Souvenirs of the world deserve better treatment by those who hunt and sell antiques; Muskoka souvenirs

Each day new life forms unfurl in the lowland we call the bog. Rob Currie photos

Souvenir, Victorian era, promotion of the industrial potential of Bracebridge; the rail line means that it was after 1885. The building to the right of the tracks is the Bird's Woollen Mill and the building to the right is the short lived Hess Furniture Company. On loan from Chris Thomspon

Not sure where exactly these bovines were located but the photograph was given to me by Audrey Judd of Juddhaven Resort on Lake Rosseau

This photograph was found in Gravenhurst but I can't place the location exactly. Photo from the early part of the 1900's.

VINTAGE SOUVENIRS HAVE BEEN GROSSLY UNDER RECOGNIZED -

AS RELATES TO THEIR HISTORICAL RELEVANCE TO THE PLACES OUR ANCESTORS TRAVELLED, AND KEEPSAKES TO REMIND THEM OF THOSE OCCASIONS

     WE CURRIES HAD A LOW KEY CELEBRATION LAST NIGHT, WITH A NICE CHOCOLATE CAKE SUZANNE WHIPPED-UP, TO MARK THE OCCASION OF OUR LAST MORTGAGE PAYMENT. BIRCH HOLLOW IS FINALLY PAID OFF AND WHAT AN ADVENTURE IT WAS OVER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW IF WE WERE GOING TO BE ABLE TO MAKE THE VERY NEXT PAYMENT, AND OTHER TIMES, WHEN SUZANNE AND I WONDERED IF IT WOULD BE BEST, ALL ROUND, TO SELL, AND TAKE WHATEVER WE COULD GET, FROM OUR ORIGINAL, AND LARGE DOWNPAYMENT. WE DID ENTERTAIN THE POSSIBILITY OF RETURNING BACK TO BRACEBRIDGE, WITH TAIL BETWEEN THE LEGS, WHERE OUR FAMILY MEMBERS STILL RESIDED. BELIEVE ME, WE HAD A LOT OF FRIENDS, WHO THOUGHT WE WERE CRAZY, MOVING SOUTH TO GRAVENHURST. WELL, TODAY, WE KNOW THEY WERE WRONG. THERE WAS ONE THING THAT WAS UNFALTERING, EVEN WHEN WE WERE DOWN TO OUR LAST FEW DOLLARS; WE POSSESSED A HUGE POSITIVE ATTITUDE. WE WEREN'T QUITTERS IN ANYTHING WE SET OUR MIND TO DO! IT WAS ABOUT GRAVENHURST. TIME AND AGAIN, IT WAS PROVEN TO US, THAT WE HAD MADE THE RIGHT DECISION TO RE-LOCATE FROM OUR FORMER HOME IN BRACEBRIDGE. IN SO MANY WAYS, THE COMMUNITY OF GRAVENHURST CAME THROUGH FOR US, WHEN EVERYTHING ELSE SEEMED TO BE GOING WRONG. AND WHEN I SUGGEST "GOING WRONG," I MEAN THAT, IN EVERY WAY, SHAPE AND FORM. WE HAD SO MANY THINGS GOING SOUTH AT THE SAME TIME, WE ACTUALLY HAD TO WRITE IT ALL DOWN, SO WE COULD KEEP IT STRAIGHT. WE HAD A CAR THAT SHUT ITSELF OFF AT SIXTY MILES PER HOUR. NOW THAT MAKES DRIVING SLIGHTLY PRECARIOUS. THE ONLY KARMA WE COULD COUNT ON, WAS WHAT BENEFITTED US, AND KEPT US ENCOURAGED, IN OUR NEW HOMETOWN. IT CERTAINLY HELPED TO HAVE PURCHASED A HOUSE ACROSS FROM A TWENTY ACRE GREENBELT, WE CALLED THE BOG. IT WAS ONE OF THE REASONS WE FOUGHT TOOTH AND NAIL, A FEW YEARS BACK, WHEN COUNCIL, IN THEIR NON-WISDOM, WANTED TO SELL IT OFF, AND PAVE THE WAY FOR AN EVENTUAL CLEAR-CUT, FOR MORE UNNEEDED RESIDENTIAL LOTS. TO HELL WITH THE ECO SYSTEM OF A LOWLAND.
     IN FACT, OR A VERY PERSONAL LEVEL, IT'S THE SAME REASON WE GET PISSED OFF WITH MANY OTHER TOWN INITIATIVES, OR LACK OF, THESE DAYS; WHEN WE CAN LOOK BACK TO PREVIOUS COUNCILS, DATING BACK TO THE LATE 1980'S, AND FEEL THEY WERE SO MUCH MORE IN-TUNE WITH WHAT CONSTITUTED A PROGRESSIVE COMMUNITY, HAVING MUCH MORE TO DO WITH QUALITY OF LIFE THAN EXPANSIONISM. I FIND MYSELF AT ODDS, A LOT THESE DAYS, AND IT'S BECAUSE OF A LOYALTY OUR WHOLE FAMILY FEELS, ABOUT OUR ADOPTED HOMETOWN. IT'S THE WAY OF LIFE WE LIKE HERE, THAT KEEPS US HERE, BUT THERE ARE STRESSES COMING FROM ALL OVER THE PLACE THESE DAYS. SO WHEN WE REAR-UP FROM TIME TO TIME, BELIEVE ME, IT'S IN REACTION TO PERCEIVED COMPROMISES, SUCH AS THE EVER-SHRINKING RELEVANCE OF THE GRAVENHURST OPERA HOUSE, AS COMPARED TO THE WAY IT WAS, WHEN WE MOVED TO TOWN. I BELIEVE IT IS A SHADOW OF ITS FORMER SELF, AND WE'VE TRIED OUR BEST TO ENCOURAGE COUNCIL TO INVOLVE CONSTITUENTS, TO HELP FORGE A BETTER FUTURE FOR THIS ICONIC UPTOWN VENUE.
     ALL IN ALL, WE ARE PLEASED WITH THE DECISION WE MADE BACK IN THE FALL OF 1989, TO BUY A HOUSE HERE IN GRAVENHURST. OUR BOYS ENJOYED THE EVER-PREVALENT RELATIONSHIP WITH NATURE, IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, AND WE OFTEN SPENT MORE TIME AT THE WHARF, WATCHING THE COMINGS AND GOINGS OF THE R.M.S. SEGWUN, THAN WE DID PLAYING IN OUR OWN YARD. WE COULDN'T AFFORD TO TAKE FREQUENT CRUISES, BUT ALWAYS MANAGED TWO STEAMSHIP OUTINGS, EACH SUMMER SEASON. BUT IT WAS THE FAVORITE LOCATION FOR PICNICS. IT WAS FREE, WITH EXCEPTION OF THE PICNIC FARE. THE BOYS BENEFITTED FROM ATTENDING GRAVENHURST PUBLIC SCHOOL AND GRAVENHURST HIGH SCHOOL, FROM THEIR EARLIER START IN BRACEBRIDGE. WHEN THEY GRADUATED HIGH SCHOOL, THEY WENT RIGHT INTO BUSINESS AS MAIN STREET RETAILERS, AND TEN YEARS LATER, WE'RE STILL IN THE SAME LOCATION IN BUSINESS, AND THE SAME, A FEW BLOCKS OVER, AS A HOME ADDRESS. AND WHILE WE GET ANGRY OCCASIONALLY, AT SOME FOIBLE OF TOWN COUNCIL, AND ALL THE ASSOCIATED POLITICS THAT GO ON AROUND HERE, MAKING ADVERSARIES OUT OF PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE WORKING TOGETHER, WE STILL FINISH A DAY, AT THE SHOP, AND FEEL SATISFIED WE ARE IN THE RIGHT LOCATION FOR OUR BUSINESS. WHEN WE ARRIVE HOME, (ALL OF US ARRIVE AT DIFFERENT TIMES), WE FEEL WELCOMED AND COMFORTED BY THE MODEST APPOINTMENTS OF OUR BIRCH HOLLOW. RIGHT FROM THE BEGINNING, IT HAS BEEN THE OLD HOMESTEAD, THAT HAS HEALED THE WAR WOUNDS OF A TOUGH DAY, WEEK AND MONTH. FORGIVE US IF WE SEE IT AS A MINOR BUT SIGNIFICANT VICTORY, TO HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED AT THIS POINT IN TIME, WHEN WE CAN LOOK ABOUT THE MODEST, TREED YARD, WITH BASIC BUNGALOW, AND TRULY FEEL, WE INVESTED POSITIVELY IN HOME AND TOWN, WITH NO REGRETS.
     SO I ATE A VICTORY DINNER, AND A LATER PORTION OF MEATLOAF, PREPARED FOR ANDREW AND ROBERT, AND LOTS OF CAKE. A MAN WITH A HIATUS HERNIA SHOULD NOT DO THIS AT ANY TIME. DID I MENTION A BIG BOTTLE OF CARBONATED SODA WATER. I NEARLY EXPLODED LIKE THE CHARACTER IN THE FAMOUS MONTY PYTHON SKIT. SO I HAD LOTS OF AWAKE TIME, TO THINK ABOUT OUR PAST TWENTY-FIVE YEARS HERE, IN THIS LITTLE HOUSE, ABOVE THE SHADY BOG. I THINK THE MEMORIES ARE ALL SO MUCH MORE POIGNANT FOR ME, BECAUSE OF THE NEAR MISSES WE HAD, AND THE RECESSION OF THE EARLY 1990'S, THAT SHAVED ABOUT THIRTY THOUSANDS DOLLARS OFF THE APPRAISED VALUE. WE KEPT OUR FAITH THAT THINGS WOULD WORK OUT. IN THE YARD, BURIED HERE AND THERE, ARE THE REMAINS OF PET CATS AND A DOG, ALL MARKED BY LITTLE STATUETTES. AS WE INTEND TO PASS THE HOUSE DOWN TO OUR BOYS EVENTUALLY, SUZANNE AND I HOPE THE MEMORIES OF THOSE GREATLY LOVED CRITTERS, WILL BE PART OF THE STORIED YEARS OF A FAMILY OCCUPATION, OF A WONDERFUL PLACE AMONGST THE LEANING BIRCHES, AND VENERABLE MAPLES IN THE YARD.
     AS SUZANNE AND I HAVE WORRIED ABOUT MAKING MORTGAGE PAYMENTS, FOR TWO AND A HALF DECADES, WE WONDERED ALOUD LAST EVENING, WHAT WE WOULD WORRY ABOUT NOW. WELL SIR, A NEIGHBOR HAS RECENTLY RE-DIRECTED A PRETTY FAIR WHACK OF RUN-OFF WATER, FROM HIS PLACE, TOWARD OURS, SO THAT'S ONE TO THING TO BE ANXIOUS ABOUT, RIGHT OFF THE BAT. I HAD TO DIG A CANAL A WEEK AGO, TO SAVE OUR LAWN FROM BECOMING A SINK-HOLE. GOOD TIMES. BUT YOU KNOW, WHEN YOU LOOK AT THE WHOLE PICTURE, THERE'S NO WAY A NEWFOUND WATER ISSUE, IS GOING TO SPOIL OUR OPINIONS OF HOME. IT'S NOT FANCY, BUT IT IS WONDERFULLY FAMILIAR, AND EASES OUR LIVES GENTLY, AND IS ALWAYS OUR PROTECTOR, AS IF IT WAS A FORTRESS, MORE SO THAN A 1980'S BUNGALOW. THANK YOU BIRCH HOLLOW. THANK YOU GRAVENHURST.

