John Rutherford Passed Away This Week; Our Hero

I had the choice of many photographs of Muskoka that I thought John would have liked, and I came upon this river-scape taken this weekend by my friend Fred Schulz, and I knew immediately this serene image would be a tribute to a kind and gentle man.

A splash of colour reflects in the Black River along the historic Cooper’s Falls Road on Sunday afternoon.   The colours have not reached their peak as of yet, but the evening frost will soon bring out the full beauty of the season. (Photo By Fred Schulz)

MEMORIAL TRIBUTE: JOHN RUTHERFORD PASSED AWAY THIS WEEK

     I WROTE A TRIBUTE TO JOHN RUTHERFORD, THE FORMER CONDUCTOR OF THE BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL BAND, THAT I KNOW FOR FACT, HE DIDN'T READ. WELL, YOU SEE, I DIDN'T SEND IT TO HIM. I THINK AT THE TIME, I WAS A LITTLE EMBARRASSED, BECAUSE JOHN DIDN'T REALLY CARE FOR BEING SINGLED-OUT, OR GIVEN A TRIBUTE, BECAUSE, IN TEACHING, HE FELT THAT IT WAS JUST A CASE OF HIM DOING HIS JOB THOROUGHLY. NOTHING SPECIAL. JUST HELPING TO BUILD CULTURE THROUGH MUSIC, AND PROVE TO STUDENTS, THAT HE COULD MAKE THEM INTO MUSICIANS IF THEY WERE WILLING TO WORK AS HARD AS HE WOULD COMMIT. HE DID THIS FOR ME. I DON'T KNOW WHY HE DECIDED I WAS NOT GOING TO FALL THROUGH THE CRACKS, ON HIS WATCH,  BUT HE DID THIS FOR A LOT OF OTHER STUDENTS; REFUSING TO GIVE UP IF WE HAD EVEN THE TINIEST SPARK OF AMBITION. HE COULD TAKE THAT MINUTE SIGN OF POTENTIAL, AND MAKE THE LEAST LIKELY OF US, INTO PERFORMERS. I BRAG ABOUT THIS ALL THE TIME, WHEN MY SONS, ANDREW AND ROBERT TALK ABOUT THEIR MUSICAL CONQUESTS. BY GOLLY, I TELL THEM ABOUT THE FAMOUS ENGLAND BAND, THAT JOHN RUTHERFORD MADE ME A PART OF.....AT THE LAST MOMENT OF MY HIGH SCHOOL EXPERIENCE.

     I HAD JUST SAT DOWN THIS EVENING, TO WORK ON MY DAILY BLOG, WHEN SON ROBERT PHONED, TO TELL US THAT A CLOSE FAMILY FRIEND OF OURS, HAD RELAYED A MESSAGE, THAT JOHN HAD PASSED AWAY ON TUESDAY OF THIS WEEK. WHEN SUZANNE WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR, TO GIVE ME THE NEWS, I RESPONDED IMMEDIATELY......"IT'S JOHN RUTHERFORD ISN'T IT?" I'VE BEEN THINKING A LOT ABOUT JOHN LATELY, AND I'VE EVEN SPOKEN TO SOME OLD BAND MATES RECENTLY ABOUT THAT FORMER ENGLAND EXCURSION. WE DID KNOW THAT JOHN HAD BEEN IN FAILING HEALTH FOR SOME TIME. AS FOR THIS EVENING'S REVELATION, IT'S THE REASON I PULLED TODAY'S COPY, TO RE-RUN THIS LITTLE TRIBUTE I WROTE ABOUT JOHN, SOME TIME AGO. OF COURSE I REGRET NOT SENDING IT TO HIM, OR HIS FAMILY, BUT AT THE TIME, I WAS MORE DETERMINED THAT MY DAILY READERS, HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO KNOW WHAT THIS MAN MEANT TO ME OVER A NEAR LIFETIME. I WANTED HIS NAME TO BE JUST AS PROMINENT TO THE CULTURE OF OUR MUSKOKA REGION, AS IT WAS IN MY HIGH SCHOOL DAYS....WHEN EVERYONE KNEW THE NAME JOHN RUTHERFORD. SO I HOPE THAT THIS LITTLE EDITORIAL OFFERING READS AS THE TRIBUTE THAT WAS INTENDED, OF A WONDERFUL MAN, WHO GAVE US ALL, IN THOSE YEARS,  REASON TO BE EXCITED ABOUT WHAT WE COULD ACHIEVE, WITH ENCOURAGEMENT. HE WAS TOUGH, BUT HE WAS TRUE TO HIS WORD. HE LED BY EXAMPLE, AND I'D LIKE TO THINK, HE FELT WE HAD ACHIEVED THE GOALS HE HAD SET FOR US. BUT AS WAS HIS TRADITION.....IF YOU DIDN'T MEASURE UP, FIRST, YOU COULD SEE IT ETCHED ONTO HIS FACE....AND SECONDLY, HE WASN'T ADVERSE TO LETTING YOU KNOW, WE HAD COME IN UNDER EXPECTATION. IN THIS CASE, I'M PRETTY SURE HIS CONFIDENT SMILE, AT THE LAST CONCERT, OF MY LAST YEAR, SAID IT ALL.....AND FOR THE BAND, HE BOWED TO US AS A GESTURE OF RESPECT. WE ALL BOWED TO HIM, BECAUSE HE WAS OUR CHAMPION.

     THANK YOU JOHN RUTHERFORD.

IT WAS ABOUT 38 YEARS AGO THAT JOHN RUTHERFORD GAVE A KID A BREAK

"YOU WANT TO BE IN THE BAND TED……THEN SMARTEN UP!"

     IF I WAS MAYOR OF THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, I WOULD PETITION FOR A SPECIAL DAY, ORGANIZE AN OPEN AIR CONCERT, AND GET A GREAT MARCHING BAND TO RECOGNIZE OUR VERY OWN "MUSIC MAN." I'M NOT THE MAYOR OF BRACEBRIDGE, AND I'M NOT SURE JOHN WOULD FORGIVE ME FOR MAKING A FUSS ABOUT A TIME IN OUR LIVES, WHEN HE WAS NOT ONLY THE LEADER OF THE BAND, BUT HE WAS, IN HIS OWN WAY, AN EXTRA FATHER IN ALL OUR FAMILIES. HE CARED ABOUT US, AND WE CARED ABOUT HIM. HE MADE HISTORY IN BRACEBRIDGE AND THE WIDER MUSKOKA, BECAUSE OF HIS PURSUIT AND ACHIEVEMENT OF EXCELLENCE. AS LONG AS I CAN PEN THESE TOMES, I WILL NEVER, EVER, LET OUR COMMUNITIES FORGET HOW HE PUT US ON THE MAP, IN RESPECT TO MUSIC, AND JUST HOW MUCH WE ENJOYED BEING IN THE LIMELIGHT HE INSPIRED……FOR ALL OF US. BUT IT DIDN'T COME EASILY, OR WITHOUT SACRIFICE. YET THERE WASN'T A SINGLE BAND MEMBER, IN THOSE YEARS OF THE EARLY 1970'S, WHO WOULDN'T HAVE FOLLOWED JOHN DOWN ANY PATH, BECAUSE WE TRUSTED HIM WITH OUR LIVES. AND WE ALL BENEFITTED FROM OUR ASSOCIATION WITH THIS TALENTED DIRECTOR, AND THOUGH MANY OF HIS STUDENTS MAY NOT HAVE HUGGED HIM AT GRADUATION, WE ALL WANTED TO…..

     EVEN AFTER FOUR YEARS OF STARING AT ME EVERY DAY OF THE SCHOOL WEEK, THE ONLY THING JOHN RUTHERFORD KNEW ABOUT ME, WAS THAT I DIDN'T GIVE UP EASILY. I PAID ATTENTION IN CLASS, DIDN'T DROP THE MOUTHPIECE OF MY BARITONE ON THE FLOOR, AND I FOLLOWED HIS DIRECTION THE BEST I COULD. THE BEST I COULD WAS SUBSTANDARD, YOU SEE, BUT JOHN DIDN'T GIVE UP TRYING TO MAKE LACK LUSTER APPEAR, AND SOUND, JUST A LITTLE BIT BETTER. I WASN'T A MUSIC NATURAL. SOME HAVE CALLED MY SONS, ANDREW AND ROBERT NATURALS. I WILL TELL THOSE WHO SAY THIS, THAT IT'S MORE LIKELY A MUSIC GENE, BECAUSE THEIR GREAT GRANDFATHER WAS A VIOLINIST, WHO HAD ASSOCIATION WITH THE TORONTO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA, AND ON THEIR MOTHER'S SIDE, THERE WERE ALL KINDS OF GUITAR PLAYING FAMILY MEMBERS FROM THE HOMESTEAD ERA IN CANADA ONWARD. I EXPECT THEIR PLAYING GOES BACK TO OLD IRELAND AND ENGLAND, WHERE OUR FAMILY ORIGINATED. AS FOR ME? I GOT THE WRITING GENE, AND THAT REALLY DIDN'T HELP ME, WHEN JOHN RUTHERFORD STOOD ON THE PODIUM, TRYING TO CONDUCT HIS STUDENTS TO CONCERT-LEVEL…..HAVING TO PAUSE FREQUENTLY, TO REMIND ME ABOUT READING SLIGHTLY AHEAD, WITHOUT LOSING MY PLACE…..AND SCREWING UP EVERYONE ELSE. MY INSTRUMENT WAS LIKE A SMALL TUBA, AND WHEN I GOT LOST, BELIEVE ME, EVERYONE KNEW ABOUT THE MISCUE. I MAY HAVE BEEN RESPONSIBLE FOR BROKEN BATONS, BUT HONEST TO GOD, I WAS TRYING TO STAY WITH EVERYONE ELSE. HE'D JUST LOOK AT ME, AND I SLIP DOWN A LITTLE IN MY CHAIR.

     I WANTED TO GET A HEAD START ON THE UPCOMING 40TH ANNIVERSARY, OF JOHN RUTHERFORD'S FAMOUS "SEND SOME MUSIC TO ENGLAND" CONCERT TOUR, DATING BACK TO THE SPRING OF 1974, WHERE STUDENTS FROM BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, TRAVELLED TO NOTTINGHAM, ENGLAND, AS ARRANGED IN LARGE PART, BY OUR PRINCIPAL AT THE TIME, KEN BLACK…..TODAY A COLUMNIST FOR "THE WEEKENDER," A FRIDAY PUBLICATION HERE IN MUSKOKA. I'M GETTING NOSTALGIC, AND JUST RECENTLY I'VE BUMPED INTO A FEW PEOPLE WHO WERE ON THAT SAME AMAZING TOUR, THAT REMINDED ME…..THAT AS MORE OF A WRITER, THAN A MUSICIAN, I SHOULD OF COURSE, PEN SOMETHING TO THANK JOHN RUTHERFORD FOR HIS FAITH IN US…..ME SPECIFICALLY, THAT WE COULD REPRESENT MUSKOKA ABROAD, AND BRING MANY CREDITS BACK TO OUR SCHOOL.  JOHN AND HIS WIFE DOROTHY WERE AT OUR WEDDING. JOHN HAD WORKED WITH SUZANNE, A NEW TEACHER AT THE TIME, AT BMLSS, SO WE BOTH FELT A CLAIM TO HIM. HE WAS IMPORTANT TO US. IT WAS THAT SIMPLE. HIS FRIENDSHIP HAD HELPED US BOTH THROUGH SOME TRYING TIMES….ME AS A STRUGGLING, AVERAGE STUDENT, AND SUZANNE AS A SCARED-TO-DEATH TEACHER. JOHN CALMED US DOWN. INSPIRED US. SHOWED US THE WAY THROUGH, AND IT WAS THE RIGHT WAY.

JOHN GAVE ME A CHANCE TO PROVE MYSELF…..AND I HOPE I DID.

     I'd been struggling in music since Grade Nine. My mother Merle, who had gone to the Royal Conservatory herself, at the urging of her violinist father, Stanley Jackson, believed that I had an ear for music. It was true. I loved music. I just couldn't play it as written. John Rutherford, the well known, and I dare say legendary conductor, of the BMLSS Concert Band, often scolded me that, "Ted, please play the music as it is written……not how you think it should be played!"

     It was about this time of year, in the autumn of 1973 that John cornered me in the hallway, and while I thought it was going to be a lecture about proper storage of my baritone, or some assignment I was missing, he said with considerable patience in his voice….which was a little rare, that this was the year. "Do you want to be in the band Ted?" He looked into my soul to see if there was even a flicker of will, that despite my answer, he would know the truth of conscience. "This is your last chance you know," he said. I was in my fifth year of music, and by golly, here it was, the ninth inning, bases loaded, and I've got two strikes and three balls, and the pitch is coming down the pike. "We're taking the band to England in the spring, and it would be nice to have you ready in time." I stood there, half-fallen into my locker, trying to answer in a complete sentence. I must have said "well" and "but" thirty times, before he got the message that I was willing to do anything to fit in…..anywhere. I would have been beside myself, literally, even if he had invited me along as equipment manager. 

     I stood there, staring up at him, wondering if I had heard him correctly. It was the first I'd heard about a trip to England. And frankly, I'd given up on being invited to join the band, and just graduate the coming spring with knowledge, I had, at the very least, put in my five years with average success, diploma in hand, and a lot of fond memories of songs I liked to play. Here was the big guy inviting me to join the band, hinged on my willingness to work hard to attain his level of stellar performance. I knew John Rutherford as a hugely talented musician, singer, and teacher. Part of the reason I stuck with the music program, was his compelling way of making his students work harder to achieve their own goals…..not just his own. He gave us the encouragement to be better at our art form. He was tough and relentless, but there was even something about his moments of rage, when he'd snap his conductor's baton in two, that made us curious about the man and his art. As one would watch a bear eating a live salmon in a couple of gulps, it was hard to turn away, when John began stomping around the music room, in a tirade about carelessness with the instruments, particularly mouthpieces that often fell and bounced off the floor. It was like God had set down a twister in the room, but you couldn't look away, even though there could be collateral damage, making eye contact with the storm unharnessed. It wasn't a lot to ask, to hang onto our mouthpieces. But every day, son of a gun, one would hit the floor. I knew what the sound of silence was like! The precious and heart stopping moment before John could react. I think I could even hear his blood pressure rising…his heart pounding out his chest. Like I said. You couldn't look away, because it was so dramatic. First the baton went, then the pacing began, then the roar of a voice from deep within, and if you didn't know better, or have seen it all before, well, you'd swear this was what the end of the world would sound and look like. Back on the podium, it was as if he had deflated into a peaceful semi-tranquility, and I've got to tell you, we did exactly what he requested, for fear there would be another eruption. Truth is, he scared me a few times, but not after about grade eleven. He was motivating us, to stop dropping equipment on the floor. It was a simple request. We should have been able to handle it. We were playing symphonies for God's sake. How hard could it be to keep mouthpieces in our steady hands?

