The Violinist, The Wool Picking Bee, Roast Beaver

HOPE YOU ALL HAD A COMFORTABLE AND PLEASING CHRISTMAS DAY

FIRST, THE GIFT OF AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH

     AS AN ANTIQUE DEALER, I HAVE THOUSANDS OF UNNAMED, UNTITLED VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPHS. AMONGST ANTIQUE AND SECOND HAND DEALERS, IT WOULD BE MOST UNCOMMON INDEED, TO VISIT ONE AND NOT FIND THE TYPICAL BOX OR BIN FULL OF PHOTOGRAPHS THAT HAVE BEEN ACQUIRED AT ESTATE SALES AND AUCTIONS. IN FACT, THERE IS NOTHING SO FRUSTRATING, AS TO FIND A WONDERFULLY APPOINTED OLD PHOTOGRAPH, THAT IS UNIDENTIFIED, EVEN EXCLUDING THE NAME OF THE STUDIO IT WAS TAKEN. SO WE ARE VERY CAREFUL WITH OUR OWN PHOTOGRAPHS, TO LABEL EACH OF THEM, FOR THE BENEFIT OF GREAT GRANDCHILDREN IN THE FUTURE…..SO THEY CAN GET A GOOD LOOK AT THEIR KIN. THEY MIGHT BE SCARED BY IMAGES OF THEIR AUTHOR GREAT-GRANDFATHER. SO IMAGINE MY SURPRISE, THIS MORNING, WHEN SON ROBERT HANDED ME A THIN BAG, WITH A BOW ON TOP, CONTAINING ONE OF MY FAVORITE FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHS. SUZANNE AND ROBERT CONSPIRED TO HAVE A BLOW-UP IMAGE OF AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH, MY MOTHER PASSED-ON TO ME, JUST BEFORE SHE PASSED AWAY, OF MY GRANDFATHER, STANLEY JACKSON, OF TORONTO, PLAYING HIS VIOLIN. IT WAS A TINY, DARK PHOTOGRAPH, WITH A FAIR BIT OF SURFACE DETERIORATION. THEY TOOK IT TO THE ARTSTRACT COMPANY, OF GRAVENHURST, WHO CAN DO THIS SORT OF MAGIC WITH OLD IMAGES, AND HAD IT BLOWN UP TO AN EIGHT BY TEN FORMAT. I WAS SHOCKED TO SEE IT, BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH IT WAS STILL FOGGY WITH AGE, IT SHOWED HIS VIOLIN AND HIS CONFIDENT POSE WITH IT, TUCKED TIGHTLY AGAINST HIS NECK. I WOULD ONE DAY LIKE TO HAVE A PAINTING DONE FROM THIS SAME MARVELOUS DEPICTION OF MY GRANDFATHER AS A YOUNG MAN.

     I'VE MENTIONED STAN JACKSON MANY TIMES IN MY BLOGS. HE WAS A HOUSE BUILDER FROM TORONTO, BUT ORIGINALLY FROM THE TRENTON AREA OF THE PROVINCE, WHERE HIS FAMILY WERE AMONGST THE EARLY HOMESTEADERS. HE BUILT THEIR FAMILY HOME, LATER IN TORONTO "THE GOOD," AND THERE WAS EVEN A STREET IN THE CITY NAMED AFTER HIM…..KNOWN AS "JACKSON AVENUE." I BELIEVE IT'S NORTH OF BLOOR, NEAR JANE STREET, IN THE AREA OF OLD MILL. HE WORKED AS A BUILDER, WITH HIS SON, CARMEN, AND MY FATHER TED SR. (ED), IN CONJUNCTION WITH PAUL HELLYER, THE FORMER MINISTER OF DEFENCE, FOR CANADA, WHO AT THAT TIME DEVELOPED MANY ACRES OF CITY LANDSCAPE. WHAT I ALWAYS FOUND ODD ABOUT STAN, WAS THAT HE WORKED IN AN INDUSTRY THAT WAS AWFULLY HARD ON THE HANDS AND JOINTS. YET HE WAS AN ACCOMPLISHED VIOLINIST, WHO I HEARD A WEE BIT, WHEN WE'D VISIT STAN AND HIS WIFE BLANCHE, MY GRANDPARENTS, WHEN WE LIVED IN BURLINGTON. HE WAS ASSOCIATED FOR A TIME, WITH THE TORONTO SYMPHONY OCHRESTRA, AND HE WAS ABLE TO GET MY MOTHER MERLE, A JOB WITH THE GROUP ONE SUMMER AFTER SCHOOL. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO FIND WHAT HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE SYMPHONY WAS, AS HISTORICAL FACT, BUT MERLE HAD CALLED HIM A "CONCERT MASTER," BUT THERE IS NO EVIDENCE HE PERFORMED THIS TASK WITH THE TSO.

     HIS MUSICAL TALENT SKIPPED A COUPLE OF GENERATIONS. MERLE WENT TO THE ROYAL CONSERVATORY FOR PIANO, AND WAS A LOVER OF CLASSICAL MUSIC, BUT THE TALENT GENE JUMPED A GENERATION. THIS IS WHAT I TELL THE BOYS ANYWAY, ALTHOUGH IT'S TRUE I DID PLAY UNDER THE DIRECTORSHIP OF MUSKOKA MUSICIAN, JOHN RUTHERFORD, WHEN I ATTENDED BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, BACK IN THE 1970'S. I WAS EVEN IN THE FAMOUS ENGLAND BAND BACK IN 1974. JOHN RUTHERFORD WAS A LEGEND IN MUSIC HERE, AND COULD COUNT, AMONGST HIS FRIENDS, CANADIAN DIRECTOR, COMPOSER HOWARD CABLE.

     I HAVE INCLUDED THE FOGGY IMAGE OF MY GRANDFATHER ON TODAY'S BLOG. IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST THOUGHTFUL PRESENTS I'VE EVER RECEIVED. WHEN I KNEW MY GRANDFATHER, HE WAS VERY ELDERLY AND WE DIDN'T HAVE A LOT TO SAY TO ONE ANOTHER. I REMEMBER MERLE, SHARING A STORY ABOUT HIM, AND ONE OF THE REASONS HE QUIT GOING TO CHURCH. IT WAS DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION, THAT HE WAS HIRED TO BUILD A CHURCH FOR A LOCAL CONGREGATION. WHEN HE HAD THE WELL CRAFTED STRUCTURE COMPLETED, THE MINISTER ADMITTED THEY DIDN'T HAVE MONEY TO PAY HIM…..BUT HE COULD BRING HIS FAMILY TO THE FRONT OF THE CHURCH EACH WEEK, IN THEIR OWN SPECIAL PEW. STAN WAS A HIGHLY PRINCIPLED MAN, AND REFUSED THE OFFER, AND AS IT CREATED GREAT HARDSHIP FOR HIS OWN FAMILY, HE VOWED NEVER TO SET FOOT INSIDE A CHURCH AGAIN. HE WAS GOOD TO HIS WORD EXCEPT AT THE END OF HIS LIFE. AFTER HIS WIFE BLANCHE DIED IN THE EARLY 1960'S, HE DID EVENTUALLY REMARRY, A WOMAN NAMED EDNA, WHO RESIDED IN FLORIDA. MY GRANDFATHER HAD A HEART ATTACK, COMING OUT OF CHURCH IN FLORIDA, AND DIED IN HER ARMS ON THE CHURCH STEPS. IT WAS A SORT OF TRAGIC COMING TOGETHER AT THE END, BUT WE KNOW HE HAD SUFFERED NUMEROUS SMALL ATTACKS OVER ABOUT FIVE YEARS, SO HIS DEATH BY HEART ATTACK WASN'T A SURPRISE. PASSING AWAY ON THE CHURCH STEPS DID SEEM RATHER IRONIC, BUT SO WAS MY GRANDFATHER.

     THIS BLOW-UP PHOTOGRAPH HAS BEEN CAPTIONED FOR MY FUTURE GREAT GRANDCHILDREN I WON'T LIKELY MEET.

STORY BELOW TAKEN FROM AN 1871 ISSUE OF THE NORTHERN ADVOCATE - EXPOSING SOME SOCIAL FESTIVITY IN THE MUSKOKA WILDS

     I WANTED TO SHARE THIS WEE TALE TAKEN FROM THE NORTH ADVOCATE OF 1871, ADDITIONALLY PUBLISHED IN THOMAS MCMURRAY'S SETTLERS' GUIDEBOOK, ENTITLED "MUSKOKA AND PARRY SOUND," ALSO PUBLISHED IN 1871. IT DOES NOT REFERENCE WHERE THE "WOOL PICKING BEE" WAS HELD, BUT IT WAS MOST LIKELY BETWEEN GRAVENHURST AND BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE MOST HUMBLE OF PIONEER ACCOMMODATIONS. IT DOESN'T REFERENCE IT AS BEING AT CHRISTMAS TIME, BUT IT WAS IN THE WINTER SEASON. IT SHOWS THAT WE MUSKOKANS, EVEN BACK THEN, COULD MAKE FUN OUT OF JUST ABOUT ANYTHING. THIS IS A NICE PIECE OF CANADIANA.

     "Understanding one of the objects of your columns being to convey abroad information concerning our great country, as well as to supply means of edification to our own people - the settlers. It may, I think, be fairly regarded  as a needful part of your work to give the outsiders some idea of bush life, as well as land. One of the questions, no doubt, arising in the minds of those moving in, would very likely be: how do the poor folks make out to pass their evenings, or, have they anything corresponding to missionary breakfasts, complimentary dinners, or oyster suppers? Some sketches of real life in the bush might serve the purpose of answering such questions.

     "A 'wool-picking-bee' (let me guard against being misunderstood), does not mean an insect of the bee kind peculiar to this region, and noted for for picking the wool of the sheep, but is the name for a kind of affair which will be best understood by a brief description of a single 'bee'. The one I had the privilege of attending, was got up by a lady inviting her friends and neighbors on a given evening. A goodly number accepting, they assembled and commenced operations around a large home-made table, by teasing the tufts of wood, preparatory, to further manufacture; meanwhile some of the young people were good naturally at teasing one another. Amongst the company present might be noticed the various functionaries of the locality, as trappers, postmaster, path-masters, school teachers, miscellaneous traders, etc., and in most cases, several offices meeting in the same individual, and all claiming the addition of B.W. (Bush Whacker), and not in the least, the correspondent of the Northern Advocate (Thomas McMurray himself). But now the work and amusement proceed in unison, which is more than can always be accomplished. Interspersed, more-over, with something of edification, and not altogether with a religious bearing, hymn singing, and a trifle of political and theological discussion."

