Ted Currie - Antique Head; Is The Antique Profession A Sexy One? Maybe but I've Missed The Good Stuff

GEARING UP FOR THE NEW YEAR - AND A REVITALIZED BLOG "TED CURRIE - ANTIQUE HEAD" OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT!

VOID OF A SEXY SIDE, OR HAVE I BEEN MISSING THE GOOD STUFF FOR ALL THESE YEAR

     I once had a very attractive customer, invite me to her cottage, to see all the antique items she had purchased from our shop since she found us in uptown Bracebridge two years earlier. She loved our shop, and we sure liked to see her drop in. It had been a slow spring that year, and her business was keeping our doors open. Suzanne knew the woman was hitting on me, which was good, because I hadn't really thought about it, because she was quite literally paying the shop's rent for those years. I owed her my attention, and honestly, if she was flirting, it was lost at that time on dumb-ass me. So when my charming wife pinched me, to let me know, that I wouldn't be visiting her cottage, "ever," it dawned on me then, that there may have been another motive for my customer, to insist I visit in a casual setting. Actually, she wanted to drive me there and back. Kind of her, right? You know, I probably would have gone to see her cottage, without giving it a second thought. I was happily married, and uninterested in having a fling with a customer, no matter how attractive she was, or how much money she could lavish upon me as a boy toy. Suzanne didn't like the woman and I was finally figuring out why. I remember one day, loading some items in her vehicle, and her stepping on my fingers, fanned out on the frame of the back door. When I looked up, starting at her high heel dug into the back of my hand, and then the long, long, bare leg, ending with a short skirt, I felt like such a tool. Suzanne had been right. One does not step on an antique dealer's hand with high heels by accident. It's not like she had to put her leg up that high, when I was loading her antique chairs. It would have been inappropriate to cry-out in pain, or beg her to step harder, or even if she would hold me in that position for a few more minutes. I'm terrible, right? It was definitely inappropriate to accept the invitation, to visit her cottage to see her etchings or anything else she may wish to expose. Suzanne is wise about such things, especially when I can't tell flirting from typical, day to day transactions.  I was never very quick on the uptake this way.
     One day at a local thrift shop, an attractive young lady we know, from the antique profession, asked if she could see the paintings I had tucked under my arm, on the way to the check-out counter. I obliged, and set them down on the glass display case, and invited her to take a gander. She's done this before, and I oblige each time, really without thinking about it, because I know her. The reason I bring this up today, is that something similar happened this afternoon, and she reminded me about the way I treat some people better than others. "What do you mean by that," I asked Suzanne, while putting the subject painting in the back of the van. "Well, it seems that you are far more interested in sharing what you plan to purchase with attractive young women, showing some leg, than men who show the same interest but don't appeal to you." "You can't mean that," I answered. "I know what you referring to, and she's a friend, and I only know these guys from seeing them in this shop." "Don't give me the gears," she shot back with an ear to ear smile. "You'd dance an Irish Jig and sing an sea shanty, if it was that woman who'd asked you!" "First of all, these guys are notorious in these shops for going after art, and sometimes when it's in someone else's hand, which is exactly what happened. There was no way I was going to let them get a hold of the painting. First rule of antique dealing. "No you can't see it, but I will sell it to you from my shop." The guy asked me if it would be okay if he took a closer look at it under better light. I said 'No sir.' If it had been a young lady asking, bare leg or not, I would have answered the same way." Well, my wife didn't buy this counter-point, because she says, with some conviction, I like it when women flirt with me. "I don't think there is anything sexy about the antique business, and if there is, and has been since I began buying and selling antiques, then son of a gun, I've missed a lot of fun keeping my shoulder to the mill wheel."
     We were actually talking about this the night before, because I'm planning out my new approach to blogging, as of January 2nd, when I will be adopting a new heading, for the daily submissions; something weird but memorable, like "Ted Currie, Antique Head," a spin on having toured with the "Grateful Dead" (Dead-heads). We debated the "sexy" question for about an hour, and for the life of me, I couldn't find anything about the antique business, that could be described or experienced as being "sexy," in the sense of sensually extravagant. I have never heard any story about wild sex capers attached to the antique profession, but then obviously I've led a sheltered existence as both a collector / dealer. I suppose there are some pretty wild shenanigans in our trade, but no matter how I try to think of it in those terms, I just can't muster a tickle of intrigue, that there is something more fascinating to antique dealing than is absolutely obvious. Now this is hugely naive on my part, because I'm sure there are dealers who, because of connections made at sales, auctions, estates clearances and in specific shops, do become romantically involved, and by the same token, may at some point have cheated on a spouse or significant other. It's like any other business I suppose, when it's dissected down to the nitty gritty, of the folks who buy and sell old stuff. I don't know of any pornography writer, who has used an antique shop or the antique profession, as a background or theme for a sordid story or film. Of course, not being an expert on porno, and subject matter for these types of ventures, I stand to be corrected, if indeed, there are adult films, for example, that deal with sexually promiscuous dealers and collectors. Like I noted earlier, if I have been working for all these years, in a profession where there these kind of liberalities have been taken, embedding fantasy in the whole history and provenance thing, then somewhat regretfully, I've missed studying it, and of course, writing about it. When Suzanne and I were talking about it last evening, we couldn't even remember one occasion since we began in the profession, where the antique trade was anything more than routine hustling and horse trading. In fact, we couldn't come up with a single name, or even one dealer / collector, who was cheating on a mate, with another dealer, or hitched-up with someone met at a sale; or going from week to week auctions with love interests as a motivation. You'd think that since the late 1980's, having been in the middle of the antique trade in the Muskoka district, we could offer up some crumb of evidence, that the antique trade has had some minor amount of debauchery, or finding one shred of evidence there has been a single grain of an event, that could be labelled sexual impropriety; even via the rumour mill. Why is this relevant anyway? So the antique business isn't all that sexy. Who cares?
     Suzanne has always been suspicious that I flirt with female dealers and even customers, I happen to fancy. "I didn't know that flirting was against the law," I told her once, when she happened to mention my hug of a customer was longer and more intimate than it should have been. Gosh, I did it in front of her, so I knew the referee would blow the whistle if there was too much affection being expressed, or a wayward pinch of the bum of participating, consenting adults. I had to remind her that she has been hugged by customers as well, although she blew this off as being insignificant. "The old double standard again," I said. "I hug someone, and you call the fuzz."
     I have been writing about antiques and collectables since the 1970's. I wanted to reveal a more intimate side of the profession, that I've never written about before, and that's why Suzanne and I were talking about our decades of experience in all kinds of weird and wild circumstances, and adverse conditions, trying to figure out if it was acceptable to reveal some of these tales we've held close all these years. The antique trade, on the surface, and even a little bit below the surface, is quite predictable and without much to garner of unfettered adventure and fantasy. It doesn't mean that the antique profession is void of curious activities, and full of unique characters, and bizarre situations, but you have to be deep within, for a long time, before it becomes obvious there's more going on here, that we're supposed to know. I won't recklessly call it scandalous goings on, because that wouldn't be fair to the historic enterprise of buying and selling antiques. But there are rogues out there, and I know more now than I ever did, growing up in the industry, in the 1970's. Suzanne did remind me, that we have quite a few dealer associates we won't socialize with, or participate as joint buyers, in any bulk estate purchase, but I'm sure you're not surprised about this. It happens in every profession, that there are groups within, who don't get along, in the business sense, with others, despite their successes and reputations. "We are a group of eccentrics," a dealer informed me one day, about our troop of colleagues; and certainly then, with eccentricities, come colorful stories and great antique hunting adventures, like the days of the Tomb Raiders and the curse of King Tut's tomb; that is said to have killed many interlopers, who made the mistake of removing antiquities from the funerary tributes sealed in the tomb with Tut's body, at the time of death.
     I am heading this way, for my coming blog to begin on January 2nd. It will take a far more intimate look, at why the antique profession has, historically, been so secretive; almost as strict as the magician's code, of maintaining the secrets of the trade. The antique profession is full of intrigue and eccentricity, characters fit for a novel, and history oozing from every shop shelf. And then, there are the secret stashes, and the private collections dealers like to keep for posterity. I don't know if I can ever find enough information, and inside scoops, to write with confidence, that the antique trade has a sexy, wild side, where there are unique stories to inspire the writers of adult fiction, but if there are any, even some mild ones, I shall find them, and serve them up, when my new column begins in early January. I've written a "War and Peace" sized text of antique related stories, but none like the ones I hope to offer up this coming year, as an uncut, uncensored biography. I might even have it published in book form by 2017, which will mark my fortieth year as an antique dealer. You'll get to read it here first; so in book terms, the real first edition will be the blogs of 2015.
     I want to show you another side of antiques and collectables, and what drives us to hunt and gather with such ferocity and determination to get what we want. If you find it a tad sexy, let me know, because I may have missed this, the first run through; this of course is the problem. Most of us are so absorbed in what we do for a living, that we forget the sexy stuff, on account of being preoccupied.
     Suzanne says this about me all the time. She must be right!

