in a blue moon for my mother......who when she did explode, impacted everyone in the vicinity, for however long it took to correct the committed wrong. Once again, Merle believed with all her heart, in the virtues of patience and corrective measures. So instead of striking out at someone, she would be gruff but well within the standards of general politeness, and common courtesy. She would remind whoever made a hurtful, ignorant comment, that it was "nice to be nice." In the case of our store or inventory "smelling", she would remind them, that it really wasn't necessary, or mandated by God, to blurt out every thought or observation about the subject location, one happens to be visiting.  In other words, "suck it up," and save the comments, for discussion outside. "Feel free to never come back again," she'd say, if there was any smart-ass retort. "I hope she doesn't actually poke anyone in the eye," I'd ask Suzanne, half fearing that one day, a belligerent customer would make a sudden left turn, and bump her sense of protocol over the edge.
     Here's the problem with some folks these days......and I stress "some." It's a small percentage now, but I sense there's a tidal wave of customers who feel it is their God given right to unfurl ignorance, as rightfully as they smile or frown at the attending clerk. From what I have experienced in a wide variety of public capacities, including my stints in front-line retail, there is a sense of necessity, for some people, to opine just to hear themselves speak. To make themselves stand out in a crowd, or to let those within ear-shot, know their immense knowledge of such things......and that whatever they say, can change the earthly tides. They want an audience, and if there isn't one, even a clerk in the immediate area, no comments are necessary, as there is no ovation, or round of cheers to be garnered from their snide comments.An audience nearby, means the potential of hardy laughter, and cheers of "right-on" for the effort of reckless, random criticism. I have heard many editorials being expressed by self imposed experts in the field of antiques and collectibles, and on many occasions, knowing I was in place, offered some constructive advise on how to run a successful business. Seeing as I've never had a failed business in my life, I do find it necessary to grab onto my scruples, and defuse the time bomb within, slowly, over the next few moments of retail merchandizing. I know how difficult it must be for those people to "hold their water," so to speak, but geez, don't they realize they are making hurtful, disrespectful comments, intended to sting those who have found this business, their heart's desire......and simply wish to make a modest living. I want to ask them honestly, if making hurtful, smart ass comments, makes them feel better about themselves, and their life circumstances. Does directing critical comments satisfy their urges to change the world, as they know it, and reprimand us for daring to enter into the free market systems in the first place? What exactly would make these people happy? So happy and pleased with the environs, that they wouldn't feel any immediate necessity, to make nasty overtures, and unwanted critiques of our way of life? And I remember what my mother would do, in these circumstances, and for the most part, even she was resigned to the fact, some people are just plain nasty, and even God can't change that biography.
      But you know, on occasion, God does give us a little light hearted moment, to get even. "This piece is priced way too high. Can you do better?" When a nasty customer asks this question, well sir, you know what the short answer will be.      Some times, if the customer insists on badgering the insulted clerk, "me," I can become rather entrenched, as if rooted into the concrete floor, and remove the subject article entirely from the point of contention. "Hey what are you doing with that?" the customer bellows. "It's not for sale," I respond with glee, and a twinkle of the eye, as this is entirely my right to withdraw items at my discretion. So yes there is a negative reaction to being a disrespectful, abusive customer. Talk about chagrin, and the prevailing winds of attitude adjustment. I've watched so many revivals in front of me, where all of a sudden, customer opinions have become so much less aggressive and stinging, as their idea of free speech obviously backfired, and landed in a smoking lump, at their feet. They weren't going to be able to buy what they wanted. They don't like this reversal of situations, where the comments they have made, have ruined their opportunity to purchase items of interest.....for any amount of money. Works like a charm. I love it when they ask to speak to the manager, and that they will have me fired for my actions. I'd fire myself too, if there was someone else to splice in. Not that I'm trying to be mean, but rather, to make a clear statement about our code of conduct here, and it is based, as our family's upbringing, on the principles of good manners, and being neighborly. Like the reclamation of Ebeneezer Scrooge, after being visited by the three spirits of Christmas, I am open to both an apology, and a new customer and owner relationship. It's happened many times in the past. Let's just say, we work out our differences.