SOUVENIRS AND THE LIKE

     WHEN OUR BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL BAND, LANDED IN LONDON, ENGLAND, IN THE EARLY SPRING OF 1974, THE MOST POPULAR SONG WAS "BILLY DON'T BE A HERO," "REBEL-REBEL," AND "JET." WE DIDN'T CARE ABOUT THE MUSIC, EXCEPT THAT IT WAS A NOTTINGHAM GROUP, THAT MADE "BILLY DON'T BE A HERO," A BIG DEAL, AT LEAST IN ENGLAND, AND WE WERE HEADED TO THAT CITY FOR THE BEST PART OF A WEEK. AFTER OUR LONDON STAY, OF COURSE, WHICH WAS SPENT SIGHTSEEING AND WELL, WHAT ELSE, BUT BUYING SOUVENIRS. IT TOOK US CANADIAN LADS ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE WE HAD PURCHASED PEAK CAPS, LONDON FOG OVERCOATS, AND BLACK ENGLISH UMBRELLAS. I'M NOT SURE, BUT I THINK SOME OF OUR FEMALE BANDMATES, DID ROUGHLY THE SAME THING. I BOUGHT MY GIRLFRIEND, AT THE TIME, A CHARM BRACELET WITH ALL THE BRITISH BOBBLES ATTACHED, I COULD AFFORD. MANY OF THE GIRLS PURCHASED LACE FROM COMMUNITIES LIKE "LUTON," TO TAKE HOME TO THEIR MOTHERS, AUNTS AND GRANDMOTHERS. WE ALL TOOK PHOTOGRAPHS TO EXCESS, AND SPENT THOUSANDS OF POUNDS ON FILM AND FLASH BATTERIES. NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF WHAT I BROUGHT BACK, WAS OF THE SOUVENIR KIND, BUT INSTEAD OF HAVING "BRITAIN" OR "ENGLAND" PRINTED ON SHIRTS OR HATS, MOST OF US WERE SATISFIED TO HAVE CLOTHING ITEMS MADE IN ENGLAND. THE CHARMS FOR THE BRACELET, I BOUGHT FOR LINDA DAWSON, (AT HOME IN CANADA), WERE OF THE TOWER OF LONDON AND BUCKINGHAM PALACE, AND POSSIBLY THE TOWER BRIDGE.
     WHEN MY FAMILY ARRIVED IN DAYTONA BEACH, EACH YEAR, FOR OUR WINTER VACATIONS, USUALLY IN EARLY FEBRUARY, (I WAS TAKEN OUT OF SCHOOL, AND EXPECTED TO DO A MONTH'S SCHOOL WORK INDEPENDENTLY), IT TOOK ME ABOUT A HALF HOUR OF GETTING CLIMATIZED, BEFORE I HAD CROSSED OVER ATLANTIC BOULEVARD, TO THE "PICK & SAVE" STORE, ACROSS THE ROAD, (LIKE A SMALL DEPARTMENT STORE) AND MADE MY FIRST SOUVENIR PURCHASE OF THAT YEAR'S TRIP. I PURCHASED A NEW "DAYTONA 500" WINDBREAKER EVERY TRIP, FROM THE LATE 1960'S THROUGH MOST OF THE 1970'S. I WAS REMINDED OF THOSE JACKETS, (DON'T KNOW WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO THEM) WHEN I SAW A CUSTOMER AT THE SHOP, THE OTHER DAY, WEARING A RED ONE, UNMISTAKABLE BECAUSE OF THE FULL LAY-OUT OF THE DAYTONA SPEEDWAY, PRINTED AS A LOGO ON THE BACK. SORT OF MAKES YOU STAND OUT IN A CROWD. WITH MY NEW JACKET, I THEN MADE THE ROUNDS OF THE SEA SHELL SHOPS, UP AND DOWN THE OCEAN FRONT STRIP, PURCHASING SOME OF MY FAVORITE SOUVENIRS, OF WHICH THESE SHOPS WERE FAMOUS. I'D PURCHASE THE POSTCARDS, I WANTED TO SEND MY GIRLFRIENDS BACK HOME, FROM THE SUN TAN SCENTED LOBBIES, OF WHICH EVER OCEANFRONT RESORT, WE WERE STAYING AT FOR THE MONTH. WE STARTED OFF AT A NEAT LITTLE 1930'S VINTAGE MOTEL WITH CABINS, CALLED "THE SUN DOG." IT WAS A SIMPLE, NO FRILLS ACCOMMODATION, ON THE OCEAN, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, FIT OUR TIGHT VACATION BUDGET. I BOUGHT ALL MY POSTCARDS AND STAMPS (FROM A NEAT MACHINE) AT THE HOTELS AND MOTELS WE STAYED, AND THAT INCLUDED ALL THE LODGINGS WE HAD ON THE WAY SOUTH FROM BRACEBRIDGE. I WAS A BIG POST CARD MAILER IN THOSE DAYS. AND I HAD ONE OF EVERY SEA SHELL MOTHER NATURE CREATED, FOR THE ATLANTIC OCEAN IN THAT REGION OF FLORIDA. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE SHELLS EITHER. I HAD BINS OF THEM. OF COURSE, MY MOTHER WAS A NEAT FREAK, AND SHE MAY HAVE DECIDED I'D OUTGROWN THE NEED FOR KEEPSAKE SHELLS AND OLD POSTCARDS. I HAD A FEW CONTAINERS OF DAYTONA SAND IN MY BEDROOM. CAN'T EXPLAIN WHY, BUT I DID. IT WAS AN AFFORDABLE SOUVENIR.
     WHEN SUZANNE AND I WENT TO VIRGINIA BEACH, FOR OUR HONEYMOON, WE BROUGHT BACK LOTS OF SOUVENIRS, THAT WERE, OVER THE COURSE OF OUR LIVES TOGETHER, SUPPOSED TO MARK THOSE HAPPY DAYS, AND BE THE HARBINGER, IN PART, FOR OUR ADVENTURES TO COME. WE STILL HAVE A SMALL REMNANT OF FRAMED LACE, WE PICKED UP AT A CRAFT MALL, IN NORFOLK, VIRGINIA, AND LOTS OF BITS AND BOBBS, BROUGHT HOME FROM COLONIAL WILLIAMSBURG. I EVEN HAVE A SMALL PUBLICATION, ON THE CRAFT OF BOOKBINDING, THAT I PURCHASED FROM THE MUSEUM. IT WAS A REPRINT FROM AN ORIGINAL LATE 1700'S PUBLICATION, AIMED AST APPRENTICE BOOKBINDERS.
     THE POINT IS, IN THE ANTIQUE TRADE, MANY DEALERS LIKE VERY LIMITED CONTACT WITH ANYTHING OF THE SOUVENIR CLASS OF COLLECTABLES. THEY MAY KEEP SOME OF THE SOUVENIRS, FOR EXAMPLE, THAT HAVE SOME HISTORIC CONNECTION TO THEIR RESPECTIVE COMMUNITIES, OR FROM THE REGION, BUT ON OUR TRAVELS, WE FIND THAT WE HAVE PROBABLY TEN TO TWENTY TIMES MORE SOUVENIR-TYPE PIECES, IN OUR OWN SHOP, INCLUDING COLLECTOR SPOONS, THAN OUR ASTUTE CONTEMPORARIES. AS WE STOCK WHAT WE CAN SELL REGULARLY, WE WOULDN'T BE CAUGHT WITHOUT VINTAGE POSTCARDS, COLLECTOR SPOONS OF ALL AGES AND REGIONS INCLUDED, AND ALMOST ANYTHING ELSE OF VINTAGE THAT WAS ORIGINALLY PURCHASED AS A SOUVENIR BY A VISTOR / TRAVELLER. SOME OF THESE ANTIQUATED SOUVENIRS ARE OUTSTANDING, AND LOOK GREAT IN THE SHOP.
     AS AN EXAMPLE, OUR COLLECTOR FRIEND, CHRIS THOMPSON, OF GRAVENHURST, HAS OFFERED US THE OPPORTUNITY TO EXHIBIT SOME OF THESE VINTAGE SOUVENIRS, IN HER POSSESSION, INCLUDING THE BRACEBRIDGE CUP AND SAUCER PHOTOGRAPHED ABOVE TODAY'S BLOG. THIS IS AN INTERESTING PROFILE OF MANITOBA STREET, LOOKING NORTH FROM JUST ABOVE THE FALLS OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, CAPTURING THE BUILDINGS OF THE BIRD'S WOOLLEN MILL, (ONE OF THE MILL BUILDINGS STILL EXISTS ON THE RIVER BANK TO THIS DATE), AND THE SHORT LIVED "HESS FURNITURE COMPANY" BUILDING, THE PROMINENT MULTI-FLOOR ARCHITECTURE JUST BEYOND THE MILL. WHAT MAKES THIS CUP AND SAUCER RARE, IS THE FACT THIS FURNITURE COMPANY STRUCTURE WAS IN PLACE, FOR THIS ARTIST'S DEPICTION, BECAUSE IT BURNED DOWN SHORTLY AFTER IT WAS CONSTRUCTED; AND BUSINESS HAD BEEN FAILING WELL BEFORE THIS EVENT. THE ARTIST HAS TAKEN SOME LICENSE WITH THE PLACEMENT OF THE BUILDINGS, BECAUSE THE DOMINION HOTEL, A LITTLE FURTHER NORTH ON MANITOBA STREET, SHOULD HAVE BEEN VISIBLE AT THIS POINT IN TOWN HISTORY. I'VE HANDLED A LOT OF VINTAGE IMAGES, OF BRACEBRIDGE, BUT THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME, I'D SEEN THIS ANGLE PRESENTED, WITH THE FURNITURE BUSINESS SO PROMINENT. THE MOST USUAL VANTAGE POINT FOR PHOTOGRAPHERS, WAS SNAPPED FROM THE HILLSIDE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA, ABOVE BOTH THE WOOLLEN MILL AND THE HESS COMPANY BUILDING. OBVIOUSLY THE CUP AND SAUCER WERE FOR DUAL PURPOSES, OF REMINDING VISITORS OF THE RISING PROMINENCE OF THE RIVERSIDE COMMUNITY, AND SECONDLY, THAT IT WAS A GOOD TOWN WITH MANY PROSPECTS, SHOULD ONE, BUYING OR RECEIVING THE CUP AND SAUCER, WISH TO MAKE AN INVESTMENT IN INDUSTRY, OR BUSINESS GENERALLY.
     THERE WERE MUSKOKA SOUVENIRS FOR SALE ALL OVER THE PLACE, BACK IN THE HOTELS AND RESORTS OF THE LATE 1800'S, THROUGHOUT OUR REGION. I HAVE SEEN EARLY PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE MUSKOKA NAVIGATION COMPANY TICKET OFFICES OF OLD, AND THERE ARE CLEARLY SOUVENIRS OF ALL TYPES FOR SALE ON THE SHELVES. I'M NOT SURE ABOUT THE TRAIN STATIONS OF OUR REGION, BUT CERTAINLY YOU WOULD BE ABLE TO FIND THEM IN THE NEARBY BUSINESSES, WHERE TRAVELLERS WOULD NATURALLY VENTURE, AFTER ARRIVING BY TRAIN OR STEAMBOAT, AT FOR EXAMPLE, THE WHARF ON BRACEBRIGE BAY. IT WOULD BE INTERESTING TO HAVE THE STATISTICS ON HOW MUCH VISITORS SPENT ON SOUVENIRS OVER THE YEARS, SINCE THE LATE 1870'S, WHEN MUSKOKA'S FIRST RESORTS, BEGAN MAKING A NAME FOR THEMSELVES, AMONGST INTERNATIONAL TRAVELLERS.
     OF COURSE, IN MY YOUTH, ONE OF THE NEATEST PERIODS IN BRACEBRIDGE, WAS THE VICTORIA DAY HOLIDAY, WHEN ALL THE GENERAL GIFT SHOPS WOULD SET OUT THEIR STOREFRONT WINDOWS, WITH A TANTALIZING ARRAY OF TACKY SOUVENIRS, AND OF COURSE, THEY WERE OF MUCH LESSER QUALITY THAN THOSE PROMOTIONAL PIECES OF A BYGONE ERA, SUCH AS THE HIGH QUALITY CUP AND SAUCER SHOWN ABOVE. THERE WERE TOMAHAWKS WITH BRACEBRIDGE, MUSKOKA PAINTED ON, WITH A LAKE SCENE OR FACSIMILE, AN ARRAY OF PENNANTS WITH MUSKOKA THEMES, WOODEN TRINKET BOXES WITH MUSKOKA NAMES PAINTED ON THE TOPS AND SIDES, CAPS, HATS, DECALS AND BUMPER STICKERS, WITH THE USUAL COLLECTION OF MUSKOKA THEMED T-SHIRTS. A MINUTE AFTER LABOUR DAY, AT THE END OF AUGUST, THE WINDOWS WERE CHANGED OVER, TO A MORE SUITABLE AUTUMN SEASON DISPLAY. NOW, DON'T GET ME WRONG; NOT ALL SHOPS HAD THESE MUSKOKA SOUVENIRS ON DISPLAY. BUT THE PLACES I FREQUENTED, LIKE ELLIOT'S FIVE AND DIME, WAS LOADED TO THE HILT WITH THIS TACKY NOSTALGIC STUFF, THAT I EVEN BOUGHT MYSELF; AND I WAS FROM BRACEBRIDGE. ALL THE OTHER MUSKOKA COMMUNITIES HAD THEIR SHARE OF SOUVENIR MATERIALS, HIGHLIGHTING THE LOCAL ATTRACTIONS, LIKE BOAT CRUISES, EG. "THE MILDRED,"  AND OF COURSE "SANTA'S VILLAGE," IN BRACEBRIDGE. NOW THERE WAS A PLACE, LOADED TO THE HILT WITH SOUVENIRS. I BOUGHT MY SHARE. I'M BET THEY HAVE A GOOD SELECTION EVEN TODAY.
     SOME OF THE SOUVENIRS WE HUNT FOR NOW, TO SELL IN OUR SHOP, LIKE THE BRACEBRIDGE CUP AND SAUCER (ON LOAN), INCLUDE ANY OF THE HIGH QUALITY PIECES, FROM AS FAR BACK AS THE 1870'S, RANGING FROM RUBY GLASS PITCHERS (SMALL), WITH PAINTED-ON TOWN AND VILLAGE NAMES, GLASS WHIMSY CANOES, WITH COMMUNITY NAMES, POTTERY CANOES, FROM THE 1950'S AND 60'S, GLASS PAPER WEIGHTS WITH HISTORIC IMAGES OF BUILDINGS AND COMMUNITY LANDMARKS, SOUVENIRS ESPECIALLY MADE FOR CERTAIN TOURIST ATTRACTIONS, LIKE "COWBOYS AND INDIANS" ADORNMENTS, THAT WERE FOR SALE AT ROSSEAU'S WELL KNOWN "FORT KAWANDAG," WHICH OPERATED FROM THE MID TO LATE 1960'S. WE JUST RECENTLY SOLD A HEADRESS FROM THE SHORT-LIVED THEME PARK, AND A FEW YEARS AGO, WE SOLD A LARGE FORMAT PLAQUE, WITH AN IMAGE OF THE FORT BUILDING AND SITE LAYOUT PRINTED AS A NOVELTY MAP. WE EVEN LIKE TO HAVE A SELECTION OF VINTAGE CANADIAN COLLECTOR SPOONS, AND BUTTONS, BECAUSE WE ARE CONSTANTLY RUNNING OUT. OBVIOUSLY, WE LIKE THE BEST QUALITY SPOONS, AND ANYTHING STAMPED STERLING SILVER. WE ALSO LIKE TO HAVE A SELECTION OF VINTAGE POSTCARDS, USED AND UNUSED, AND IT BLOWS US AWAY, HOW MANY COLLECTORS DROP INTO THE STORE LOOKING FOR THESE TOURIST-ASSOCIATED KEEPSAKES. WE BUY THEM ALL IN BULK WHENEVER WE GET THE CHANCE. QUALITY OF COURSE, IS STILL THE MAIN CONSIDERATION. GOOD QUALITY VINTAGE SOUVENIRS ARE EASY TO SELL, TO CUSTOMERS, OF ALL WALKS OF LIFE, REPRESENTING ALL THE REGIONS ON EARTH. IT IS SURPRISING TO US, THE DISTANCES TOURISTS TRAVEL, TO VISIT OUR LAKELAND REGION. THE OTHER ASPECT OF THIS, IS THAT THESE OLD-TIME SOUVENIRS CAN BE ACQUIRED CHEAPLY, AND SOLD CHEAPLY, WHICH IS THE BEST PART. WHETHER IT IS A COLLECTABLE BELL, OR PIGGY BANK, WITH NAMES PRINTED ON.  WE CAN PICK THEM UP REGULARLY AT YARD SALES AND CHURCH FUNDRAISING EVENTS. THRIFT AND CHARITY SHOPS DON'T VALUE THEM PARTICULARLY, SO THE RETAIL PRICES ALLOW US TO STOCK-UP, ON ALMOST EVERY BUYING TRIP. I DON'T THINK THAT SALES OF ANTIQUATED AND COLLECTABLE SOUVENIRS REPRESENTS MORE THAN A HALF PERCENT OF OUR ANNUAL SALES, BUT IT SURE IS NICE TO HAVE REGULAR TRANSACTIONS, IF ONLY FOR ONE OR TWO DOLLARS AT A TIME, FREQUENTLY OVER A MONTH. EVERY ANTIQUE SHOP NEEDS A SELECTION OF AFFORDABLE INVENTORY, AND FOR US, IT IS THE INTERESTING VARIETY OF SOUVENIRS, FROM ALL OVER GOD'S GREEN EARTH. IT'S WHAT OUR CUSTOMERS WANT. AND THAT'S WHAT THEY'LL GET.
    TOMORROW OUR FRIEND CHRIS, WILL SHARE SOME OF HER CRESTED HOTELWARE WITH US, FROM HISTORIC LANDMARKS, LIKE THE ALBION HOTEL, PRESUMABLY FROM GRAVENHURST, ELGIN HOUSE, IN PORT SANDFIELD, BIGWIN INN, FROM LAKE OF BAYS, AND ONE OTHER CRESTED HOTELWARE CREAMER FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY. ALL NEAT STUFF TO SEE. PLEASE JOIN ME TOMORROW. AND THANKS FOR JOINING ME TODAY. WHILE IT'S NOT GOING TO BE MUCH OF A CELEBRATION, ESPECIALLY AFTER LAST EVENING'S DEBACLE, AND ALL NIGHT INDIGESTION, I WANT TO THANK YOU FOLKS HEARTILY, FOR HELPING THIS BLOG HIT A NEW MILESTONE, OF 220,000 VIEWS, TALLIED IN LESS THAN THREE YEARS. AND WITHOUT USING CELEBRITY NAMES LIKE JUSTIN BEIBER, TO INCREASE MY AUDIENCE. GEEZ, CAN YOU BELIEVE I JUST SOLD OUT? SO IF FANS ARE SEARCHING BEIBER, TONIGHT, MAYBE I REGISTER A MILLION MORE VIEWS BY MORNING. ONLY THING, I SPELLED IT WRONG ON PURPOSE. I'M NOT A SELL OUT AFTER ALL!