DAVE BROWN AND THE AUCTION COMPETITION - DAVE 1 HISTORICAL SOCIETY 0.

SOMETIMES AUCTIONS BRING OUT THE BEAST WITHIN

I WOULD HAVE PAID DAVE BROWN TO MENTOR ME IN THE FIELD OF ANTIQUES AND COLLECTING IN GENERAL. I WOULD HAVE OFFERED HIM FOLDING MONEY, LOTS OF IT, TO LET US KNOW HOW TO BE THE BEST BOOK COLLECTORS, THE MOST PROFICIENT ANTIQUE HUNTERS, THE MOST THOROUGH HISTORIANS, AND HOW WE COULD IMPROVE OUR ACQUISITION TECHNIQUES. I ADMIRED HIM THAT MUCH! IT WAS UNDERSTOOD, HOWEVER, THAT PAYMENT WAS ALWAYS THE SAME. A PLACE TO SLEEP ON TRAVELLING WEEKENDS, FOOD AND CONVERSATION. DESPITE WHAT DAVE MIGHT HAVE LED US TO BELIEVE TO THE CONTRARY, HE WAS OFTEN QUITE LONELY, AND JUST LOVED SOCIAL OCCASIONS TO TALK ABOUT LIFE AND TIMES. MOSTLY HIS. I DIDN'T MIND. THAT'S WHAT DINNER AND LODGING PAID FOR. ON MANY OCCASIONS I EXTENDED THE LENGTH OF DAY JUST TO GET ONE MORE HOUR OF CONVERSATION OUT OF DAVE, BECAUSE HIS STORIES WERE FABULOUS. AS HE MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE SAID…..I DIDN'T HEAR IT THOUGH, "NEVER LET FACT GET IN THE WAY OF A GOOD STORY." DAVE NEEDED US, AND WE CERTAINLY APPRECIATED HIS COMPANY. I'M PRETTY SURE HE KNEW I WAS STUDYING HIS STORIES, LIKE A UNIVERSITY STUDENT HANGING ONTO THE WORDS OF AN ECCENTRIC PROFESSOR…….NOT SURE WHAT IT ALL MEANS, BUT NOT TAKING ANY CHANCES; EVEN THE CRAZY STUFF, WILL PROBABLY FIT SOMEWHERE, SOMEHOW IN THE FINAL BIG PUZZLE OF THE "BIOGRAPHY."

DAVE BROWN DIDN'T WORRY TOO MUCH ABOUT MY FEELINGS. IF HE THOUGHT, AS A COLLECTOR, OR AN HISTORIAN, I WAS MISSING THE MARK, OR MISINFORMED, HE LET IT BE KNOWN. I GREW UP THROUGH THE MINOR SPORTS PROGRAMS IN THIS PROVINCE, AND I WAS PRETTY USED TO HOCKEY AND BASEBALL COACHES BERATING ME FOR SWINGING AT A BALL, AND LETTING IN A FLUKE……I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, AND THE COACH USED TO CALL ME "FUNNEL". I HAD SUGGESTED THIS, BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT MY PARENTS HEARING HIM CALL ME "SIEVE," WHEN SCREAMING FROM THE BENCH. I WASN'T A BAD GOALIE OR A POOR BALL PLAYER, BUT WE ALL GOT YELLED AT BACK THEN, AS THERE WAS NO POLITICAL CORRECTNESS OR SENSITIVITY AWARENESS POLICIES. AS WITH MR. BROWN, HE CALLED IT THE WAY HE SAW IT. WITH ME, I HOPE HE THOUGHT I WAS A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, BECAUSE HE REALLY SPENT A LOT OF TIME TRYING TO SHAPE ME UP FOR THE BIG LEAGUES OF COLLECTING. AS HE HAD APPOINTED ME HIS BIOGRAPHER, JUST BEFORE HE DIED, HE HAD A SERIOUS AND VESTED INTEREST, IN MY EDUCATION IN THE FIELD OF OLD BOOKS ETC. SO, WITHOUT FEELING THAT BEING PUT-DOWN BY THE EXPERT WAS A BAD THING, I LISTENED AND MADE COPIOUS NOTES ABOUT OUR DISCUSSIONS.