     A verse was read as such; "Here in bush, life is found, work and play abound, and yet strangely agree, here extremes we'd unite, here the sombre and the bright, mixed together you see; unrestrained seem to run, both the serious and fun, in the 'wool picking bee.'

     "About noon of night, there might, perhaps, be noticed a shade of falling off in the spirit of wool-picking, when a sound is heard indicating a change of scene and a variety in the exercises to be introduced, of which one might for an hour or two previously, have smelled the approach. Preparations are ordered, the wool is speedily removed, and picking of another kind introduced. It might do in the city to say 'the delicacies of the season,' but here the dishes, or what was on them, would require somewhat varied terms to describe. It was in fact a great meal, of which the items would be more tedious to describe than they were to discuss practically. A roast beaver might, perhaps, be the most notable deviation from the ordinary fare, but breakfast, dinner, and supper were so amply represented, that a good old-style brother declared, ' If this be wickedness, I hope to be always a sinner.'

     "It is not too much to say that full justice was done in relieving the rude table from its cause of groaning; so, having picked the wool, and the bones of the beaver, and chickens, and singing the doxology, each seemed disposed to pick a partner, and the 'bee' stood adjourned sine die. This I must say in conclusion, for the relief of some of your uninitiated readers, who may feel a kind of commiseration for the sadness of poor bush life, and would start with alarm to hear of a wool picking bee; had they only the chance of taking part in the affair, they might be more disposed to envy than pity; and I seriously advise them, if ever they get an invitation to a wool-picking bee - to go." (The editorial piece was actually written by McMurray on October 26th, 1868, when he resided in Draper Township.)

     An original copy of this rare Muskoka history, was given to me as a gift, when I married into the Stripp family of Windermere. Suzanne's mother, Harriett, was from one of the pioneer families, who settled in the Three Mile Lake, Ufford area, of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and the book had belonged to her father, John Shea, a farmer in the area and former municipal clerk. As an historian, I was honored by the gift, and it has been used many hundreds of times, to assist in research projects. There is a pencilled line above a verse written by McMurray, that John Shea found interesting. It reads as follows:

     "Now in the primal woods, the axe resounds, and the tall pine receives its mortal wounds, as stroke on stroke disturbs the silent snow, the wound enlarges by each well aimed blow. The forest giant shakes in all his might, and crashing falls neath his disposed weight, and quickly carries to the branches bent, that strive in vain to stop his sure descent. A swift and certain ruin with rebound, and echoing woods repeat the thundering sound, stripped of his limbs, and squared, and hewn he lies, to human kind a good but hard won prize. It soon is made to raise the sheltering house, Or o'er the seas afar is doomed to roam, to build the bark, or adorn the hall, raised from the ruins of a forest fall. His roots remain to meet a slow decay, and mend the soil when sown some future day."

     The Shea family was well connected in the logging industry of the pioneering period in Muskoka, so the fact this was marked, was quite relevant.

THE SLEIGH RIDE, OF THE 1870'S IN MUSKOKA

     IN RESPECT TO THIS CHRISTMAS SEASON, OF 2012, HERE IN MUSKOKA, I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE THIS POEM PUBLISHED IN MCMURRAY'S BOOK, THAT JOHN SHEA OR A FAMILY MEMBER, AT THE UFFORD FARM, HAD MARKED AS WELL…..AS BEING A POEM TO REMEMBER. YOU WON'T SEE MANY, (MORE LIKELY NONE) TO THIS IMPORTANT LOCAL PIECE, THAT IS PART OF OUR FOLK LORE AND CULTURE. IT IS A GEM OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT HAS BEEN LARGELY FORGOTTEN; BEING CONSIDERED TOO OLD TO MATTER ANY LONGER. AS A LONG SERVING SOCIAL / CULTURAL HISTORIAN, THIS KIND OF LOCAL WRITING, ESPECIALLY FROM THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD, IS DEFINITELY AN IMPORTANT PART OF OUR HERITAGE, THAT IS JUST AS RELEVANT TODAY AS IT WAS AS THE INK DRIED IN THIS FIRST MUSKOKA BOOK. YOU WILL FIND MANY OF THESE CULTURALLY SIGNIFICANT TEXTS, STILL REGALED IN STATES LIKE VERMONT AND CONNECTICUT, AND IN THE HINTERLAND OF QUEBEC, AND THEY SHOULD BE SIMILARLY CELEBRATED AND USED AND RE-USED FOR WHAT THEY REPRESENT OF THE PAST…..AS APPROPRIATE TO OUR BEAUTIFUL WINTER LANDSCAPE OF THE MODERN ERA.

     HERE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PIONEER JOURNAL EDITORIALS - IN THE FORM OF A POEM.

THE SLEIGH RIDE

     "Calm is the night, and clear and bright; the silver moon is shedding, a flood of light o'er the snow so white, and an icy glory spreading. In misty light the moon does lend her, and the starry vault of blue above, is sparkling bright with a frost splendor.

     "Swiftly we bound o'er the frozen ground, gaily, joyously, cheerily; and our thoughts to keep time to the musical chime, of the sleigh bells tinkling merrily. For our hearts are attuned to the pleasing strains, of gladness, glee and innocent mirth; and we feel the sin has made dark stains, yet happiness lingers still on earth.

     "In wrap and rug, right warm and snug, all care to the winds we fling; and laugh and song, as we speed along, make the silent forest ring. The distant owl our voices hears, and screams from the dark and lonely dell, in answer to our joyous cheers, a discordant, wild, unearthly yell.

     "Faster we go - the frozen snow, from our horses feet is flying; the echoes long repeat our song, far in the distance dying. Our joyous brass exulting bound, and utterance find in gleeful voice, till rocks and hills, and dales resound, and even the gloomy woods rejoice.

     "Our sleigh now glides where the river hides, under the ice bridges strong, where deep and low the waters flow, so silently along. And now it is past, and on we roam, by the frozen lake - snowy plain, past the gleaming lights of the settler's home, and away through the lonely wood again.

    "The fall, it is they; we can see the spray, that the seething waters toss, like a glittering cloud, o'er that foaming flood; and now, as the bridge we cross, its echoing thunders louder grow, Check'd is our noisy mirth and song, and we stop and gaze where far below, the rolling torrent roars along.

     "The trees that stand on either hand, are hung with icedrops fair - with gems of light and jewels so bright, and dazzling crystals rare - reflecting back each twinkling star, with a sparkling beauty, rich and grand, a glittering scene, surpassing far, our wildest dreams of fairy land.

     "When swiftly past, in the roaring blast, the frost king sweeps his pride, his icy form the raging storm, and the mantling snow wreath hide. And unseen spirits the way prepare, wherever his royal feet would go, with dazzling carpets white and fair, and the crystal bridge where waters flow.

     "I love the clink, on the frozen rink, of the skater's iron heel; The merry huzza of the boys at play, with their sleds, on the slippery hill; the long, long nights, by the bright fireside, in the joyous home where happiness dwells; and best of all, the merry sleigh-ride, and the musical chime of the tinkling bells."

     This is the Muskoka heritage scene I love to recall. When we ponder our identity these days, I draw back to the old books, to see if I can find something remarkable to show the public…….that believe it or not, Muskoka was more than a pretty face….way back when. This is our cultural identity. And there's a lot more to explore. I will be presenting some of these social / cultural anchors and traditions, in the coming week of Christmas season blogs.

     I hope each and every one had a restful and peaceful Christmas Day. Everyone here at Birch Hollow is pleasantly stuffed with treats of all sorts, and yet, will hungering anticipation, for the presentation later this evening, of the roast beast and all the festive trimmings. Suzanne has cut-off all treats from this point on, so we will be tantalized for the next several hours, by the heavenly aroma, of a turkey in the oven. At dinner, we will say a little prayer of remembrance, to those who used to gather around this pine harvest table on Christmas day. Suzanne's father, Norm Stripp (her mother Harriet passed away shortly after we were married), my parents, Merle and Ed, who always made the most out of our family holidays. Also in fond remembrance, are our dear friends, Dave Brown, our teacher friend from Hamilton, Suzanne's aunt and uncle, Ada and Jack Gillis, of Ufford, (where we used to spend our Christmas Eves, for so many years), and Alec Nagy, of Burlington, husband of Ann, who both looked after me as a wee lad, when my parents were at work. Alec died this past year. He was a kindly chap, who let me follow him during yard work and lawn mowing, and of this, I was the content voyeur child.

     Other friends not with us this year, are my antique and collectible buddy, Jack Kiernan, formerly of Baysville, Charlie Wilson, my historical colleague, of Delaware, Roger Crozier, the subject N.H.L. goaltender, who gave me my start as a biographer….working on his story. They've all made an impact on this writer, including writing colleague, Wayland Drew, who is on my mind every time I sit as this desk…….as I stare at the collection of books he wrote, stored on my office shelf for easy reference, when admittedly, at times, I'm feeling uninspired. "Superior; The Haunted Shore," and "Brown's Weir," are my favorites, and you can tell by the signs of wear. There can be no greater compliment, I think, than having loyal readers.

     What a beautiful day it has been in Muskoka…..especially here in Gravenhurst, where the sun has been shining most of the day. The fire has gone cold this afternoon, but I can hear Suzanne poking at the embers, to get up a fire for the early evening, and the celebration of our Christmas dinner. Thank you all, for joining me this Christmas season……and I remain, your humble servant. Please visit me again. There is always room for another guest.