WALDEN - MY TIME TO WRITE

I have never written well or often in the summer months. Maybe I’m a little like Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, who enjoyed painting Algonquin scenes from the fall to the spring but found the summer months too green, and without the dramatic contrasts he most admired about the lakeland vista.

I don’t enjoy the heat and humidity and I only own one small fan that is more annoying than refreshing. I prefer being outdoors, perched lazily on the lakeshore, or sitting comfortably beneath one of my wonderful maples in our homestead forest. This year the shade didn’t help relieve much more than the direct sunlight, as the humidity was impossible to escape. I did what they do in a lot of tropical countries, and got my work done around the property before late morning, when the temperature and closeness began to rise. I’d venture into the Bog with my mate Bosko, my canine companion, and we’d take a slow walk to nowhere in particular. It always seemed cooler down on the level of the marsh grasses and deep fern cover, and while the dog rolled on the hard-packed path, I’d satisfy myself by leaning up against the tree that has been my stalwart support for the past 20 years, its curvature perfect for my aching back. Dog and human spent a lot of time pondering this summer.....when would the heat end, and “I can’t wait for the chill of nightfall.”

It was one of the hardest working summers in recent memory, despite the hot climate, as there were many projects of homestead repair that simply couldn’t wait for completion. Most often the summer is when my wife (a teacher) and I, set out on daily antique hunts, searching for those evasive pieces to offer our customers......who have long known us in the profession, as folks who can come up with unusual, unique and even strange art pieces and primitives. This summer, we simply had to put it all on hold, except for travels locally. We’re pretty happy about improvements here, and new shelving to hold our thousands of books. Around here, moving one table or buffet, can displace about a thousand items on and within, and surrounding, so considering we moved about one hundred pieces of furniture at Birch Hollow, in the past two months, you must surely be able to appreciate the widespread chagrin of being obsessive collectors. We were the poster kids for a hoarding reality show.

As a writer, my biggest problem has been keeping old clippings, manuscripts and reference material. I’ve had to bring this volume down considerably, in order to have any place to sit and work in my office. I’ve even gotten rid of my small collection of old manual typewriters that I used up until a few years ago, before my son Robert got me to switch to the computer keyboard. Now he uses the old manuals in his recording studio, to get those historic sounds mixed with contemporary music creations by string and drum. What used to be my vehicle to creation, is now a sound effect device. Well, glad it could be of some use in this era of high tech everything.

I have found the Bog very peaceful this summer season, and I have very much needed it to ease the inner turmoil of change. I like commonplace, and even the change of the chair I sit in daily, is enough to throw me off my stride for a couple of weeks. I’ve had a plethora of new chairs around here, and much more, so when things have gotten too crazy for an oldtimer, ....well, I retreat, sometimes often........where my wife and curious neighours can find me standing out on the brink of the Bog, listening to the overhead owls and the distant loons, and the gentle wash of wind through the tall grass and ferns. These sojourns have been enough to soothe the savage beast within. Actually, it wasn’t all that savage, just disenfranchised from that stuffy, stale old way of living, my wife was determined to revamp. She was quite right, and I now very much enjoy the additional space and ease of movement, without fearing an askew stack of books may, at the slightest nudge, domino wildly across the parlor.

I will attempt to write more this autumn season, which by tradition, has always been my most creative time of year. I need my Walden, away from all this work and stuff.

Abstract Art and Sculptures Are Some Of The "Sleepers" Out On The Antique Hunt; A Two Year Retrospective For An Old Cat

Fern Hollow coming to life in the bog. Rob Currie Photo

No matter what time of day I look at this abstract painting in Robert's Studio it reminds me of something different; now it looks like the reflection on the water of autumn colours after another glass of wine.

This original 1960's image always reminds me of something from a Monty Python movie.

IN QUEST OF ART THAT EXCITES THE SENSES - ABSTRACT, LANDSCAPE, SCULPTURE, IMPRESSION, VICTORIAN, OR FOLK ART

I WOULD BE HAPPIEST, TO DO NOTHING BUT HUNT WORKS OF ART


     GOOD NEWS OUT OF THE UKRAINE. ELECTION OVER, NEW PRESIDENT ELECTED, AND A WILLINGNESS OF THE NEW GOVERNMENT TO WORK OUT DISPUTES WITH RUSSIA. THE NEWLY ELECTED PRESIDENT IS THE CANDY MAN BILLIONAIRE. WHATEVER WORKS FOR THE COUNTRY, WORKS FOR THE REST OF THE THE GLOBAL VILLAGE, HAVING FELT THE TREMORS OF WORLD WAR, EVEN AT GREAT DISTANCE AWAY; EMANATING FROM THE HOTLY CONTESTED CRIMEA REGION, AND EASTERN UKRAINE, WHERE PRO-RUSSIANS HAVE BEEN ACTING BADLY. THAT'S THE KIND OF GOOD NEWS WE CAN USE TO START OFF THE WEEK. IT WAS PRECARIOUS FOR AWHILE, AND PRESUMABLY IT WILL BE THE SAME FOR A MONTH OR SO, AS THE NEW GOVERNMENT SETTLES IN FOR THE LONG HAUL. I DON'T THINK THE COLD WAR AURA, IS GOING TO FADE AWAY FOR THE NEXT FEW YEARS, ESPECIALLY WHEN RUSSIA REVEALED, THIS PAST WEEKEND, THEIR REAL ISSUE IS WITH NATO-CREEP IN EUROPE. I WROTE A COLUMN ABOUT THIS REALITY, ABOUT TWO MONTHS AGO, THAT IT SEEMED RUSSIA WAS CONCERNED THE PRO-WESTERN ATTITUDE, OF A MAJORITY OF UKRAINIANS, WOULD BE AN OPEN INVITATION FOR NATO TO SET UP SHOP, AND STAY AWHILE, WITH THEIR ANTI MISSILE DEFENSE NETORK. IT MAY STILL BE ONE OF THE PROBLEMS OF WORKING OUT A DEAL, BUT FOR THE TIME BEING, IT'S A SMALLER FLAME IN A LIGHTER BREEZE. FINANCIAL MARKETS ARE REACTING ACCORDINGLY, AND HOPEFULLY, FOR THE PEOPLE OF UKRAINE, TENSIONS WILL RELAX AFTER MANY MONTHS OF DANGEROUS LIAISONS. RUSSIANS DIDN'T WANT THIS CONFLICT IN THE FIRST PLACE, AND THE RUSSIAN PRESIDENT SHOULD LISTEN TO THEM....NOT JUST THE ENABLERS, WHO ARE FRIGHTENED TO OPPOSE HIS ANNEXATION INTERESTS.