NOW, THIS DOES NOT MEAN I AGREED WITH HIS STRATEGIES, OR HIS METHODS, BECAUSE I DIDN'T. I STILL NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT THEM, AND HOW I COULD CIRCUMVENT, TO HANDLE IT DIFFERENTLY, WITH MORE SENSITIVITY, AND ACHIEVE SOMEWHAT THE SAME RESULTS. IF YOU THINK THIS IS A LONG-WINDED INTRODUCTION TO THE STORY, BELIEVE ME IT IS REQUIRED. DAVE COULD TIP-TOE THE ETHICS BETWEEN HONESTY AND DISHONESTY LIKE A RAZOR-THIN TIGHT ROPE……AND NEVER LOSE HIS FOOTING…..BUT ALWAYS LEAVING THAT FAINT IMPRESSION SOMETHING WASN'T QUITE RIGHT. WHAT HE BELIEVED WAS ETHICAL, TO ME, WASN'T ALWAYS SO. FOR EXAMPLE, HE HATED HISTORICAL SOCIETIES…..NOT BECAUSE OF THE WORK THEY DID CONSERVING HERITAGE IN OUR COMMUNITIES, BUT BECAUSE THEY ATTRACTED, IN HIS MIND, A COLLECTION OF "KNOBS," AND "THE FRIENDS OF KNOBS." NOW WE HAD AN IMMEDIATE CONFLICT, SORT OF, BECAUSE I WAS THE FOUNDER OF ONE OF THESE ONTARIO REGIONAL HISTORICAL SOCIETIES. IN THE WINTER OF 1978 I SET ABOUT TO ESTABLISH THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AS THE FIRST STEP IN SAVING AN OCTAGONAL SHAPED HOME, IN TOWN, FOR A NEW COMMUNITY MUSEUM……WHICH ACTUALLY OCCURRED A FEW YEARS LATER. I WAS ONLY A SMALL COMPONENT OF THIS, AND A FUTURE PRESIDENT OF THE SOCIETY, BUT STILL IT PUT ME ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH DAVE, ESPECIALLY WHEN WE ARGUED ABOUT THE DIFFERENCE OF PRIVATE OWNERSHIP OF ARTIFACTS AND PAPER ARCHIVES, AND PUBLIC STEWARDSHIP. DAVE WAS FOR "PRIVATE IS BEST"……ON LOAN, WORKS FOR EVERYONE.  HE WAS PRETTY SURE OF HIMSELF, IN THIS REGARD, SO THE STORY I'M ABOUT TO RELATE WILL MAKE SOME SENSE.

IT WAS A REGULAR OCCURRENCE ON THE AUCTION CIRCUIT, IN SOUTHERN ONTARIO, THAT DAVE BROWN WOULD BE IN ATTENDANCE TO BID ON HISTORICALLY RELEVANT BOOKS AND ARTIFACTS, ALSO BEING THE CHOICE ITEMS OF THE LOCAL OR REGIONAL HISTORICAL SOCIETIES. THEY ALL KNEW DAVE. TO SAY THEY LOATHED THE MAN IS QUITE CORRECT, BUT GENERALLY, IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT, HE MOST DEFINITELY LOATHED THEM. THERE WERE A NUMBER OF PREVIOUS CONFLICTS DAVE USED TO TALK ABOUT, THAT TAINTED HIS OPINION OF CERTAIN MUSEUMS, AND THE CORRESPONDING HERITAGE SOCIETIES THAT OFTEN PROVIDED THEIR ADMINISTRATION. HE COULD GET ALONG WITH CURATORS AND SOME DIRECTORS, BUT WHEN IT WAS A FORCE AGAINST HIM AT AN AUCTION SALE, HE MADE IT A PERSONAL WAR TO OUT PLAY THEM.

THERE WAS A PARTICULAR AUCTION, TOWARD THE END OF HIS LIFE, WHERE THIS PLAYED OUT BEAUTIFULLY. I WOULD HAVE GLADLY PAID, TO HAVE SAT IN THE GALLERY, WATCHING THE PRE-AUCTION HUSTLING OF SOCIETY MEMBERS, AND DAVE BROWN, SCREWING WITH THE BOXES OF OLD BOOKS AS PART OF THE ESTATE SALE. SO HERE'S WHAT THE CONFLICT WAS OVER. OF ABOUT THIRTY OR MORE BOXES OF OLD AND SOME RARE BOOKS, THERE WERE SOME IMPORTANT REGIONAL HISTORIES SCATTERED OVER THE COLLECTION, STREWN ON A SECTION OF LAWN; BOOKS THAT WOULD BE SOLD OFF SOME TIME IN THE AFTERNOON. IT WAS A BIG SALE. WHAT ANGERED DAVE, WAS THAT THE "OLD FARTS" FROM THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, WERE TAKING THE BOOKS THEY WANTED, AND BUILDING A "SUPER BOX," OF ALL THE ONES THEY WISHED TO PURCHASE THAT DAY. NOW WHAT THAT MEANT TO DAVE, WAS THAT THEY HAD JUST ENOUGH MONEY, TO MAKE A GOOD STAB AT WINNING THAT ONE BOX, WHICH WOULD CONTAIN POTENTIALLY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF REGIONAL MATERIAL. HE DIDN'T WANT THE SOCIETY UNLOADING THEIR SPENDING LIMIT ON ONE BOX, BECAUSE HE WAS INHERENTLY FRUGAL…..CHEAP. VERY CHEAP. SO HE WOULD GO BACK, AND CHANGE ALL THE BOOKS THE SOCIETY HAD BROUGHT TO ONE BOX, BACK WHERE THEY ALL CAME FROM…..A RATHER PAINSTAKING TASK.

"OH THEY WERE WATCHING ME TED," HE SAID. "EVERY TIME I MOVED THE BOOKS BACK TO THE BOXES THEY HAD BEEN TAKEN FROM, ONE OF THE MEMBERS WOULD REVERSE IT BACK AGAIN, SO THEY COULD BID ON ONE BOX INSTEAD OF THE LOT." IN THEIR OPINION, DAVE WOULD HAVE HAD MORE CAPABILITY OF OUT-BIDDING THEM ON A BOX BY BOX BASIS, VERSUS HAVING ONE SUPER COLLECTION OF BOOKS IN ONE NEAT AND TIDY CONTAINER. DAVE WAS WAY AHEAD OF THEM, AND HE KEPT REVERSING THE BOOKS, EVERY TIME THEY'D MAKE THE CHANGES. "THEY WERE GETTING MAD," HE SAID. "WE MUST HAVE DONE THIS BACK AND FORTH THING FIVE OR SIX TIMES, BEFORE I FINALLY GOT FED UP AND WENT TO TALK TO THE AUCTIONEER." FOR THOSE WHO DON'T KNOW SOME OF THE PREVAILING AUCTION PROTOCOLS, THE AUCTIONEER COULD HAVE SOLD THE BOXES "ON CHOICE," WHICH IS DIFFERENT OF COURSE, THAN HOLDING THE BOXES UP INDIVIDUALLY, AND HIGHLIGHTING THE CONTENTS. THE SOCIETY WOULD NOT HAVE WANTED THIS TO HAPPEN, BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE DRAWN MORE BIDDERS TO THE "SUPER BOX," AND THUSLY A MORE SIGNIFICANT BIDDING COMPETITION. THIS IS TIME CONSUMING. SO IT'S TO BE EXPECTED, THAT THE AUCTIONEER, WOULD SELL ON CHOICE, AND THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY WOULD KNOW EXACTLY WHAT BOX WAS "STACKED." THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT, SO TO SPEAK, WAS THE FACT DAVE WAS WATCHING CLOSELY, AND THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE WAS NO LONGER A FACTOR IN THE SALE. DAVE MADE IT HIS BUSINESS TO WATCH THEM, EVEN IF HE STOOD AT THE BACK, AND LOOKED THROUGH THE ARMS AND LEGS OF THE CROWD IN FRONT.