Welcome To Muskoka On This Christmas Eve

     "THE WHOLE HOUSE INDEED SEEMED ABANDONED TO MERRIMENT: AS I PASSED TO MY ROOM TO DRESS FOR DINNER, I HEARD THE SOUND OF MUSIC IN A SMALL COURT, AND LOOKING THROUGH A WINDOW THAT COMMANDED IT, I PERCEIVED A BAND OF WANDERING MUSICIANS, WITH PANDEAN PIPES AND TABOURINE; A PRETTY COQUETTISH HOUSEMAID WAS DANCING A JIG WITH A SMART COUNTRY LAD, WHILE SEVERAL OF THE OTHER SERVANTS WERE LOOKING ON." AS TOLD ABOUT AT SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE'S OLD ENGLISH ESTATE, ACCORDING TO WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS SKETCH BOOK.

     "THE GRATE HAD BEEN REMOVED FROM THE WIDE OVERWHELMING FIREPLACE, TO MAKE WAY FOR A FIRE OF WOOD, IN THE MIDST OF WHICH WAS AN ENORMOUS LOG, GLOWING AND BLAZING, AND SENDING FORTH A VAST VOLUME OF LIGHT AND HEAT; THIS I UNDERSTOOD WAS THE YULE CLOG, WHICH THE SQUIRE WAS PARTICULAR IN HAVING BROUGHT IN, AND ILLUMINED ON A CHRISTMAS EVE, ACCORDING TO ANCIENT CUSTOM. 'COME BRING WITH A NOISE, MY MERRIE, MERRIE BOYS, THE CHRISTMAS LOG TO THE FIRING; WHILST MY GOOD DAME SHE, BIDS YE ALL BE FREE, AND DRINK TO YOUR HEART'S DESIRING'." 

CHRISTMAS IN GRAVENHURST - WE STAYED HOME TO ENJOY A MUSKOKA VACATION

A WONDERFUL LIFE, IN AN ENCHANTED PLACE

     GRAVENHURST DOESN'T HAVE A SINGLE GOTHIC CATHEDRAL, EXCEPT IF YOU COUNT THE HUGE ARCHED MAPLES, COVERING-OVER A LONG LENGTH OF THE MUSKOKA BEACH ROAD, NORTH OF THE URBAN COMMUNITY. I REFER TO THEM THIS WAY, AND THEY ARE SPECTACULAR, IN AUTUMN AND WINTER…..SO BRILLIANTLY GREEN IN THE LATE SPRING AND EARLY SUMMER.

     WE CAN'T OFFER OUR VISITORS A MOUNTAIN VIEW, OR A PANORAMA OVER A DEEP CANYON. IF YOU WANT CASTLES AND TALL SPIRES, MOATS AND MOORS, YOU'RE IN THE WRONG PLACE. IF PALM TREES AND TROPICAL BREEZES RESTORE YOUR BODY, MUSKOKA WON'T BE ON YOUR LIST OF VACATION RETREATS. WE DON'T HAVE HUGE SHOPPING MALLS, SPRAWLING MUSEUMS, AND ARCHITECTURALLY GRANDIOSE ART GALLERIES. WE DON'T HAVE A GREAT WALL, EXCEPT A FEW STONE ONES, AT COUNTRY HOMES ALONG THE DOE LAKE ROAD; AND AS FAR AS PYRAMIDS AND HOLY SHRINES GO, WE'RE TOTALLY WITHOUT THIS DEPTH OF MANMADE HERITAGE. BUT IF YOU WERE TO INQUIRE, WHETHER WE FEEL A LESSER REGION, BECAUSE OF WHAT WE DON'T HAVE, MOST OF US WOULD JUST FAN OUR ARMS AT THE NEAREST FOREST, OR OUT TOWARD ONE OF OUR BEAUTIFUL LAKES, AND SAY….."OH WELL, WE'RE PRETTY HAPPY WITH WHAT WE'VE GOT. YOU CAN'T IMPROVE ON THIS NATURAL PARADISE." BEFORE SUZANNE AND I ARRIVED HOME TONIGHT, WE OPENED THE COLD "MUSKOKA GINGER ALES," WE BOUGHT AT THE GROCERY STORE, AND WE WENT OUT TO PARK AT MUSKOKA BEACH…..ARGUABLY ONE OF THE MOST AMAZING VISTAS IN THE WHOLE REGION……AND WE WATCHED THE SUN SET, AND CHRISTMAS EVE REVIVE AGAIN. IT WAS A SCENE I CONTINUE TO FIND HARD TO DESCRIBE, BUT SOME TIMES, IT JUST DOESN'T NEED ANALYSIS, OR WORDS TO DEFINE THE EXPERIENCE.  A PAUSE IN THE HUSTLE OF THE DAY, WITH A FEW MINUTES OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION, IS ALL IT TAKES, TO GENERATE A MOST THRILLING ENTERTAINMENT, THAT COSTS NOTHING BUT A FEW MOMENTS OUT OF A BUSY DAY.

     SINCE OUR FAMILY ARRIVED IN MUSKOKA, I'VE ONLY MISSED A FEW CHRISTMASES STAYING AT HOME, IN EITHER BRACEBRIDGE OR GRAVENHURST. AS FOR SUZANNE, BORN AND RAISED IN MUSKOKA, I DON'T THINK SHE'S MISSED A SINGLE CHRISTMAS, CELEBRATING THE SEASON HERE IN THE SNOWY HINTERLAND OF ONTARIO. MY BOYS HAVE SPENT THEIR CHRISTMAS SEASONS HERE, AND HONESTLY, WE ALL FEEL VERY LUCKY TO LIVE IN SUCH AN AMAZING PLACE, WITH SO MUCH NATURE TO ENJOY AND SHARE WITH VISITORS. MANY THOUSANDS OF TOURISTS AND SEASONAL RESIDENTS, STILL AREN'T AWARE JUST HOW TANTALIZING THIS REGION IS, DURING THE WINTER MONTHS. THEY LINE-UP IN THE RAGING SUMMER HEAT, ON ALL THE TRAFFIC ARTERIES NORTH, IN THE SUMMER, TO ENJOY THE SEASONAL LAKELAND; BUT FORGET ABOUT HOW AMAZING IT CAN BE, AS A VACATION RETREAT, SPENDING THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS IN MUSKOKA. WE ARE SPOILED, THAT'S FOR SURE, BECAUSE WE GET TO LIVE IN THIS PICTURESQUE LAKELAND ALL YEAR LONG. WE CERTAINLY DON'T FEEL DISADVANTAGED, THAT'S FOR SURE. THIS EVENING, STARING OUT OVER THAT STILL AND REFLECTIVE LAKE, WITH A DARK WINTER SKY, WAS A TOM THOMSON LANDSCAPE COME TO LIFE.

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM GRAVENHURST

     We have just closed-up our Muskoka Road vintage music and antique shop, to get home a little early, to start celebrating the Christmas holiday. This will be a nice one, especially for Suzanne, as she has just recently announced her coming retirement from teaching, after thirty-one years. It's going to take quite a bit of time to adjust to civilian life. For those who are new to this Blog, my wife has been looking forward to pursuing her interests in the antique trade for more than twenty-four years, since we started the business as a retirement investment, back in the late 1980's….expecting it would take us this long to get it right. We've had a lot of tweaking to do, and we've got it pretty close now, to the way we want it to operate in the future. We're making a larger counter, where Suzanne can have a place to set up her sewing machine, and enough work space to set out vintage quilts she plans to repair; and old wool blankets, she restores with new bindings. Not to mention the knitting. Now she's working on Gravenhurst Winter Carnival scarves and toques, for the February event, and this is her recreation. She has been knitting for years, to de-stress from living with a guy like me. Living with a writer / historian is not easy or even enjoyable, I'm sure, but she has kept me around for my good looks, I suppose. Suzanne will be retiring at the end of June, and it will take that long, believe me, to say all her goodbyes to staff and students…..and adjust to a simpler life, and a slower pace. I'm going to get her the book, "Goodbye Mr. Chips." (A compelling story about teachers and then, retirement, and all the sadness that brings about.) It's going to be tough, because she is a teacher every waking hour, whether she's at school, in the shop or at home. I've been her project student for her entire career, and apparently, I'm still getting failing grades. The irony here, is that I hated school with a passion. So what do I do? Marry a teacher. I didn't learn my lessons then, and I'm determined to stick to my game plan. She thinks differently.

     I want to extend a sincere Merry Christmas, and a hearty thanks, to the many folks who have come to join this Blog (online column), over the past year, which in numbers, ranged from the high twenties last November, to over a hundred per day, during the publication of the Richard Karon artist biography last spring. As of yesterday, this humble writing effort, was averaging well over 600 hits per day, and was being accessed around the world…..which kind of blows me away, considering the content, over the past month, has been largely based on Gravenhurst. Well sir, Gravenhurst is getting some global exposure it didn't expect…..and I'm dumbfounded to explain why. There are many Gravenhurst expatriates overseas and through United States, and many who are vacationing for the winter season in tropical climes, and accessing this blogsite……which is great for everybody. I don't take a single reader for granted, and I hope in the new year, to be more diversified, and definitely more regional in scope, and discussion. I am a huge Muskoka booster, at all times of the year, and I hope it shows. Muskoka, and both Bracebridge, and Gravenhurst, have been two wonderful hometowns during my many years here, and I will never stop being proud of my association, and unpaid, unsolicited, promotional writing in this fashion. While I began writing at a very young age, being immersed in this alluring lakeland, has offered unlimited inspiration when other sources have failed me. I firmly believe I maintained my interest in writing, because of our living arrangement here in Gravenhurst, opposite a picturesque little Bog, that is so pleasantly full of life, and natural enhancements, from the roaming deer and moose, to the gorgeous wildflowers that thrive in the marsh in mid-summer. When it snows-over, it is an image of solitude and magic……and a host of many late night vigils, above the hollow, as the moonlight bathes the ice-laden evergreens, and drooping cedars, flanked by the leaning birches Robert Frost, used to write about, in his now legendary poems.