     I love meeting up with talkative, happy customers, who enjoy the experience and company, visiting our modest little shop. And they are always treated with respect and kindness, and afforded every privilege of being "friends of the shop owners," which is a nice position to be in, especially when looking for one of those kindness-inspired discounts on a special piece we happen to own. I have lived long enough in this industry, to tell you honestly, that some of our pain in the ass customers, of once, are still coming into our shop, decades later, and always politely, and with a compliment or two for the business opportunity we have provided, for their shopping convenience and satisfaction. So it is possible to change. Sometimes you just need a little shove in the right direction, and that, in our shop, may have been toward the door. There's no reason to be impolite, visiting someone's business, for your own gratification. Go out and shout into the trees or the clear blue sky, but don't take out your bad will on someone just trying to survive in a difficult business climate.
     I have never once, felt the absolute necessity, to express my outrage about someone's business, of which, at that very moment, I happened to be a guest. Yes, it was the way I was brought up, and I know now, why Merle was so hard on me, about such trivial matters as the "boarding house reach," and not belching at the dinner table. I had a guy go by me, a minute ago, belching like an old holstein, and it didn't bother him a bit that my wife was standing nearby. Well, at least he didn't fart, which is a small consolation, but we'll take it as an act of kindness bestowed. There is an old rule about the customer always being right. Nonsense. I've never subscribed to that, and never will, and I'm now past the quarter century mark of business involvement, and still thriving on the foundation of, "shopkeep's rules.....got it!" Here is a news flash. Just about any retailer on the planet could write a similar blog, and right now, after reading this overview, there are a few business people killing themselves laughing, recalling the past business day, being yelled at, haggled to death, critiqued, analyzed and yes, both belched and farted at, because of a general disinterest in good manners. These are the same clods, when shopping at the grocery store, who would leave a brick of ice cream, on a shelf, near the check-out, because they're too freaking lazy, and inconsiderate, to return it back to the cooler. The same goes for meat and produce, jammed on top of the chicklets, at the check-out desk, because, well, "who cares, right?" People like me.....that's who.
     We had a customer inform us, and aggressively so, that she intended to "Jew us down," on the purchase price of items she wished to acquire. It was as if a bomb had gone off in our collective heads. Chins on chest, we just looked at the customer with obvious disdain, and wondered how we could turf her out the door, without violating her constitutional rights. It was a case in point, of the kind of ignorance and insensitivity, retailers have to contend with, and this was one of those "believe it or not" moments, for us, who really do think everyone should be up to speed, on what is acceptable and what is hugely offensive. I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but then I remembered many other people using the same offensive reference, especially back when I was a kid and it seemed a common reference. I confess to being cowardly at this point. We did not give a discount. We did not engage in any other conversation. She made the purchase and left the building. I know that if I want to stay in this line of work, I will have to develop a better strategy for dealing with, and correcting, these kinds of insensitivites, that hurt us all. What if we had been Jewish? What would she have said then? Retaliation in this case, seemed counter-productive, and would have actually drawn attention to her, and the comment, in a busy shop setting. Yet maybe this is what needed to happen. I need help on this one. Maybe we should have refused to sell her anything.
     Thanks for joining today's blog-atorial. It may not be what you want to read, about customer politeness, but well, it's all I've got, standing here, with folks belching their welcomes in my face, and asking for discounts. Hey, we've got lots of mannerly, supportive customers. I wish that was the only kind of customer we had. Then I wouldn't get this urge to jump out from behind my desk, and wrestle them for an apology. I guess I'm the Happy Gilmour of store clerks. I can live with that. I was the same as a journalist. It's an entrenched trait, so when I jump out of my skin, in anger, it's certainly never the case, you can say, "Teddy Currie was acting out of character." "He's just like that," Suzanne says, while wiping the foam from the corner of my mouth. "You never stepped a skate-blade inside his goal crease, when he was playing hockey," she'd say. "And you don't dare tell him he's selling junk in his shop.....or else! The gloves are coming off!"