WHEN THEY SAW THAT DAVE HAD LEFT THE SCENE OF THE "BOOK SWITCHING CAPER," THEY WENT TO WORK ONE LAST TIME, TO GET THEMSELVES ALL THE BOOKS THEY WANTED IN THAT ONE SPECIAL BOX. DAVE KNEW THEY WOULD. HE ALSO PREDICTED, THAT WHEN THE AUCTIONEER TOOK A COFFEE BREAK, SO WOULD THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY. AND HE WAS RIGHT.

SO HERE'S THE SCENE THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY MEMBERS GOT TO SEE UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL. MR. BROWN LOADING HIS RED PICK-UP TRUCK WITH ALL THE BOXES OF BOOKS THAT HAD BEEN PUT UP FOR AUCTION AT THAT ESTATE SALE. EVERY BOX, EVERY BOOK, EVERY HISTORIC PIECE OF PAPER, WAS INCLUDED IN THAT JOB-BLOT OF PRINT HERITAGE.

Well sir, what a scene that must have been. "What are you doing with those boxes," they demanded, of the portly little man, with dirty t-shirt and shorts….and really big running shoes. 'Well, I'm loading the books I just bought, onto my truck…..is that okay?" "What do you mean, your books," questioned the officials of the local heritage group…..most standing with stunned looks etched on their sunburnt faces. "Go and ask the auctioneer….I just purchased these books while you people were having coffee."

What was trademark David Brown, was that he had reached a point of frustration with the society members doctoring the boxes, and decided to call a favor of a friend….a long time buddy, the auctioneer, asking if he could please sell off the books as soon as possible, because he had to attend another event that day. Dave was a huge buyer of books at these auctions, and auctioneers knew he'd remove them all, leaving none behind at the end of the day. He was an asset to them. (They would otherwise have to deal with the left over items themselves). I've used this excuse about a dozen times in the past, and it has never failed to work as intended. They don't want to lose my cash contribution to the sale, so they are usually willing to bend if the audience approves. So the auctioneer agreed, told the audience in front, what the next auction lot would be, and without moving more than a few feet, started the bidding. He wasn't the only bidder, and it probably cost him quite a bit of money, but the boxes were not sold "on choice" as the society had hoped would be the case. So he got all thirty odd boxes, and the members of the historical society were left to "hiss" in unison, at the bad, bad, bad bibliophile who had, in their minds, pulled a fast one. If only it ended there.

Dave knew the books that were in that auction. There may have been thirty boxes of old books, but there were only about five exceptional texts, amongst what the society had wanted to purchase. One of the five was missing when he got home. I can imagine he let out a Homer Simpsonesque "doah!!!", when he realized it had been removed from the collection. In about a month's time, he made a point of going to the local museum that had been represented by the historical society, and when he went to look at their archives collection of regional books, he found the copy that had gone missing. He didn't accost them, didn't make a fuss, never called a cop, a lawyer, or had any kind of reaction to the folks who ran the museum. What it did, for him, was justify his actions at the auction, and made it a personal mantra thereafter, to have nothing to do with historical societies. All kind of crazy stuff, but this is not uncommon behavior amongst the vested interests, who attend auctions and estate sales. The auctioneer was doing what he was supposed to do……looking out for the client he was representing, and regarding customer service to be of the utmost importance. Just because the historical society was out of earshot, when the announcement of an order change was made, didn't mean there was any slight of protocol on his part. Dave played fair. He asked a question…..that in his mind was the same as a favor, and put the jockeying for position to rest. This was the way Dave acted for decades, to get what he wanted out on the antique hustings. He was a gentle man in most other ways, and a wonderful teacher to thousands of kids in Hamilton, but he was a champion at getting the big deals out there……and he outplayed many dealers and collectors with similar methodology.

There are those folks who go to auctions, and have no idea how rough it can get between competitors for important and valuable pieces. I've been with Dave at auctions, and he could lock-in like a heat seeking missile, when something of value was coming up. Friendship meant nothing at this point.

I confess to borrowing some of Dave's strategies for acquisition but I won't ever balance on the high wire……in that tippy-toe between honesty and dishonesty, because I don't ever take things that seriously, to wager a reputation on a box of old books. But none the less, I needed to see just how determined some collectors and dealers get out there, so that when I see them clench their teeth, while bidding against me, they're actually wishing I might vaporize, before I dare bid them up one more time.

It's hard to be a pacifist out there, and still come home with something for your efforts.

St. Peters Anglican Church and The Reformation Of Me; Did We Just Get Threatened With A Nuclear Assault?

Oil Painting of St. Peters Anglican Church on the Fraserburg Road in Bracebridge by Muskoka artist, Joy Milburn

NEW YEARS IN MUSKOKA - WHAT HAVE WE GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO IN 2015?

WILL WE BE HURT BY FALLING OIL PRICES, OR PROFIT FROM LOW GAS AND A LOW DOLLAR? WHAT ABOUT THOSE RUSSIANS

     The weather reminds me of a winter in England or Scotland, more so than a Canadian winter. The only thing I'm worried about, is getting some back to back minus 20 and 30 days, which we expect from the month of January, that without snow insulation on the ground, could freeze some waterlines; even municipal water services. I can remember, back in the 1980's, when, during a snowless stretch, several blocks of homes on Wellington Street in Bracebridge, had to be supplied with water with heated, above ground hoses. We really don't know if this can happen, because we have had very few winters without a substantial layer of snow, when it drops well below freezing. The snow makes for pretty good insulation for septic tanks and lines, and for waterlines from wells. I've had this happen at a house we were living in, on Golden Beach Road, and with two youngsters and lots of laundry every day, it was a nightmare to be suddenly thrust back into pioneer living. Yes, I'm hoping for snow, because the same thing can happen today, without a good amount of snow to keep the ground insulated.
     It has been a busy Saturday in the shop, with most of our visitors coming from out of town. Half of these, were here visiting with Muskoka relatives, and the other half, were on their way to visit relatives north, west and east of Gravenhurst, but decided to stop for lunch, and to check out the local fare. We do keep track of where our customers are coming from, by asking them outright, and no one has objected to the questioning yet. It's our way of doing a first-person survey, where there is no manipulation of the statistics by anyone else. We've had a shortage of our local customers in this past week, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. Only ten percent of our business revenue, comes from local residents. It's up from seven percent when we first opened the antique component of the family business. Thus, we couldn't remain open, without the support of out-of-towners making up the difference. The music component, operated by sons Robert and Andrew, are probably closer to 25 percent local residents, in terms of business revenue, but then proportionally, they've been here four times as long, to achieve this number attesting to Gravenhurst support. Many of the antique shop customers do come from Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes, and from Orillia and Barrie. We're happy with this off-season increase in tourism; and we consider folks from nearby communities as tourist day travelers. It's looking to be a good New Year's stretch, if the weather doesn't become stormy all of a sudden.