     I couldn't write a tribute piece about John Rutherford, without noting this penchant for outburst, which I often assumed to be more motivational for us, than a generator of sudden fear that the conductor was directing anger at us specifically. We didn't like to think we contributed to his dismay, so we worked hard to avoid such incidents….of which we felt, by the way, he was fully entitled. He was a brilliant man. He was eccentric at the same time. But there wasn't a one of us, sitting beneath and beyond his podium, in the classroom, or on the stage, who didn't know the genius imbedded in the dominant silhouette, directing us against the glare of lights……some times at large cavernous venues in England, playing for an audience of accomplished musicians. Even those who knew their symphonies well, would congratulate John Rutherford at the end of the concerts, on having created a fine group of performers. When John asked me if I was ready to work hard, in order to make the cut, for Concert Band selection, I looked at him, as if he had just bestowed a life enhancing gift on the unsuspecting urchin, who never expected such a burden of trust. It was a burden in many ways, because I knew what my deficiencies were, and the upgrades I would need to make. Yet it all came down to one thing. John had told me, in a tight budget of words and spartan emotion, that I was proficient enough, to have a solid base to make improvements. There were students not asked to join the band. He saw something in me, I hadn't known about. I wasn't a quitter, and that was a place to start.

     I have had a lot of role models to choose from, when waxing biographical. I have paid very close attention, throughout my life, to those people I admired, for any number of reasons. John Rutherford may have been my first, fully recognized, serious mentor; and truth be known, as I'm sure it is, I could be as volatile in reaction, in writing, as he was on the podium while conducting. Not in a violent way, but emphatic, and aggressive, about achieving improvements. I admired him for his willingness to go where others had failed, and he picked musical adventures that challenged us to the core. I mean this. This is not just a sentimental over-characterization, for the purpose of an interesting blog. The man had an aura that burned, and when he put a challenge in front of us, he did so knowing full well, that to attain the level of performance he demanded, sacrifice and brutally hard work had to be realized…….because it was never just proficiency. He knew we had to, like a greyhound on a race track, chase something that interested us. For me, first of all, it was making the band in time to be included in the Concert Band roster. It happened, and it was the result of wanting to be included in something I knew would be great. I wasn't wrong about this, and John knew full well, that the experience would change a lot of lives. We would all come to know, before that trip was over, just how we could achieve objectives by committing to a dynamic, stalwart work ethic. Even fair musicians can become exceptional if they so desire. I didn't become a great or legendary baritone player in the England Band of 1974. I did show John Rutherford, that his faith in me was justified, and that, I think, made both of us happy, and contented,…….that everything had worked out for the best.

     No matter what we have done in the past, to recognize the 1974 adventure, we have never paid proper recognition to this kind, talented, dynamic conductor / teacher, John Rutherford. He changed my outlook on life in a thousand different ways. I don't play the baritone any more. But I do write. I just transferred to an instrument that I was more comfortable with over the long haul…….and this keyboard in front of me now, is playing an Opus for a friend. Thank you John Rutherford, for believing in this kid, when few others did. The band trip of 1974 was a milestone for the town and Muskoka, which we felt we represented. There were other trips to England, for the concert band, but like the Canada-Russia hockey tournament, the first one is always the best. Maybe John will be mad at me for writing this blog, but I don't care. It has to be said…..and I am its writer. And if I wanted to, I could get dozens more testimonials, in agreement, that John Rutherford made music history in our communities, and of this, we are forever grateful. A reunion. Wouldn't that be nice. You know where I am!

THE PAID-FOR OBSERVATIONS OF MUSKOKA IN THE 1800'S - NOT OUR FOLK LORE

Visiting the Historic Community of Germania -  Rich in local history, the community of Germania is one of the early settlements in area where you can still visit the historic Germania Lutheran Church which was established in l876. (Photo By Fred Schulz)

MUSKOKA WAS PROMOTED IN THE FIRST YEARS OF TOURISM AS AN ENCHANTED, FAIRYLAND, SPIRITUAL AND HEALTH RESTORATIVE RETREAT

IT WAS BASED ON WHAT TOURISTS WANTED - BUT NOT ON ITS ACTUAL FOLK-LORE

    WHILE CRADLING A HOT CUP OF TEA, AND ENJOYING THE TWINKLING SPARKS OF A FROST-LADENED AUTUMN MORNING, FROM MY ARMCHAIR VANTAGE-POINT, IT WILL APPEAR A VERY ACTIVE, AND INTERESTING PANORAMA;  OF WILDLIFE, WAVERING FLORA AND FAUNA, AND MORNING HIKERS, OUT THERE ON THE MUSKOKA MOOR. JUST BEYOND THE WINDOW PANE HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, IT ALL COMES TOGETHER AS ONE WOULD EXPECT OF A NATURAL WONDERLAND.
     IF YOU WATCH OUT OVER THE BOG, FROM MY OFFICE WINDOW, IN THE EARLY MORNINGS, THIS TIME OF YEAR, YOU'RE BOUND TO SEE DEER GRAZING ALONG THE FAR RIDGE, AN AMBLING BEAR OR VISITING MOOSE. IN THE AFTERNOON, YOU WILL SEE AND HEAR THE RESIDENT CROWS, LIKE THE HAUNTING OF A CHURCH GRAVEYARD, LOUDLY CAWING FROM ONE TREE TOP TO ANOTHER, WHILE A BOUNTY OF BLACK SQUIRRELS, LEAP FROM BRANCH TO BRANCH, AS TINY BIRDS DART IN AND OUT OF OUR SCATTERED CLUMPS OF LILACS, BROUGHT FROM WINDERMERE, WHEN WE MOVED HERE IN THE LATE 1980'S.
    IT IS A TRULY INSPIRING PLACE, TO WATCH THE MANIFESTATION OF LIGHT AND SHADOW, AS EACH DAY MATURES, SEASON TO SEASON, THROUGH SNOW AND RAIN, AUTUMN STORM, AND HARVEST CALM. THE LEAVES ON THE HARDWOODS ACROSS THE LOWLAND, ARE CHANGING FAST NOW, WITH THE COLD NIGHTS, AND MANY LEAVES HAVE ALREADY FALLEN INTO OUR YARD, AFTER THE HIGH WINDS OF A FEW NIGHTS AGO. SITTING HERE, ENJOYING THE VIEW OVER MY PIECE OF MUSKOKA, I CAN CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND WHY THE FIRST WRITERS TO TRAVEL THROUGH OUR REGION, WERE COMPELLED TO USE WORDS LIKE "FAIRYLAND," AND "ENCHANTING," TO DESCRIBE WHAT THEY WERE WITNESSING. UNFORTUNATELY, THE PIONEERS, FROM SOME OF THE SAME PORTALS, WERE SEEING MUSKOKA DIFFERENTLY; AS A HARSH, AND UNRELENTING TASK-MASTER,  THAT PROVIDED LONG, BITTERLY COLD WINTERS, AND SHORT GROWING SEASONS. THUS, THE FOLK-LORE OF OUR REGION, FROM THE PERMANENT POPULATION, WAS LESS FLOWERY, AND MORE TRUTHFUL TO THE HARDSHIPS IT CREATED.