ABOUT ART AND ITS GOOD VIBES AT ALL THE RIGHT TIMES

     I REMEMBER ONE COOL NIGHT, WHILE RECLINING AT OUR CAMPSITE, ON ALGONQUIN PARK'S TEA LAKE, BEING QUITE STIRRED, TO THE POINT OF BEING SPEECHLESS, BY THE SPECTACULAR SIGHT OF COLORED VAPOR LIGHTS IN THE SKY. SITTING WITH SUZANNE, AND SONS ANDREW AND ROBERT, WATCHING THE NORTHERN LIGHTS, OVER THE DARK RIDGE OF HILLSIDE EVERGREENS; STARING UP AT THEM WAVERING IN THEY SKY, FEELING IN THE COMPANY OF SPIRITS, AS IF IT WAS THE VERY FIRST TIME I HAD EVER SEEN THEM. WHICH WASN'T THE CASE.
    WITH A GLASS OF WINE, MAYBE SEVERAL, THAT NIGHT, WATCHING THE COLUMNS OF TRANSITIONAL, MORPHING COLOR, IN THE CLEAR STAR-LIT SKY, I REMEMBERED READING, ABOUT PAINTER TOM THOMSON'S FASCINATION WITH THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. HE WOULD SIT OUT ON SOME POINT OF LAND, WHERE HE COULD GET A GOOD VIEW OF THE HORIZON, WITH THE REFLECTIVE LAKE BENEATH, AND FUSE HIMSELF TO THE SURROUNDING MYSTERIES. THEN WHEN ADMIRERS GLANCED AT HIS SKETCHES, LATER ON, POSSIBLY AT MOWAT LODGE, ON CANOE LAKE, HE WOULD BE VISIBLY PLEASED, WHEN THEY'D SAY SOMETHING LIKE, "I CAN FEEL THE COLD NIGHT AIR," OR "IT IS SUCH A LONELY SCENE," OR "HAUNTED PLACE." THE ARTIST LIKED TO KNOW THESE OPINIONS, AND IT VALIDATED WHAT HE WAS TRYING TO ACHIEVE. BRINGING THE VOYEUR INTO THE SCENE, TO FEEL THE COLD NIGHT AIR, SIDE BY SIDE, THE ARTIST RESPONSIBLE FOR THE PANEL; SENSING THE DARK ISOLATION AMIDST SUCH NATURAL BEAUTY, PREVAILING FROM THE WAVERING OF NORTHERN LIGHTS, DAZZLING UPON AND OVER A SPARKLING, REFLECTING SILVER OF AN ALGONQUIN LAKE.
     SITTING THERE, AT THE CAMPSIDE, SO CLOSE TO THE WATER'S EDGE, THAT THE RIPPLES WERE LAPPING UP AGAINST THE TOES OF MY SHOES, I NOT ONLY THOUGHT ABOUT THE PAINTINGS EXECUTED BY THOMSON, WHO HAD PERISHED ON NEARBY CANOE LAKE, OF ALLEGED DROWNING, IN JULY 1917, BUT ABOUT THE ART ENTERPRISE GENERALLY. IT MAY HAVE BEEN A GREAT TURNING POINT FOR ME, ESPECIALLY IN ART APPRECIATION, BECAUSE HONESTLY, I WAS STUCK IN THE RUT OF TRADITIONAL, AND MOSTLY VICTORIAN LAND AND SEASCAPES. IT STARTED EARLY IN MY ANTIQUE HUNTING, WHEN NINETY PERCENT OF THE ESTATE AUCTIONS, I ATTENDED, HAD STRONG VICTORIAN CONNECTIONS. BACK IN THE LATE 1970'S, VICTORIANA SEEMED TO SUIT MY COLLECTING INTERESTS. HUGE, HEAVY, DARK FURNITURE, AND ART PIECES THAT WERE DISTANT, MELANCHOLY, ROMANTIC, SENTIMENTAL, AND IN SOME CASES A LITTLE MOURNFUL. I PROBABLY PURSUED, NOW THAT I THINK OF IT, THIS VICTORIAN CULTURE, AS A HALF OBSESSION, FOR THE FIRST TWENTY YEARS OF SLEUTHING, AND SELLING ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES. WHILE I HAVE CHANGED GREATLY SINCE THEN, IN PART BECAUSE OF MY INTEREST IN THOMSON, AND THE WORK OF THE GROUP OF SEVEN ARTISTS, I WILL STILL JUMP ON A PIECE OF VICTORIAN DECORATIVE GLASS, OR A REALLY NICE PAINTING, BECAUSE, WELL, SOME OF OUR CUSTOMERS LIKE HAUNTING, MOURNFUL, SENTIMENTAL PAINTINGS, AND ELABORATE TO THE POINT OF GARISH, VICTORIAN ADORNMENTS LIKE GLASS AND CERAMICS. I JUST DON'T GO OUT OF MY WAY TO BUY THEM, UNLESS THEY ARE PRICED LOW AND ARE IN GOOD CONDITION. THOMSON'S PANELS, ESPECIALLY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS, KIND OF SET ME FREE, IN A CURIOUS WAY, AND POSSIBLY LIBERATED ME ALL THE WAY INTO THE EXTREME. FROM VICTORIAN ART TO ABSTRACT IS QUITE A STRETCH. BY THE WAY, I DON'T OWN AN ORIGINAL THOMSON STUDY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS, BUT WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE.
    ROBERT AND I WERE TALKING ABOUT OUR MODERN-DAY PREFERENCES FOR ART, THIS MORNING, CRITIQUING AN ABSTRACT PAINTING SHOWN YESTERDAY, IN HIS BLOG, FROM THE EARLY 1970'S BY AN ARTIST NAMED "G. DICK." WE SAT BACK, STARING AT THE LARGE ART PANEL, ON A MASONITE SLAB, AND COMPARED IMPRESSIONS. WE BOTH AGREED THAT IT LOOKED AS IF THE VIEWER WAS LOOKING UP THROUGH URBAN SKYSCRAPERS, TO THE DISTANT TINY OPENING OF BLUE SKY. BUT SITTING HERE FOR ANOTHER TEN MINUTES, WE HAD OTHER IDEAS ABOUT WHAT THE ARTIST WAS TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH WITH HIS ART. I LIKE THAT ABOUT THE ART I COLLECT. WHAT DOES A COMPETENT PAINTING OR SCULPTURE EVOKE IN THOUGHTS, AND IS IT A LIBERATING EXPERIENCE? IN THE PAST FEW MONTHS, I'VE BEEN THINKING A LOT ABOUT THOMSON'S "NORTHERN LIGHTS," AND HOW AMAZINGLY ETHEREAL IT FELT THAT NIGHT, WHILE THE LIGHT SUCCESSION OF WAVES, OVER THE SAND, AND THE DRY CEDAR SLABS CRACKLED IN THE FIRE PIT. IT WAS THE SENSORY PERCEPTION, THAT WE WERE FREE AND OUR SPIRITS WERE FINALLY UNFETTERED BY LIFE'S CONVENTIONS; AS IF ALL IT TOOK, WAS TO LOOK UP INTO THE NIGHT SKY, AND LET THE EVER-MOVING LIGHTS, OFFER US FREE PASSAGE ONTO THE UNIVERSE. AFTER BEING TIED TO THE WORK-PLACE ALL WEEK, AND SCHOOL FOR THE BOYS, WHAT AN INCREDIBLE FEELING, TO DISCOVER JUST HOW LIMITLESS IT ALL WAS, AND HOW POWERFULLY LIBERATING IT WAS FOR THE IMAGINATION, TO BREAK FREE OF ALL SOCIETY'S FRAMING. WE SAT THERE, AND WOULD OCCASIONALLY PUT OUR ARMS UP, TOGETHER AT THE FINGER-TIPS, AS IF WE WERE DIVING HEAVENWARD; WE SEEMED TO BE PROPELLED UP INTO THAT ALGONQUIN SKY, TO BE CARESSED BY THE WAVERING RAINBOW LIGHTS. WE WERE FLYING, AND NO, WE DIDN'T HAVE WINGS. SO YES, IT DID CHANGE MY INTEREST IN ART. I WANTED ALL THE ART I COLLECTED, TO REMIND ME, IN SOME WAYS, OF THOMSON'S NORTHERN LIGHTS. I WANTED TO BE LIBERATED BY THE ART ON MY WALL, ALL OF THE TIME. I WANTED THE SENSORY PERCEPTION, OF BEING UNIVERSAL, AND WITHOUT BORDERS, SUCH THAT I MIGHT CONSIDER VIEWING IT, AS IF A MEANS OF BREAKING THROUGH ALL OF LIFE'S BARRIERS, SET FREE TO FEEL WHAT IT'S LIKE TO CUT LOOSE THE TETHERS THAT KEEP US SAFE AND GROUNDED, AS MUCH AS GRAVITY HOLDS US TO EARTH. AND EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, I FIND SOME ART PIECE, OUT ON OUR ANTIQUING ADVENTURES, THAT TAKES ME BACK TO THAT TEA LAKE CAMPSITE, AND THE NORTHERN LIGHTS OVER THE ALGONQUIN LAKELAND.
     IT IS CERTAINLY MORE LIKELY, TO FIND LANDSCAPES AND VICTORIANA OUT ON THE HUSTINGS, OVER AND ABOVE THE KIND OF ABSTRACTS AND SCULPTURES I HAVE TURNED ONTO, IN RECENT YEARS. I THINK IN A WAY, I HAVE COME TO THINK OF WRITING, AS WELL, TO HAVE FRUSTRATING BORDERS, IF ONLY THIS LAP TOP SCREEN. AS MUCH AS I TRY TO ELIMINATE THIS SENSE OF BEING BOXED-IN, AND FRAMED, I KNOW THAT THE REGIMEN OF WRITING, BEYOND WHAT IS CREATIVE ENTERPRISE, STILL HAS THAT CLAUSTROPHOBIC EFFECT ON ME. SO IF I WRITE ABOUT ABSTRACTIONS, AND THOSE ALLURING NORTHERN LIGHTS, AS DEPICTED BY TOM THOMSON, I CAN AT LEAST GET A REPRIEVE FROM FEELING LIMITED AND REGIMENTED BY THE PROTOCOLS OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE AND PUNCTUATION. IT'S FUNNY, THAT AFTER ALMOST FORTY YEARS OF WRITING, I HAVE COME TO THIS REALIZATION, THAT I SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN ABSTRACT ARTIST LIKE JACKSON POLLOCK. (I OFFER AN APOLOGY TO THE MEMORY OF THIS GREAT AMERICAN ARTIST, FOR HAVING SPELLED HIS NAME INCORRECTLY IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG) SO MUCH SO, THAT I AM ENTERTAINING A STINT AS AN ABSTRACT PAINTER, FOR STARTS, AND GETTING A "CHOPPER" LIKE PETER FONDA, AND DENNIS HOPPER, RODE IN THE MOVIE "EASY RIDER." IT'S LIKE THIS. IF I WANT SOME LIBERTIES TO PURSUE LATE LIFE ART OPPORTUNITIES, WHICH REQUIRE A MINOR EXPENSE OF MATERIALS, THEN WHAT I HAVE TO DO, IS ASK SUZANNE FOR ONE OTHER CHOICE, THAT BY HER STANDARDS, IS OUTRAGEOUS, AND RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT. SO SHE WILL HAPPILY ALLOW ME SOME RECREATION TO PURSUE ART, AS LONG AS IT DOESN'T INVOLVE A MOTORCYCLE IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM.