     The art panel published above today's blog, was painted by Muskoka artist, Joy Milburn, depicting the well known log structure of St. Peter's Anglican Church, on Bracebridge's Fraserburg Road. The historic little church, was constructed, in part, because of the death-bed request of former pioneer resident, known only as "Granny Bowers," who lived alone, a short distance away from the knob of hill, where the log church sits today. I'm not sure, but I think Granny Bowers instructed the Cowley Fathers, of the Society of St. John the Evangelist, to use the materials from her house, after her death, to construct a little Anglican Church for the folks on the Fraserburg Road. It is a wonderful heritage building, and I have been inside many times, since I first started visiting the site, as a youngster.
     It was around this time of December, on the cusp of New Years, that this little log church changed my life. Not because of a religious intervention, the words of the minister, or any particular inspiration from a normal Sunday service. It was the reflection of an ass, I saw in one of the windows, that had a profound impact on my social excesses. It happened on a Sunday afternoon in late December, when I came home from a morning of recreational league hockey, having consumed a lot of booze in the locker room. Here it was, not even one o'clock on a family Sunday, and I was dangerously pickled. I was drinking with the local business and professional elite, who made up the players on the four teams in the league. It was a pre-New Year's celebration, I suppose, because there was a lot of drink in the dressing rooms on that day. I had a good sampling. Like many others that Sunday, I thought nothing of getting into the car, and driving to our house, which was then on Ontario Street, just below the High School. I don't remember doing this, but this is the problem associated with drinking way too much, for too long. The blacking-out part.
     I was, at this time, still editor of The Herald-Gazette, and I know for fact, I would have been fired if I had been caught driving while impaired. Seeing as our paper reported on others, who were charged with the same infraction, I'm confident our publisher wouldn't have been unable to avoid disciplining his editor. It didn't seem to matter. I took chances regardless. And the fact, that with my drunken behaviour, I was seriously hurting my wife Suzanne, and the future of our first son, Andrew, I don't think my situation could have been much more precarious and threatening.
      I came home from my recreational and social pursuit that afternoon, intent on taking Suzanne and Andrew for a ride in the car. I can only suggest, that if I had been stopped, by the Ontario Provincial Police, I would likely have blown three times the legal limit. I knew this intimately well, because every Christmas season, we used to publish a feature story in the newspaper, about the RIDE Spot Check program, and what constituted driving over the limit. We even volunteered for a sobriety text, drinking over several hours, and then blowing in the breathalizer machine to measure our level of alcohol intake. There was no excuse for me to have climbed into a car drunk, with what I knew of the legal limits, and the consequences of over indulgence. First of all, potentially losing my job, and secondly, possibly killing someone, even my own family in a car wreck. I had lost control of my senses of propriety. My closest friends were just as bad, and took the same kind of risks every time they went to a tavern or hockey tournament, where booze was the reward for a good game, or a day's work.
     On this particular Sunday, I remember standing outside St. Peter's Church, trying to look through the windows. I remember half-leaning on the timbers of the pioneer church, and seeing this fellow looking back at me through the window. I recognized him, but it did startle me at first. What was most troubling of all, was that the man looking back through the glass, was none other than me. I had not initially recognized my own image. When Suzanne came around the corner of the church, carrying wee Andrew, I wasn't sure, at that moment, who they were either. I finally adjusted to my surroundings, and when I asked Suzanne who brought us to the church, she had a look of outright fear on her face, realizing for the first time, I was not only a heavy drinker but an outright liar. She knew then, just how seriously drunk I was, because I had no knowledge of having driven to the site in the first place. I looked at Suzanne and Andrew and felt nauseous, not because of the booze swirling in my stomach, but because I had endangered their lives by drinking and then driving. The fact that I hadn't even recognized my own reflection, meant that I had blacked-out for a time, something common to alcohol consumption over a long time. So here I was, a giant ass of asses, standing at a Muskoka Church, wondering how I could have done something so dangerous and wickedly stupid to my young family.
     I swore off booze that afternoon, in the shadow of the little log church, that was inspired by Granny Bower's deathbed wish; I had been given another chance, and I took it with a great all encompassing embrace. I don't want to send the wrong message out there, that I was an alcoholic and then fell off the wagon. As I stopped on my own accord, and suffered no ill effects from withdrawal, I decided after a lengthy hiatus, that I could have a social drink, now and again, but only if Suzanne was at my side, to stop any excesses. As our marriage very much hinges on this conservative, mild approach to social drinking, I won't trip up. My hiatus hernia, which always acts up if I have more than two beer, or two glasses of wine, will by itself, guarantees I will never return to the bad habits of my youth. I was booze free for more than a decade. I do enjoy the occasional imported beer, especially at Christmas, and a glass of wine at New Years, but never enough to get even mildly tipsy. From that incident at St. Peter's Anglican Church, I have never again driven, while under the influence. If I've had a sip of booze, I stay home. I don't drink anywhere else these days, and I haven't visited a tavern in this region, since my hockey days of the 1980's. Apparently, my church window reflection, that day, had taught me a valuable lesson; on how not to be a drunken ass.
     I found this painting in the store bookroom this morning, and it brought back this rather poignant memory, of a major change in my life for the better, inspired no less, by a trip to this pioneer Anglican Church on a Sunday during the Christmas season. There are all kind of ironies attached here, that aren't lost on me.
     As a reporter, I attended plenty of accident scenes in this region, that were the direct result of drinking and driving. There's something profoundly awful, seeing a body protruding from an orange tarp, and seeing broken bottles of beer and whiskey at the side of the crumpled car or truck. I should have never have required any one to tell me about the dangers of drinking and driving. I can't explain my actions, only the reaction, and it was positive.  
     Well down list of top stories of the day, last evening, the CTV nightly news, reported on what should have been, without question, the most critically important news of the broadcast. Most important of the past month. Not behind anything else! News of Russia declaring, via a government Manifesto, that NATO is now its major security threat, in their neighborhood of Europe, and that if it comes down to defending their nation, and their interests, the big, big bombs could be unleashed in retaliation. Have we heard so many of these threats, that we become complacent when they a issued anew? There was a day, when that kind of talk would have inspired some of us Canadians to start digging fall out shelters. Now it is almost feature news. A sort of "by the way," news story barely making the grade to be included at all.
    Nuclear threats, when they come from North Korea, aren't all that uncommon or even troublesome anymore. From Russia, however, even using the word, "nuclear," and "weaponry," should scare the bejesus out of us all. It's odd, don't you think, that a story of this political and international magnitude, and representative danger, would be buried in a news cast, like a story tucked into an obscure pocket of open space, between the ads, on page 12, of a daily newspaper. This is an example of minimization of what should be front and center, for public consumption, but has somehow become less significant news as seen by some editors. Russia is now overviewed apparently, by some news gathering agencies, as a lesser concern than it was, say, during the Cold War, for one, and secondly, the fact that following the Olympics this year, they decided to stir up some crap in The Ukraine. The matter of falling oil prices isn't good for Canada as a nation, and it certainly isn't an economic boon to Russia, beating their economy to a pulp. The stresses of international economic sanctions, as well, is tightening the noose, as was intended by the international community, but there's still a pretty dire outcome possible, if Russia decides to push back at NATO in any number of ways. What has been happening in The Ukraine has been provocative to the highest level, and while it's good to know NATO Forces are standing guard for Europe, we still have to be aware that the Cuban Missile Crisis could have gone either way; as many suspected it would end badly; preparing for a nuclear war. We knew people in Burlington at the time of the Crisis, who paid to have bomb shelters built on their properties. I think it was pretty serious stuff, back then, although I was still pretty young to know exactly what nuclear meant, in terms of armaments, and how they could be deployed to hurt us.