     It can be said with considerable accuracy, that an ogre works in the antique wing, of Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables.......but a "polite" ogre. And in the immortal words of Thumper the Rabbit, from the movie, "Bambi," If you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all."
     Now don't forget "The Good Brother's" performance, Sunday at 7:30 p.m., at Rotary Gull Lake Park, as the final production of the 2012 "Music on the Barge" season. It may be a little rainy, so it wouldn't hurt to bring an umbrella or rain cap for comfort's sake. There's a thirty to forty percent chance of rain early in the afternoon, but as far as the evening.....looks pretty good.  It's the last one. And it's going to be the best one. See you there. We're the twosome with the seven course picnic lunch, behind Gull Lake Park's most venerable birch. Having the time of our lives.
     Well Mr. Schulz? (Manager of The Barge). Do you have any nails left, or are you working on bone now? Fred hates rain-outs. Wishful thinking, has got us through seven of eight concerts so far this summer. Give us a little help, won't you? Let's mindfully push the rain off to Bracebridge and Orillia for a couple of show-time hours.

Working on Muskoka Biographies

WHEN YOU WORK ON LOCAL BIOGRAPHIES - WOW, WHAT INTERESTING PEOPLE HAVE CALLED GRAVENHURST AND MUSKOKA HOME

SO MANY COMPELLING STORIES WE SHOULD NOW ABOUT - HAPPY, SAD, AND INSPIRATIONAL

     EACH YEAR I'M TEMPTED TO WORK ON BIOGRAPHIES OF LOCAL ARTISTS, WRITERS AND POLITICIANS, AND I'M APPROACHED BY FAMILIES INTERESTED IN PURSUING STORIES ON, OR ABOUT THEIR FAMILY MEMBERS. AT THIS STAGE OF MY WRITING CAREER, I'M PRETTY FUSSY ABOUT THE PROJECTS I TAKE ON, AND WHAT BIOGRAPHY I THINK JUSTIFIES THE LARGE EXPENSE OF TIME, PARTICULARLY ON RESEARCH. I HAVE DONE MAJOR BIOGRAPHIES ON MUSKOKA ARTIST BOB EVERETT, PIONEER PAINTER, ADA FLORENCE KINTON, POLISH-CANADIAN LANDSCAPE ARTIST, RICHARD KARON, AND I'M HOPING TO BE ABLE TO DO SOMETHING ON GRAVENHURST ARTIST, AND WELL KNOWN CANADIAN PRINT MAKER, FRANK JOHNSTON, SOME TIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE.
     HAVING WORKED ON THE CASE OF CANADIAN PAINTER, TOM THOMSON'S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, ALLEGED TO BE THE RESULT OF DROWNING, IN JULY 1917, ON ALGONQUIN PARK'S CANOE LAKE, I'VE JUST THIS WEEK FINISHED SEVERAL MORE FEATURE COLUMNS, RECOGNIZING IT AS ONE OF CANADA'S LEGENDARY COLD CASES. IT WAS PART OF THE 95TH ANNIVERSARY RECOGNITION OF HIS DEMISE.     ADDITIONALLY, WITH THE LENGTHY RESEARCH AND MATERIAL PUBLISHED EARLIER THIS MONTH, ON WILLIAM HENRY SMITH, AND THE NAMING OF THE TOWN OF GRAVENHURST, IN AUGUST 1862, AFTER A BOOK HE HAD WRITTEN THE SAME YEAR, I'M WORN DOWN HERE AT THE KEYBOARD. I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO TURN MY HEAD MORE THAN A COUPLE OF CENTIMETRES LEFT OR RIGHT SINCE THE START OF THE NEW YEAR. I GNASH MY TEETH WHILE WRITING, AND IT COMPLICATES MY NAGGING JAW DISORDER. SHORT VERSION, WRITING IS BAD FOR MY HEALTH. BUT I'D RATHER DIE AT THE KEYBOARD, THAN BENEATH A PINE FLAT TO THE WALL, FALLING OFF A PICKER'S TRUCK......WHILE A CUSTOMER, ABOVE, ASKS IF I COULD PLEASE DO BETTER ON THE PRICE.