     WHEN I'M OUT ON THE ANTIQUE HUNT, ART IS ALWAYS MY MAIN INTEREST. I BUY FOR THE SHOP, THE KIND OF ART THAT WILL SELL. AND YES, LANDSCAPES SELL, ESPECIALLY CANADIAN SUBJECTS BY CANADIAN ARTISTS. YOU CAN'T RUN AN ANTIQUE SHOP WITH ART ON THE WALL THAT DOESN'T OCCASIONALLY TURN A PROFIT. WE SPECIALIZE IN AFFORDABLE LANDSCAPE AND NATURE ART, PAINTINGS AND PHOTOGRAPHS, BUT ALL OF THEM ARE BY DEFINITION, "VINTAGE" OR OLDER. TO SIMPLIFY IT, WE TRY TO MAINTAIN A COLLECTION OF ART PIECES, THAT JUST ABOUT ANY ONE WOULD CHOOSE TO HANG OVER A SOFA OR MANTLE, IN A MUSKOKA ROOM, A RECREATION ROOM, OFFICE, KITCHEN, PARLOR, OR BATHROOM. THUS, THEY HAVE TO BE WELL EXECUTED, SENSIBLY PROPORTIONED, (NOT HUGE), AND ALWAYS VERY AFFORDABLE. WE HAVE HIGHER QUALITY ART, BECAUSE THIS IS A QUALIFYING NECESSITY OF ANY ANTIQUE SHOP, TRYING TO BE ALL THINGS TO ALL PEOPLE. OUR HIGHEST CANADIAN ART IS STILL VERY AFFORDABLE, BECAUSE WE ARE GOOD AT THE HUNT AND GATHER. WHILE WE HAVE TO BUY THE KIND OF ART THAT IS APPEALING, TO OUR CUSTOMERS, IN THE BROADEST SENSE, WE CAN BE TEMPTED TO COLOR OUTSIDE THE LINES, AND THAT'S WHERE ABSTRACTS, AND EXPERIMENTAL ART COME IN TO PLAY. OF COURSE, I DO HAVE A SOFT SPOT FOR FOLK ART, BECAUSE IT IS NAIVE AND LIBERATING IN ITS SIMPLICITY AND HONESTY.
     NOT ALL FOLK ART IS SIMPLE AND HONEST. SOME OF IT IS REALLY BAD. THAT'S NOT BECAUSE IT'S NAIVE. THESE ARE PAINTERS AND CRAFT MAKERS, WHO ARE JUST LESSER ARTISTS THAN THEY KNOW, AND THEY OFTEN MAKE THE MISTAKE OF TRYING TO COPY THE STYLE OF KNOWN PAINTERS AND ARTISANS, AND BOTCH THE ATTEMPT. NOT ALL ABSTRACTS ARE QUALITY PIECES. IT STILL COMES DOWN TO KNOWING WHAT COMPETENT, WELL EXECUTED ART WORK LOOKS LIKE, AS YOU HAVE LEARNED FROM BOOKS ON THE SUBJECT, GALLERY VISITS, AND A LOT OF TELEVISION DOCUMENTARIES ON ART AND ARTISTS. WE HAVE CUSTOMERS WISHING TO SELL US ART PANELS, THAT HONESTLY, ARE SO POORLY DONE, WE HAVE A HARD TIME KEEPING A STRAIGHT FACE. ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY TELL US THAT THEY SAW SOMETHING SIMILAR ON THE ANTIQUES ROAD SHOW. WHENEVER A CUSTOMER TRIES TO SELL US ON HOW GOOD A PAINTING OR SCULPTURES IS, SUZANNE AND I REFRAIN FROM COMMENT, AND NINE TIMES OUT OF EVERY TEN, WE JUST NOD OUR HEADS AND THEN GIVE A DELIBERATE SHAKE, WHEN THEY ASK WHETHER WE WANT TO BUY IT FROM THEM. OUR OBJECTIVE IS TO GET TO THE END WITHOUT HURTING THE SELLER'S FEELINGS. OCCASIONALLY, SOMEONE DOES SHOW UP, SEEKING INFORMATION ON PAINTINGS,ETC., OF WHICH WE OBLIGE WITH WHATEVER INFORMATION WE CAN, AND LIKE THE FACT WE HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD, EMPHATICALLY SO, HOW MUCH WE SHOULD BE WILLING TO PAY FOR AN ORIGINAL "BLUE BOY." IT'S EASIER TO WORK WITH FOLKS WHO ADMIT THEY AREN'T SURE ABOUT THE PAINTINGS, THEY HAVE BROUGHT IN, BECAUSE THEY'RE OPEN TO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING WE CAN INFILL. AND BY THE WAY, MOST OF THESE ARE HEIRLOOM PIECES THAT THEY DON'T WANT TO SELL ANYWAY. BUT WE WON'T LIE TO THEM, EVEN IF THEY WANT TO SELL, AND MOST OF THE TIME, WE SEND THEM TO GALLERIES AND AUCTION HOUSES, ON OUR REFERRAL, SIMPLY BECAUSE THE ART WORK IS VALUED WELL OVER WHAT WE CAN AFFORD TO OFFER; AND FEEL COMFORTABLE HAVING IN OUR SHOP OF GENERAL ANTIQUES.     VALUABLE PAINTINGS ARE BETTER IN CLIMATE CONTROLLED ENVIRONS, WITH CONSERVATORS AVAILABLE, AND HAVING PROPER INSURANCE COVERAGE. IF ONE DAY I COME UPON AN ORIGINAL HAROLD TOWN ABSTRACT, OR A JACKSON POLLOCK, TRUTH IS, I'D LOVE TO OWN THEM, BUT THE VALUATION AND INSURANCE COVERAGE WOULD COST A FORTUNE. SO, I WOULD HAVE TO TAKE THEM TO A GALLERY THAT SPECIALIZES IN VINTAGE FINE ART, OR ART AUCTIONEER. THAT'S KIND OF A BUMMER, DON'T YOU THINK. I KNOW A FELLOW DEALER WHO LOST TWO SMALL TOM THOMSON ORIGINALS, ON BOARD, DURING A FIRE IN HIS ANTIQUE SHOP. THEY WEREN'T INSURED SEPARATELY. BIG BUMMER.
     IF I WAS ABLE TO FIND, PURCHASE, AND HANG ONTO A REALLY FINE PAINTING, ONE DAY IN MY EVER-SHORTENING LIFE, IT WOULD PROBABLY BE ONE OF THOSE HOLY GRAIL, CAREER SATISFYING MOMENTS, IF EVEN I HAD ONLY A HALF HOUR OF TOGETHERNESS, BEFORE PASSING IT OFF TO A HIGHER LEVEL DEALER. I SUPPOSE THEN, I DO PREFER, TO JUST FIND THE BEST OF THE LOT, OUT ON OUR TRAVELS, THAT ARE INSPIRING, THOUGHT EVOKING PIECES, THAT CAN BE ACQUIRED ON A BUDGET, AND SOLD AFFORDABLY TO CUSTOMERS WHO LIKE ART BUT, LIKE US, ARE RESTRICTED BY WHAT THEY CAN INVEST IN PRETTY PICTURES. ART FOR THE MASSES. BUT LET ME TELL YOU, THE REAL EXCITEMENT HERE, OTHER THAN OWNING A FEW NICE ART PIECES, IS THE WEEKLY ADVENTURES WE HAVE, SEEKING THEM OUT. THESE REGULAR TRIPS ARE AS LIBERATING AS IF I'M LOOKING AT ONE OF THOMSON'S PAINTINGS, AS I DRIVE THROUGH THIS BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE OF ONTARIO. THEN FINDING A HOLE-IN-THE-WALL SHOP, OR A GARAGE SALE FOR AN ESTATE, OR CHURCH WHITE ELEPHANT FUNDRAISER, WHERE SOME VINTAGE ART PANELS AND A FEW FOLK ART PIECES, ARE SET OUT TO CATCH OUR ATTENTION, CHANGING THE FORTUNES OF THE DAY; MAYBE THE MONTH.
     IT USED TO BE, NOT SO LONG AGO, THAT WHEN I WENT OUT ON TOUR, LOOKING FOR ANTIQUES, IT WAS MOST LIKELY I WOULD ARRIVE BACK HOME, TO BIRCH HOLLOW, WITH ASSORTED FURNITURE PIECES, LIKE PINE JAM CUPBOARDS, ROCKING CHAIRS, ARROW-BACK CHAIRS, BUFFETS, HARVEST TABLES AND BENCHES. I'VE CHANGED. THAT'S FOR SURE. NOW WE ARRIVE HOME WITH THREE OR FOUR PAINTINGS, SOME FOLK ART CARVINGS, A SCULPTURE, IF THE PICKINGS WERE GOOD, AND MAYBE A PINE TABLE FOR OLD TIME'S SAKE. IT HAS BEEN A LONG CAREER, AND CHANGE IS THE SPICE OF LIFE, AFTERALL.
     I MAY SOON FOLLOW MY YEARNING AND TAKE UP PAINTING AS A SEMI-RETIREMENT HOBBY. I KNOW SUZANNE WILL REMIND ME THAT I HAVE A SIGNIFICANT NUMBER OF STAMPS TO ORGANIZE, WHICH WAS SUPPOSED TO ENTERTAIN ME IN MY GOLDEN "SLOWDOWN" YEARS. AS I HAVE THREATENED TO MORPH INTO AN ARTIST BEFORE, AND FAILED TO DELIVER A SINGLE PAINTED PANEL, I WILL HAVE TO WRAP MY LEFTOVER MIND AROUND THE WHOLE ART CREATION ENTERPRISE. I'VE SPENT MOST OF MY LIFE WRITING ABOUT ART SO GOING FROM THIS KEYBOARD TO PAINTS AND CANVAS MAY BE A STRETCH, AND POTENTIALLY NOT A GOOD ONE. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE NAGGED BY URGES, AND HAVE THEM UNFULFILLED; BECAUSE YOU THINK YOURSELF INCAPABLE, EXCEPT IN YOUR IMAGINATION. SUZANNE WILL OF COURSE, EQUIP ME WITH WHATEVER I NEED TO TAKE A SHOT AT BECOMING A TAM WEARING ARTIST TYPE, WITH A GOATEE AND HANDLEBAR MOUSTACHE; AND WANDERING ABOUT LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION, WITH MY THUMB UPHELD TO GET PERSPECTIVE. SHOULD I DECIDE TO TURN FROM WRITING TO ART, I WILL LET YOU KNOW, BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY, I VALUE YOU CRITIQUES, AND I'VE GOT THICK SKIN. AT LEAST SUZANNE SAYS I DO! AND SHE SHOULD KNOW.
     THANKS SO MUCH FOR JOINING ME TODAY. WHAT A NICE SUNNY DAY IT WAS. NO NORTHERN LIGHTS TONIGHT. BUT LOTS OF BUGS.


NOTE: I WAS THINKING ABOUT OUR CANOE TRIPS TO SMOKE LAKE IN ALGONQUIN PARK TODAY AND IT WAS THE LAKE THAT GAVE US THE NAME OF OUR ADOPTED CAT THAT WE BROUGHT HOME FROM HUNTSVILLE. I ALSO PROMISED SMOKEY THE LAST TIME HE WAS ON MY LAP THAT I WOULDN'T FORGET HIM. I AM TRUE TO MY PROMISE.