     Russia is facing a bleak economic future and there are frightening parallels, of what political conditions led up to the commencement of the Second World War. Economic strife has caused many world calamities, and international historians must be getting pensive these days, thinking about the possibilities there won't be a soft landing here. Did Russia just threaten the world with nuclear war? Or did they just want to remind us, as a post-Christmas message, what persuasion they still have tucked in silos, just in case the political sparring was to intensify, such that they would feel justified to unleash the hounds so to speak. Not the best news to carry forth into the new year, but let's face it, we had to know it was coming down the pike. It does tend to get crowded out with other world turmoil, such as in Iraq and Syria. The Russians may just be posturing once again, but it's the kind of positioning and maybe even theatrics, that you have to take seriously, or come, suddenly, one dark day, to face some pretty mind blowing consequences.
    The invasion of the eastern region of Ukraine, and last year's casual borrowing of The Crimea, by pro-Russians, and the downing of a passenger aircraft that was flying a well traveled route, attributed to pro-Russian forces in The Ukraine, pretty much set the present stage for this latest threat to the rest of the world. Russia's posturing has a lot more weight to it, than when the North Koreans threaten to vaporize us every other month, with their unknown nuclear capabilities; if they have any at all. We're pretty sure Russia has a full compliment of what they would need to back-up a nuclear threat. We have been hoping for a peaceful resolve to the crisis in The Ukraine, but we certainly must appreciate at the same time, almost a year since the debacle began, following the Olympics, that Russia is most definitely feeling the squeeze, being cornered and hurt by sanctions; and European condemnation and isolation, because of their role in The Ukraine, and the sinking oil dollar, is a sort of last big straw, to a crumbling economy. And a weakening government trying to figure out how to mitigate the damage done, by poorly thought-out and misspent aggression.. What options are left for the Russian Government today? Remove their influences from The Crimea, The Ukraine, and return to that sensibly proportioned mission, to strengthen their nation without resorting to Cold War legacies, that failed the first time around, to forcefully relieve any other country of its resources. It's all very sad for the people of Russia, because I don't believe for a moment, that they wish to have this governmental stance, against the rest of the world. To my knowledge of world news, as of this very moment, actually listening to the latest reports from this area of the world, NATO hasn't invaded Russia yet, and won't, so what's going on here; another ridiculous ruse, concocted by the government, to get allied forces to react to provocation; like when Russian planes frequently buzz warships in the Black Sea, which has happened on numerous occasions? Have you ever wondered who will fire the first shot, in this stand-off, that will be heard and felt around the world? Just imagine the discipline required to be the Captain of one of these battleships? World peace may well depend on their patience to live with these fighter jet incursions. I know we'd all like to start the New Year with great anticipation for peace on earth, and a prosperous way of living for the coming 12 months, but honestly, it's pretty hard to dismiss a nuclear threat from a country that actually has a stock pile at their beck and call. Sure it's happened before. And it scared us pretty bad; enough to build fall-out shelters, as if they would have done any good during an all-out nuclear conflict.
      Like everyone else who hates oil and gas companies, I am delighted by the falling price of fuel at the pumps. It is saving most of us, who travel a lot of miles in a month, a significant amount of cash; and that has a lot of positives attached, don't you think? I don't own mutual funds, where I would undoubtedly be exposed to some oil investments, and I don't play the stock markets even as a hobby recreation. I only buy lottery tickets, as part of a family initiative, about three times a year, mostly as a lark when the main prize hits a ridiculously high level. I know enough national and international history, to recognize just how much damage, at present, will be generated by a continuing drop in the prices for oil. We are screwed by high prices, and we're going to be screwed in yet-to-be-determined ways, by a serious drop in value. Us average folk, who only have a cursory knowledge of what stresses the national economy can handle, or can't sustain in a international crisis, have to listen carefully to experts in the field; those who can point us in the right direction according to what might happen as a downward trend for the rest of the winter. We might be basking now, here in the snowless north, but when we think about traveling south, to the United States, with a dropping dollar, the basking won't be as cheap as it was a couple of years ago, when the dollar was high flying. We are pleased by the gas prices, being below a buck a litre, until we hear news about friends and relatives, who have been laid off from oil related jobs, in Western Canada. There are disadvantages to lesser fuel costs and a lower dollar that can help regions like ours, dependent on tourism. This potential boon, could be a bust, if the national economy suffers a set-back, because it will impact us generally despite one sector doing well.
     With high gas prices, of the past couple of years especially, we saw a substantial decrease in day travelers, who tour regularly in quest of antiques and collectables. First of all, in the past two years, there have been far fewer antique dealers visiting our Gravenhurst shop, which is a warning sign, because dealers support dealers; and they get profession discounts on their purchases. Those collectors and antique lovers who travel extensively to pursue their interests in this field, have been scarce this year, and it could be a troubling trend. We're hoping it will be improved by lower gas prices. We also anticipate, that the combination of a lower dollar and less cost for fuel, will inspire more of our Americian friends to return to Muskoka. At one time, our American customers represented upwards of fifteen percent of our business every year, and today, it wouldn't even be one percent of our sales. Muskoka's seasonal economy was hugely boosted by visiting and cottaging Americans, going well back in the history of local tourism. So having a lower dollar, and greatly reduced gas prices, at the pumps, may help build-back this important part of the tourist economy. This could be a nice silver lining, but we still have to wait to see what's coming up, or down, with oil pricing in the next few months. We're either going to have an amazing business year in a boom environment, or go kaboom in a bust.
     Muskoka isn't likely to be hugely or even directly impacted by a slump in oil prices. But we aren't immune anywhere in this country, to a provincial or national economic slump, that may result in lost of jobs and regional investment. Even the experts seem to be befuddled by this latest devaluation, brought on, in part, by OPEC's oil production status quo, which of course, has produced a glut of resources, bringing down the price per barrel on the open market. How far are they prepared to let oil drop, before limiting supply? At this point, well sir, I am going to take advantage of present gas prices, and try to smile about the possibilities for the new year. Add these uncertainties to Russia's recent and rather bizarre Manifesto, and I guess there isn't any other way to welcome 2015, other than to be chipper, take advantages while you can, and invest carefully. As for digging a fall-out shelter? Let's just say, if an optimist like me, starts digging a hole in my backyard, and I post it for your information, then you will think me either "Mad as a Hatter," or being totally ridiculous, thinking I can save my family from the utter widespread devastation, of a nuclear war imposed upon us. Truth is, I suppose to the positive side, I confess that I haven't lost even a wink of sleep, worrying about a warhead dropping on my head. It's one of those things of age possibly, that I've heard and read about this sabre-rattling stuff a thousand times before; so many times in fact, each with its desensitizing influence, that it seems somewhat surprising in retrospect, that I'm still here to opine, about yet another round of "Go ahead I dare you," and "Our big guns are bigger than your big guns," from the super powers of the world. Most of us have learned by now, to just live our lives the best we can, under whatever circumstances we find ourselves immersed; and smile about it or not, we most often get to the next morning, thankful to meet another beautiful sunrise, even on the cloudy days. Heck, there's too much to be happy about, to get all weird about nuclear war. Afterall, I grew up with the point-counter point of, "if you blow us up, we'll blow you up," which has in many unfortunate ways, guaranteed no super power wants to take the first shot against the other. Hope it holds up for another year.