    I CAN FIND MANY HISTORIC OVERVIEW REFERENCES TO MUSKOKA, FROM THE LATE 1870'S TO 80'S, THAT DESCRIBE OUR REGION AS A HEALTH-FULL AND MIND-RESTORATIVE RETREAT, FOR THE CITY-WEARY. MOSTLY AIMED, OF COURSE, AT THOSE WITH MEANS TO FUND A LUXURY-FILLED WILDERNESS ESCAPE. A FANTASY-LADEN "ENCHANTED FOREST" AND LAKELAND, THAT ABOUNDED IN ETHEREAL OPPORTUNITIES; PAINTED MUCH AS IF A TOURIST ADVENTURER MIGHT DECIDE, INSTEAD OF WILD GAME, TO HUNT AND THEN CAPTURE FAIRIES AND LEPRECHAUNS ALONG THE LAKESHORE, AND DOWN THE NARROW, SHADED FOREST PATHS.
     IT WASN'T SO MUCH THE CASE, THAT THE EARLY WRITERS WERE DOING THIS, AS AN HONEST BIT OF JOURNALISM;  BECAUSE TO THE CONTRARY, THEY WERE HIRED TO DRUM-UP TOURISM BUSINESS, BY USING WHATEVER ALLURE THEY COULD, VIA THEIR EDITORIAL PERSPECTIVES.  MUSKOKA'S FIRST SALESMAN, THOMAS MCMURRAY WAS A HUSTLER, THERE'S NO DOUBT ABOUT IT, AND HIS SETTLER'S GUIDE-BOOK, WAS CERTAINLY MORE POSITIVE ABOUT SETTLER OPPORTUNITIES THAN IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN; CONSIDERING THE HARDSHIPS TO BE EXPECTED, OCCUPIED ONLY A SMALL PERCENTAGE OF THE TEXT, WHEN IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN A MEATY CHAPTER OR TWO. MCMURRAY, IN THE LATE 1860'S, ESPECIALLY IN THE POEMS CONTAINED WITHIN HIS BOOK, DOES PAINT A SOMEWHAT EMBELLISHED MYSTICAL OVERVIEW OF THIS SPELL-WEAVING REGION. THIS IS PARTICULARLY TRUE OF HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE GREAT FALLS, ON THE MUSKOKA RIVER. I LIKE THE POEM, BUT AT THE TIME, FOLKS WERE STARVING TO DEATH ON MUSKOKA HOMESTEADS, AND ETHEREAL STUFF DIDN'T PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE. EVEN A CAPTURED FAIRY PROBABLY COULDN'T HAVE MADE THE GROUND MORE FERTILE, OR THE GROWING SEASON LONGER. WHILE THE BOOK MAY HAVE BEEN TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY WIDE-EYED, HOPEFUL SETTLERS TO START WITH, THEY PROBABLY TOSSED IT INTO THE FIRE LATER-ON, WHEN THEY REALIZED HIS OPINIONS WERE HEAVILY BIASED, AND UNREALISTIC GENERALLY, TO MOST OF THE SETTLERS WHO ARRIVED HERE SHORT OF MONEY AND GEAR. IT WAS MORE POETIC THAN USEFUL, BUT ITS PAPER COULD START A FIRE.
    THOMAS MCMURRAY WAS A PIONEER BUSINESSMAN, AND HE NOT ONLY SOLD HIS GUIDE-BOOKS FOR PROFIT, BUT HE HAD OTHER BUSINESS PROPERTIES IN BRACEBRIDGE. MCMURRAY WOULD PROFIT FROM MORE INHABITATION OF MUSKOKA, PLAIN AND SIMPLE. SO WHILE HE OFFERED SOME COUNTER-POINT, BASICALLY HE ASSUMED FOLKS WOULD JUST PREPARE ACCORDINGLY. HE JUST DIDN'T HAVE ANY REAL CONCEPT OF HOW POOR THE PIONEERS WERE, WHEN THEY OPTED, IN THEIR HOME COUNTRIES, TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF CANADA'S FINE OFFER OF FREE GRANT LAND. MANY OF THESE PEOPLE WERE THE POOREST OF POOR, LIVING IN ADVERSE CONDITIONS IN THE CITIES, AND COMING TO THE VAST WILDERNESS, AS IT WAS, IN THE 1860'S AND 70'S, WAS THE RECIPE FOR DISASTER. THE SUCCESSES WERE FAR FEWER THAN THE FAILURES, WHICH FORCED HOMESTEADERS TO ABANDON THE LAND, NO MATTER HOW MAGICAL IT APPEARED TO EDITORIALISTS, AND AUTHORS OF ARTICLES FOR SPORTING ADVENTURE PUBLICATIONS, AT AROUND THE SAME TIME.
    EVEN THE GRAPHICS OF MUSKOKA, CONTAINED IN PUBLICATIONS FROM THE PERIOD, INCLUDING PICTURESQUE CANADA, WITH ACCOMPANYING ARTICLES, DEPICTED THE REGION AS A TRULY INSPIRING, SPIRITUAL PLACE ON THE CONTINENT. I RESPECT THEIR OBSERVATIONS, AND I CONCUR ON MOST OF WHAT THEY OFFERED, FREQUENTLY BORROWING THESE PROMOTIONAL PIECES TODAY FOR VARIOUS PROJECTS I'M WORKING ON. BUT WHEN SOMEONE INFORMED ME THE OTHER DAY, THAT THESE OBSERVATIONS WOULD BE OF GREAT VALUE TO ME, TRYING TO COLLECT AND CONSERVE MUSKOKA'S FOLK-LORE, I HAD A (CHARLES) DICKENS OF A TIME, TRYING TO EXPLAIN THAT FOLK-LORE IS A CULTURAL QUALITY THAT CAN'T BE DRAPED OVER A REGION, FROM AFAR, OR FROM A CASUAL OBSERVATION, BY A VISITOR, AND THUSLY CONSIDERED PART OF OUR HERITAGE. THIS IS LARGELY THE PROBLEM IN MUSKOKA. WE HAVE HAD MILLIONS UPON MILLIONS OF EDITORIAL OVERVIEWS GRANTED US, IN BOOKS, ARTICLES, MAGAZINES, JOURNALS, LETTERS, BROCHURES, AND PHOTO CAPTIONS DATING BACK TO ITS FIRST INHABITANTS. BUT A MAJORITY ARE JUST INTERESTING, AND SOMEWHAT FLATTERING COMMENTS, THAT AS FAR AS USEFULNESS TO FOLK HISTORIANS, FALL FLAT BECAUSE OF WHY THEY WERE WRITTEN, AND BY WHO; VISITOR OR PERMANENT RESIDENT.
     I LEARNED THAT MUSKOKA WAS AN ENCHANTED PLACE, ON MY FIRST VISIT BACK IN THE SUMMER OF 1965, WHEN OUR FAMILY DROVE UP FOR A WEEKEND STAY, AT A BRUCE LAKE COTTAGE. I KNEW THEN, THIS PLACE AND I WERE KINDRED SPIRITS, AND I WAS RIGHT. FROM 1966 ON, I HAVE BEEN EXPLORING AND DISCOVERING MUSKOKA, FROM JUST ABOUT EVERY VANTAGE POINT, AND FOR MOST OF THOSE EARLY FORAYS, I HADN'T READ ANYTHING ABOUT THE DISTRICT TO CORRUPT MY APPRECIATION OF ITS UNOBSTRUCTED MYSTERIES. WHEN I COMMENCED MY APPRENTICESHIP, EAGER TO EARN MY STRIPES AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN, I QUICKLY BEGAN TO SEE HOW OUTSIDE OPINIONS AND CRITIQUES OF MUSKOKA, WERE BEING TAKEN AS GOSPEL.....AND UNWISELY, AND INDISCRIMINATELY INCORPORATED INTO OUR CULTURAL IDENTITY. I COULD SEE HOW CORRUPTING THIS WAS, BECAUSE THE PEOPLE DEFINING US, DIDN'T LIVE HERE, AND IN FACT, WERE PROFITING FROM WHAT THEY WERE WRITING ABOUT US.....IN SPORTSMEN'S PUBLICATIONS, AND ADVERTISING MATERIALS, IN PRINT, BEING CIRCULATED AROUND THE WORLD. IN OTHER WORDS, MUSKOKA'S CULTURAL HERITAGE HAS BEEN LARGELY COMPOSED BY THOSE WHO NEVER CLEARED AN ACRE OF LAND, OF ITS PINE FOREST; NEVER MOVED THOUSANDS OF BOULDERS OFF THEIR SMALL PATCH OF ARABLE LAND; DIDN'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT STARVING OR FREEZING TO DEATH, IN MID WINTER, AND NEVER HAD TO FEAR THE ISOLATION AND LONELINESS OF A MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD IN THE THROES OF A DEVASTATING WINTER.
     ONE OF THE REASONS I GRAVITATE SO FREQUENTLY, TO THE BOOKS, WRITTEN BY BERT SHEA, BEYOND THE FACT HE WAS SUZANNE'S UNCLE (AND HER MOTHER GAVE ME HIS BOOKS), IS THAT HIS FAMILY STORIES ARE A GOOD MIX OF FACTUAL HISTORY AND INTIMATE FOLK-STORIES; FACT AND WHAT MAY BE A LITTLE WELL-PLACED COUNTRY  FICTION, WHICH IS TO BE UNDERSTOOD WITH GATHERING HEARSAY ACCOUNTS.....THE FIBERS OF THIS WEAVE OF FOLK-LORE, AS VESTIGES OF  PERSONALLY INTERPRETED HISTORY.....AS SEEN, AND TOLD  BY THEMSELVES OR OTHERS. NOT QUITE SO RELIANT ON FACT TO GET THE POINT ACROSS.
      IT'S A PERFECT MIX. YOU GET A PRETTY GOOD IDEA WHAT IT WAS LIKE WORKING THE FARM ECONOMY, LABOURING IN LUMBER CAMPS IN THE WINTER, LOG DRIVES IN THE SPRING, TO MAKE UP FINANCIAL SHORT-FALLS; AND ENHANCING THESE STORIES, WHEN TOLD TO LOVED ONES AND FRIENDS, WITH A LITTLE FERVOR AND MORAL HIGH GROUND;  TALES LIKE PAT LOVELY AND HIS BE-WITCHING OF THE NEIGHBOR'S SWINE......AND HEALING AN INJURED BOY BY "WILL"......NOT MEDICAL INTERVENTION. BERT SHEA ISN'T THE ONLY MUSKOKA HISTORIAN TO HAVE SAVED SOME OF THESE IMPORTANT FOLK-LORE RELICS, BUT IN COMPARISON TO THE VOLUME OF EDITORIAL OVERVIEWS, FROM RELATIVE PASSERSBY, OVER THE CENTURIES, IT'S OBVIOUS WHY WE HAVE AN IDENTITY ISSUE, WHEN WE LOOK AT OUR CULTURAL PAST. WE GOT PRETTY USED-TO, HAVING EVERYONE ELSE TELLING US HOW WE WERE LIVING.....AND WHETHER OR NOT WE WERE LIVING IN COMPANY WITH FAIRIES, WITCHES OR HOBGOBLINS. APPARENTLY, IT WAS THEIR CHOICE TO CALL THE SHOTS. OUR SETTLERS WERE KIND OF PRE-OCCUPIED TRYING TO SURVIVE THE HOMESTEAD EXPERIENCE, TO PAUSE AND WRITE A BOOK. IT WORKED FOR SOME, LIKE SUSANNA MOODIE, AND CATHERINE PARR TRAILL, BUT THEY WERE ALSO MAKING INROADS IN THE PUBLISHING GAME, AT THE SAME TIME. THE SAME WITH MRS. KING, AND HER MUSKOKA STORIES, PUBLISHED FOR PROFIT. THEIR STORIES OF WILDERNESS SURVIVAL CAME AT A GOOD TIME, AND THEIR STORIES OF HARDSHIP WERE GREATLY APPRECIATED BY THE READING PUBLIC.....IN THE CITY CLIME.
     THUS, IT WAS THE STORIES AND OBSERVATIONS WRITTEN DOWN IN PIONEER JOURNALS, THAT ARE MOST IMPORTANT TO CULTURAL HISTORIANS, BECAUSE THEY WERE DONE WITH OUT ANY PROSPECT OF PROFIT, EVEN FAR DOWN THE PROVERBIAL COUNTRY ROAD. AN EXAMPLE OF THIS, IS THE JOURNAL KEPT BY EARLY VISITOR, ARTIST, ADA FLORENCE KINTON, OF HUNTSVILLE. ALTHOUGH SHE DIDN'T TAKE UP FULL-TIME RESIDENCE IN MUSKOKA, UNTIL MUCH LATER IN LIFE, SHE OBSERVED CLOSELY, HER BROTHERS' (TWO OF THEM) HOME AND TOWN ACTIVITIES, AND MADE HUNDREDS OF IMPORTANT OBSERVATIONS ABOUT DOMESTIC LIFE ESPECIALLY. SHE DOES TOUCH ON CULTURAL QUALITIES OF THE PIONEER ERA, WHEN SHE WRITES ABOUT VISITING THE HOMES OF NEIGHBORS, WHO KEPT THE WAYS OF OLD ENGLAND, IN FULL REGALIA, JAMMED NEATLY IN THEIR HUMBLE FRONTIER ABODES. KINTON, AN ACCOMPLISHED ARTIST, WAS KEEN TO REPRESENT THE NATURE OF THE DISTRICT, BEFORE THE LOGGERS CUT DOWN ALL THE STANDS OF WHITE PINE. SHE WITNESSED MANY TRANSFORMATIONS, OVER THE DECADES OF HER LIFE, IN NORTH MUSKOKA, AND WE CAN USE THOSE AS COMPARISIONS, AND EVIDENCE OF THE CHANGING CULTURAL AND RELIGIOUS ENVIRONS, FROM THE 1880'S. AS SHE HAD NO INTENTION OF HAVING THE JOURNAL PUBLISHED, SHE WAS HONEST AND PARTICULARLY FORTHCOMING ABOUT HER PERSONAL THOUGHTS, BEING SO ISOLATED AND CONFINED.....AS COMPARED TO THE LIFE SHE HAD ENJOYED IN THE BUSTLE OF LONDON, (ENGLAND) AND PROXIMITY. SHE MADE VALUABLE COMPARISONS TO CITY LIFE, OVERSEAS, AND IN CANADA (TORONTO), AND IN THE HINTERLAND. SHE LOVED MUSKOKA ENOUGH, TO MAKE IT HER FINAL DESTINATION. SHE SPENT HER LAST DAYS, LOOKING OUT OVER THE LITTLE TOWN SHE HAD BEEN INTRODUCED TO, TWENTY YEARS EARLIER, AS TRULY A PIONEER COMMUNITY, BUT WITH HUGE ASPIRATIONS. WE KNOW ABOUT THE SOCIAL, CULTURAL, RELIGIOUS CLIMATE IN THOSE EARLY YEARS, BECAUSE SHE PUT THESE OBSERVATIONS INTO HER JOURNAL. AFTER SHE PASSED AWAY, EARLY IN THE NEW CENTURY, HER SISTER DECIDED THE JOURNAL WAS TOO IMPORTANT TO IGNORE.....AND AS A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, HAD IT PUBLISHED AS "JUST ONE BLUE BONNET," WHICH ALSO DEALT WITH HER YEARS SERVING AS A MISSIONARY, WRITER AND ARTIST FOR THE SALVATION ARMY, AND THE PUBLICATION, "THE WAR CRY." IT WOULD HAVE BEEN UNFORTUNATE, TO HAVE BEEN DENIED ACCESS TO THIS IMPORTANT JOURNAL, AND THESE FEW SIGNIFICANT REFERENCES TO THE PIONEER HAMLET OF HUNTSVILLE.
     UNFORTUNATELY FOR US, MUCH OF OUR CULTURAL RECKONING, AND PROOF OF EXISTENCE, WAS DISCARDED AS BEING "TOO PERSONAL," OR LACKING IN ANYTHING RELEVANT. MANY HISTORIANS, OVER THE YEARS, HAVE PAID LITTLE ATTENTION TO THESE DOCUMENTS, PREFERRING INSTEAD A RELIANCE ON NEWSPAPER ARCHIVES TO CARRY-ON OUR REGIONAL CHRONICLE. WE HAVE LOADS OF THE "BLACK AND WHITES" OF REGIONAL HISTORY, BUT NOT THE FOLK STORIES THAT PUT MEAT ON THE BONES. AND WHEN THOSE HISTORIANS TURN TOWARD THOSE GLOWING REVIEWS, WE WERE ACCUMULATING VIA THE HOME AND INTERNATIONAL MEDIA, FOR PROFIT, I CAN'T HELP BUT FEEL DISCOURAGED, THAT THEY REALLY THINK THIS IS WHAT DEFINES US......AS A HAUNTED, ENCHANTED, "SPECIAL" PLACE ON EARTH. IT DOESN'T MEAN TO SUGGEST, OVERVIEWS DON'T HAVE THEIR PLACE. WE HAVE HAD AUTHORS LIKE WILSON MACDONALD, CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS, BLISS CARMEN, MARSHALL SAUNDERS, GILBERT PARKER, LUCY MAUDE MONTGOMERY, ALGERNON BLACKWOOD AND MANY OTHERS, WRITE ABOUT, OR BE INSPIRED BY THE MUSKOKA HINTERLAND. I AM COMPELLED TO READ AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, TO FIND OUT WHAT IT WAS ABOUT THIS REGION, THAT INSPIRED THEM TO DO SO. WHY MUSKOKA? FOR LUCY MAUDE MONTGOMERY, MUSKOKA BECAME A SOURCE OF INSPIRATION FOR HER BOOK, "THE BLUE CASTLE," IN PART BASED ON HER STAY IN THE HAMLET OF BALA; AND FOR ALGERNON BLACKWOOD, IT WAS THE BACKGROUND SPARK FOR HIS SHORT STORY, "THE HAUNTED ISLAND," DURING HIS RETREAT ON LAKE ROSSEAU'S BOHEMIA ISLAND. AS FOR MARSHALL SAUNDERS, HER INSPIRATION, IF MEMORY SERVES, WAS THE LAKE OF BAYS AREA, FOR HER BOOK, "BONNIE PRINCE FRETTLER." CARMEN, ROBERTS, MCDONALD, PARKER, FOUND SOURCES OF INSPIRATION WHILE AT A RETREAT ON LAKE ROSSEAU'S TOBIN'S ISLAND, KNOWN AS THE MUSKOKA ASSEMBLY. FIRST NATIONS POETESS, PAULINE JOHNSON WAS ALSO WRITING ABOUT THE GOOD GRACES OF MUSKOKA AND ROSSEAU; AND ALL THESE DELIGHTFUL AND PLEASING INSIGHTS THAT SEEM TO FORM A SEPARATE COURSE OF STUDY, DEALING WITH HOW MUSKOKA WAS INTERPRETTED AND REPRESENTED, BY THOSE WHO RESIDED HERE AS TEMPORARY RESIDENTS......TOURISTS.
      THERE IS A PLACE, WITHOUT QUESTION, FOR THESE INSIDE-OUTSIDE OBSERVATIONS.....JUST NOT RECKLESSLY ATTACHED, TO THE CHRONICLE OF WHAT PERMANENT RESIDENTS WERE OBSERVING WITHIN, DURING THE ENDLESS STRUGGLE TO INHABIT A REGION THAT SEEMED, AT MOST TIMES, TO BE TOO INHOSPITABLE TO ACCOMMODATE ANYTHING MORE THAN SEASONAL TOURISTS AND SPORTSMEN. AGRICULTURE WAS A STRUGGLE FROM THE BEGINNING. THIS, DESPITE WHAT PROVINCIAL AND FEDERAL AGRICULTURAL AUTHORITIES BELIEVED.  WHAT HAD A GREAT POTENTIAL,  IN THEIR LIMITED SURVEYS, AND GATHERED STATISTICS, WAS NOT THE RESULT OF ANYTHING MORE THAN A CURSORY EXAMINATION OF THE CONDITIONS.  THESE AGRICULTURAL EXPERTS DIDN'T SPEND TIME LIVING IN ONE OF THOSE DRAFTY LOG CABINS, HOPING AGAINST HOPE, THERE WOULD BE AN EARLY SPRING, AS PROVISIONS HAD NEARLY BEEN EXHAUSTED, FROM THE MODEST HARVEST DURING THE PREVIOUS FALL. TO TURN MUSKOKA INTO A PROFITABLE FARMING REGION,  WASN'T IN THE CARDS. IT NEVER HAPPENED THE WAY IT WAS PLANNED. BUT THE HOMESTEADERS DID PREVAIL EVENTUALLY......AND THERE IS A HELL OF A STORY, HOW THIS CAME ABOUT. I'M SORRY TO SAY, MUCH OF IT HAS GONE MISSING, AND OTHERWISE BEEN NEGLECTED, CREATING A LOSS FOR ALL OF US WHO CALL OURSELVES LOCAL.....AS EITHER PERMANENT RESIDENTS, OR SECOND HOME (COTTAGE) OWNERS......WHO REALLY DO WANT TO KNOW WHAT THIS CHARMING PLACE IS ALL ABOUT.
     IN TOMORROW'S BLOG, I'D LIKE TO INTRODUCE YOU TO SOME OF THE FOLK STORIES CONTAINED IN THE PREVIOUSLY QUOTED DOCUMENT, FROM THE NATIONAL MUSEUM, REGARDING THE GERMAN FOLK-LORE OF THE WATERLOO AREA OF THE PROVINCE. ALTHOUGH WE DIDN'T HAVE A HUGE GERMAN COMMUNITY OF SETTLERS IN MUSKOKA, WE HAD ENOUGH TO JUSTIFY BORROWING SOME OF THESE STORIES......AS THERE WERE MANY CROSS-OVERS, EG. INTER-MARRIAGES, BETWEEN THE CULTURAL GROUPS, OF THOSE EARLY HOMESTEADERS, TRYING TO FORGE COMMUNITIES, TO HELP, IN NUMBERS, TO CARVE OUT HAMLETS FROM THE PINE FORESTS. THERE ARE MANY COMMON SUPERSTITIONS, AND BELIEFS IN PARANORMAL ENTITIES, INCLUDING WITCHES, AND BE-WITCHING, WHICH I ONCE AGAIN COMPARE TO THE STORY OF PAT LOVELY, IN THE HAMLET OF UFFORD, WHICH YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK, TO YESTERDAY, IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT BEFORE. WHILE THE FOLK STORY PUBLISHED IN THE 1940'S RESEARCH, CONTAINED IN THE MUSEUM'S CULTURAL HERITAGE SERIES, IS GERMANIC IN BACKGROUND, IT WOULD HAVE HAD ITS FUNDAMENTAL PARALLEL HERE IN THE MUSKOKA MELTING-POT, AS WELL, IN THOSE YEARS OF MUTUALLY SUFFERED ISOLATION AND HARDSHIP. YOU'LL APPRECIATE THIS, WHEN WE LOOK AT SOME OF THE SUPERSTITIONS THAT WERE SHARED BY THE POPULATION; AND ADAPTED AND REVISED BETWEEN CULTURES, IN THOSE FORMATIVE YEARS, ESTABLISHING  CIVILIZATION IN THE WILD WOODS OF THIS "ENCHANTED" PART OF THE WORLD.
     THANKS FOR JOINING ME TODAY, AND I HOPE YOU WILL CONTINUE TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS CULTURAL JOURNEY, IN CELEBRATION OF OUR HOME REGION. IT MAY NOT BE REMARKABLE TO THOSE WHO HAVE LIVED HERE FOR A LIFETIME.....BUT IT MIGHT BE A LITTLE-BIT MORE PROVOCATIVE FOR THOSE WHO ARE NEW TO THE AREA.......WHO ARE GENUINELY INTERESTED IN LEARNING A LITTLE BIT MORE ABOUT WHAT MUSKOKA POSSESSES, AS ITS TRUE OPENING CHAPTER.....OF A REALLY INTERESTING CHRONICLE, THAT WE CONTINUE TO ADD TO, DAY BY DAY. MY DETERMINATION HOWEVER, IS THAT TODAY'S HISTORICAL ACCOUNTING, IS APPLIED TO A STURDY FOUNDATION OF UNDERSTANDING. SOME TIMES I DO FEEL, THERE ARE TIMBERS MISSING, AND TRUTHS DENIED, THAT ARE THE RESULT OF PAST HISTORIAN'S INDIFFERENCE AND NEGLECT......TO ANYTHING THAT WASN'T NEWSPAPER-WORTHY, HARD FACT, AND FIRST PERSON ACCOUNTS. THEY SAW A SKELETON WITH CLOTHES ON......WHERE I SEE A SKELETON LOOKING FOR ITS HEART AND SOUL. MAYBE I'M BEING TOO HARSH ON MY HISTORICAL PREDECESSORS. I MEAN THEM NO DISRESPECT. THEY DID WHAT THEY THOUGHT WAS REQUIRED. I JUST SEE THINGS DIFFERENTLY. I'LL TAKE YOUR CRITIQUES, "FOR OR AGAINST." FEEL FREE TO DROP ME A LINE.