REBOUNDING AND KNOWING HOW TO RE-BOOT IS THE TOUGHEST PART OF WRITING

     The problem with writing for me now, is staying motivated. I began writing for publication back in the mid 1970's, and I've only ever had a year hiatus, when I hated everything connected to the writing industry. I left two local newspapers disgusted by the way I was treated, and vowed never to involve myself in the publishing industry again. Suzanne, bless her heart, kept working me out of my funk, and put a focus on kicking the bad memories aside, and pushing onward with a different perspective, and an open agenda. I did go back to the newspaper business, but always on a freelance basis, and generally, for the re-payment of services, with an appropriate advertisement exchange for whatever promotion I required. What Suzanne did, over a number of months, was suggest books to read, that might bring me back to my roots, and interests in writing. So the first book I read, was Stephen Leacock's "Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town," and it took about three days to finish. It happened to be at a time, when a bad snowstorm had us all buried, and it just wasn't safe to navigate to our shop in Bracebridge. But really, it was one book, that got me back on track, writing the stories I had wanted to pursue for most of my life.
    For one of a dozen reasons, I stuck to news and feature stories and not much more.  Maybe I did start imitating Leacock, just to see if I could get back my mojo. Gradually, over many periods of trial and error, and frustration, I found the reason to work out some style issues, and read more and more, of the kind of work closer to my field of interest. Garrison Keillor, the legendary American storyteller, was certainly a huge inspiration, and one of the voices I loved to hear on his regular radio show.....talking about the days at Lake Wobegon, in Minnesota. His characterizations of the citizens of the community, so intimate and humorous, that it all became so wonderfully human and familiar, as if the listener had been in that town his or her whole life.......and understood, and laughed about, each foible of character, we could picture in our minds......by the charming grace of the story teller, allowing us entry into his imagination, and the colorful world he saw and experienced.
     Folks who have been close to me, or our family, know that I'm always working on similar biographical sketches, and while not stand-alone books, are profiles that fit into the mosaic of our neighborhood, community and region. If I know you at all, I guarantee, I've got your biographical profile in my mind. It's just the way I am, but that doesn't mean that you will wind-up in a column or book, because of my hobby profiles. I have been called on many times, for quotes from other writers and researchers, about relationships I've had with local politicians, community leaders, athletes, poets and artists. This goes back to my news-hound days with the local press. When I was out researching an event or news tip, the human sources of the gathered research, were always intimately imbedded in the story, whether it seemed that way or not. It was a necessary part of the job, to understand those who wished to talk to us, in order to determine how genuine the information was, or if we were being duped by a citizen, for unspecified gain. So before I wrote any story, I had a pretty good knowledge of the subject or the source of the information, just in case. People suffering from mental disorders often found gullible reporters, looking for a big scoop. You had to know how to spot a less than responsible source of information. So by the rigors of the job, I started making these mental biographical studies, most of which have remained in my inventory of stories-completed, and many times, these recollections have proven enormously helpful, when a parallel or repeat story, from the same angles and situation, arises in the present tense. The material isn't written down, but I never forget the mood and intensity of past interviews.
     I can't turn it off, dear friends. I'm a biographer in waiting, and even if we're having coffee, and small talk, I'm remembering the occasion, as if it might be as important later in life, as it is at present. While some might feel this is an invasion of privacy, if they know me at all, it is soon realized I have no interest in financial gain, and I have never written a "naming-names" expose, because this doesn't serve my interests as a community writer. As for the intimacy thing, I can tell anyone concerned, that my standard of confidentiality, has never diminished since my days as a reporter, and I would go to jail to protect a source. In news reporting, I found myself many times, in situations, when there was danger to both myself and to someone other than the person I was interviewing. I'll give you an example.