Boxing Day Slow Down To Gear Up For A Brand New Year; The Old National Cash Register That Nearly Killed A Guy

NEW YEARS IN MUSKOKA - A CALM AND RESTORATIVE PERIOD FROM BOXING DAY TO NEW YEARS

IT'S NOT LIKE NORMAL RETAIL AROUND THE SHOP - IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE RELAXING

     The presents are all opened, the wrapping paper folded and saved-away for next year; the beer sampled, wine reviewed, peanuts enjoyed, carmel corn half consumed, and toys played with, in that joyful, gleeful abandon of a latent childhood. We ate and ate some more, and that included the figgy pudding of which I am not particularly fond. I enjoyed two glasses of the finest brandy-wine, and watched holiday movies until my eyes began to bulge from over-consumption. We had a good family time and went to bed early last night, feeling jolly and contented, that all the efforts to build a fine Christmas celebration, had been well and sensibly invested.
     The pre-Christmas demands on any retailer, can be hugely exhausting, and to then have to face the mobs, in some box store and mall openings, for Boxing Day Blow-out sales," is enough to beat the reclaimed spirit out of your body again. We are fortunate, in so many ways, to have a business in a small Ontario town, that has its peaks and valleys like every other retailer, but our Boxing Day to New Year's Eve week, is one of casual, almost recreational commerce. It's the week we traditionally use as a turn-around period, to get ready for the challenges of January and February, two of the most brutal weeks of the year for sales. In the vintages (antique) trade, in the region of the province, known for having a seasonal boom in the summer months, we have all grown up as Muskokans, to not expect retail miracles this time of the year; and to instead, initiate preparations and inventory re-allocations, for the spring and summer boom. It will take us months to do this properly, especially if we have any restorations to carry-out, or re-positioning of store fixtures.
      We will experience a small increase in business activity at around March Break, and then again, more solidly at Easter, but it all depends on how long the snow and ice remain across the region. The snow last year, which lasted well past the Easter weekend, kept a lot of cottagers from getting into their properties, and the ice on the lakes slowed down the contractors doing work on island properties. If the snow, on the other hand, doesn't come to usual levels, Muskoka will certainly suffer from the lack of snowmobilers, and this would be a huge loss of income for many local retailers. Some folks who don't snowmobile, and don't care about whether there's a single mile of snowmobile trail built this year, must not be aware how many millions of dollars, this winter recreation spreads through and beyond our region, in the most retail-challenged time of the year. I do hope it snows for the welfare of the millions of folks in this country, who currently have snowmobiles parked on trailers, sitting in side yards; while their owners look longingly at the sky, to see if, at long last, there is a snowflurry coming their way. Last winter, holy smokes, it snowed just about every day. As it turned out, it was a heck of a good retail season, as proportional to the outstanding trails.
     The antique trade, at least in this region of South Muskoka, does not, in the general sense, benefit from the snowmobile crowd, although this is not to say, we have never had snowmobilers shopping here, as a direct result of passing through the area. But it would be foolish to think, that just because snowmobilers aren't interested in antiquing while running the trails, that the money they leave here, at restaurants, gas stations, snowmobile repair shops and dealerships, doesn't benefit the entire retail community, as spin-off through the season. It all counts. It's all part of the evolving economy of Muskoka, so I hope for all our sakes, that we get some snow for the balance of the winter season. I might not be a snowmobiler myself, but I do know that this winter recreation is vitally important to the economic welfare of Muskoka, and if it is scaled back on account of weather, all the retail communities will suffer directly or indirectly.
    In our shop today, while I sit in the studio making these copious notes, Suzanne is figuring out some layout changes, so that she can build-in a proper sewing work area, near her counter, to allow her more room to fold-out large sections of fabric she's wants to trace, cut-out and sew, for some new projects she's entertaining this winter. This is the perfect time to be working on these changes, and not make it inconvenient for customers, poking through the store. Suzanne, now in her second year of retirement from teaching, is wildly enthusiastic about upcoming sewing challenges, along with her knitting, but we have to work out some space restrictions, which currently fill up quickly with incoming store inventory, awaiting some small repairs, touching-up, research and pricing. Antiques dealers are famous even historic, for their cluttering, and we are textbook in that respect. She's been working on re-purposing vintage wool blankets, that have stains and holes, but enough salvageable blanket to cut into smaller pieces, and make something else for a variety of purposes. Before Christmas Day, she was asked by a customer, whether it was possible to craft a small wool blanket for a doll's cradle. She was able to cut a good portion of wool blanket, from a nice vintage king sized blanket, and with some embroidery around the edges, and sewn decorations, made a lovely little accessory for the cradle. There are hundreds of options to utilize old blankets, that show areas of damage, that can not be otherwise repaired for re-sale. Suzanne will only recycle or throw out vintage fabric, including blankets, when there is no other option, and even then, anything useful is cut off, such as lace trim from old table cloths and good condition satin bindings, from blankets that can't be saved. She has quite a few plans for the blanket portions, such as making next year's winter mitts for sale in the shop; but right now, the challenge is to make a bigger work area to accommodate much larger fabric sections for cutting. The other related problem here, inherent to the antique business, is that when you move one shelf or table in a shop, you orphan a thousand pieces that were on display. Which always means, you have to budget a half day to counter the collateral damage of just one small fixture adjustment. And then there's the "who are you calling stupid," disputes that break out, when the pieces of the jigsaw don't fit the way you imagined, necessitating a quick re-think, and adjustment of plans. Which can really suck the hours out of the day. This is a Sunday afternoon job, because it's too dangerous to have all kinds of free-floating collectables scattered over the floor, and damming-up other formerly open spaces, everywhere and anywhere.