THE BE-WITCHING BY PAT LOVELY TO SAVE A LIFE AND CURSE A PIG

A rainy Saturday afternoon, a toasty warm car and a thermos of hot tea are the perfect elements to take a leisurely drive on the back roads of Muskoka during these pre-fall colour days.   These shots were taken along a very peaceful Brydon’s Bay Road, off the the Muskoka Beach Road in Gravenhurst.

 

Photo by Fred Schulz

A PREAMBLE EXPLANATION

     "CANADA IS RICH IN FOLK-LORE. HER NATIVE RACES, THE INDIANS AND ESKIMOS HAVE SONGS, TRADITIONS, AND CUSTOMS, THE STUDY OF WHICH HAS LONG OCCUPIED THE ATTENTION OF THE ETHNOLOGISTS AT THE NATIONAL MUSEUM AND FURNISHED MATERIAL FOR HUNDREDS OF PHONOGRAPHIC RECORDS. FRENCH CANADA IS PARTICULARLY RICH IN FOLK-LORE SONGS, AND MUCH ATTENTION HAS BEEN, AND IS BEING DEVOTED, TO ITS COLLECTION AND COMPILATION. LESS ATTENTION HAS BEEN PAID TO THE FOLK-LORE OF THE OTHER STOCKS FROM WHICH CANADIANS ARE DESCENDED; BRITISH, SCANDANAVIAN, CENTRAL EUROPEAN ETC. THIS IS REGRETTABLE, AS THE FUSION OF THESE VARIED ELEMENTS RESULTS IN THE GRADUAL LOSS OF MANY DETAILS OF VERY GREAT INTEREST."

   THE QUOTATION ABOVE WAS WRITTEN IN 1949 BY F. J. ALCOCK, CHIEF CURATOR OF THE NATIONAL MUSEUM OF CANADA. IT WAS CONTAINED IN A NATIONAL MUSEUM BOOKLET, WRITTEN BY W. J. WINTEMBERG, ENTITLED "FOLKE-LORE OF WATERLOO COUNTY, ONTARIO."

     I PICKED UP THIS AMAZING LITTLE GEM OF CANADIAN HISTORY, WHILE ON AN OLD BOOK-HUNT TODAY, IN ORILLIA, AND WHEN WE ARRIVED HOME, TO GRAVENHURST, I SAT OUTSIDE WITH OUR OLD CAT BUDDY, ON MY LAP, AND READ THE ENTIRE CONTENT WITHOUT INTERRUPTION. WHICH IS ODD AROUND HERE, BECAUSE OURS IS A WHACKY NEIGHBORHOOD OF INTRUSIVE NEIGHBORS, WITH THEIR WILD ARRAY OF HOME MAINTENANCE MACHINERY, SCOOTERS, SKATEBOARDS, AND LEAF BLOWERS. IT WAS IRONIC, SOMEWHAT, AND A LITTLE PROVIDENTIAL FRANKLY, TO FIND THIS BOOK, AT A TIME WHEN I'M ALREADY HUNKERED DOWN, EXAMINING THE FOLK HISTORY OF OUR REGION OF ONTARIO.

     WHILE THE BOOK OF COURSE, DEALS MOSTLY WITH GERMAN FOLK-LORE, MUSKOKA AS WELL (ALTHOUGH MUCH LATER IN CANADIAN HISTORY)  HAD CLUSTERS OF GERMAN IMMIGRANTS, DURING ITS PIONEER DAYS, INTERMINGLING WITH HOMESTEADERS FRESH FROM ICELAND, IRELAND, SCOTLAND, ENGLAND, NORWAY, DENMARK AND SWEDEN; FROM THE LATE 1850'S ONWARD. AND GRADUALLY THESE FOLK STORIES AND SUPERSTITIONS WERE SHARED, AND POTENTIALLY ALTERED BY THE GENERATIONS, WHEN THERE WERE MARRIAGES BETWEEN THESE CULTURAL GROUPS.

     I WILL BE LOOKING CLOSER AT THIS BOOKLET, IN THE COMING WEEKS, AND USING SOME REFERENCES WHICH I BELIEVE WILL HAVE A RELEVANCE TO PROFILES OF THE SETTLERS IN THE WILDS OF MUSKOKA, AS FAR BACK AS THE 1850'S,.....AND WHAT THEY MAY HAVE BELIEVED ABOUT GHOSTS AND WITCHES, THAT INFLUENCED THEIR VIEWPOINTS OF HOMESTEAD EXISTENCE. THE STORY OF PAT LOVELY'S ARRIVAL IN THE HAMLET OF UFFORD, IN THE THREE MILE LAKE AREA OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES, IS A CASE IN POINT. IT IS A WONDERFULLY TOLD MUSKOKA FOLK TALE, THAT IN FACT, RIVALS WHAT HAS BEEN COLLECTED FOR THE PURPOSES OF THE BOOKLET I HAVE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED.

     AS I WAS SITTING OUTSIDE, THIS AFTERNOON, LOOKING OUT OVER THE BOG, AND WONDERING HOW THE SETTLERS VIEWED LAND LIKE THIS, AS THEY HUNTED ACROSS THE DISTRICT FOR ARABLE FARMLAND? THERE ARE A LOT OF "BOG" ACRES IN THIS DISTRICT. THEN I BEGAN THINKING ABOUT THE STORY OF PAT LOVELY, AS WRITTEN ABOUT, BY SUZANNE'S UNCLE, BERT SHEA, IN HIS BOOK, "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS; BIRTH OF A TOWNSHIP." THE FACT HE INCLUDED HIS STORY, SHOWS HIS RESPECT FOR THE FOLK HISTORY OF OUR REGION. SO MUCH HAS BEEN LOST, BECAUSE IT WASN'T DEEMED IMPORTANT.

     I'VE USED THIS STORY PREVIOUSLY BECAUSE IT IS IMPORTANT. IT IS THE ONLY STORY I KNOW OF, IN OUR REGION, THAT SUGGESTS AN ACT OF "BE-WITCHING," ON THE PART OF PAT LOVELY, ON TWO COUNTS. FIRST, THIS PIONEER SETTLER, AN IRISH CATHOLIC, HAVING CLAIMED LAND IN AN IRISH PROTESTANT NEIGHBORHOOD, IN A NEW LAND, IS SAID TO HAVE PUT MUSKOKA'S FIRST "CURSE" ON A NEIGHBOR'S SWINE, BECAUSE IT KEPT GETTING INTO HIS GARDEN, AND DESTROYING HIS CROP. ON THE SECOND MATTER, AND IN A BENEVOLENT WAY, IT IS CLAIMED THE GOOD MR. LOVELY WAS ABLE TO SAVE A NEIGHBOR CHILD FROM BLEEDING TO DEATH, ACROSS A FARM PASTURE, WITH NOTHING MORE THAN A STEELY GLARE AT THE HOUSE. IT IS ALSO SAID, BY THE NEIGHBOR CHILDREN, THAT HE WAS ABLE TO REDUCE HIMSELF TO A VAPOR, AND GET INTO A WOODEN KEG, FROM WHICH HE COULD TALK TO THEM. THESE ARE JUST REMARKABLE STORIES, AND TELL US A LOT ABOUT HOW SCARED AND VULNERABLE THESE FOLKS WERE.....AND HOW POWERFUL SUPERSTITION WAS, IN THE 1850'S AND 60'S, IN DEALING WITH THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP WITH THE NATURE AROUND THEM. MUSKOKA. A BEAUTIFUL PLACE BUT A DANGEROUS ONE AT THE SAME TIME.

     THE STORY OF PAT LOVELY AND FAMILY'S ARRIVAL IN MUSKOKA, IS NOT AN ISOLATED ONE......AND THIS HAPPENED MANY TIMES, IN THOSE PRECARIOUS YEARS, WHEN SETTLERS HANDLED THEIR OWN JUSTICE AND GOOD NEIGHBOR PROTOCOLS....AS POLICING AND LEGAL ASSISTANCE WAS IN SHORT SUPPLY, AND DEARLY EXPENSIVE TO PROCURE.  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN INCREDIBLY DIFFICULT, FOR PAT LOVELY, TO THINK ABOUT THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ORANGE LODGE, A SHORT DISTANCE FROM HIS OWN CABIN, AND A VERY SPARSE NUMBER OF CATHOLICS IN THE VICINITY.....OR CHURCH TO ATTEND. AND ALTHOUGH HE WAS WARNED OF THE "THREE MILE LAKE WOLVES," AND WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN TO HIM, IN THAT WILD AREA OF THE DISTRICT, WELL BEFORE HE OPENED THAT CABHIN DOOR ON THAT FIRST NIGHT OF OCCUPATION, HE HAD THE PIONEER FORTITUDE TO FACE WHATEVER ODDS PRESENTED......AND NOT JUST THE PERILS OF FARMSTEADING ON A TREED, ROCK-FILLED, HILLY TERRAIN, WITH A SHORT GROWING SEASON, AND A LONG, COLD WINTER.

     WHAT A BEAUTIFUL AFTERNOON IT WAS, TO SIT HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, AND LOOK OUT AT THE BORDER HARDWOODS, CHANGING COLORS, AND SEE THE CASCADE OF WINDBLOWN LEAVES ALREADY ACCUMULATING IN THE FRONT YARD. I SEE MANY ENCHANTMENTS, WHERE OTHERS SEE NOTHING BUT A CHANGING SEASON. I'VE HAD THE PRIVILEGE, YOU SEE, OF HAVING AT MY FINGERTIPS, BOOKS WRITTEN BY KEEN FOLK-HISTORIANS LIKE BERT SHEA. THE SHEA BOOKS I POSSESS NOW, IN MY LIBRARY, WERE GIVEN TO ME BY SUZANNE'S MOTHER, HARRIETT, WHO OF COURSE, WAS BERT SHEA'S BROTHER. OF ALL THE MUSKOKA BOOKS, HONESTLY, THIS IS THE ONE I CONSULT MOST OFTEN, IN MY ONGOING CAMPAIGN TO CONSERVE MORE REGIONAL FOLK-LORE.