EIGHT AND A HALF LIVES - WHAT A GOOD LIFE SMOKEY HAS ENJOYED

WE'LL PARTNER FOR A FEW MORE STORIES YET

     WE ADOPTED SMOKEY THE CAT ABOUT ELEVEN YEARS AGO, TO KEEP OUR KITTEN "FESTER II" COMPANY. FESTER HAD NOT ENJOYED A VERY GOOD KITTEN-LIFE, AND IT WAS ON ITS WAY TO THE HUMANE SOCIETY SHELTER, FROM A HOME NEAR BALA......WHEN SUZANNE WAS APPROACHED BY A STUDENT, AND ASKED IF SHE "WOULD PLEASE ADOPT HER CAT." HER FATHER HAD SERIOUS ALLERGIES AND THE CAT COULD NOT LIVE IN THE HOUSE ANY LONGER.....AND IT WAS TOO YOUNG TO BE SET LOOSE OUTSIDE. WE HAD JUST LOST A CAT......FESTER I, AND TO BE HONEST, WE DIDN'T THINK IT WAS THE RIGHT TIME TO GO BACK INTO FELINE-MINDING AGAIN.

     SUZANNE FELT SORRY FOR THE STUDENT, AS WELL AS THE KITTEN, AND SHE FIGURED IT MUST BE PROVIDENTIAL AND A LAST HOPE FOR THE BANDY LEGGED WEE BEASTIE. WE ADOPTED HER BUT SHE SEEMED QUITE LONELY, AND TOOK OUT HER FRUSTRATION ON EVERYTHING WITH A CLOTH COVERING. SOMEONE TOLD US WE SHOULD GET A SECOND CAT, AND IT WOULD BALANCE OUT THE BAD BEHAVIOUR. I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT A LITTLE MORE, ESPECIALLY THE BALANCE PART. ADOPTING SMOKEY MEANT WE HAD TWICE AS MUCH SHREDDING OF THE CLOTH, AND RIPPING THE ARMS OF EVERY UPHOLSTERED CHAIR IN THE HOUSE. THEY WERE CUTE, RIGHT? WE HAD BEEN A HOUSEHOLD OF CATS PREVIOUSLY, THREE IN FACT, BUT THE TWO ADULT CATS POLICED THE KITTEN.....WHICH WAS GOOD.

     THIS TIME THERE WERE TWO KITTENS TEARING AROUND THE HOUSE AND IT TOOK A LOT OF PATIENCE TO DEAL WITH.....AND PATCHES ON EVERYTHING FROM THE LIVINGROOM CURTAINS TO THE BEDSPREADS THEY LIKED TO SINK THEIR CLAWS INTO. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER WE HAD FUN OR NOT, BUT THEY WERE PART OF THE CURRIE CLAN, AND THEY WERE ENTITLED TO THE SAME RIGHTS AND PRIVILGES AS THE HUMAN OCCUPANTS.

     SMOKY WAS ADOPTED FROM A HOME IN HUNTSVILLE, AND IT CAME HOME IN THE PALM OF SON ROBERT'S HAND. IT WAS A GREY PUFF-BALL OF A CRITTER, AND IT HAD A SHOE FETISH OF ALL THINGS. IT WOULD SLEEP WITH ITS HEAD IN THE SHOES, SLIPPERS OR EVEN FLIP-FLOPS IF THAT WAS ALL THAT WAS AVAILABLE. AND THE FOOD DISH. WE HAD AN OBESE CAT IN THE MAKING, AND I'M AFRAID WE DIDN'T MAKE VERY GOOD PET OWNERS IN THAT REGARD. SMOKEY WAS BOUND AND DETERMINED TO EAT EVERYTHING. AND WHEN WE GOT A TAPE OF CLASSICAL MUSIC, DONE OVER BY AMERICAN STORY TELLER, GARRISON KEILOR, WITH AN ENTIRE CAT THEME.......WE COULD SEE THE PORTRAIT OF SMOKEY EACH AND EVERY TIME WE HEARD THE MUSIC; ESPECIALLY ONE ABOUT A HUGE, RAVENOUS CAT THAT PUT ITS OWNER, OUT OF FRIGHT, ON TOP OF THE OLD FRIGIDAIRE, IN QUEST OF MORE FOOD!

SMOKEY HAS RUN OUT OF VIM, AND THE VINEGAR

     Fester II was twelve years old when she died this past April. Smokey, at just over eleven years, has been winding down as well, and lately has been exhausted after only a short hike from the food dish to the litter box. In the past two days, we've all recognized that carrying around all that weight, has taken its toll in the past decade. We didn't have the heart to put him on a diet, and I guess we are guilty of hurting his real, pumping heart with over-kindness. I think we tried to budget the food a few times, but he would get up on Suzanne's knee, and slap her on the end of the nose.....if the food dish wasn't up to snuff. She'd hit her, jump down, and head to the kitchen. When Suzanne didn't follow, he'd repeat the act, and in fact, might do the same thing for an hour, if there was no greater food provision, or his provider didn't get up and handle the perceived crisis. Or she would just sit in the doorway, and stare at whoever looked like the guilty party, denying him the rations deserved. We often surrendered because frankly, it was a lot easier than lasting out the persecution. I know we were wrong, but in a hospitable sense. We tried to make him happy, and it may just have cost his health.

     I  have shifted this laptop unit out to the front porch, where Smokey is resting comfortably, occasionally opening an eye to see where I've moved to, just in case I've forgotten our pact to stay together to the end. I feel the same way about him, as he has, by the look in his eye just now, acknowledged that he'd never leave my side either. Smokey is most likely going to pass before me, and of this I'm very sorry. We have been pretty good friends since he stopped tearing apart the sofa and the rugs, and we've met his food interests, which has always been enormously fickle.

     Smokey was named after Algonquin Park's, "Smoke Lake," where we used to paddle our two Currie canoes, when our clan camped at Tea Lake. Actually, Smokey looks like he's been dropped through a dirty chimney, and swished around inside. He's got about three inches of fur before you get to his hide, and when we trim him up in the summer months, to deal with the heat, he looks at us as if terribly embarassed, and will jump on a chair, under the harvest table to sulk. Smokey is also a very communicative cat, beyond the reality it will slap you on the end of the nose. He will sit and meow at you for an hour, even when it's contently fed. I don't know what message it's trying to convey, but we just hit our knee with our hands, and watch which family member he chooses to partner with, at that particular time.

     He has just this minute offered a gentle meow, and is staring at me, as if to say, "well, old chap, it's been a short time, but a good time. Thanks for the memories." Of course I have no choice but to look away, because I refuse to acknowledge that our time together is winding down. I will stop on occasion and sing a song that I used to, when he was a kitten, and we needed him to have a nap to halt, at least temporarily, the carnage he and Fester used to get up to, as best buddies in play.....just not at the food dish.

     I have no right to deny this dear old cat the privilege of passing into eternal bliss......feline heaven. I know it is wrong to make promises to God, that I will be a better person, if only he could please spare my cat. I don't think God should be intruded upon in this way, to heal my heart that feels as if it's breaking. There are so many other more dire consequences facing God and the angels in today's world, to bother heaven with what is natural and expected of life's coil. I suppose it's more a case of feeling sorry for myself, more than for the old cat. This is what my mother would say, whenever one of these life and death issues arose, when I was a pondering, often regretful kid. I hated to see things die. Even a grasshopper in my hand, or a butterfly with a torn-off wing. I didn't understand death then and I sure as heck don't now. Why is it so cruel to the survivors? "That's life buddy, get used to it," my dad would say, and then pass me a glass of ginger ale, which he used to treat everything from an infection, a cut, a headache and a sad heart. He used it so often that I actually started to believe its medicinal properties, and would soon start to feel upbeat and healed again. My cut would still be bleeding a bit. I had just stopped worrying about it, and went back to the baseball or hockey game I had left.

     I'm not happy about these last moments together but I've been in this situation many times before. I am concerned that Smokey knows that our time together has been memorable, and despite some of the calamity, all has been forgiven. Of course it has been forgiven. How could I ever stay mad at a fluffy old cat that has been at my side all these years? I remember, on one occasion, when Robert had an emergency trip to the hospital, and an over-nighter for tests, Smoky cuddled into my stomach on the sofa where I slept that night (next to the phone), and I fell asleep as a result of his purring away the night. Strangely, just as he is easing me right now, with his barely audible purring, with one eye open to make sure I don't leave suddenly......without letting him know I'll be right back. I do feel calm seeing the way he's slumbering away the final hours, as if he is sending me the message, that I must not grieve for him now, but carry on with his brother and sister cats, all once homeless and hungry. They all got along pretty well, although the kitten stage for our other formerly abandoned cats was a little tough on the old trooper. He even shared space at the food dish, which was more than he did for Fester I. They'd even curl up on occasions, in one big furry ball, and we liked to see this on the kitchen floor, or on the sofa where we didn't dare to disturb such a peaceful occasion.

     Smokey and I still have some memories to re-kindle, and seeing as we both have a little time on our hands (and paw), I plan to carry-on writing with this partnership, however failing it becomes in the next few days or weeks. He's not suffering, and is very peaceful when looking about the yard, but it's apparent, that even for a mouse, there is no vigor left to make even a ceremonial chase, for old time's sake. I hate saying goodbyes, so I'm not going to, until the inevitable occurs sometime in the future. I will refuse to give up one moment of our time together, so if a confessional is needed to cleanse the soul, of man or beast, we will have the occasion to clear our respective consciences.

     Like all our critters here at Birch Hollow, they play an active role in just about everything I write or create, and it is natural for me to feel forlorned under such circumstances, fearing very much, my writing career will cease, without the infusion of life they all provide, when I'm looking for help, on yet another editorial, essay or blog. They have never disappointed me. Just made me sad, when they have to leave our company, because their time has ended so unceremoniously, and inconveniently. It is always inconvenient for me. I need them all. I can't spare a single one of these wonderful, heart-warming little creatures, that are the blood of family......and that's the way we have always treated these residents of our modest homestead. They are all important beings, with strong spirits and forgiving souls.

     I must stop now, and settle down to deck level, to comfort my buddy here, and pat that glorious fur that my hands sink deep into, and still feel warmed by the last part of the ninth life, for Smokey the cat. My muse. My friend for long and long, through good times and bad.......but mostly good.

     I'm  sorry to cut this blog short today. My friend needs me close by, and I shall do as I'm asked. It's the least I can do, for all the fun and companionship she has afforded all members of our family. Thank you for joining today's blog. Please visit again.

A FEW FINAL WORDS

     As I wonder each time a pet of ours passes, whether I will ever feel the same good vibes around here, at Birch Hollow, ……..the ones that make me want to sit down for several hours to write.  Well, once again, I have found out something positive about the love for pets and what matters most to a writer. I can still write, you see, and I have found this out by application, of fingers on a keyboard, and a heart still beating in my old chest. I have just finished holding Smoky one last time. He had much less life left than I had thought, earlier today. He is now buried beneath a cluster of birches and evergreens, next to Fester I and Fester II, and how peaceful it all was, when I set down the little marker on the grave……the birds chirping above, and the chipmunks on the woodpile scratching then eating, then scratching some more. Life hadn't stopped for funerary observances. It was the continuation of the cycle, and now it has darkened over the woodlot, and the crickets have taken over the chorus of daily living.

     I will miss Smoky, like all the other critters we have taken into our home…..because they didn't have one. I hope they liked us, as much as we liked them.

Algonquin Canoe Trip to Little Misty; Love to Work on Tom Thomson Projects

Large Format Abstract Painting from the 1970's by G. Dick. Not a Jackson Pollack but a great second hand shop find.

Photo by Rob Currie

MISSING THE SOUND OF THE PADDLE

A CANOE TRIP WITH A LITTLE BIT MORE

     I DON'T BELIEVE, FOR ONE MINUTE, THAT I WAS THE FIRST, SECOND OR EVEN THIRD CHOICE, TO MAKE UP THE FOURTH PERSON IN A TWO CANOE ADVENTURE TO ALGONQUIN PARK…..THAT LONG AGO AUTUMN SEASON. I FOUND SLIDES FROM THE TRIP THE OTHER DAY, AND REMEMBERED I HADN'T GIVEN THEM BACK TO KEN SILCOX. OOPS. I'M KNOWN FOR DOING THIS KIND OF THING. I DON'T LOSE THE STUFF. I JUST NEVER GIVE IT BACK.