     There are frozen lakes, and trodden down paths through the woodlands. Snowflurries dusting over the meadows, and spiraling down into the darkening hollow, on the push of air current, sculpting drifts against the leaning rail fences. There are cattle huddled in the farmyard, a couple of deer wandering the fence-line, an owl sitting on a birch stump, and a train horn echoing across the frozen landscape. There are tall pines and scruffy cedars, painted barns, and an old horse-drawn plow, still stuck in the field. A couple of venerable old crows perch on a hydro line, knocking snow in clumps to the ground. A snowmobile engine can be heard far down an overgrown trail, and some hikers have just now come around the corner of the road, with two playing dogs leading the way. You can't ignore the sweet aroma of a wood fire, belching from some nearby chimney, and there's the faint aroma of manure from the grouping of cattle. A trail of automobiles come along the road, and a truck with a Christmas tree tied to the side, has come from behind. In the distance, I can hear a jet engine's rumble at the airport, and in stark contrast, the shrieks of a blue jay, in a territorial dispute with two squirrels, leaping branch to branch.

     There are a couple of lamps now illuminated at the head of a driveway, and through the window of several old houses, you can see the lights of the respective Christmas trees, creating the speculation, of what wonderful treats of seasonal fare, are being prepared in those country kitchens, where the lights now look warm and inviting against the darkening sky, and the snow-covered lanes curling down through the valley. A tractor comes out of one long lane, and a snowblower starts up somewhere else. There is a din here in the countryside, make no mistake about it. It is a less than perfect solitude. Yet the further along you travel, and the more expectation you possess, you will find a remarkable characteristic of modest proportion; a simple and pleasurable travel, without the complications. There really isn't any schedule to keep. But you won't cross through a covered bridge here, in Gravenhurst, or find a huge downhill ski facility, full of activity. There are no Polar Bears, or Grizzlies, and the bears we do have, are now slumbering away the winter season. You won't come upon an Elk or any Caribou, and if you're looking for whales, you're definitely in the wrong place this Christmas. If, on the other hand, you prefer the gentle pleasures of the countryside, and the picturesque nature of glistening frozen lakes, and enchanted forests, and lovely places to retreat, to dine and shop, then you are most certainly in the right place…..of subtle recreation, but bountiful inspiration.

     After a day of tending shop, and the last minute frantic hustle, shop to shop, to get a few remaining gifts, and provisions for the holiday, Suzanne and I will settle by this soothing fire, in the Birch Hollow hearth, sinking down in the big cushions on the old chairs, remnants from many Christmases past; and we may casually, at a slight turn of conversation, reflect on another wonderful year, of family times residing here in Gravenhurst, and Muskoka. We will give it quiet thanks, while sipping egg nog, and warming our cold toes, and then later in the evening, welcome our returning boys to the hearth, to share a family tradition, here at Birch Hollow………of just being together, in festive good cheer, and health, recalling how fast the year has past us again; hanging on to these special moments, knowing that one day, it will be no more. We refuse to mire in the reality of getting older, and the young generation eventually moving on, because we are just too darn happy living in the moment, here at this humble little cottage, where we have all been safely kept……looking out on the Muskoka that has given us so much faith and hope, and a never ceasing quantity of inspiration to carry on each day.

    For all those who may be celebrating Christmas alone this year, or who are facing health issues, or have had problems with jobs and personal economy, I wish for you all, a respite from worries, for a time, and hope things will improve, and that you will find a way through each peril, every conundrum, and find the courage to look beyond to a brighter horizon. We've had some sad times, sitting around this same hearth, at Christmas, where we mourned the loss of close friends and family. We have had periods in this festive season, when it was hard to smile, and because of lesser finances, put food on the table. Yet we have always found the way and means, to gather-up enough cheer and goodwill, especially from kindnesses bestowed by the community, to make each December 25th, a Merry Christmas, none the less. I hope you will find this too, even if it is in the cherished memories of Christmas past……and the strong souls that made each one special. Their remembrance has always been a part of our Christmas present.

     Merry Christmas from all of us at Birch Hollow. Four humans, five cats and an old dog. Please come and visit again. We always welcome your company.

Christmas at Woodchester Villa in The Good Old Days

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE-CHRISTMAS AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR OWN MUSEUM IN GRAVENHURST

WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM GETTING SOME ATTENTION FROM THE TOWN - A FUTURE - AFTER A BLEAK COUPLE OF YEARS CLOSE TO THE PUBLIC

THE WINTER SEASON SNOW STORM THAT TOOK DOWN THE VERANDAH AT BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSEUM, WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS THE SAME ONE THAT STOPPED ME FROM GETTING TO MY FATHER'S APARTMENT. WHILE IT WASN'T A DIRECT RESULT OF THE STORM'S WEIGHT UPON FAILING OUTDOOR FIXTURES, IT WAS WHAT STOPPED US FROM VISITING ON THE SAME DAY AS HE HAD A STROKE…..WHICH EVENTUALLY LED TO HIS DEMISE. DURING THE SAME SNOW EVENT, MY SON AND HIS MATE WERE TRAPPED ON HIGHWAY II NEAR THE BRACEBRIDGE FAIR GROUNDS, AND IF THEY HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET BACK INTO TOWN, THEY WOULD HAVE STAYED AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S APARTMENT THAT NIGHT…….STRANGE THING THAT……BECAUSE THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE AS HE SUFFERED HIS STROKE, AND BEEN ABLE TO GET MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SOONER. HE LIVED ONE BLOCK FROM THE HOSPITAL. WHAT IS CURIOUS, MAYBE A LITTLE IRONIC….IS THAT ALL OF THE ABOVE HAD SOMETHING OR OTHER TO DO WITH WOODCHESTER VILLA. I WAS ONE OF THE FOUNDING DIRECTORS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND A DIRECTOR AND MANAGER OF WOODCHESTER. ANDREW AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER ROBERT, USED TO RIDE THEIR TOY CARTS AROUND THE MUSEUM GROUNDS WHILE I WAS WORKING THERE; MY MOTHER AND FATHER WERE VOLUNTEERS DURING MY TENURE…..MY MOTHER ACTUALLY BEING EMPLOYED AS A TOUR GUIDE FOR ONE SUMMER. ANDREW AND HIS MATE WERE FORCED TO FOLLOW THE SNOW PLOWS SOUTH DOWN THE HIGHWAY, HOME TO GRAVENHURST, LATER THAT FATEFUL EVENING, INSTEAD OF BEING ALLOWED BACK ONTO TOWN STREETS. IT'S JUST HOW FATE WORKS.

OUR FAMILY SPENT MANY CHRISTMASES AS WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, THROUGH THE EIGHTIES, AND WE HOSTED AT LEAST FIVE OPEN HOUSES DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD. IT IS NO SECRET THAT WOODCHESTER HAS BEEN AN ALLEGEDLY HAUNTED ABODE, AND I AM JUST ONE OF THE PERPETRATORS OF SUCH INFORMATION…..BY EXPERIENCES ENOUGH TO WRITE A BOOK. BUT NEVER ONCE, IN MY LONG RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS OCTAGONAL BUILDING, AND ITS RESIDENT SPIRITS, WAS I EVER ONCE UNSETTLED BY OCCURRENCES, OR FRIGHTENED. IT WAS AN OLD AND DEAR DWELLING FOR ALL OUR FAMILY, AND AT CHRISTMAS, IT SEEMED MOST CONTENT. I HAVE RECENTLY WRITTEN A CHRISTMAS REMEMBRANCE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA FOR ANOTHER PUBLICATION, BUT I WANTED TO SHARE IT WITH THOSE INTERESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE HERITAGE. I WAS PLEASED TO READ ABOUT A NEW INITIATIVE TO EXAMINE THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE THIS COMING WINTER SEASON, TO DISCUSS WHAT PURPOSE IT MIGHT BETTER SERVE THE COMMUNITY IN THE FUTURE. OF THIS, I WHOLE HEARTEDLY AGREE. AND I HOPE ONE DAY, THEY WILL FIND THE FUNDS TO RE-BUILD THE GRAND VERANDAH OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTIFUL LAWNS, AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER BELOW. THIS LITTLE CHRISTMAS TOME, IS A RESPECTFUL TRIBUTE, TO A WONDERFUL PLACE, I LOVED TO WORK AND VISIT…..PARTICULARLY SO AT CHRISTMAS…..WHERE WE ALL MADE RATHER MERRY.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY

The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)

A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.

At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.

I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.

I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.

One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.

On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.

It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.

It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.

I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.

Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.

The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.

I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.

When I write in this column series, that I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like, well, it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.

What About Those Ghosts of Christmas Past?

THE WRITER'S CHRISTMAS - I AM A PONDERER, A LOVER OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION - AND A SOCIAL OUTCAST

ON BEING THE OBSERVER, AND INTERPRETER

     "MY CHAMBER WAS IN THE OLD PART OF THE MANSION, THE PONDEROUS FURNITURE OF WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN FABRICATED IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. THE ROOM WAS PANELED, WITH CORNICES OF HEAVEY CARVED WORK, IN WHICH FLOWERS AND GROTESQUE FACES WERE STRANGELY INTERMINGLED, AND A ROW OF BLACK-LOOKING PORTRAITS STARED MOURNFULLY AT ME FROM THE WALLS. THE BED WAS OF RICH, THOUGH FADED DAMASK, WITH A LOFTY TESTER, AND STOOD IN THE NICHE OPPOSITE THE BOW WINDOW. I HAD SCARECELY  GOT INTO BED WHEN A STRAIN OF MUSIC SEEMED TO BREAK FORTH IN THE AIR JUST BELOW THE WINDOW. I LISTENED, AND FOUND IT PROCEEDED FROM A BAND, WHICH I CONCLUDED TO BE THE WAITS FROM SOME NEIGHBORING VILLAGE. THEY WENT AROUND THE HOUSE, PLAYING UNDER THE WINDOWS. I DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS TO HEAR THEM MORE DISTINCTLY. THE MOONBEAMS FELL THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE CASEMENT, PARTIALLY LIGHTING UP THE ANTIQUATED APARTMENT. THE SOUNDS, AS THEY RECEDED, BECAME MORE SOFT AND AERIAL, AND SEEMED TO ACCORD WITH QUIET MOONLIGHT. I LISTENED AND LISTENED - THEY BECAME MORE AND MORE TENDER AND REMOTE, AND, AS THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY, MY HEAD SUNK UPON THE PILLOW AND I FELL ASLEEP." (CHRISTMAS EVE)

     THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS WRITTEN BY AMERICAN AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS EARLY 1800'S PRESENTATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK," WHICH INTRODUCED THE READER, FOR THE FIRST OF TWO BOOKS, WITH SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE, OWNER OF A LARGE ENGLISH ESTATE, AND HIS VISITOR, GEOFFREY CRAYON, THE FICTIONAL TRAVELLER, WHO WAS FAIRLY CLOSE IN CHARACTER TO IRVING HIMSELF…..AND HIS LOVE FOR BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLINGS AND CHERISHED TRADITIONS.