     YOU MAY HAVE READ THIS STORY BEFORE. IF YOU HAVE, THEN PLEASE READ IT AGAIN; THIS TIME, WITH THE PERSPECTIVE OF IT HAVING NATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE. THE ESSENCE OF CANADIANA.  WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN INCLUDED IN A NATIONAL INVENTORY OF FOLK-TALES, AS WERE COLLECTED IN WATERLOO COUNTY, IF THE SAME INVENTORY HAD BEEN COMPILED ABOUT OUR REGION OF CANADA. MAKE NO MISTAKE. THERE IS A CLEAR ACCUSATION THAT THIS IRISH CATHOLIC SETTLER, COULD BE-WITCH AND CURSE WITH A BLINK OF THE EYE. SO IT DOES SUGGEST VERY MUCH SO, THAT CATHOLICS HAD A LITTLE SOMETHING EXTRA, WHEN IT CAME TO HOMESTEAD SURVIVAL.....THAT THE PROTESTANTS DIDN'T POSSESS. PLEASE READ ON, AND ENJOY.

SUPERSTITIONS AND FOLKLORE ON THE MUSKOKA FRONTIER

SETTLERS BROUGHT FEAR AND LOATHING FROM THE OLD COUNTRY - BELIEFS IN HOBGOBLINS, TROLLS, LEPRECHAUNS AND ASSORTED BANDY-LEGGED WEE BEASTIES

I DON'T LIKE GIVING LECTURES, AND I DON'T LIKE SITTING-IN ON THEM EITHER. DID THIS AT UNIVERSITY AND HATED EVERY MOMENT. YES BUT DID I LEARN ANYTHING? INDEED. THAT I DON'T LIKE LECTURES!

WHEN I'VE BEEN ASKED TO GIVE PRESENTATIONS, IN THE PAST, I ALWAYS AGREE AT FIRST, BUT HATE THE IDEA IN RETROSPECT. IT WAS BEFORE SUZANNE TOOK OVER MANAGING MY PUBLIC PERFORMANCES. I'M NOT A BAD PUBLIC SPEAKER, SO I'M TOLD, BUT LIKE FLYING, I STEW ABOUT IT FOR THE WEEKS AND DAYS LEADING UP TO THE ENGAGEMENT. THE FIRST THING THAT SUZANNE DID FOR ME, AS MY MANAGER / AGENT, WAS TO INSIST ON AT LEAST A MONTH'S NOTICE OF A SPEAKING GIG, AND MOST IMPORTANT, THAT I BE ALLOWED TO SELECT THE TOPIC. I WON'T BUDGE ON THIS. I'M MORE COMFORTABLE CHATTING ABOUT THOSE AREAS OF REGIONAL HISTORY, I'M MOST FAMILIAR. WHEN THE MUSKOKA LAKES MUSEUM CONTACTED ME, ABOUT A PRESENTATION THEY WANTED ME TO DO FOR THEIR WEEKLY "LECTURE SERIES," I REFUSED TO DO WHAT THEY WERE MOST INTERESTED IN……..(NOT SURE WHAT THAT WAS), AND INSTEAD TOLD THEM I WANTED TO DO A LECTURE ABOUT LOCAL FOLKLORE, HOMESTEAD SUPERSTITIONS AND REMINISCENCES OF PARANORMAL ACTIVITIES HERE IN THE HINTERLAND OF ONTARIO. THEY WEREN'T SURE ABOUT THIS, BUT I INSISTED. WELL, IT TURNED OUT TO BE A REMARKABLE EVENING, AND WE TALKED WITH GUESTS FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR AFTER THE TALK. IT'S THE REASON I'VE KEPT UP ON PARANORMAL TALES, AND FOLK LORE, AS DOCUMENTED BY HISTORIANS AND STORY-TELLERS THROUGHOUT OUR REGION. I FIND IT COMPELLING.

WE MUST UNDERSTAND, FIRST OF ALL, THAT THOSE WHO EMIGRATED TO CANADA, AND TO THE MUSKOKA REGION IN THE 1860'S ONWARD, BROUGHT OLD-COUNTRY SUPERSTITIONS TO OUR DISTRICT…..CULTURAL FOLKLORE FROM ICELAND, NORWAY, GERMANY, SCOTLAND, IRELAND, ENGLAND AND DENMARK, TO NAME A FEW COUNTRIES, WHERE EARLY SETTLERS CAME FROM, DURING THE YEARS OF THE FREE GRANT AND HOMESTEAD ACT; GUARANTEEING 100 ACRE PARCELS TO PIONEER FARMERS. IT WAS, IN MOST CASES, A WICKED CONTRAST OF ENVIRONS, FROM THE URBAN AREAS OF EUROPE WHERE THEY HAD LIVED, ONLY MONTHS EARLIER, BEFORE FACING A BLEAK SCENE IN THE HEAVILY FORESTED MUSKOKA OF THE 1860'S AND 70'S. THERE IS ONE OF THESE FOLK STORIES, OF WHICH I AM PARTICULARLY FOND, AND ONE THAT I USED IN MY LECTURE, AT THE MUSEUM IN PORT CARLING. IT'S CONTAINED IN THE FIRST BOOK, WRITTEN BY FAMILY HISTORIAN, BERT SHEA; "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS AND BIRTH OF A TOWNSHIP," AND INVOLVES THE INTER-ACTION BETWEEN IRISH PROTESTANTS AND CATHOLICS, LIVING SIDE BY SIDE, IN THE UFFORD / THREE MILE LAKE AREA, OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES. THE PROTESTANTS BEING THE SHEAS, WELL KNOWN MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL ORANGE LODGE, AND THE LOVELYS, AN IRISH, ROMAN CATHOLIC FAMILY, SETTLED IN THE MIDST OF "ORANGE" AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE. HERE NOW IS BERT SHEA, PROFILING THIS SCENE, CIRCA 1865, (BASED ON FAMILY STORIES) IN THE HILLY, PICTURESQUE COUNTRYSIDE OF UFFORD, TITLED AFTER A BRITISH NAMESAKE.

"THE COMING OF THE LOVELYS"

"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrating to Canada, and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to the County of York, where he traded twelve pairs of men's handmade boots for the one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railroad Station, who from there, having heard the call of free grant land in Muskoka, with his young wife and family of small children, joined in the great move northward; their destination Watt Township and the Three Mile Lake settlement of Ufford," penned Bert Shea, about the coming of this hopeful, enterprising young family.

"Journeying by rail as far as the Iron ran, then on foot, carrying their belongings, stopping somewhere within the boundary of Muskoka for a night's lodging. And in conversing with others, someone inquired where his destination lay, to which Pat answered, Watt Township. 'Ah,' says his friend, 'I would advise you to stay away from there: in that Three Mile Lake settlement, they are a bunch of savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place in known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. And Ufford is the centre of it. On your way in you will come over Bogart's Hill and before you is the place known as the Devil's Den, and the next big hill you look down is Smalley's Hill, and that is the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. They will poison your cattle, they will burn you out. You will never get along; you are Irish Roman Catholic and they are all Orangemen."

"A blast like this to a man on his way to a new home, among strangers, a law-abiding citizen and a young family, was a terrible dampener to his inspirations. Pat stood silent and motionless for a short time in deep thought. Then turning around facing the direction of his journey, in a low voice and Irish accent say he, 'I'm going anyway.' Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skidded across the sky, borne on the northwest wind. Darkness creeping down as he travelled over Bogart's Hill and through the Devil's Den. And over Smalley's Hill into the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves, to the centre of the valley. And wending in the darkness up the brush trail to his little shanty on the hillside of Lot 15, Con.4, the naked limbs clashed in the wind overhead, low whirling blasts swirled the dead leaves around, the little shanty door creaked, as he swung it open to admit the good wife and children. In the dim light of the little lantern, he started a fire on the hearth, that brought light and cheer. This was their home."

Bert Shea records that, "It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of the wind or the night, moaning of the trees and the clashing of the gads. And above all, the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts or feelings that may have reigned in the heart and mind of Pat Lovely; prayers were said and all was left in the keeping of the Good Saint and the little family slept, as only they of clean conscience and weary from their travel. The morning broke. Pat and the good woman were astir, the children's voices were heard and little feet pattered about the shanty. Then suddenly from the cover of thick bush walked a tall black whiskered man. He walked directly to the cabin door. Pat met him at the step, and an Irishman whose face bore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to within arm's length of Pat, and stopped looking the Irishman in the eyes, extending his hand saying, 'I'm Bill Shea; I believe you are Pat Lovely.' 'It's Pat Lovely I am,' says he, as he slowly accepted the outstretched hand as a female voice from within the shanty proclaimed, 'May the Gods in mercy give us peace'."

The historian, Mr. Shea, writes, "What else was said, we do not know, but from that day on, the Lovely's and Sheas were the best of friends. This friendship extended from neighbors to neighbors, till Pat became the Irish seasoning in a mixed community. But as time went on, he became regarded by some in a very serious way. As one who possessed certain powers that were mysterious, which he could use in different ways. One most talked of, especially by the young people who declared to be true, that Pat had the power to put himself in a 45 gallon oak barrel with both ends closed, the only opening being the two inch bung out of which he would talk to them. (He could throw his voice). Pat was a good neighbor and had good neighbors, but sometimes neighborly good nature will wear threadbare. In this particular case, Wm. Kay had a very fine black boar that was hard to keep in his pen; a log enclosure and when free, took a particular liking to the flavor of Pat Lovely's potatoes. Pat continued to fix the fence and chase the boar out till at last his potato crop was going to be ruined. This, to an Irishman, was sufficient reason and justification for retaliatory actions; so he openly pronounced a curse on Kay's pigs for a duration of twenty years. The writer is not adding to or taking away, when he related that it was acknowledged by Wm. Kay that he had trouble raising pigs for some years. After the pronouncement of Pat's curse, and not until the elapse of the years of its duration did he enjoy the measure of satisfaction that eventually became his in later years. The following account is a true happening and known throughout the neighborhood. Though years have passed since its time, the writer has often heard the aged of the community relate this marvelous affair."

He writes, of the near tragic mishap, that "A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had gotten seriously cut and was bleeding to death. The bed was soaked with blood. All efforts to save the boy seemed to be a failure; he could not last much longer. The father walked out of the house, leaving the mother and the boy alone, as he stood there before the door, the thought came to him. He immediately called the younger son, a boy of perhaps nine years old, saying 'Go over and tell Pat to come over quick, your brother is bleeding to death.' The young man fleet as the wind, lost no time on the run and delivered the message. As the father of the bleeding boy stood on the door yard waiting to see Pat's sturdy body coming hurriedly over the fields. But not so; he appeared from the door of his own house. Before the door, he stood looking over to this troubled neighbor for a short time, in whose interval the mother of the bleeding boy rushed out the door to the father saying the blood has stopped. The writer heard the father, when an old man, declare the truth of the whole affair, saying, 'Pat didn't need to come over. He could stop the blood from where he was, and the boy got better. Pat, as others, gave his time and energy to the rolling back of the frontier, and bringing in an era of development to the community. He built the first frame house in the Three Mile Lake settlement. The writer would question, the thought; at that date it could be the first frame house in the township, as at that date there was a sawmill at Lot 8, Con. 4, to cut the lumber. This house was lath and plastered, the lath having been made by hand. The man who did the plastering and carpentry, his name has passed from the memory of the writer. And at this date there are some remaining to ask, but this home has since been remodeled and is in a state of good repair."

This is a good story of tolerance….. most of the time, except for the black boar incident. A story of the Green and the Orange living side by side in a new country, and actually getting along. Is it possible that Pat Lovely had such power of prayer, that he could stop a child's bleeding? It's a folk tale. It's just one of thousands, a majority of these remarkable stories having been lost over the centuries. It is thanks to family historians like Bert Shea, who have saved this important tale, for enjoyment by a modern, new century audience.

Thanks for joining me today, for this historical blog. There are so many wonderful regional and family histories, contained in the respective Muskoka Collections, of our district libraries. Go and have a look for yourself. Today when we travel frequently, looking for antiques and collectibles, in virtually every nook and cranny in this district, we appreciate the ghost towns and forgotten hamlets, the less travelled crossroads and country lanes, as being the habitations and former caraways that opened up this region to settlement. We are reverent of all the things that have come before us……we are but voyeurs upon the work of so many others. Knowing the history of this region, as antique hunters, has always given us a big advantage over our competitors, especially when dealing with long-time citizens, who wish to share their memories of important heirloom pieces they wish to sell……many items tied in to those earlier days on the Muskoka frontier. We love to talk history.

See you soon. You can visit my other blog-sites, or archive your way through this Gravenhurst site, now more than three years old.

Lots more regional history to come…..whether you're a voyeur yourself, collector or dealer of antiques

The Old Fashioned Good Times And The Country Kitchen

Kitchen / Living room Party - The Good Brothers performed a few acoustic tunes on some guitars that were precisely tuned by Rob Currie following their successful concert on the “Barge”.
(Photo by Fred Schulz)

The Allure Of The Country Kitchen

I know by listening to their fascinating homespun stories, recited sincerely to keen audiences, on each of the many August appearances, they've made, here in Muskoka, that music for them, has been a deeply rooted family thing, as the "Good" name most definitely reminds us.

     Our family has faithfully occupied the finest front row seats, in Gull Lake Park, here in Gravenhurst, whenever these country music chaps perform on "The Barge." When they talk about the great memories of the family homestead, these well known Canadian musicians are telling the truth. No doubt about it! They can clearly recall their mother's excitement, preparing the kitchen for one of her favorite family and neighborhood events.

    Canada's Country Music Hall of Fame entertainers, The Good Brothers, possess a great and enduring reverence for the their family's homestead……the kitchen in particular.

    At concerts around the globe, these homespun gents, offer heartfelt credit to their mother, for instilling these precious family values; that a truly warm and comfortable home, always has a welcoming kitchen. They even wrote a song about it, honoring their mother, for bringing a culture to the kitchen, well beyond its cookery function. The kitchen was, for the Goods, back then, a meeting place for meals, casual get togethers over coffee, and equally, the best room in the house to play their music. They didn't need a conservatory or a modest auditorium in the guise of a recreation room. Just a kitchen and its spirited, kindly atmosphere, with a big table and a lot of chairs. Or you could stand.

   From musical instruments, guitars, banjos, and autoharps, to pots and pans, played with a wooden spoon, those gathered in the country kitchen, were invited to join-in, in the wide range of popular music Mrs. Good brought to the table. It

might have been gospel, then country, folk music, then on to the Beach Boys. So the kitchen gatherings were always musically diverse, and joyfully spontaneous.