     EVEN AT SANDLOT BASEBALL, I EXPECTED TO BE ONE OF THE LAST KIDS PICKED TO JOIN ONE OF TWO TEAMS. IT WASN'T THAT I SUCKED AS AN ATHLETE. QUITE THE CONTRARY. I WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE PLAYER, BUT I WAS A CROSS BETWEEN A NERD AND "AN INDIVIDUAL," WHICH WAS PROBABLY WORSE. I WAS A CRAPPY TEAM PLAYER. I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, A CENTRE IN FOOTBALL, AND I PLAYED LEFT FIELD IN BASEBALL. THAT'S WHERE THE COLACH PUT THOSE WHO WERE ON THE TEAM, BUT DIDN'T QUITE FIT IN WITH THE CLUB'S BOISTROUS "KILL 'EM DEAD" PHILOSOPHY. AND YES, NOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING THIS, IT MEANT AN UNBELIEVABLE FREQUENCY OF UNDERWEAR STRETCHING, SOMETIMES WITH PLAYERS FRONT AND BACK. IF YOU DIDN'T MIX, YOU SUFFERED THE CONSEQUENCES. I HATED THE CLUB MENTALITY BUT I LIKED COMPETITION. SO HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A CANOE TRIP? WELL, I WAS THE LAST GUY THEY CALLED, AND I'M SURE THEY TALKED AMONGST THEMSELVES, "OF COURSE CURRIE WILL GO…..JUST TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS NOTEPAD AT HOME." I GOT THAT A LOT, AS A REPORTER, IN SOCIAL OCCASIONS. I WAS A TELL-ALL COLUMNIST, AND SOMETIMES I TOLD TOO MUCH. MORE THAN A FEW WIVES FOUND OUT THINGS ABOUT THEIR HUSBANDS, THEY DIDN'T KNOW, JUST BY READING MY WEEKLY COLUMN. OBVIOUSLY, MY FRIENDS LIED A LOT TO THEIR PARTNERS. THE WIVES CLUB LOVED ME. THE HUSBANDS? NOT SO MUCH!

HONORED TO BE ASKED NONE THE LESS

     When old friend Ken Silcox came to The Herald-Gazette one day, where I was managing editor, it's likely he started looking for paddle-worthy personnel on the bottom floor first, working his way through the building, before coming up to my second floor office. He probably even asked the receptionist if she was free that weekend. There he found me, bored out of my mind, doodling in my notebook. He stuck his head around the door, and yelled something like, '"I've got a canoe paddle with your name on it!" Geez, I was outfitted, with some fishing gear, and sleeping bag long before he officially asked if I wanted to go on a weekend adventure. I was a newlywed, and Suzanne and I needed a little "quiet" time from each other. Cripes, if she reads this I'm dead. Good thing she won't. I hadn't even given Silcox my answer yet, and I was phoning Suzanne to tell her I was going away for the weekend for some male bonding. "As long as it isn't one of those "Deliverance" bonding things, it's okay," (referring to the movie) I thought she'd say, with a little outdoor's sense of humor. Suzanne isn't known for her sense of humor, so it was more like, 'Well, if you feel it's necessary to leave me on my own, during our newlywed year, then go and have a good time." Which meant, "I won't forget this for the rest of our lives together…..and I will use it against you forever and ever." "Hey Ken, she said I could go," I answered my friend at the door, who was engaged with one of our other reporters, who was probably back-up in case I couldn't go. Geez I'd love to be first string just once in my life.

     "Should I bring some booze," I asked, looking like a wide-eyed puppy, just offered a begging strip and a pat on the head. As for the booze part, it was still very much a part of my writing career, just as the tavern was a home away from home. This is before Suzanne sobered me up for good. In this instance, however, booze was what kept me from coming home early, on this autumn adventure deep into the Algonquin wilds. It was more medicinal than a couple of ounces for pleasure.

     My canoe partner was the good Mr. Silcox, a terrific paddler, and one of Muskoka's well known real estate agents. In the second canoe was teacher Dave Bird, and Ross Traviss of the local grocery industry, both with huge outdoor experience, and many miles traversed through Ontario's wilderness. Unfortunately, both Dave and Ross have since passed away, and the good old world lost two of its finest citizens. Ross died quite a while ago now, and Dave Bird was fatally injured during a logging mishap in the past year. I have wonderful memories of each gentleman, who made this weekend so memorable.

     It was a little later in the fall season and the weather was bloody cold, windy, overcast most of the time, and snowing when it wasn't raining. Hell I wasn't complaining. I was just excited about doing something with pals, that didn't involve a sticky bar-room table, a jug of skunky draft beer, and a stripper who may or may not have tossed me her boa…..into my beer. And the trip was going so well, even the long bumpy trip into Algonquin Park's Rain Lake. Outside of having to pee like two race horses, I was thrilled to arrive at that beautiful Algonquin oasis. "Currie, we take the canoes off the truck before we hit the washroom," was what I think they were yelling at me….but sorry, I've got a bladder the size of a thimble. The plan was to paddle and portage our way to Big Misty, but I think because of the adverse weather, we only made it to Little Misty.

     About two minutes of paddle, with the bow of our canoe (where I was) breaking through the waves coming right at us, I answered Ken's question, "how are you doing up there," with a simple response; "Isn't this the life?" The second I opened my mouth, it was like the devil himself, took a red hot six inch nail, from his forge, and pounded that sucker into the centre of my molar. The cold wind hitting me in the face triggered the most explosive toothache I've ever had, and it was as if my head was going to explode. My heart-beat was in my mouth. Every time I inhaled, the cold Algonquin air hit that tooth like its nerve on an anvil. Suzanne had saved the trip without knowing it. She had packed some aspirin, expecting that I would wake up with a hangover on at least one of the two mornings at the campsite. Bless her heart. But for that lengthy crossing of the lake, I cussed like a longshoreman. I said things that made my soul cringe. I would have bit the head of an Irishman, I was so mad that this was happening, on the first leg of our three day canoe trip. It wasn't fair, and I let God know as much. I think he may have retaliated, by making it just a little worse, and the wind a little stronger and colder.

     At the first portage, I put two tablets against the tooth…..one on the side, and one clenched between upper and lower teeth, that were all resonating like an Orangeman's bass drum on the 12th of July. The pain was so bad, at this point, my decision making capability had clearly been affected. I had hastily placed a plastic bag of chili Ross's wife had prepared for our lunch, on the end of a paddle, while Ken portaged the canoe. When we got to the next portage, and decided to have a lunch break, well, the chili was gone. So were the dozen buttered rolls in the same bag. It seems a rogue branch had relieved us of the chili and buns. I was still in so much pain at this point, the chili wouldn't have gone down well anyway. Good news though. On our return trip, we found the chili hanging from the same branch, and because it was cold enough outside, to keep it from spoiling, we had the lunch before we re-loaded the canoes on the trucks.

     Once we arrived at our elevated campsite, overlooking the beautiful expanse of Algonquin lake, Ken knew I was suffering from something. "It's my tooth Ken," I answered with the garble of a man chewing aspirins, with a pounding ache in the jaw. "I can't stand the pain. How are you at pulling teeth," I asked. That's when the beautiful man handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps, from his backpack. "It's what we brush our teeth with out here, but it'll fix up a toothache." "Take a couple of shots, and then go and sit by the fire," he said. I may have taken a little bit more than I should have, because I was singing sea shanties at just over two ounces of the good stuff. I had the freshest breath that whole weekend. Actually, if it hadn't been for the schnapps, I would have had to leave, the pain was so severe. I thought about extracting the tooth myself, with any kind of primitive implement, but then I thought about the Bracebridge doctor, who bled to death, after removing his own tonsils. Historians know a lot of neat stuff like this.

      After a good portion of that bottle, I lost all feeling in that radioactive tooth, and in fact, I couldn't feel my face at all. The booze bought me some time that's for sure. I was able to enjoy three days in Algonquin because of schnapps, so let's give credit where it's due. I sang like a opera star all the way across Rain Lake. All I was missing were the viking horns on a tin helmet. No you're right. I shouldn't have been paddling under the influence. But honestly, I wouldn't have been paddling at all without that liquid courage. I really enjoyed the trip, and spent hours writing stories, sitting around the campfire, listening to the tall tales and Algonquin lore as told by Mr. Silcox, Mr. Bird and Mr. Traviss. I apparently learned to yodel during that trip but I don't know who taught me how.

     When it gets to this time of the year, I get a little toothy pang, to head into the Algonquin lakeland, for a little respite. I think about those guys and of course peppermint schnapps. But I also had a great opportunity to write about our amazing province, that has continued to influence me to this day. My notes were kind of hard to read but the inspiration was clear, even without words of explanation. I'm glad these buddies invited me on this autumn canoe trip. I'm really glad they brought the medication too…..because, as history reminds, it saved the entire trip. And I had a second trip to add on to the first.

     Ken Silcox recently sold his Bracebridge house, and took a chance on Western Canada, as a good place to invest for the future. Suzanne and I were sorry to see him go, because for many years, and many, many circumstances, our paths routinely crossed, and they were always remarkable, insightful meetings, of old friends, who could and would finish each other's sentences……but only if necessary.

     I never told Ken this story, so if he's checking the internet, he can read about it now. After he sold us our house on Golden Beach Road (the haunted one), in Bracebridge, he gave us a huge turkey he had raised on his rural property. How big was it? We had to take it to my parents' apartment, because we couldn't fit it into the one at our house. Suzanne was expecting son Robert to pop out any day, and the hustling residence to residence with the turkey in tow, back to our house, and then back for other supplies we forgot, got her so agitated…..thinking it wasn't going to be a perfect Thanksgiving spread in our new house, that she went into labour a short time later. I was eating leftover turkey for two weeks. So were my parents. I never properly thanked Ken for giving us this monster turkey, that may have induced labor, for son Robert……who by the way loves turkey.

Muskoka Winter –

Spending my time this year with the memory of Tom Thomson

Back in the mid-1990’s, during a writing hiatus, I found myself by strange and coincidental circumstance, delving into the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. The legendary painter perished in July 1917, the victim of apparent drowning in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake.

It began after I read a biographical column written by well known Algonquin region guide, and trapper, Ralph Bice, published in a Muskoka weekly newspaper. As a long time admirer of Tom Thomson’s art, one column caught my attention moreso than the others in the series. It was a latent rebuttal of a theory put forth many years earlier by Judge William Little, in the text of his then controversial book, “The Tom Thomson Mystery,” alleging the artist had been murdered. Mr.Bice, revered for his tales from the bush, contended the artist, who may or may not have been intoxicated at the time, simply fell out of his canoe, possibly while relieving himself mid-lake. He believed it was most likely, as other researchers have similarly concluded that Thomson simply whacked his noggin on the canoe as he fell, being knocked unconscious before hitting the water.

It wasn’t just Bice’s column alone that inspired years of preoccupation to find the murderer. It was the collection of strange coincidences that continued to happen during those first two years of research. (Many that still occur today while I continue to delve into reference material about the artist’s life and times) It was one particular coincidence and its spin-off that hooked me early in the Thomson story. It happened shortly after reading Ralph Bice’s column regarding his theory the artist’s death was the result of misadventure. Within an hour of reading the column, I found an autographed copy of Judge Little’s book, The Tom Thomson Mystery, on the shelf at the local Salvation Army Thrift Shop, here in Gravenhurst. Add to this the fact William Little had only recently passed away. It was from this point that coincidence made up a weighty portion of my work, which has led to numerous feature series in local publications, as well as other papers in Southern Ontario, including online sites. What really generated interest above all else, was that Ralph Bice had written the column about Thomson’s death being finally resolved, at a time when Judge Little could not offer a counter point. After consultation with several members of Judge Little’s family, I let them know that I wanted to defend the “murder” theory put forward by their family, and respectfully re-submit information contained in the Tom Thomson Mystery, to balance, at least locally, what Mr. Bice contended was accidental drowning without the shadow of doubt.