     I came into the former Herald-Gazette office, one morning, to find the receptionist agitated, and I immediately assumed, someone featured in a news story, possibly a driver nailed with an impaired charge, was going to take a round out of me before my first full cup of coffee. I never more than sip, a wee bit, from coffee brewed at home. "There's a gentleman in your office, who wants to talk to the editor." Well, that was pretty typical, for the day after the newspaper was on the store shelves. If you got your paper by mail, this was generally the case. I was always on guard on these days, as I had to answer for the editorial work and integrity of all our contributing writers, including community correspondents. I dodged a lot of waving fists in those days. Most ended with a hand shake, but there were tense moments let me tell you!
     The gentleman pacing in my office, indeed, wanted to speak to a writer. The idea was that I would write a story about the way his wife was being manipulated by a member of the local clergy, and how she had been convinced to leave him. He was a big man, and he was very angry and wouldn't settle in one place to talk. He moved through the large office, belonging to the publisher, and I wondered why he kept putting his hand into his left jacket pocket. I did believe, at this moment, had I given him the bum's rush, out the door, he may have taken out his frustration on me. I paused him, and offered an apology, and asked another reporter, to come into the room, as potentially the staffer who may be assigned the story. It got worse. He didn't want to reason it all out, or relax, but instead get even. He thought we could expose this clergy member, and initiate a complaint against the church, for what had happened. What it came down to, was that the man was accusing the church official, of having an affair with his wife. It put this on real shaky ground, and it took us about an hour, to finally address some of his concerns. I studied him as close as if he had been a biography project, times ten. I really did believe he would have lashed out at one of us in that room, if he had sensed we were just trying to pacify him for the moment. This required us to be patient and sympathetic. We never resolved the issue, but just the fact we had listened to him, and allowed steam to release in our presence, calmed the situation enough, that he believed we understood his circumstance....and that we would carry-on with the investigation into his claims. We did in fact, and we found out that it was a very tragic circumstance, and he had simply tried to tie the minister, and church, into what was a timely decision to leave an abusive relationship. That was it. No misconduct. Just a domestic problem....with spin-off. For police, domestics can turn deadly. I didn't want any one to suffer injury on that day, and the case eventually resolved peacefully for all involved.    I've sat down with those preparing for death, and although sad for all concerned, I have found some of these conversations to be incredibly enlightening, and inspirational, once past the general feeling of inevitability, and sensing the fragile realities of mortality. I listened intently to those people, about to embark on incredible adventures, and have such high hopes of achieving personal milestones and career, artistic, literary and athletic successes. I've been a party to conversations after monumental failures and huge disappointments. I have found all of these conversations interesting, and worth investing in, because of the potential for knowledge sharing, and I've seldom been disappointed. I enjoy conversation of all kinds, and although I might not be able to understand some aspects of the subject matter, I'm eager to learn more. There have been times when I might have felt better, crying along with the subjects, or cheering them on with a high five and a "right on!" But mostly I've just listened, and allowed the story to form without interruption. A majority of these conversations have, of course, never made it to print, and there's little chance of this happening in the future. These chapters are my own personal archives. I've learned a lot from them.
     There was an instance, when a friend attempted to kill his wife, but was only successful in taking his own life. I wrote a column about it, and it created quite a controversy. I didn't take sides, but I presented a profile of my friend that others hadn't known. They were judging him on one act of desperation, and not on an entire life spent being a good citizen. We all have moments and occasions of weakness and frustration, and this particular gentleman had a serious medical condition. And he was not taking his medication, and he told me this prior to the incident. I listened to his stories, when he'd come into our mainstreet antique shop, and like the tales heard by bartenders the world over, my antique counter was a perfect place to rest an arm and unload the woes of the day, week, month or lifetime. I knew he had been going through serious marital problems, as he told me much about the problems he had experienced recently losing the love of his life. Yet he was one of the kindest people I've ever known, and there was never a time of day or night, if I needed help, the man would be there in a flash to intervene.