   Admittedly, for the Good Brothers, Larry, Bruce and Brian, those memories of their mother and the casual, welcoming get-togethers in the kitchen, made a lasting life-long impression. They sing about those occasions, with cheerfulness, and it's not hard for the audience to imagine what those sing-a-longs must have looked like, and how compelling they were, to be a part.

     This column isn't about the Good Brothers specifically, but it is about the allure of the country, or "old fashioned kitchen,"

as they used to be, in what some might refer to, as the "good old days." In pioneer times, in this country, the kitchen in the log

cabin was more likely to be part of the open living area, and the fireplace or cookstove was the only source of heat, other than from the huddle of occupants crowded near the sparking hearth. The aroma of cooking was almost constantly wafting about the cabin, or the larger farmhouse, giving it the enchantment of food yet to come. It was always a cheerful room in the house, partly because of the warmth associated with hearth and stove, and because of the smell of simmering soups and stews, where leftovers, by the reality of a tough economy, always made it to the next round of the cookery chronicle.

     And the kitchen, large or small, rustic or futurisitic, state of the art, earned a reputation of being a good place to congregate. A fine place to anchor to a tableside chair, to talk about the work of the day, to come, or what had already been accomplished before sunrise. It became, over centuries, a place to talk about local politics, and the rigors of the economy. A sort of casual sanctuary where you could cradle a cup of tea or coffee, and linger without the societal burden of conscience, feeling like a slacker, or an artful dodger of chores. The kitchen was a sort of family and neighborhood healing place, where therapy was free, and advice given freely.

     A senior friend of mine, the uncle of a girlfriend I was dating at the time, insisted I come with him to his brother's farm for breakfast, one autumn day. He was up to his Muskoka cottage for the weekend, from Toronto, and his younger brother, Peter, had asked him to come over to his house, for what he casually called, "a country breakfast." Now, as a frequent gad-about traveller, being both a writer and antique dealer, I have seen reference to "the country breakfast," many times, imprinted boldly on restaurant menus all over North America, but nothing could be compared to the breakfast planned for us at this Muskoka farmstead.

     When Fred and I arrived at the house, in the midst of the most beautiful, sunny autumn day, with many of the hardwoods bordering the pasture still leaf-adorned, with their brilliant seasonal colors, I confess then, to having a huge and seasonally invigorated country appetite. I may have felt I was too hungry for just hot biscuits, or a couple of fried eggs.

     As Peter creaked open the big kitchen door, to let Fred and I in, good gracious, my mortal sensory perception went off the chart. Honestly, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. The steam rising in huge plumes,from boiling potatoes and assorted farm-fresh vegetables, mixed with the near intoxicating vapors of frying bacon, and thick cut ham, not to mention the hot cakes in the huge frying pan, was clearly a sensory overload, for a single guy who couldn't cook a single egg, without notice of the local volunteer fire brigade.

     The plates were more like platters, and the food was served, rather mounted, onto the harvest table, commanding the serving dishes, like you would expect at a logging camp, an encampment of Civil War soldiers, or a summer camp, where there might be a hundred souls huddled to be fed at once. There were only seven of us, on that Thanksgiving morning, but there was food for a hundred, that's for sure. I was told to "dig in" and make sure I "got enough," to stave off starvation. None of these people appeared overweight. How was it possible, to eat this kind of food, in the volume they seemed to enjoy, and not burst at the waist; or show it in the rear. "You know Ted, they've already done a day's work, in our concept of day to day labors, even before this breakfast. Peter would have been up by five this morning, and out to the barn before six, and he would have been

mad at himself for sleeping in. Then there's the work for the rest of the day. It might seem like a big breakfast, but it's part of

the farm culture." All of a sudden I wanted to retire from writing and become a farmer. They just shook their heads, and laughed. In their eyes, I was definitely not farm material. I assumed they knew best.

     What food I didn't take for myself, was without my consent, loaded onto my plate by family members, apparently worried I wasn't getting my fair share. "In the farm kitchen, you've got to have a good reach, and a determination to get what you want before someone else takes it. The so called 'boarding house reach,' but adjusted to the prevailing farmhouse ethic. Good manners are important, and so is getting fed. Come on, eat up, there's more sausages ready to go." It was a cookery

history lesson I will never forget. But more than this, in fact, I will fondly remember the good conversation, and commradery around that old harvest table, that had accommodated so many of these family occasions. I was their guest but on that morning, I was treated like a family member, and entitled to all the wonderful fare going around the table, from food, to opinions welcomed.

     As far as Suzanne and I travel, in miles and in companion research, to understand cookery heritage, the allure of kitchens and

the recipe books shelved within, for posterity, there is nothing so enlightening, as any occasion to share a breakfast, lunch or dinner with kindred spirits, in the heart of the home, whether apartment, condominium, townhouse, lodge, farm, cottage, mansion or bungalow.

  These are special times, in a special place, that endear us without any extraordinary effort, to the chronicle of cookery heritage, celebrated the world over. What generates in this warm room of any dwelling place, is a sense of prevailing goodwill, and

hospitality, that immediately makes us feel as if we have arrived, from out of the storm, into a place protected from all adversity. We can sit awhile and cradle a warm drink, in our hands, and with or without companion conversation, feel at ease from the turmoil prevalent everywhere else in our daily lives. We can immerse in gentle debate or casual gossip, and fear nothing will be expected of us, other than congenial kinship, and a willing ear if required of the moment. As for lending a hand to do the dishes, well sir, that's a commonplace of being in such a sharing place.

  The kitchen has been a gathering place for enterprising cooks, country philosophers, would-be bards, the politically savvy, and

those hungry for inspiration. It has been a pleasant venue for musicians and singers, cookware drummers and other cautious mumblers, but most of all, a room in our respective abodes that never pushes forth, at entry, any aura of stylish arrogance, or culinary snobbery, at least that can't be rectified in a heartbeat; a host's handshake, and pat on the back for a weary traveller, invited without pretense, to sit awhile by the warming stove. A mere mortal looking for casual comfort, and a place of compassion, to embrace the mood of the moment. It doesn't take long inside a kitchen, true to its heritage and tradition, before the thunder of that other world becomes a nothing more than a muffled, tolerable din.

     I would like to have been there for those impromptu concerts, in the Good family's country kitchen,… their mother leading the sing-a-long. What a great song, her boys wrote, as a tribute. Now that's a chapter on its own, in the chronicle of Canadian kitchen history.

      

Homestead Pleasures in Muskoka

 

If you have never before had the time honored pleasure, of sitting in that soot-ingrained patina, of a creaking old pine chair, at hearthside, and been comforted by the gentle cadence, and smooth traveling of rockers over a wooden floor, heard the snapping of dry cedar, and inhaled good and long, the tantalizing vapors of a simmering country stew, then you have missed a wondrous part of social-cultural, and yes, culinary history.

   Within that iron workhorse of the farmstead kitchen, the roar and crackling of fire, warming the house on cold spring nights, was what in essence and practicality,  kept humanity going on this rugged frontier of Upper Canada; known for its abundant rock and dense forests, short seasons, and wicked winters. The profound sense of isolation, in those pioneer years, seemed at times over-powering. A gathering of weary souls, next to that wonderful iron stove, may have for awhile, soothed away the angst of frontier life with embracing warmth, and the permeating aroma of a simmering soup.

      It was that fire the farmers, the loggers, the travelers, the young and old came home to, out of the storm, to be caressed by its waves of heat, tantalized to near intoxication by the amalgamating scents of cooking meat and gravy, newly harvested carrots and potatoes;  modest in portion but appointed with all the good graces of a proficient homestead cook, short of supplies yet with a firm hand and home crafted ladle. The homestead cook made do with what was available and conserved from the past harvest. It was creative cookery at its root. It was filling and sustaining to a strained body, forced to labor on another day, another year, another decade for the sustenance provided by yet another modest harvest. The old cookstove evokes so many recollections of the simple pleasures of the gathering place;  the kitchen, where a day’s chores were rewarded, adventures regaled, stories told and retold, kin and friends held steadfast by food, hot drink and warmth of hearth.

     If you’ve had the pleasure of sitting in such a room in the company of an old cookstove, a fire within, then you will find this series of columns on cookery heritage of some interest.  With nostalgic reflections of old kitchen values and traditions, including the curious provenance of the old handwritten recipes that your grandmother, or mother kept folded for safe keeping in the cupboard above the cluttered counter. The old and gnarled piece of paper, with the beautiful handwriting, that after all these years, still carries the aroma of the spices she gently dispensed into the yellow mixing bowl, with the rest of the spring cake in creation.

     In 1974 I began collecting old bottles. It’s what I could afford at the time. My investment was what you might call "sweat equity." I did all the work, and there were a few tangible rewards at the end of the dig. I dug-out old glass and pottery remnants from the depths of long grown-over dumpsites, throughout the Muskoka region. I had an insatiable appetite for discovery, and there was a real adrenalin rush when a torpedo soda bottle or an intact cobalt-blue vessel poked through the debris of the ages. It was hard work and you could cut yourself badly if you weren’t careful in these debris fields. I liked to work alone and it was amazing how a day would fly by when it seemed only a few hours spent on-site.

    While still studying history at University, in Toronto, and on a baloney and mustard diet, the starvation budget students know well, I found that in heart I was willing to sacrifice food money to invest in history. I went on to collect oil lamps and although I couldn’t afford a bullseye lamp or a nice vintage blue or green lamp base, there was no shame on this student’s budget, to acquire a nicely conserved farm lamp, at auction, that was made for utility not decoration. I’m still this way today, when I chase down antiques and collectibles that were critical homestead pieces, versus items that were pretty much for decorative purposes moreso than critical practical function. I still have about fifty old lamps in operation, and this spring I’ve been heating our kitchen, livingroom and two bedrooms upstairs, with only five lamps, employed for six or so hours a day. In fairness it hasn’t been too cold yet but I could ramp it up to six lamps if needed. This is slightly off topic of course, which I’m famous for!

    I’ve collected chairs, quilts, photographs, books, old paper, cameras, old glass, hockey cards, nostalgia and just about anything else that reminds me of times past. As an antique dealer, who occasionally puts profit ahead of acquisition, my collecting and selling has always been influenced by supply, demand, and the competition in my bailiwick; which at present is more aggressive than I can remember, since opening my first antique venture in Bracebridge back in 1977, shortly after graduating from York University. I took that degree in Canadian history and applied it to antiques and collectibles, when truthfully, sensibly and for profit, I should have used it as a ledge to reach for a teaching degree.

    I gave up job security for a career in adventure and speculation. My business and life partner Suzanne is a teacher, so I live vicariously through her classroom situations. Alas, for my own constitution and impatience, I think I made a good career choice. I would far sooner be out on the hustings, hunting through flea markets and antique shops, than lecturing disinterested students on something they don’t care about. I was a terrible student, and I hated to be confined. It was the making of a career hunter-gatherer!

    As a result of fierce competition out on the antique trail, I’ve had to change disciplines many times in order to meet the needs of both business and budget. I’ve simply had to divert my attention away from quilts and furniture, oil lamps, vintage glass, and books due to price increases, and general shortages of supply. In part of course, caused by too many dealers and collectors fishing from a small pond. There were many, many more auctions when I began my business than there are today. I have always found auctions to be more fruitful than the cross-region antique sweep. I could fill a van with auction finds but come home with only a few found items even after a several hundred mile buying trip.

   From the perspective of a book dealer, who frequently purchased upwards of twenty or more full boxes at estate auctions, it was typical to quadruple my investment when all was said and done. Not only could I find a dozen big money books but there were other treasures within. It was common to be able to find historic documents, photographs and war-time letters that I could sell over and above the books themselves. This was the buyer’s bonus. I used to find lots of paper collectibles and nostalgia tucked neatly into the texts, put there for safekeeping over the many decades they belonged to the family. (I have returned many documents to family that should not have been included in these job-lot acquisitions, and I have donated other important found articles to museums). Suzanne reminds me that we’ve often made more money selling the found pieces, old movie and sports programs, hockey and baseball cards, war letters, postcards, and stamps than from the books themselves. In the case of old cookbooks we found jammed into the boxes, it wasn’t uncommon to come upon a selection of gnarled handwritten recipes.

   Sometimes we’d find up to a hundred jammed between the pages of the larger cookbooks. There really wasn’t much of a market for them but I decided to set them aside until we could figure out what to do with the small collection. Our pile of these cookery relics started to get pretty impressive and interesting, and curiously the more we found, the more attention we paid to cookery heritage itself, almost as if we had discovered something quite by accident. There was something more significant about these simple handwritten recipes, so we began researching the intricacies and subtleties of the pioneer kitchen. A general eagerness to seek them out at sales initiated an unanticipated momentum that has led to this current research project. Many collectors can attest to this manifestation of interest that can happen quite by accident, changing an otherwise steadfast collecting mission in favor of another....which could be a complete opposite from anything you’ve pursued previously. As my wife and I were both fond of kitchen collectibles to begin with, and knew how to market paper nostalgia, it wasn’t a far stretch to then realign ourselves to old recipes. As a collector you’re always in a wee bit of a quandary, as to why it took so long to adopt a collecting interest that seemed so naturally suited.

   Every year we add several hundred more finds to the pile and most recently we decided it was time to invite others into our handwritten recipe adventures. So here it is. What began as old paper with sundry fingerprints, leftover icing, chocolate, scented of spice and sugars, tumbling out of old books into our laps, has become one of the most interesting collecting ventures we’ve ever enjoyed. It is a fascinating study of ethnicity, religion, cultural and social traditions, regionalism, nationalism and everything in between. While many take little notice of these handwritten treasures, once you understand the provenance attached, and appreciate the heart, soul, and necessities of the specific writer (cook), they clearly become important links in culinary history. You can tell a lot about home cooks by the company of recipes they keep.