      "WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE EVENTS OF THE PRECEDING EVENING HAD BEEN A DREAM, AND NOTHING BUT THE IDENTITY OF THE ANCIENT CHAMBER CONVINCED ME OF THEIR REALITY. WHILE I LAY MUSING ON MY PILLOW, I HEARD THE SOUND OF LITTLE FEET PATTERING OUTSIDE OF THE DOOR, AND A WHISPERING CONSULTATION. PRESENTLY A CHOIR OF SMALL VOICES CHANTED FORTH AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL, THE BURDEN OF WHICH WAS, 'REJOICE, OUR SAVIOUR HE WAS BORN, ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.' I ROSE SOFTLY, SLIPPED ON MY CLOTHES, OPENED THE DOOR SUDDENLY, AND BEHELD ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY GROUPS THAT A PAINTER COULD IMAGINE. IT CONSISTED OF A BOY AND TWO GIRLS, THE ELDEST NOT MORE THAN SIX, AND LOVELY AS SERAPHS. THEY WERE GOING THE ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, SINGING AT EVERY CHAMBER DOOR, BUT MY SUDDEN APPEARANCE FRIGHTENED THEM INTO MUTE BASHFULNESS. THEY REMAINED FOR A MOMENT PLAYING ON THEIR LIPS WITH THEIR FINGERS, AND NOW AND THEN STEALING A SHY GLANCE FROM UNDER THEIR EYEBROWS, UNTIL, AS IF BY ONE IMPULSE, THEY SCAMPERED AWAY, AND AS THEY TURNED AN ANGLE OF THE GALLERY, I HEARD THEM LAUGHING IN TRIUMPH AT THEIR ESCAPE.

     "EVERYTHING CONSPIRED TO PRODUCE KIND AND HAPPY FEELINGS IN THIS STRONGHOLD OF OLD FASHIONED HOSPITALITY. THE WINDOW OF MY CHAMBER LOOKED OUT UPON WHAT IN SUMMER WOULD HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THERE WAS NO SLOPING LAWN, A FINE STREAM OF WINDING AT THE FOOT OF IT, AND A TRACT OF PARK BEYOND, WITH NOBLE CLUMPS OF TREES AND HERDS OF DEER. AT A DISTANCE WAS A NEAT HAMLET, WITH THE SMOKE FROM THE COTTAGE CHIMNEYS HANGING OVER IT; AND A CHURCH, WITH ITS DARK SPIRE IN STRONG RELIEF AGAINST THE CLEAR COLD SKY."

A SEASONAL SOJOURN OF THE REINCARNATED

     Occasionally, at this time of year, I will talk with Suzanne, at some length over mulled cider, about my family from England. The "Jackson" side of my family tree. Quite a number of the Jackson, including William and Benjamin, who had resided within easy travel of Liverpool, emigrated to Canada, in the mid 1800's, to better their lives, on newly opened farmsteads near Brighton, Ontario. Suzanne is a whiz at family history, and has over the past three years, given us a full tree, instead of the few meagre branches, that we'd been going on wrongly, as gospel, for three decades at least. She adores her subscription to Ancestry.ca. When we begin chatting about our family roots overseas, inevitably we will bring up the possibility that we have been reincarnated into the modern era, from family stock going back centuries…..maybe to Elizabethan times. We both, you see, have particularly poignant feelings, at times, almost as if, like the sudden jerk of a heart-string, from somewhere beyond mortality, we are sent abruptly into some historic ambience, and attire, we have given up trying to explain. We each have different triggers, that will give us that curious, momentary instinct, we were part of another time period. It could be the sensory arousal, from something as simple as a wafting fragrance, or scent of roast beef cooking in the oven…..the aroma of spices or fresh herbs. Flowers as perfume. It can also be a weather condition, the sunrise or sunset, or a motor trip through the countryside, that makes us reflect on something we know nothing (apparently) about. I can tell when she's having some historical flashback, although mine are usually always experienced in solitude situations, and most often the result of two aggressive triggers, sometimes all at once…..which is definitely of the nature of "fantastic."

     The first trigger, is when I spend long hours at this keyboard. Tonight, for example, I was supposed to attend a party, my lads were throwing, for their friends and business associates. As I am a true social misfit, and hate small talk with a passion, I opted out with the apology….."Geez, I'd love to, but I've got a blog to write." Even in the few minutes I sat here, trying to put together the basics for a column, I was drawn, to the point of being compelled, to Washington Irving's book in the case above my desk. The reason I enjoy Irving's writing, especially about old England, is that it has, all my life, been the one sure exposure, that will send my spirit wandering the English moors, looking for Squire Bracebridge's estate. Since I began reading Irving, as a teenager, I have made it a regular visitation ever since. Do you know, that even Charles Dickens, admitted, he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of a Washington Irving book, tucked under his arm. For some reason, it is Irving more than any other writer, even Dickens, who has for long and long, stimulated my imagination well beyond the story, such that I can find my concentration taken over by thoughts and memories I can't logically explain. It's as if Irving's work, especially his Christmas stories, open up a portal for my old well-travelled soul, to cross back into familiar history. It has always been a haunting experience, yet remarkable enough, that I can't help tempting the situation, feeling that one day, I may actually discover the truth behind the strange, alluring aura of commonplace, that puts me in the English countryside…..where possibly I once lived in a former life. Is it an over-active imagination? Wishful fantasy? Or just the trappings of a good writer, Washington Irving, doing what accomplished authors are supposed to do…..with any story they write. Take you on an adventure!

     The second most powerful trigger, is anything played on a lute. I must have been a musician way back, and it is Elizabethan period songs, that can make me melt into a sentimental whirling dervish, trying relentlessly, to escape my mortal fetters……without knowing why it's is so imperative to break free. I can eventually collect the visualizations, of the same English countryside, almost to the point where I could walk to the place I once resided. I have heard period songs, that hurt my heart. The passion for a return, to those times, being so imbedded in my soul……possessing some meaning and romantic overture, I am at a loss to understand…..at least in this mortal capacity. If you have ever felt similarly, and believe in the possibilities of reincarnation, I certainly don't need to explain this further. You have been strangely titillated by the exposure to something, that acts to inspire thoughts, that may not be your own….at least in this lifetime. In my case, if I was to listen to Elizabethan music daily, I would turn into a jelly of formless sentimentality…..because this is what happens, even when I occasionally hear the music, performed on CBC 2, my channel of choice. I sit there speechless, and let messenger ghosts remind me I'm being beckoned by another century. It's not that I like this period music, but it has a power over me, that makes my knees wobble more than usual. I can feel myself part of a courtyard dance, with a woman I must have known from this same era, and it is definitely not my wife. I can see her face so clearly, it becomes very unsettling, as if the very thought, and dance of which I can't control, smacks of infidelity……unless I turn the music off quickly before anything happens. And yes, it is like seeing a wayward spirits, and no fooling, I'm one of them. I've referenced this before, in these stories, and especially in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghost blogs….., that I have seen my ghost before…..and it's not like I wouldn't know the chap. When the ghost wanders about, in Elizabethan times, I must admit, the face of the dancer, is not the one I see in the mirror each morning…..but the aura is definitely something I'm familiar with. I don't tell Suzanne about these weird time-travel, deja vu' experiences, because they stretch miles beyond what she has felt similarly; hers always representing a more recent history…….such as from the pioneer years, like her ancestors, working the rocky soil of Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, at Ufford. I think my reincarnation skipped a few centuries, because I definitely have never managed a plow or used hay fork, even in my wildest dream, or nightmare.

     What really gets my spirit travels up and going, is the approach of the Christmas season. There is no other time of the year, as strong for these deja vu' sensations, as the Christmas to New Years period. Even traveling in England, didn't cause much thoughtful recollection, of a previous life, which frankly shocked me.I've had these strange feelings since childhood. I think I tried too hard, to encourage these sudden feelings, because then it would have been easier to follow and maybe even research. If it is actually England or Scotland, in my flashbacks. I think it is, but these are all confusing time travels of the mind. For whatever reason, it is the Christmas season, most of all, that evokes thoughts of a past life. I am able to resolve a lot of these urges and issues, by writing, and when I have my most compelling periods, where I have one foot in an English dance, and the other here at Birch Hollow, I gather up my wayward soul, and set myself the task of writing about it; and anything the thoughts may generate on their own. I can tell you this honestly. I must also have been a writer then, possibly a "less than" great bard, who was particularly sensitive to the natural environment. When I feel this surging sentimentality, I am most prone to writing what I call my landscape pieces, which you can read by accessing my "Muskoka as Walden," blogsite, which I have used for several years, as an outlet, whenever nature calls…..and it most surely does……but I can tell you, it is because the landscape here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of an English moor. For the record, I have never once set foot in an English moor, at least in this chapter of "My Spirit Doth Travel." You will find hundreds of occasions, really without intent, where I have referenced a Muskoka lowland, or bog, as a "Moor," as if it is as familiar as the one that might have been written about, as a backdrop for a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. It may be a bog, and a typical Muskoka wetland, with ponds, but when I write about it, during one of my deja vu' moments, it is a "moor." Plain and simple. Is this strange or not?

     At Christmas, I am an English townsman. I can see the thatched cottages, and the narrow, winding country lanes, with the neatly crafted rock fences, and the hills and valleys in the distance, that are simply not the topography of Muskoka. I can imagine myself lodging in some road house, waiting on a settle by the fire, for my mug of dark ale, and listening to the ice pellets hitting the roof and the wind creaking the old metal sign, on its rusted hinge, hanging above the door, out front. Like Irving's character, the good Mr. Crayon, I can hear and see the traditions of retired Christmases, as if they are new again……and I ponder for a moment, if I might ever be pulled back entirely, on one of these memorable sojourns from the present…..and if so, what would happen to my story right now……if this history became so compelling, as a vacuum, taking me all the way home, many mortal lifetimes from here? What might Suzanne think, upon finding only my slippers and still warm pipe, and the imprint of an old author, still recognizable on the chair cushion?