     I remember an occasion when I was having some difficulty, as a football referee, with a couple of angry players, who stayed behind after the game to have it out. My friend hadn't left the park either. I just didn't know it at the time. As I was getting ready to exit the park, the two chaps stepped in my path, and suggested I should learn how to referee before the next game. I tried to get past, but they wanted to make sure I got the message. My friend had been suspicious this might happen, as he had heard sideline banter, and all of a sudden, he came out of thin air, to stand with me against the disgruntled players. He wasn't a fighter, as such, but we knew that if he was involved in an altercation, it would certainly be long and drawn out, as he was tenacious at everything he did. He'd been in to see me the day before the shooting, and he seemed fine. We talked for an hour or so about local stuff, and general conversation, and there was nothing I saw in him, that day, to give me any suspicion of events to unfold within twenty-four hours. I did my biographical thing, but he was the same guy I'd associated with for years. But it was a condition of the heart at play here, and I missed whatever signs I should have, that afternoon, that might have caused me to either call police, or spend more time with him.....asking many more questions.
     I was standing with Suzanne at our sales desk, when I heard the news report on the radio. There were no names given, but a location was noted. I told Suzanne, at that precise moment, that it was our friend, who had turned the gun on his wife.....and then shot himself. What a terrible burden I felt then, recalling all the friendly discussions we had enjoyed in our years of friendship. I had failed my own stalwart commitment of "attention to detail" as a still-active reporter / biographer. How in the hell could I have missed this in our conversation? I knew him well enough, and understood his many mood swings, and there must have been some clue he presented, that he was planning an exit strategy, and not just for himself. It was tragic in every way possible, and I lived with a feeling of guilt for many years after. When I wrote about it, shortly after the event, I was accused of being indifferent to spousal abuse, and violence against women, siding with a mad man who treated his wife as a chattel, and not as a human being. I remember one woman, stopping me while crossing a street, in Bracebridge, demanding a chance to talk to me at the side of the road. She was wildly angry about my editorial profile, and yet, by time we'd had a few moments to look at the other side, she took me by the hand, and thanked me for explaining my decision to write the piece in the first place. How could anyone condone such a violent, vengeful act against another human. But there were two humans in this crisis. Not one. Even the biographer didn't see it coming.
     In the case of the angry husband, and the interfering member of the clergy,...... as he had threatened bodily harm to the minister, I felt it was incumbent to contact the minister first, just in case, the chap made his way to the church for a more intimate confrontation. I couldn't believe how indifferent he was to the situation, and seemed unfazed by the fact his whole family might have been in danger. I wanted to contact the police, but the minister refused to carry-it-on past our call, and we decided to wait and see if the man would pay us a second visit. It wasn't a story we followed-up on, but I did keep that memory locked away, just in case the man's name came up in other news or community events, after our interview. So it's been a habit of mine since those story hustling days of the late 1970's onward, that I made "biographical study," a pivotal part of my life, whether professional or social. It has flaws. But you know, others close to my friend, confessed the same thing....."we just didn't know how bad it had become." A lot of us shared guilt for his idea of marital resolution.
     I hope to do quite a few more biographies in the future, but I have one important project currently in negotiation, and it will be a gem if everything works out. There are a lot of incredible stories right here in Gravenhurst, and South Muskoka, that should be documented, because they serve to remind us, how small towns can turn out big talents, and major accomplishment.....while remaining modest about it all. It's regretful however, when one of these important stories remains unknown, even amongst the citizenry....and good neighbors. Some folks just don't want to brag about the adventures experienced in their lives. I don't call it "bragging." I do understand, in the case of misfortune and tragedy experienced, why there is reluctance to share these stories. Yet, even in tragedy, there is something to learn and share about the experience, that reminds us all of courage and resolve to face obstacles. I don't exploit these stories for personal gain. I record and relay them, because I understand their importance in the grand scheme.....of knowing ourselves and our neighbors.
     Thanks so much for joining today's blog. Please visit again soon. Remember The Good Brothers Concert, on Sunday evening, beginning at 7:30 p.m. at Rotary Gull Lake Park, in Gravenhurst, as part of the summer season, Music on the Barge concert series. This is the final concert of the year. You better get there early for a good seat. We're looking for sun and fun for this final concert presentation. But bring some rain gear just in case.