 

   

THE MISSION TO DISCOVER THE SPIRITUAL ALLURE OF MUSKOKA...AND IT'S ABOUT TIME

Take time to visit a cemetery during these lovely fall days!   You’ll be surprised at the history you’ll uncover if you take the time to read the inscriptions on the monuments. (Photo By Fred Schulz)

STORIED MUSKOKA - I WILL NEVER RUN OUT OF STORY IDEA LIVING IN MUSKOKA

I NEVER GET BORED REFLECTING ON THE PLACE I CALL HOME

     I CAN'T BEGIN THIS BLOG WITHOUT A LITTLE RETROSPECTIVE. THIS IS IN ORDER TO PROMOTE, WHAT A MUSKOKA PHOTOGRAPHER AND WRITER HAVE PLANNED. WE'RE NOT GOING TO BE GHOST HUNTING, AS SUCH, UNLESS WE FIND AN OPPORTUNITY TO CAPTURE ONE ON FILM....BUT WE WILL BE LOOKING TO FIND THE VISUAL JUSTIFICATION, TO CALL THIS PLACE "SPECIAL." SURE, THERE ARE A LOT OF SPECIAL PLACES ON THIS EARTH, BUT RESIDENTS OF THOSE BURGS, HAVE THEIR OWN WAYS OF REPRESENTING THESE NATURAL ASSETS. MUSKOKA HAS BEEN A HIT AND MISS SITUATION FOR DECADES, AS FAR AS ITS PUBLIC REPRESENTATION, AND HERE WE ARE IN 2013, AND MOST PEOPLE STILL THINK OF MUSKOKA AS A PRETTY "LAKELAND," AND, SIMPLY STATED, "COTTAGE COUNTRY," BUT NOTHING THAT WOULD ENGAGE THE WORD "SPIRITUAL." WE HAVE SOME HISTORY BEHIND US, TO PROVE OUR POINT. THERE HAVE BEEN MANY WRITERS AND ARTISTS WHO CHOSE MUSKOKA BECAUSE OF ITS SPIRITUAL ENERGY.....RESONATING FROM ITS DEEP LAKES, BOLD ROCK, PINERY FORESTS, AND HAUNTED LOWLANDS.
    WE KNOW THERE IS MORE TO THE REGIONAL REFLECTION THAN WE SEE WITH OUR TOURISM MARKETING STRATEGIES, AND ECONOMIC INITIATIVES, TO SELL OUR GOOD LOOKS ABROAD. WE THINK THERE IS A SPIRIT WITHIN, THAT HAS BEEN ATTRACTING WRITERS, MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS SINCE THE 1800'S, AND WE HAVE CONSIDERABLE EVIDENCE TO PROVE OUR POINT. NOW WE WANT TO PROVE IT TO YOU.
     THE STORY OF THE QUEST, FOR ME, BEGAN MODESTLY, AND AWKWARDLY, BACK IN THE SPRING OF 1966, AND BECAME MUCH MORE CONSUMING, IN THE FALL AND WINTER OF 1977-78. I'VE STUCK WITH IT EVER SINCE, AND I'M GLAD I HAVE KEPT MY COMMITMENT. THIS IS THE PERFECT TIME TO REVEAL WHAT I HAVE FOUND. SO PLEASE TRAVEL BACK WITH ME, TO MY OLD HAUNT, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHERE MY MISSION TO LEARN MORE ABOUT MUSKOKA, WAS FIRST INITIATED. I LIKE TO THINK THAT I'VE COME A LONG WAY SINCE THAT NAIVE APPROACH,  COMMENCED MORE THAN THREE DECADES AGO.