     "It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of religion of peace and love, and has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the caress and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood." Washington Irving.

     Somehow, I have come to feel that Irving himself, a tireless preserver of British traditions, even as an American, felt the spirit-kind wasn't necessarily confined to one existence alone. Maybe it's why I cherish his work, as I do. There is a validation, to being called to assemble again, "about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections."

     Bless you, for visiting today, so close to Christmas Eve. I know you probably have better places to be…..finer acquaintances to visit, and warmer fires to sit beside, than this humble hearth of mine. I hope your Christmas season will be joyful and of course spirited, and spent happily in the festive aura of tradition and goodwill. We shall share this paternal hearth, at Birch Hollow, in the charming bailiwick……across from this snow-laden, enchanted lowland…..the moor. A Gravenhurst, Muskoka moor!

Writing At A Muskoka Homestead At Christmas

I WILL LIVE TO LOVE AND WRITE ANOTHER DAY - SO MUCH FOR THE END OF THE WORLD PREDICTIONS

IF I'M GOING TO PERISH, LET IT BE IN THIS PLEASING SOLITUDE I FIND SO HEAVENLY- AT THE TASK OF WRITING STORIES

     WHEN I ARRIVED BACK IN MUSKOKA, IN THE SPRING OF 1977, AFTER LIVING IN THE HEART OF TORONTO, WHILE AT YORK UNIVERSITY, I KNEW THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA WAS GOING TO BE HOME FOR A VERY LONG TIME. MY CONTEMPORARIES WHO HAD LEFT MUSKOKA AT THE SAME TIME, TO ATTEND VARIOUS UNIVERSITIES, IN THE PROVINCE, INCLUDING MY GIRLFRIEND, AT UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO, HAD DECIDED OVERWHELMINGLY THAT THE URBAN JUNGLE WAS A HAPPENING, OPPORTUNITY-FILLED PLACE. THEY DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE. I COULDN'T LEAVE FAST ENOUGH. IN FACT, THE DIPLOMA WAS ONLY IN MY HANDS FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES, AFTER THE GRADUATION CEREMONY, CONDUCTED BY THE DEAN, BEFORE I WAS WALKING DOUBLE-QUICK TO THE PARKING LOT. I WANTED TO GO HOME. WANTED TO BEAT HASTY RETREAT. NOT BECAUSE TORONTO ISN'T A GREAT CITY, WITH LOTS OF THINGS TO DO, AND OPPORTUNITIES FOR A WRITER TO MAKE A NAME FOR HIMSELF. IT JUST DIDN'T TURN MY CRANK. I HATE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE. UNLESS IT'S IN OUR TOWN AND IN OUR STORE. I CAN GO HOME AT NIGHT TO A RARE, WONDERFUL SOLITUDE. IN THE CITY, NO MATTER WHERE I LIVED IN THOSE YEARS, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT URBAN ROAR OF LIFE AND INDUSTRY ON THE GO.

     AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MANY TIMES BEFORE, MY LIFE CHANGED FOR THE BETTER, THE DAY MY FATHER ED, GOD REST HIS SOUL, DECIDED TO MOVE OUR FAMILY TO MUSKOKA, WHERE HE HAD A JOB AT THE J.D. SHIER LUMBER COMPANY. IT WAS HEAVEN ON EARTH, TO ARRIVE AT THE SOUTHERN BORDER OF OUR DISTRICT, AND FEEL THE AURA OF WIDE OPEN SPACES; VIEW THE MAGNIFICENT LAKES, AND WANDER THE BEAUTIFUL ACRES UPON ACRES OF LUSH FORESTS…..AND LIFE-FULL LOWLANDS AND UPLANDS, WITH NATURE BEING AN INTEGRAL PART OF EVERY DAY LIFE. AS A KID, I NEEDED THIS, AND MY FATHER MAY HAVE SAVED MY LIFE, GETTING ME OUT OF SOUTHERN ONTARIO, WHEN HE DID. EVEN WHILE WE LIVED IN AN URBAN  BURLINGTON NEIGHBORHOOD, I SPENT MOST OF MY QUALITY TIME, WANDERING DOWN BY OLD RAMBLE CREEK, FULFILLING MY FANTASY ADVENTURES…..OCCASIONALLY, AGAINST MY MOTHER'S WARNINGS, MAKING IT ALL THE WAY TO THE SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO, WHERE I DREAMED OF ONE DAY SETTING ADRIFT ON A RAFT, CONSTRUCTED BY US HARRIS CRESCENT RASCALS…..FOR A DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

     I WAS SMITTEN BY MUSKOKA AS A FLEDGLING WRITER, AND I BECAME OVER TIME, DEPENDENT ON ITS SEASONS FOR ALMOST EVERYTHING I'D COMPOSE. I NEEDED THOSE STARK CONTRASTS BETWEEN WINTER AND SPRING, SUMMER AND AUTUMN. I REQUIRED THOSE LONG, INTIMATE TRAVELS THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE, STOPPING FREQUENTLY TO WATCH QUIET CREEKS TURN INTO RAGING TORRENTS, AFTER AUTUMN RAINS; OBSERVING THE ONCE THRIVING CONNECTED PONDS OF A BOG, FREEZING OVER IN EARLY DECEMBER; BEING IMMERSED IN AN EARLY SPRING RAIN, WASHING AWAY THE LAST TRACES OF SNOW, AND THEN BEING IN A POSITION, TO SEE THE FURY OF A SUMMER STORM, LASHING THE LANDSCAPE WITH TORRENTIAL RAIN, AND DAMAGING WIND. IT WAS THE SHARP CONTRASTS, THAT SEEMED TO MOTIVATE ME THE MOST. I WAS AT MY MOST PROLIFIC, WHEN I WITNESSED THE ENVIRONMENTAL CHANGES, OF SEASONAL STORMS, AND SUDDEN SNOWFALLS THAT CHANGED TO MOOD OF LATE NOVEMBER, TO WAX POETIC ABOUT ROBERT FROST, AND "STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVERNING." MUSKOKA HAS ALWAYS OFFERED THE DRAMATIC, WHEN IT WAS MOST DESIRED, TO GENERATE ACTIVITY AT MY TYPEWRITER, ALWAYS POSITIONED FOR ME, ON A SMALL TABLE BY A WINDOW. JUST AS I ENJOY IT HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, IN MY MODERN ESCAPE ADVENTURES.

TOM THOMSON SEEMED TO INTERTWINE WITH THE PREVAILING MOOD INSPIRED BY A STORM-SCAPE

     I was always keenly interested, by a strange recollection, as told by an acquaintance of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. I read once, in my research of the famed Algonquin artist, that he always seemed profoundly immersed, mindfully so, in the day's prevailing weather; particularly if there was a storm front moving over the lakes. Those close to the painter, noted how withdrawn from the social circle he could become, and how intense he was, from the first rumble of thunder…..even before the bank of black clouds was visible over the border pines. He would study it, almost as if, from the inside out, trying to understand the power that rotated in the darkest, highest clouds, and how, so suddenly, the calm would be shattered, as if a large rock had been thrown into a still pool. He watched as the fist of wind unclenched, and slapped down hard at the earth; the trees bending in the powerful winds, and the lake turned into a cauldron of white caps and spray…..the rain falling at times, almost horizontal in the gale force. The lightning, and deep, rolling thunder, well known in the echo, through the Algonquin hills and valleys, enthralled his sensory perception of imminent and drastic change.

    Thomson very much enjoyed when visitors to Mowat Lodge, would remark about his sketches, found leaning here and there in the building, that they made them feel cold and lonely; isolated with a penetrating aura of spirits at play, such as the case, with his numerous depictions of the Northern Lights. He wanted those who viewed his work to sense what it had been like, out on those barren promontories, where he travelled to get a proper perspective of the light show, hovering so hauntingly above the autumn lakeland.   

    I have had these same feelings all my life. I always seem most inspired, when the quiet world is interrupted by some natural intrusion; that while frightening at the onset, stimulates the senses, and begs the voyeur within, to wander with great expectation, of some wondrous scene unfolding. I was encouraged when complacency was dashed, like the surges of water that erase imprinted footsteps from the beach-sand. I felt the need to be disrupted and challenged, possibly a little fearful at times, that a storm surge might actually erase me from my own imprint in life. Alas, I only wish, one day, to be as proficient at capturing these natural events, in print, as Thomson represented so brilliantly on his paint boards. After forty-eight years, residing in this most heavenly place on earth, I have taken every opportunity to experience it all - from the stern of a drifting canoe on a secluded bay; by hiking and skiing its mysterious forest and meadowland trails, to those mindful vigils, holed-up in strategic portals, to watch the days unfold, in the purity of the presiding season.

     I have wandered the streets of my hometown, then and still today, and passed with some nostalgia the places I used to visit, and the sanctuaries of once, where I lived for a time. It's as if I can see my own ghost, in these haunted locales, still occupying those window seats, where I had spent so many hours, just watching the days come and go, softly, vibrantly, darkly and often violently, in late autumn gales. I swear that on occasions, when all is still, at these locations, I can hear the cadence of fingers on an old typewriter, as an echo of biography; the author, tired, inspired, wishing only to find the most descriptive words to represent this district of Ontario; with the poignancy it deserves as credit……for all the stories it has inspired over so many life-full decades, of a most splendid liberation of imagination.

     Since arriving at Birch Hollow, in the autumn of 1989, this modest vista of forest and lowland, has been my greatest source of pleasure, and daily motivation; my family of course filling in the spaces of this humble abode, with those familiar household sounds of domestic industry, that comfortably anchors me in the real world….when I drift off to my own Neverland. I am always beckoned by the winding path through the birch woods, and I can spend hours studying the intricacies of this enchanted little moor, in this urban neighborhood known as "Calydor."  It is still snowing and blowing wildly out there this evening, and the wind suddenly raps, and brushes the iced-over raspberry canes against the pane of glass in front; that like the venerable old cricket on the hearth, makes a welcome intrusion when suddenly, I become complacent and predictable about my work.