After the first collection of columns I wrote for the local press appeared, I began getting a significant number of letters, envelopes stuffed with old news clippings about Thomson, offers of Canadian art books for reference, and many words of advice both supporting William Little’s murder theory, and just as many on the side of Mr. Bice, convinced Thomson, an unskilled canoeist had simply drowned. There has been considerable debate whether or not Thomson was a skilled paddler. Over a two and a half year span of time, I spent hours each week reading and re-visiting editorial material submitted, and other documents I found on my scrounging missions to libraries and old book shops. I can’t remember the final tally of articles I had published but it added up, by the pound and the hours spent, to be the most I had ever researched or written continuously on one subject. As an editor-columnist for the local press for many years, I was pretty much set on short pieces and summary histories, versus lengthy, over-written and ink burdened chapters “beating about the bush” to get to the bottom line. The Thomson story didn’t have the satisfying feeling I had anticipated, at the conclusion of each one of the specially prepared series; the sense of successful completion a writer normally experiences when the paper, as they say, is “hot off the press,” finally hitting the public domain. It has haunted me in the same way ever since. The job isn’t done yet! I told my wife Suzanne, in an historian’s typical frustrated rant and resignation, (while one day staring over the pile of Thomson clippings and research notes), that “it’s as if Thomson himself is asking me to carry-on and resolve the circumstances leading up to his death.”

If there’s one over-riding reason I haven’t abandoned the project, in nearly a decade of on-again off-again research, it is the troubling reality Thomson’s death was a clear instance of “justice denied.” While there was evidence he was murdered, a poorly run coroner’s inquest, (without the body…. which had already been buried) hastily ruled the artist had drowned accidentally. His tragic death is entrenched in the history of Canadian art, whether critics care to believe this or not; a mystery, a legend that in many ways, has and will continue to influence impressions of his art work. I would challenge my critics with this question……is there anyone, any art buyer since Thomson’s death, who hasn’t been influenced even to the smallest degree, by what has long been considered a mystery and tragedy rolled into one biographical overview. An exceptional painting, a death unresolved. Even days after the discovery of Thomson’s body in Canoe Lake, those close to the artist made claims about foul play, so the hearsay of murder is, as his death, at a 90 year anniversary.

One of the nation’s best known artists, his work having influenced so much of the national art consciousness of the past century, remains the shade of unresolved demise. I have always be perturbed by the fact so little has been done, with the exception of research by William Little and before him, Blodwen Davies, the first Thomson biographer, to properly address the inconsistencies surrounding his death that were covered-up and ignored by so many authorities and historians ever since. Maybe as some mediums claim of unresolved, discontent spirits, it’s the case Thomson can’t rest in peace until the exact cause of death is determined. I’ve certainly felt like a conduit over this past decade, and I feel it’s important to keep, in front-line consideration, the important findings of both Davies and Little, both revered for their attention to detail and their characteristic reliability to treat fact reverently, and use the critical approach to prove or disprove a theory.

As Tom Thomson’s art work continues to attract higher prices at auction, with more record prices anticipated in the future, I’m of the stubborn belief Thomson’s memory deserves as much respect, and as a researcher I believe Canadian art history would be shaken to the core, if it was finally, and totally accepted our most revered artist was murdered, and not the victim of death by peeing (overboard) misadventure, as it prevails today in most of the authoritarian biographical texts.

The point of this lengthy little preamble, is to let readers know that I will be spending the Christmas season and most of the frigid Muskoka winter, holed-up here at Birch Hollow (our Gravenhurst home), preparing editorial copy for a lengthy series to recognize the 100th anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death 1917-2017, which will be published initially, as an exclusive in one of my favorite publications in Ontario….”Curious – The Tourist Guide,” available in many shops in Southern Ontario, and into the Muskoka region.  God willing it will also be published in The Great North Arrow.

It will be the most thorough investigation into the artist’s death to date, and hopefully it will enlighten readers about the inconsistencies of the “accidental drowning” theory. Hope you can catch the series. Thanks for reading through this rather meaty blog submission.

From the snowy woodlands of Muskoka, farewell for now!

The Antique Store Shopper Who Really Wasn't

     I was sitting in our recently opened antique wing, of our sons vintage music business, here in Gravenhurst, when all of a sudden, I had this strange deja-vu situation. I so clearly recalled an incident at a former store we operated, in Bracebridge, back in the early 1990's. The basement shop occupied a newer addition to an old Victorian house, on the upper end of the main street. It was in this small crowded shop, that Suzanne and I, began witnessing phantom customers. In the antique business, lots of weird things happen, and sometimes, the paranormal energy is brought into the subject shop, because a particular piece of furniture, a doll, cradle or cupboard, is still occupied by the spirit of a former owner. If you are interested in the paranormal, this will make sense. If you're a skeptic, it might still hit a nerve. If you are a total disbeliever in paranormal anything, then you probably won't want to waste your time on this speculative editorial. But here goes anyway. 

    While it might seem from the plethora of gathered stories, so far, that our family eagerly embraces the paranormal to the point of invention, we're still not at the point where ghostly encounters have meant anything more than a slight deviation of life's normal course. I'm reasonably sure many people have had paranormal experiences throughout their lives but opted to avoid even the most basic analysis or cross referencing, in order to authenticate the activity. I'm of the firm belief many of these experiences are a long, long way from what might be considered shockingly intrusive or frightening. Most are pretty passive events and nothing more than everso delicate messages from those who have passed. We in our house tend to be more receptive, and attentive to activities surrounding us, on any given day of the week or month. I don't sit around waiting for something paranormal to present itself but I don't run away scared if all of a sudden a smell of lilacs or a bell mysteriously ringing goes otherwise unexplained. And we don't blame everything on the paranormal; and are quick to find any other source that could explain our sensory intrusion. Quite a few events around us, are accepted but largely unexplained but always welcome none the less.

     I've had exposure to strange encounters most of my life, and Suzanne has had a few but none that were the fuel of public notoriety, such as to facilitate the inking of a movie deal. If you have read many paranormal stories, and are familiar with ghostly encounters yourself, our stories are about as run-of-the-mill as you can get. Nothing particularly spectacular when compared to stories about haunted castles and spiritfull misty moors. Ours are really what might be expected of interesting, somewhat hard to explain encounters.....none of them threatening although possibly a tad unsettling. What we do have is an open minded approach to new and interesting things in this crazy old life. We couldn't possibly rule out the existence of ghosts or Unidentified Flying Objects, or for that matter goblins, fairies, trolls, hobbits, and other assorted wee beasties, internationally acclaimed writers have been telling us about for centuries......we just haven't worked to disprove their existence because frankly it doesn't bother us either way. If we found a fairy in our garden we wouldn't try to snatch it up as a trophy. We'd just be delighted our garden was good enough to provide habitat.

     In every single encounter we have had individually or as a family, we have never been led in that particular direction by, as an example, having just watched a horror flick, or just prior to...., reading about a haunting, or anything else that would have made us anticipate something lurking in the shadows. The encounters have all been when, as they say, we would least expect anything out of the ordinary. There had not been any stimulus to invent paranormal discovery. It just happened out of the blue or the dark depending on the time of day. Each time we have had an experience we might label in the paranormal domain, or at least close, we always try to find reasons it might have been mind over matter. And we never suggest for a moment that what we have witnessed, or sensed, is clear fact the paranormal has been at work.....because as researchers recognize, it isn't that easy to bag a photo of a wayward, passing by, or lodging-in-your-house "spirit," for proof you've been touched by the paranormal. We don't as a rule hunt ghosts or try to get rid of any we do find. Live and let haunt I hear some folks say. As historians by profession however, we cross reference fact and very often find fiction lurking within, and we adore refuting long held historical claims by applying good research skills. We've ticked a few folks off in our bailiwick who preferred the old and trusted histories of the region, very much disliking those historical activists who delve too deeply. Thusly, when we put forward our tales of the paranormal, they are just that.....tales, because we can not prove beyond doubt that what we encountered is the work of the spirit-kind.

    One such strange but unproven encounter, that developed twice, visually, occurred once again at our former antique shop in Bracebridge. We had dolls tipped over previously, and a famous haunted portrait we own, hanging askew each morning, over a period of half a year. On the first occasion it had been a busy afternoon with a lot of tourist traffic passing through the basement shop. It was a strange location in many ways. Our shop was situated in a modern storefront addition that had been built onto the front of a large Victorian house that had once been occupied by the local undertaker. You couldn't get into the house from the addition and the original building had been divided into apartments. The creaking and groaning of the modified building never stopped, and it was common several times a day to hear footsteps coming down the stairs, only to find no one arriving in the shop. In the early years of the store, our sales desk was in a larger second room to the left, a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, such that we couldn't see who was coming in until they rounded the corner into the main shop. If they went straight into the room at the bottom of the stairs, we might only hear the tinkling of china or pinging of crystal, as a shopper(s) tested the wares. Lots of times we would get up and actually go to the room to see if any one had actually belonged to the footfall. We just wrote it off to a settling building and the constant pounding of heavy traffic up the main street.

    Late this particular afternoon, Suzanne looked up from bookwork at the counter, to see an elderly bearded man in an old coat, with what appeared to be a captain's hat on his head, standing a few feet in front. She was about to say "hello" to the sudden guest of the shop, when the figure simply vanished into thin air. Yet she could describe his facial features and clothing, his height and expression as clearly as you would any customer, who appears at your sales desk, with an enquiry or a request to purchase. Several weeks later, in pretty much the same circumstance as the first encounter, Suzanne felt a presence near the counter, looked up to see if someone needed help, and saw the same gentleman standing in front as before. She thought at first that she had been too quick to judge the gentleman's visit, the first time, as a ghostly encounter; due to the fact he was obviously interested in something in our shop. As she pulled up from the chair to properly address the chap, still standing within a few metres of the counter, he simply turned and vanished as quietly and mysteriously as he had arrived. It did leave my wife rubbing her eyes wondering just how the lighting in the store was creating this illusion of a short bearded man in a uniform. In retrospect, what she did see, was not a chap from the 1990's, but someone dressed characteristic of many decades previous. It had the usual trappings of "I've seen a ghost." Suzanne was looking for another sale for the day, but instead got a twice disappearing customer . She just didn't understand the message you might say.

     There are many stories about the folks who used to dwell in this particular Victorian era house, one being that a sickly relative had lived and suffered from a long and serious ailment alone in the attic, over many years; eventually passing away in that same section of the old home. Once again as historians, we have not verified this claim by a former resident. Suzanne has no doubt about the man she saw but whether it was the deceased attic-dweller, we will probably never know. I never saw the chap in my days at the store but I did hear the phantom footsteps, at least once every day, for more than five years. Still, it was a good location for our shop, and during its run we enjoyed a pretty good volume of sales. We gave it up to pursue new business opportunities in Gravenhurst, a town ten miles south of Bracebridge but we still have a soft spot for the Birch Hollow location of once.

      Our two room shop today isn't haunted. There are pieces in our antique collection that may be, because we sense those strange vibes that come from antiques, greatly loved by previous owners. We had a customer recently, who asked to hold one of our Victorian era dolls. The moment she picked it up, and held it to her chest, the smile on the customer's face indicated the obvious. The doll had a new owner. It wasn't based on pristine condition. Far from it. The sale was based on compatible auras. One human, one paranormal. When she came in a short while later, the lady once again asked if she could hold another doll from the showcase. I watched this unfold, believing she would do exactly the same, and choose to purchase the second doll. There was no hesitation, no smile, no embrace, just the statement, "I'm sorry, but this dolly is not for me," and handed it back, as if it possessed a negative aura, she could not accept. The girl left the store, looking back, and hasn't been back in months. Welcome to the antique business. We get this all the time. But I very much appreciate the vibe that comes from historic pieces. The doll that the customer rejected wasn't possessed by anything evil…….but it most definitely spoke to the customer, in a very subtle and engaging way. Honestly, this is exactly how Suzanne and I shop, without knowing it, being compelled to buy certain antiques, and being repelled by other parallel pieces…..simply because of our sense of compatibility. Sometimes profit is the last consideration, and I know that doesn't make much business sense. In the antique trade, we come to accept the paranormal as the patina of aging. Not extraordinary. Just the history within, good or bad.