     BEYOND THE TALE OF BRACEBRIDGE'S MCGIBBON HOUSE, BEING PLEASANTLY HAUNTED, THE MOST IMPORTANT REALITIES OF THAT MULTI-YEAR EXPERIENCE, RESIDING IN THE DOCTOR'S GRAND MUSKOKA RESIDENCE, OPPOSITE MANITOBA STREET'S "MEMORIAL PARK," WAS WHAT IT MEANT TO ME, AS A NURTURING ABODE; A FLEDGLING WRITER WITH A LOT OF PAPER, UNUSED TYPEWRITER RIBBON, AND THE HIGH HOPES THAT THE HOUSE'S PROVENANCE WOULD BURDEN ME WITH INSPIRATION. I DIDN'T HAVE FAITH IN MYSELF, SO IT WAS PRETTY MUCH A CASE OF BEGGING, MY NEW ABODE, TO INSPIRE ME TO WORK LONG AND PROSPER. THE PROSPERING PART WAS SLOW TO MANIFEST. IT DID TURN OUT, THAT MY WRITING WAS NOTICED, EARLY ON, AND IT GOT ME A JOB WITH MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS, WHICH LASTED FROM 1979 TO 1989.
     WHEN I RETURNED TO MUSKOKA, FOLLOWING UNIVERSITY, I WAS EXCITED BY ALL THE POSSIBILITIES OF FREE ENTERPRISE, AND THE BOILING OVER ASPIRATIONS TO PEN SEVERAL BOOKS, ON LOCAL HISTORY. MOVING TO THE HISTORIC HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, FORMER MUSKOKA MP, AND OFFICER IN THE 122ND MUSKOKA REGIMENT, IN WORLD WAR ONE, WAS A HUGE MOTIVATIONAL FORCE, AND WHETHER I WAS WORKING IN THE ATTIC LOFT, WHICH OFFERED A NICE PANORAMA OF THE PARK, OR IN THE FRONT ROOM, OF THE SECOND FLOOR APARTMENT, EVERY DAY OFFERED SOMETHING AMAZING TO STIR THE CREATIVE JUICES. IF YOU ARE A WRITER OR ARTIST, YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE SURROUNDINGS ARE TO THE CREATIVE ENTERPRISE, AND FOR ME, IT WAS NINETY PERCENT OF THE BATTLE. EVEN TODAY, I HAVE TO WORK HARD TO KEEP MY HOME OFFICE FULL OF INTERESTING ART PIECES AND CURIOSITIES, INCLUDING THE FULL VIEW OF OUR BIRCH HOLLOW AND THE BOG, JUST TO MEET THE DEMANDS OF THE WRITING DRAIN. AT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, I DIDN'T NEED ANYTHING MORE THAN THE AMBIENCE OF THE BUILDING ITSELF, AND OF COURSE THE SPIRITUAL INTRUSIONS THAT CAME FREQUENTLY. THANKFULLY SO. THEY GAVE ME A LITTLE EDGE ON MY CONTEMPORARIES, WRITING THE SAME KIND OF REGIONAL OVERVIEWS. HOW CAN A GHOST HELP A WRITER? I'LL TAKE A CRITIQUE FROM ANYONE OR ANYTHING, IF IT MEANS MY WORK WILL IMPROVE, AS A RESULT.
     BEFORE I MOVED BACK TO BRACEBRIDGE, WITH AN IDEA TO BECOME AN ANCHORED AND RELEVANT MUSKOKA AUTHOR, I WEIGHED OVER A LOT OF JOB POTENTIALS, AND OPPORTUNITIES, IN DIFFERENT REGIONS OF CANADA, THAT SEEMED TO QUIETLY BECKON. I MET A LOT OF STUDENT FRIENDS, WHO PROMOTED THEIR HOME REGIONS OF THE PROVINCE AND COUNTRY, AS WELL AS BEYOND OUR COUNTRY.....AND THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I SERIOUSLY ENTERTAINED STARTING OUT IN SOME LOCALE WHERE I DIDN'T HAVE A HISTORY. I HAD MOVED WITH MY FAMILY, TO BRACEBRIDGE, BACK IN THE SPRING OF 1966, AND SPENT A GREAT CHILDHOOD AND MY TEENAGE YEARS IN MUSKOKA, AND IT WAS SO MUCH BETTER FOR HEART AND SOUL THAN WHAT I HAD EXPERIENCED DURING MY EARLY YEARS IN SOUTHERN ONTARIO. SO EVEN THOUGH I DID THINK ABOUT MOVING ELSEWHERE, TO PURSUE MY CRAFT, AND GET A JOB, I FELT COMPELLED TO RETURN TO MUSKOKA, JUST IN CASE IT HAD SOME POWER OVER ME.....AS I HAD SUSPECTED AS A KID. BOY WAS I OVER-POWERED.
      WHENEVER I DRIFTED, IN THOSE FIRST FEW YEARS, TO FOLLOW JOB OPPORTUNITIES ELSEWHERE, ESPECIALLY WHEN I WAS BROKE, I COULDN'T WAIT TO GET BACK TO MY REAL HOME. I QUIT THREE JOBS BECAUSE I DIDN'T LIKE THE REGION I WAS GOING TO BE LIVING IN. MUSKOKA WAS ALWAYS BECKONING.
     I'D SIT IN THE ATTIC LOFT, WATCHING THE SNOW FALLING SO GENTLY, BEAUTIFULLY OVER THE HARDWOOD-BORDERED MEMORIAL PARK;  WATCHING THE SCHOOL KIDS FROM BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC, RUNNING ALONG THE INTERSECTING PATH, AND WITHOUT ANY OTHER PREAMBLE, I'D SET ABOUT TYPING AT MY DESK....., AS IF A MAN POSSESSED BY THE ALLURE OF AN INVISIBLE LEADER.  IT WAS THIS MOST AMAZING SCENE OF SMALL TOWN LIFE AND TIMES, INFLUENCED BY THE CHANGE OF SEASON, THAT STIRRED ME TO ACTION.  I CAN REMEMBER GETTING CHOKED-UP, BECAUSE IT WAS SO INCREDIBLY REMINISCENT OF MY OWN DAYS, DOING THE EXACT SAME THING AS THESE SCHOOL KIDS.....CROSSING THE PARK, AND STOPPING, ON THOSE FIRST SNOWY AFTERNOONS,  FOLLOWING CLASS, TO FALL DOWN AND IMPRINT SNOW-ANGELS ALL OVER THE PLACE. IT WAS AS IF I COULD SEE MY OWN GHOST, TRYING TO MIX IN WITH THIS NEW GENERATION OF ANGEL-MAKERS, ALTHOUGH THEY COULDN'T SEE ME. I HAD TO SATISFY MYSELF AS THE VOYEUR. AND THE PASSERSBY ALL DAY AND NIGHT, MADE THIS AN IDEAL PORTAL, FROM WHICH TO CAPTURE THE ESSENCE OF THE TOWN'S CHARACTER, AND ALL ITS PECULIAR MOODS. IT WAS AT TIMES, AT MID-DAY, BUSY AND SO QUAINTLY ANIMATED, LIKE A WIND-UP TOY, THAT SENT ALL THESE FOLKS OFF IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS, YET BROUGHT THEM BACK THE SAME WAY......EVENTUALLY, SNOW-COVERED, AND WRAPPED UP WITH SCARF AND HIGH COLLARS, TOQUES AND MITTENS. IF IT SEEMS SICKLY SWEET AND SENTIMENTALLY HEAVY, THEN YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I WAS INFLUENCED BY MY SURROUNDINGS.
      I COULDN'T HAVE WRITTEN NEGATIVELY IF I'D SET OUT TO DO SO. I WOULD JUST SIT BACK, PERPLEXED ABOUT HOW TO GET OUT OF THIS ROCKWELLIAN PREOCCUPATION, AND CLOAK OF NOSTALGIA, AND THEN FEEL COMPELLED TO JUST CAPITULATE TO THE PREVAILING MOOD.....AND ENJOY THIS AERIAL GLIMPSE OF MY HOME TOWN, IN TRANSITION, CIRCA 1978-79. YET, YOU KNOW, IF THAT HOUSE WAS STILL THERE, AND THE ATTIC ROOM WAS AVAILABLE FOR AN OLD WRITER LIKE ME, I THINK I WOULD SEE MUCH OF THE SAME COMINGS AND GOINGS THROUGH THE SEASONS, JUST AS SENTIMENTALLY PROPORTIONED AS I SAW IT BACK THEN.....THROUGH THE ROSE COLORED GLASSES OF A ROOKIE WRITER TRYING TO MAKE HIS MARK.
     I FOUND IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO FASHION MYSELF AS AN ANGRY YOUNG WRITER, AT ODDS WITH SOCIETY. IF I CLIMBED THOSE STAIRS TO THE ATTIC, AND GRUMBLED MY WAY TO THE CHAIR AT WINDOW-SIDE, AND THEN SPILLED A CUP OF HOT COFFEE ON MY LAP, WITHIN MINUTES OF LOOKING DOWN ONTO THAT PARK, ATTIRED IN THE SEASON'S FINERY, GADS, I WAS SNAPPED BACK INTO THE THEME OF "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE," AND THIS REPEATED OVER AND OVER, IN THOSE FIRST YEARS OF EXPERIMENTAL WRITING. IF I WAS TRULY ANGRY AND HAD LOTS TO PROTEST, AND FELT IN KEENLY VENGEFUL ABOUT ANYTHING IN MY LIFE, OR AS A CURRENT EVENT, THE PLEASANTNESS OF THE OLD HOUSE, WAS SO OVERWHELMING, THAT WELL......NOTHING BAD CAME OUT. IT WAS LIKE SWALLOWING RAZOR BLADES THAT TURNED TO JELLY ON THE WAY DOWN.
      THE ONLY PARALLEL I CAN THINK OF, WAS THE WAY EBENEEZER SCROOGE FELT, AFTER WAKING UP CHRISTMAS MORNING, HAVING EXPERIENCED EACH OF THE THREE VISITING SPIRITS, SENT TO RECLAIM HIS MISERABLE SOUL. AS HE COMMENTED, FROM THE PEN OF CHARLES DICKENS, RATHER PROFOUNDLY, SCROOGE FELT HE HAD NO RIGHT FEELING SO GOOD. FROM A NASTY CODGER TO A HUMANITARIAN AND GOOD FRIEND TO ALL, HIS VIEWPOINT OF LIFE HAD FOREVER CHANGED. I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS ABOUT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, BUT AS HAUNTED AS I BELIEVE IT WAS, THERE WASN'T A SHRED OR WAFTING VAPOR OF ILL-WILL. NOT A PUFF OF IT, OR EVEN THE SOFTEST GRUMBLE OF PROTEST ANYWHERE WITHIN ITS HISTORIC WALLS. IT WAS AN UPBEAT PLACE WHERE I COULDN'T STAY MAD AT THE WORLD, OR EVEN LINGER AS A TEMPORARY PESSIMIST. I MIGHT START OFF A LITTLE ANNOYED BY SOMETHING, AND HAVE A DESIGN, EARLY ON, OF MAKING SOME EDITORIAL PROTESTATION, BUT SURE ENOUGH, IT WOULD FADE AND FALTER, AND THE FLOWERY, SENTIMENTAL FEELINGS TOOK OVER......AND I WAS GOOD WITH MY LIFE AND WHAT LIFE I WITNESSED INTERACTING AND CRISS-CROSSING BELOW MY WINDOW.
     IT WAS THE WINDOW ANALOGY THAT I'VE BEEN ATTACHED TO EVER SINCE. IT WAS MY OBSERVATORY OF BRACEBRIDGE, AS IT WAS THE CASE OF MUSKOKA GENERALLY; AND IT REAFFIRMED SO MANY TIMES LATER, HOW CORRECT I HAD BEEN, TO BUILD MY OWN LIFE AND PROFESSION IN THE DISTRICT I LOVED. FROM MY FIRST VISIT IN THE SUMMER OF 1965, TO A MODESTLY APPOINTED COTTAGE ON BRUCE LAKE.
     WHENEVER I FEEL THE NECESSITY TO FRAME SOME MUSKOKA QUALITY OR QUANTITY, LIKE PHOTOGRAPHER FRED SCHULZ WOULD SNAP A PROVOCATIVE LANDSCAPE PHOTOGRAPH, I USE THE ABSTRACT FRAMING, THE MEMORY OF PERSPECTIVE AND VANTAGE POINT, AFFORDED ME BY THAT FORMER MCGIBBON HOUSE PORTAL, AS A SORT OF GUIDE; WHEN DESCRIBING THE NEWEST MUSKOKA SCENES I DISCOVER, ON MY MOST RECENT CROSS COUNTRY GAD-ABOUTS. IN THOSE EARLY YEARS, TRYING TO MAKE IT AS A STARVING ARTIST, I TOOK INSPIRATION FROM WHEREVER, AND WHOEVER I COULD; AND IN MY CASE, MOST OF IT CAME FROM A CONTENTING, COMFORTABLE FAMILY HOME, ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET, THAT ALWAYS SEEMED TO INSPIRE CREATIVITY WHEN NOTHING ELSE SPARKED THE SLIGHTEST MOOD OF ENTERPRISE. ALL IT WOULD TAKE, IS A FEW MINUTES OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION, AT ANY TIME OF THE DAY, AND I WOULD FIND SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT. EVERY TIME I'D MAKE THOSE TYPEWRITER KEYS DANCE WITH INK, THE MELANCHOLY EVAPORARED LIKE THE EARLY MORNING MIST. IT WAS MY ERA OF THE EFFERVESCENT "SUNNY DISPOSITION." I LOVED IT!
    THE ONLY PROBLEM, WAS THAT IT DISQUALIFIED ME PERPETUALLY, AS BEING A RISING STAR IN CONTEMPORARY WRITING, BECAUSE I WAS VOID OF ANGER. I COULDN'T MUSTER ENOUGH DISDAIN TO WRITE MORE THAN A TERSE PARAGRAPH. IT WAS THE HOUSE. I KNOW IT WAS THE PREVAILING GOOD HUMOUR AND KINDNESS OF THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, THAT SIMMERED ME LONG BEFORE THE POINT OF BOILING FORTH. I WAS CALMED BY ITS EMBRACE, TIME AND AGAIN.
     FROM MY EARLY YEARS WRITING FROM THE BOSUM OF THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, I HAVE VEERED ONLY SLIGHTLY OFF THE SAME PATH, AS I BELIEVE I WAS INSPIRED, DURING THOSE FORMATIVE DAYS, NIGHTS AND EVENINGS, WHEN I BEGGED TO BE SPIRITUALLY ENLIGHTENED. I REMEMBER TELLING MY GIRLFRIEND, GAIL, AT THE TIME, THAT MY OBJECTIVE WAS TO BECOME KNOWN AS A "MUSKOKA" WRITER. SHE SAID,  PAUSING, TURNING TO ME, WITH A PUZZLED STARE,  I GOT A LOT FROM HER, IN THOSE DAYS, ASKING "WHY WOULDN'T YOU WANT TO BE KNOWN AS A CANADIAN WRITER?"  "ISN'T THAT WHAT YOU SHOULD BE AIMING FOR?" "I SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE NICE TO ONE DAY ACHIEVE THAT KIND OF STATUS, BUT TO ME, THE WAY I FEEL, IT'S FAR MORE IMPORANT TO BE KNOWN AS A REPRESENTATIVE WRITER FOR MY HOME DISTRICT, THAN TO BE LOST IN THE MOB OF AUTHORS, CLIMBING OVER EACH OTHER TO BE CONSIDERED NATIONALLY SIGNIFICANT." THESE MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE EXACT WORDS I USED, BUT THE POINT IS IDENTICAL. EVEN FROM A YOUNG AGE, I HAD NO REAL INTEREST IN BEING ANYTHING MORE THAN A COMPETENT, RELIABLE, REPRESENTATIVE WRITER, WITH REVERENCE TO THE INTEGRITY OF LOCAL HISTORY; CONSIDERED CAPABLE ENOUGH TO WRITE ABOUT OUR REGION OF CANADA......SUCH THAT EACH EFFORT WOULD BE PART OF A MUSKOKA MOSAIC WE COULD ALL BE PROUD TO POSSESS. HAVEN'T ACHIEVED IT YET, BUT I'M NO QUITTER.
     I HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT THE SCOPE OF THIS MANY TIMES SINCE, AND CONTINUE TO WONDER, WHETHER IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EASIER TO BECOME A KNOWN CANADIAN WRITER, WITH NATIONAL ACHIEVEMENTS......AS HAVING TACKLED BIGGER STORIES AND MORE CONTROVERSIAL ISSUES, RELEVANT TO ALL CANADIANS, THAN HAVING BEEN SO NARROW FOCUSED,  AND CONFINED TO AN AREA SO GEOGRAPHICALLY TINY. STRANGE THOUGH, THAT I HAVE NEVER REALLY CONSIDERED MY MUSKOKA PREOCCUPATION AS A NARROW OR RESTRICTED FOCUS, ALTHOUGH MY FRAMING ANALOGY MAY SEEM, BY ITSELF, A SELF IMPOSED  LIMITATION. IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE THE OPPOSITE. I SEE IT ALL FROM THAT OLD WINDOW, AND EVEN THOUGH IT IS MY HISTORY NOW, IT WAS THE PERIOD OF GREATEST DISCIPLINE AND FORESIGHT, THAT TUTORED ME ON HOW TO ARTFULLY NARROW A VANTAGE POINT, TO SEE AND EXPERIENCE, TO THE CONTRARY,  EVEN MORE.....IN THE ETHEREAL, UNIVERSAL CONTEXT OF BEING A SPIRITUAL OBSERVER WITHOUT ANY BOUNDARY WHATSOEVER.
     THIS RECENTLY RE-ENERGIZED PARTNERSHIP, WITH WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA PHOTOGRAPHER, FRED SCHULZ, IS AN EXTENSION OF THAT MCGIBBON HOUSE WINDOW ONTO OUR HOME REGION; AND FRED'S CAPTIVATING PHOTO STUDIES, ALONG THE BACKROADS AND OBSCURE PATHWAYS, AND MY WRITTEN OVERVIEWS, HAVE AMALGAMATED TO FORM WHAT I HONESTLY FEEL, IS A STIRRING, INVIGORATING, PERSPECTIVE OF THIS ENCHANTED REGION OF CANADA. INFLUENCED CHARACTERISTICALLY BY FRED'S LIFE-LONG PASSION FOR THE REGION, AND MY OWN DESIRE TO CAPTURE AND PROMOTE, WHY IT HAS HELD MY HEART FOR ALL THESE DECADES. I WON'T DENY, THAT FOR ME, IT HAS BEEN A SPIRITUAL PULL, THAT TOOK HOLD ON THAT FIRST TRIP TO MUSKOKA, AND HAS NEVER LOOSENED. ALL YOU WOULD HAVE TO DO, IS ASK FRED WHAT IT WAS LIKE GROWING UP, IN KILWORTHY, ONTARIO, DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, TO LAUNCH A CONVERSATION THAT MIGHT LAST AN HOUR OR A WEEK. FRED'S FAMILY USED TO RUN THE KILWORTHY GENERAL STORE, IN THE VILLAGE SITUATED SOUTH OF GRAVENHURST, AND HIS MEMORIES ARE AS CLEAR AND REMARKABLE, AS IF HE WAS SITTING ON THE STEPS OF THE BUILDING, AS A LITTLE KID WITH A BOTTLE OF POP IN HIS HANDS......HAVING JUST THEN BEEN ASKED, "SO LITTLE FELLOW, HOW DO YOU LIKE HELPING OUT YOUR FOLKS IN THIS VILLAGE STORE?" WELL, THE SHORT ANSWER IS, HE LIKED IT SO MUCH, A PART OF HIS SOUL IS STILL WAITING THERE, HOPEFUL IT MIGHT ONE DAY RE-OPEN. BUT HE KNOWS IT WOULD BE FULL OF GHOSTS.....FRIENDLY GHOSTS, BUT NOT THE KIND OF MANPOWER THAT WOULD DO MUCH FOR BUSINESS. BUT THIS IS HOW POIGNANT THE MEMORIES ARE FOR FRED, AND THAT'S WHAT YOU WILL GET, WHEN MY COLLEAGUE GOES OUT ON THOSE AUTUMN MOTOR TRIPS, TO CAPTURE WHAT HE BELIEVES, DEFINES THE MUSKOKA EXPERIENCE HE HAS PARTNERED WITH, OVER A WONDERFULLY FULL LIFE.
     I MAY AT TIMES, TAKE A ROUTE LESS TRAVELLED, AND OBSERVE AND REPRESENT SCENES I COME UPON DIFFERENTLY; YET THE WORK OF THE WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHER, WILL MERGE SLOWLY, WITH ONE OVERALL CHARACTERISTIC OPINION, THAT I BELIEVE WILL MORE THAN JUSTIFY US FOR THE MISSION.......AND IT WILL HERALD OUR OWN CELEBRATION OF THE SPIRIT(S) OF OUR PARTNER "MUSKOKA." IT WILL BE EMBELLISHED BY SENTIMENTALITY, BECAUSE I CAN'T STOP THAT.....AND IT WON'T BE VOID OF NOSTALGIA AND HISTORY. IT'S TOO IMPORANT FOR BOTH OF US, TO EVER NEGLECT THE RELEVANCE OF HEART STRINGS, PLAYING OUR FAVORITE SONGS.  IT WILL,  FOR ME, BE THE FULFILLMENT OF A PROMISE I MADE A LONG TIME AGO......TO DEDICATE MYSELF TO BECOMING A REPRESENTATIVE MUSKOKA WRITER. AS FOR FRED, I'VE GOT SOME CATCHING-UP TO DO, AS HE IS ALREADY CONSIDERED AN EXCEPTIONALLY TALENTED MUSKOKA PHOTOGRAPHER.
     AS WE TRAVEL ON THROUGH THIS AMAZING SEASON OF THE YEAR, ON TO THE THANKSGIVING HOLIDAY, I HOPE YOU WILL FIND THE FRUIT OF OUR LABOURS, TO BE UPLIFTING, ENLIGHTENING, AND REPRESENTATIVE OF THE TRUE NATURE OF MUSKOKA.....THAT IS OFTEN OBSCURED THESE DAYS, AND LEFT UNDISCOVERED, BECAUSE OF PRE-OCCUPATION, AND THE URBAN-LIVING PATTERNS WE CHOOSE TO EMPLOY, EVEN IN A RURAL CLIME; AND THE GNAWING ANNOYANCE OF INTRUSIVE POLITICS THAT OFTEN MAKE US FORGET HOW TRULY AMAZING THIS HINTERLAND IS......AND INSPIRING IT CAN BE, IF SOUGHT OUT BY THE WILLING....
     ON THESE WRITING ADVENTURES IN MUSKOKA, I DO, WITHOUT APOLOGY, CARRY AROUND WITH ME, THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE PENNINGS OF WRITERS LIKE WASHINGTON IRVING, DEPICTING HIS MYSTICAL OVERVIEW OF THE HAUNTED HUDSON RIVER VALLEY, AND DAVID HENRY THOREAU'S NATURE-SCAPE, VIA HIS "WALDEN POND." I WON'T OFFER ANY APOLOGY FOR BEING INFLUENCED BY THEIR WORK, AS OUR PIONEERS WERE IN THIS SAME REGION; WHO MAY ALSO HAVE BEEN INSPIRED BY THEIR POPULAR BOOKS, FROM WHEN MUSKOKA WAS ONLY A COLLECTION OF TINY HAMLETS, AND LOG HOMESTEADS. I WON'T APOLOGIZE FOR THE STRONG FEELING THAT THIS REGION IS ABUNDANTLY HAUNTED AND SPIRIT-FULL, BECAUSE IT IS THE WAY I HAVE ALWAYS FELT, FIRST AS A KID, AND AS A VOYEUR EVER AFTER. I UNDERTAKE THESE ADVENTURES, HOPING AGAINST HOPE, TO ENCOUNTER WHATEVER SPIRIT OR PARANORMAL ENTITY, WILL AFFORD ME THE TIME TO PLAY...AND LEARN. I AM THEIR HUMBLE SERVANT, AS I WISH TO KNOW MORE ABOUT WHAT HAS, AND CONTINUES TO MAKE, MUSKOKA SUCH A REMARKABLE PLACE.....BEYOND THE OBVIOUS ATTRIBUTE TO ITS PICTURESQUE CLAIMS TO FAME.
     FRED AND I HAVE ONLY ONE MISSION HERE......AND THAT IS TO SATISFY OURSELVES, THAT WE HAVE FULFILLED A MISSION TO CAPTURE, AND PRESENT THE SCENES OF MUSKOKA, IN THE MOST ENLIGHTENING AND INFORMATIVE WAY POSSIBLE......WITHOUT BECOMING MIRED IN THE SENTIMENTAL WEB OF THE WAY IT WAS, VERSUS THE WAY IT IS TODAY. AS PART OF OUR OWN RESPECTIVE BUCKET LISTS, WE'D LIKE TO LEAVE BEHIND A WEE BIT OF LEGACY, OF HOW A CONTEMPORARY WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHER, SAW MUSKOKA IN THE PRESENT TENSE OF 2013 ONWARD......EVOLVING UNTIL WE CAN DO NO MORE.
     I HOPE YOU WILL JOIN FRED AND I, AS WE CONTINUE TO EXPLORE MUSKOKA. WE HAVE ROOM FOR YOU, IF YOU'D LIKE TO TAG ALONG. THANKS FOR JOINING THIS BLOG TODAY. WE HAVE A GREAT AUTUMN SEASON PLANNED. FULL OF ADVENTURE, AND FULL OF DISCOVERY. WE'RE GOING TO CHALLENGE OURSELVES LIKE NEVER BEFORE. SO IT SHOULD BE A HELL OF A RIDE.
    WE TAKE OUR FIRST STEPS IN THE NEXT BLOG.