     I am writing this tome, in the picturesque heartland, of the ever-alluring clime of South Muskoka…….nestled into the bosom of our family's hometown, Gravenhurst, the historic gateway to the famed Muskoka Lakes. I have written on deserted tropical beaches, in Florida; composed post hippy poems in the embrace of London's Picadilly Circus…..in Robin Hood's legendary Nottingham Forest, in English Pubs known as the "Rose and Crown" and "The Admiral Rodney;" I have penned stories while living in old Toronto neighborhoods, and then in cottages on Muskoka lakes, including Rosseau, Joseph and Muskoka, as an aspiring but still green author. Yet there has never been a more accommodating portal, in all my writing tenure, than what I experience here daily, at Birch Hollow, in this charming neighborhood above Muskoka Bay, in Gravenhurst, Ontario Canada. The modesty of our homestead, I think, is what makes it all so fascinating and enjoyable - not being influenced by many creature comforts, beyond the ordinary, without any real luxurious appointments, that might make me feel too relaxed and complacent in comfort. My observations from this portal, onto the lowland, are not corrupted by material extravagances. I can look honestly and intimately, out over this beautiful scene and watch the maturity of the season, change before my eyes, into the spectacle of a sudden snowstorm, that removes all traces of the autumn in only a few hours.

     On the cusp of Christmas, I might be offered a basic provision of the season, with the steaming cup of mulled cider, Suzanne has been boiling on the stove-top, while tantalizing me with fresh baking for the holidays. There is the sound of distant Christmas carols playing on the radio, up on the hoosier cupboard in the kitchen, and the crackle of dry cedar, newly thrown atop the flames, illuminating the hearth. There is a tell-tale rattle of the old porch rocker, hitting back against the siding of the verandah, as the wind pushes and shoves a season emerging. The glow from the oil lamp at the side of my desk, is diminishing now, as my fuel topped-up three days ago, has finally run down to a teaspoon in the font. I always have a companion oil lamp ignited when I write in the evenings, as it reminds me of how I began in this creative enterprise, first as a young collector, purchasing old oil lamps at farm auctions….and then using them to light my first few homesteads on a long journey from there to here….Birch Hollow, a final destination. As the light grows dimmer, minute by minute, it coincides with the ending of today's story……as it has become a sort of historic tradition, I have adhered, for many years. The lamp tells me its time to retire.

     I often scare my dear wife, when she comes upon me, suggesting it's late, and finds me slumped over, my chin tucked into my chest; leaving her momentarily to wonder breathlessly, if her dear partner has finally succumbed to the rigors of his profession…….passing away on the eve of Christmas of all things. She will put her hand on my shoulder, ever so gently, almost as if fearing the worse, but finding instead, it was once again, a case of forty winks before bed……not the last words of a career ending chapter. But if these were the last words I ever wrote, I would indeed, cherish the idea, they were composed in lamplight of this humble homestead, tapped out musically on this beat-up keyboard, with this splendid view beyond my front window, in the warm embrace of a fine old town, that has always shown such kindness, and kinship, by the inspiration it has shared, abundantly, generously, and graciously, for all these years.

     Tonight, I have survived another story told. Suzanne hands me another mug of hot cider, and beckoned me to come and sit by the fire, to warm together against the stormy night…..and to enjoy the spirit of the Christmas season, now layering upon us, as warm, comforting quilts, in friendship forever. I hope you are having a similarly joyful and spirited start to the Christmas season. I hope, you will join me, for more Christmas themed stories, in the coming days…..each written this week, at this window seat, looking out onto the winter solitude……so stunningly beautiful……so historically Muskoka. Please visit again soon.

Why Is It That Some Residents Don't Feel Welcome

WE NEED TO UNDERSTAND THE REALITIES OF EXCLUSION AND HOW IT HURTS OUR HOMETOWN

NAGGING INEQUALITIES SWEPT UNDER THE CARPET - THE PREFERENCE SEEMS TO BE…..LET THE WRINKLES IN A GOOD PLAN, IRON THEMSELVES

     IT'S A DISCUSSION LONG OVERDUE, AT THE MUNICIPAL LEVEL. I HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT THE ISSUE OF SOCIAL AND ECONOMIC INEQUALITIES, REAL AND PERCEIVED, IN OUR TOWN, DATING BACK AT LEAST TWO YEARS. THERE'S NOT A LOT OF INTEREST IN THIS KIND OF SPECULATIVE ASSESSMENT, BUT YOU KNOW, YOU CAN ONLY KICK STUFF UNDER THE CORNER OF A CARPET FOR SO LONG, BEFORE YOU CREATE A NAVIGATIONAL HEALTH AND SAFETY HAZARD. IT BECOMES SO PROMINENT, YOU JUST CAN'T FOB-IT-OFF ON THE CARPET'S MANUFACTURER, HAVING TO RELUCTANTLY ADMIT, USING IT TO COVER OVER SWEPT-UP DEBRIS. IN GRAVENHURST, THIS NEAT AND VIBRANT COMMUNITY, TUCKED BETWEEN TWO BEAUTIFUL MUSKOKA LAKES, WE HAVE A DEEPENING, WIDENING CHASM BETWEEN THOSE WHO HAVE, AND THOSE STRUGGLING TO KEEP FOOD ON THE TABLE AND A ROOF OVERHEAD. WHILE AT CHRISTMAS TIME, THE OUTPOURING OF CHARITY IS HEART-WARMING, THE REST OF THE YEAR, FOR A LOT OF OUR CITIZENS, IS QUITE DISHEARTENING. I'M CONFIDENT THEY ARE OVERWHELMED BY THE MANY ACTS OF KINDNESS, THEY RECEIVE FROM THE CITIZENS OF THIS COMMUNITY, BUT IN REALITY, THE BURDEN OF ECONOMIC CRISIS, DOESN'T DISAPPEAR BECAUSE OF GLAD TIDINGS AT CHRISTMAS. THERE ARE SERIOUS DIVISIONS DEVELOPING IN OUR TOWN, THAT WILL HAVE TO BE DEALT WITH IN THE COMING YEARS, OR IT WILL BECOME EVERYONE'S BURDEN. PARTICULARLY IN TERMS OF TAXES. I'M PRETTY SURE, I'M BREAKING GROUND ON THIS ONE, AND YET IT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS. WHEN WE LOOK AT THE PROGRESS WE HAVE MADE, OVER THE PAST FEW YEARS, AND THE IMPROVEMENTS WE'D ALL LIKE TO ACHIEVE FOR OUR TOWN IN THE COMING TWO YEARS, WHY MUST THERE ALWAYS BE A DOWN SIDE? THERE'S SOMETHING STANDING IN THE WAY OF TRUE PROSPERITY. AND IT DOES HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH WHAT HAS BEEN SWEPT OUT OF SIGHT, FOR A LOT OF YEARS.

     FOR THOSE READERS, WHO DON'T PRESENTLY LIVE IN GRAVENHURST, OR WHO HAVE FAMILY HERE, AND JUST WISH TO KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE TOWN, I MUST TELL YOU THAT THIS IS A MARVELOUS, CHARMING SOUTH MUSKOKA COMMUNITY, AND NOT JUST IN THE QUAINT SEASONAL DECORATION OF A WINTER SNOWFALL…..AS IT IS RECEIVING AT THIS MOMENT, HITTING AGAINST MY OFFICE WINDOW. MY WIFE AND BUSINESS PARTNER, SUZANNE, HAS JUST ANNOUNCED HER RETIREMENT FROM TEACHING, THIS COMING JUNE, AND WE ARE BOTH LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR GENTLER YEARS, LIVING THE GOOD LIFE HERE IN OUR VIBRANT LITTLE HOMETOWN. IT'S THE ONLY PLACE WE WANT TO LIVE. IT'S WHERE OUR FAMILY HAS CHOSEN TO LIVE AND DO BUSINESS. BUT WE AREN'T BLIND OR INDIFFERENT, TO THE PROBLEMS THAT PULL US DOWN, WHEN WE WISH TO MOVE UPWARD. SO WHAT I AM ABOUT TO RELATE, DOESN'T MEAN THE TOWN IS SOMEWHAT UNWORTHY, BECAUSE IT HAS NEGLECTED SOME PROBLEMS. IT CAN ALL BE CORRECTED, IF THERE IS A WILL TO DO SO. THE FIRST STEP, AND IT IS THE MOST DIFFICULT, IS TO REALIZE THAT WE HAVE CREATED A MODERN DAY CONUNDRUM, BASED ON APPEARANCE, PERCEPTION, ARROGANCE AND IGNORANCE, AND WHILE THIS SOUNDS PRETTY NASTY, THE NUTS AND BOLTS OF IT, COMES DOWN TO THE CREATION OF PLACES SOME OF OUR CITIZENS WILL NOT GO…..VISIT, ATTEND, SUPPORT, OR PARTICIPATE. WHY IS THIS A PROBLEM? EVERYONE HAS A RIGHT TO DECLINE TO VISIT SOME ATTRACTIONS, AND PARTAKE OF SERVICES THAT ARE AVAILABLE ELSEWHERE. THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, IS THERE? I'LL GIVE AN EXAMPLE, OF HOW IF IS BECOMING A SERIOUS PROBLEM, AND WHAT WE CAN DO ABOUT IT……IF OUR TOWN COUNCIL SEES IT AS SOMETHING THAN CAN BE MITIGATED BEFORE IT BECOMES A LARGER OBSTACLE. IT'S UP TO THEM TO LEAD THE WAY, TO A MORE INVOLVED COMMUNITY. 

A FAMILY ON LIMITED MEANS, AND WE TOOK ADVANTAGE OF ANYTHING FREE FOR OUR BOYS

     I've written at length, and even with some pride, how our family struggled with economic hardship, back in the early 1990's. It was during a period of recession and real estate price reductions, that caught a lot of people off guard, and caused many foreclosures and personal and commercial bankruptcies. Jobs were lost and opportunities were few and far between. For most of our boys' childhood, here in Gravenhurst, we didn't have much money for recreation spending. We managed to stay afloat and meet all our obligations, although at daybreak it always seemed another day's "impossible dream," to make enough at our little antique shop, and with freelance writing, to cover the overdue bills, and put food on the table. As I've noted previously, Suzanne is a home economist, from pioneer stock here in Muskoka, and she kept us hale and hardy through the worse part of the downturn.

     During this period, and while I worked at our Bracebridge shop, Suzanne would take the boys to anything through the year, that was free, and that would entertain them for an hour or so. There weren't a lot of choices but she always seemed to find something on a summer Saturday, to occupy their interests, without costing a lot of money……that she didn't have. One of the favorite places to visit on their travels, was to stop in at Bethune House, especially if there was an event going on, and free cake and lemonade being served. They usually had some celebration for Canada Day. But with admission free, she might show up with the wagon-kids, any day of the week, if she could get in without paying. It's not that we were cheap. Just broke. Andrew and Robert's red wagon was parked outside the historic site quite often in those days, and the boys got an important history lesson, each time they showed up. They loved going down to Sagamo Park to see the Segwun, and we used to picnic on the shore green-space, before the Ned Hanlon movie crew built the present steamship ticket office, at the wharf. The park was pretty rustic and industrial looking then, but it was a nice alternative to some of the other sites around town that were getting a little boring. But unfortunately, and it used to break Andrew's heart, that we couldn't even afford to go out on the shortest Segwun lake tour, which was just a little more than an hour long.

      I remember Suzanne taking them to a Canada Day celebration at the newly refurbished Sagamo Park, back in the early stages of redevelopment, and the event was free for youngsters……..except one aspect. At a point during the children's games, part of the celebration of Canada Day, a co-ordinator came to say it was time for everyone to come and board the Segwun. Suzanne didn't know what to think, and Andrew and Robert were beside themselves with excitement, that they were going to get a trip on the Segwun at last. Then it was revealed, the trip was going to require an admission price. That day, she would have had enough money to buy them some food treats for a little picnic, but not much more. I always hated having to say no to adventures like this, all the other kids that day were going to enjoy. As a parent, who made some bad calls on investments, and helped get us into the economic quagmire, it was my responsibility to wipe away the tears. It became kind of routine because we had to say "no" a lot, over quite a few years.

     They did find great recreation with books at the public library, when it was in the Carnegie Building, and they spent a lot of time at Gull Lake Park, where we had many picnics, and swimming parties at the beach. It was the time we began going to the Music on the Barge programs, on Sunday nights, because it was an affordable social / recreational opportunity for the whole family. We always had some change to drop in the buckets, to help our friend Fred Schulz finance the summer season concerts, and we'd have an economical picnic during the show. Now here's a point of actuality, to consider. As we felt welcome at Gull Lake Park, a real jewel for this town, the boys got their first exposure, up close and personal, to the entertainment business, courtesy Mr. Schulz. It's where both Andrew and Robert got the idea, that one day, they'd also like to be on The Barge……both as entertainers, which they have fulfilled, and working with Fred as part of his technical team. So what began as summer evening entertainment, for a family a little down on their luck, became a lifestyle change…..such that both boys have been involved with The Barge for about a decade now, even bringing their friends, Luke Thompson and James Luciebello, aboard, as crew; and as a direct spin-off, have re-invested in their hometown, with our present vintage music and antique shop on the main street. All linked back to the affordable concerts and the welcoming good cheer of Gull Lake Park.

     Over the years, Bethune House instituted an admission, and cruising on the Segwun wasn't a priority, when money was tight. We saved up, and had many trips aboard as our economy improved, but we still look at it today as a luxury…..and I'm sorry to say this…..but a trip for another day. We say that a lot, and I'm sure others do as well. Expenses for other recreational activities are perceived in much the same way, including hockey, baseball, swimming and soccer registration. While there may be subsidies offered to families with lesser incomes, or on referrals, many citizens of this town just opt to avoid the issue entirely, and keep their kids out of these programs. Which is a real shame. We were in the same boat. I like to think we gave them worthy recreational opportunities, by taking them canoeing and camping when we could muster the funds. We got out of our economic funk after about seven years of recovery. Some individuals and families today in our town, have many more years to look forward to, of economic despair.

     Several years ago, and there is a record of this, I began harping at the town, regarding the cost of programs, specifically swimming, at the soon to be opened, recreation centre complex, complete with a brand new pool. I suggested that they consider very seriously, the reality that many folks in our community, will need substantially low rates, and incentives, in order to participate in a community, their tax dollars helped create. While I think there are programs in place, to help offset costs, and make family memberships affordable, unfortunately, some people are still feeling that the new facility isn't for them. I've heard this a lot, and from many different sources, but it's what I knew five years ago……even further back than this. That there are many residents of this fine town who don't feel welcome, because of their income situation, at numerous of our significant and expensive attractions. Now I realize, some readers will feel this is an unfair generalization. I wish it was that easy to poke holes in…..and I would like to be wrong about this…..but I'm not.

     Today I talked to two friends, who had come into the shop to wish us Merry Christmas. We began talking about some of the shortfalls, in user numbers, at the new Recreation Centre. They came out with it at roughly the same time….."It wasn't built for us…..we wouldn't feel comfortable there." Then they brought up The Wharf development, and they repeated the same statement. If it was the first time I'd heard this, I might have tried to question further, to fact-find for my own interest. I knew exactly what they meant. I've heard the same thing exactly about the Opera House. I can remember giving free tickets out to folks from the Salvation Army, to a benefit concert we were having…..and finding out that more than half had never been to the Opera House, even though they'd lived in the community for more than twenty years. The others had been into the Opera House to vote, during a federal or provincial election, but not to see a show. Now while we're in the survey frame of mind in this town, I really think its time, for our elected officials, to know exactly how people are feeling about our major attractions…..and why they either attend, or choose not to, and how much of it has to do with the expense of tickets, registrations, services and programs. We need to know what's going on around here, because the economy is still sputtering out there, and it's more than likely, some of our vulnerable citizens are going to get clobbered again, with the vibrations of things like Fiscal Cliffs.

     A year or so ago, the Town Recreation Department tried to cut the budget for life guards at Gull Lake Park. I hope to God they don't try this again. There was sharp and substantial criticism before, and there will be again. Part of this, is the social / economic reality, that thousands of our citizens, prefer swimming at a beach that is not only free, but in the true spirit of Muskoka - open air. But there's more than that. If one was to employ a social-economic study, it would be found, in clear evidence, that a majority of the beach users, who are full time residents of Gravenhurst, will not attend the new pool, despite any subsidy program they might be eligible for. They see the recreation centre as elitist, and frankly, so do I. They don't feel welcome there, and as far as seeking subsidy accommodation, if that exists, most of those who might qualify, simply refuse to fill out the paperwork, as they find it embarrassing admitting, being financially disadvantaged. We were. It's to be expected. These citizens of our town, won't go to the arena to watch a hockey game, if it requires an admission, and they won't visit The Wharf, or go out on either of the cruise ships, because they can't afford the privilege. There is a fiscal divide in this town, that has psychological qualities and quantities, that stop thousands upon thousands of residents from participating in important town programs…..designed for their benefit. What has happened in the past, and is happening now, more noticeably, is that these same facilities and programs are getting a little stressed financially themselves…….possibly under-utilized, and I'm pretty sure councillors don't know what can be done to reverse the trend. I do not see it abating, but I'm pretty sure, that with the increasing fiscal problems in this region and province, we could see some broadening of this resistance to participate, thus decreasing support for the opportunities we possess here in Gravenhurst.

     The first suggestion I have, if Gravenhurst Council truly wants to change their fortune….and get citizens more involved, is to stop minimizing what they're being told…..by critics like me, and by the fact, they have clearly not won the hearts of a majority of the citizenry. We've got lots of kids out there, teenagers and young adults, who need to be a part of this recreation, social, entertainment program within the town, and it's going to take some unfettered open-debate, to figure out a way of making it all a little more palatable, to those who feel they are not welcome. I hate to hear stuff like this, and yet I keep asking the question; and then recoil at the answers. I know why they feel this way. They feel embarrassed about their situations, and even though they shouldn't, by our standards, I understand them from personal experience. We haven't been swimming, at the Rec. Centre, we don't take cruises with the local fleet, we haven't been back to Bethune House since they imposed an admission charge, we haven't had a lot of reason to buy tickets at the Opera House, except for the one Suzanne was given, by a kind benefactor, to attend the recent Vinyl Cafe, Christmas Show, with Stuart McLean. We still live as frugally as we had to, during our poorer years, and I don't think we're ever going to change now. So I understand the reason why our residents are careful about the money they spend on local attractions, and having a time to live the live of the impoverished….because it was fact, we know what it's like to have to choose food money, over recreation. Now how many people do you think, are in this same or worse situation, in our hometown? We need to know this. I've been saying this for years. If we are going to use the recreation centre, for what it was intended, to help all our citizens, we need to know how to change the tide……and prove it is not an elitist installation for the well-to-do.

     At Christmas, we all pitch in to help the less fortunate. It is always so uplifting to hear about the great support, being extended to our most vulnerable citizens, at this festive time of the year. But their needs and circumstances, aren't resolved by this community outpouring……they are temporarily relieved….softened, and kindly bestowed, in the spirit of Merry Christmas. Their New Years however, is fraught with unpleasant realities, that very few of us see up close, the way the Salvation Army does, at their food bank…..that is always in need of provisions, and your extended kindnesses throughout the year.

     My hope, for the New Year, is that the town fully recognizes, the work they have to do, in order to create a more welcoming environment, to those who will never agree to apply for subsidy……based on pride. Maybe we just have to start looking at some free services for awhile, to get things in perspective. I really hate the idea, after all the money that was invested there, to have it under-utilized. Especially when we have such need for these social - recreational opportunities in our community. Now think about this for a moment, if you find my suggestion objectionable. How many residents will suffer shortage of food, and shelter, because of this same pride……so many of them being elderly. This is a statistic we should know, as it impacts the true measure of well being, within our hometown.

     Thank you for spending this time with me…..as a winter storm blasts over the Muskoka landscape…..the wind snapping the branches against the window pane, and rattling the old chairs on the front verandah. What a nice night to curl up with a good book, about Christmas…..at hearthside. Thanks for keeping me company. Merry Christmas.