     It has become a little fluid and wild in the studio, just now, as son Robert tries out the circa 1954-57 Gibson "GA-9" amplifier, we got him for Christmas. It's a pretty small unit, but wow, what a powerful sound. It's wobbling the pictures on the wall, and I'm trying to figure out how so much bone jarring volume comes out of this briefcase sized amp. Well, as Robert points out, this is the magic of the highly sought after vintage Gibson amps. A lot of superstitious guitar players, believe in the good graces of tubed-amps to play their guitars through, as if by some strange alchemy of spirits, the sound brings back the pure, gorgeous nostalgia of rock 'n roll. Andrew is the point man in our Christmas shopping, when it comes to hustling up vintage guitar-gear for Robert, so we have to credit him in this case, of getting the perfect gift, for us, to then, with some stealth, present to Robert from Santa (Mom and Pop). It's what I've been trying to upgrade, for the past year, to better understand their antiquated music equipment, a part of their everyday business. I should know all this stuff by now; I've been living and listening to their old guitars, amps, drums, banjos and mandolines for about fifteen years now, so there really isn't any excuse for being ignorant about the realities of sound, and what they know to be the "best sound," from the finest equipment ever made. I'm planning to immerse myself in music this coming year, and I have high hopes, a year from now, to be competent enough, to be able to discuss equipment and performance, from a much more informed perspective next year, at this time. This is, at least, my best intention. I've said this before and failed miserably. I tell the boys it's because I'm old and I can't learn new tricks. Then they laugh, and inform me, that my failure is hinged to the fact I am a non-musician, and well, a tad on the lazy side when it comes to learning something out of my field of interest. I'm interested, I know that for sure, but it's true, I don't play an instrument any more, making it a little tougher to immerse in their world, other than as a keen listener. I love music but from an armchair, close enough to the stereo to get a nice, clear sound.
      The Christmas period is perfect for working away some of the kinks we bunch-up with, during the retail surge, and then suffer the traditional stresses like everyone else, hustling up presents for friends and family while trying to stave off bankruptcy; and yes, it is a pleasant opportunity to wind-down from what was, a few days earlier, a pretty hectic pace, and I'm sure it's the same for you folks, trying to fit everything into its place, like closing a suitcase with fifty percent too much inside. In between customers, we recline and enjoy the spoils of the season of giving, and so far this morning, I've caught Suzanne in the candy box on three separate occasions, to be met with the rather terse response, "Leave me alone, it's Christmas." I had to remind her that it was actually "Boxing Day," or if she preferred, "The Day After Christmas," which actually means nothing more than a day off by association with a major holiday. I had one banana to her three chocolates, which proves I'm serious about my recently inked New Year's resolution, to reduce my weight, and live healthier than the year before. "What you mean, you lunk-head, truthfully, is that you will sit more, sleep longer, and dodge chores more actively than the year before, to claim you have become healthier because of more relaxation; not recreation." Suzanne confronted me, while at the same time, pulling down my ball cap over my years. She's a real kidder. From a long line of kidders from back there in the wilds of Ufford and Windermere. My father lived to 82 years of age, and I credit this to his regular nightly naps, which he took just after dinner, from my earliest recollections, up to the time the grim reaper caught up with him. Attaining this age was remarkable, considering he used to smoke two packages of cigarettes a day, and drank O'keefe Ale like he was a booze-olympian in training. I can remember one morning, when we were living on Alport Bay, of the broader Lake Muskoka, and hearing him hacking and choking out in the driveway, getting into the car for his daily commute to Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge. I was on my way outside, to help him, if I could, regain his composure. It was all about heavy smoking, and that jag, which ended by time I hit the driveway, was what finally convinced him to quit altogether. He suffered from several medical afflictions, including gout, and some blood pressure issues, but he really should have died a lot earlier in his life due to excesses. Yet it was probably his nightly or even afternoon naps on Sundays, that bought him some extra time. This was how he handled work stresses, and it certainly seemed to benefit him. I have been doing exactly the same for many years, and it drives Suzanne nuts, because she can't, or won't nap, because she claims it makes her feel worse, when she wakes up. I understand that, because it has happened to me as well; the feeling crappy part, that shouldn't come from having a half hour's nap, but does anyway. She also claims that it would hinder her going to sleep at regular bedtime, if she indulged in a pre-bedtime snooze. I think it's more because I can nod off in the middle of a conversation, and she can't fall asleep easily even at bedtime. I caught her once putting some catnip on my sweater, so that our resident felines would keep me company in my sudden slumber. Her "claws to the chest" torture. Nice eh?
     The studio here has a circulation fan, that when employed, has a noise associated, so soft and gentle that it lulls me into a trance-like nap, even while I'm staring at the glowing screen of this laptop. The bad part about this, is that I almost drop the laptop, or erase everything I've written to that point in the day, by hitting the wrong key; or having fallen into slumber with a cup of hot coffee balanced on my knee, subsequently pouring it into my crotch, which is a real sleep disturbing event. Suzanne will occasionally bump my shoulder, when she comes into the studio, just in case I was cheating, by closing my eyes and wandering the nether world. It's not like I do it on purpose, or have a medical issue that initiates slumber without warning. I guess I'm just too relaxed for my own good, or her good, which I think is the more appropriate explanation. I think she would like me to work at a church pew in the back of the store, instead of this comfortable, nicely broken-in studio chair, which she believes, is part of my staying-awake problem. I blame the circulation fan. Did I mention over-work? Naw, I didn't think you would buy that either. Point is, when she catches me in the outreaches of dreamland, at this time of the holiday season, she's not entitled to wake me up unless my pants are on fire, because we agree to cut each other some festive slack, out of respect for Christmas goodwill.
     When she jostles me awake, bringing me back from where I don't want to return, at that precise moment, I remind her, about former neighbors we once had, when we lived in Bracebridge, who fought with each other most of the time, almost as if it was a home style recreation. They were both violators of the law when it came to spousal abuse, that's for sure, but everyone in the vicinity, knew that they had been beating-on each other for decades. According to urban legend, in this part of town, she could administer punishment on her husband, to match anything he could dish out to the contrary. Most of the difficulties were small bananas, that did have quite a bit to do with the over consumption of booze. I remember talking to a fellow who lived right beside the couple, telling me about the Christmas Day, he was watching out the side window, eating breakfast, and watched the husband sneaking around the side of their small bungalow, as if looking for a perpetrator of something or other lurking in the backyard. He was crouched down low, and peering around the back corner, into the yard, as if expecting he could ambush a trespasser. From around the front corner, suddenly and quietly, came his wife, walking slowly and also being slightly bent over, in a stealth move to sneak up on someone. The neighbor had seen events like this before, unfolding around their property, but he started to think there must be something much more sinister going on, around the back of the house, as both husband and wife were focused on this area of the property. He kept getting lower to the ground, looking around the corner, and she got closer with a snowshovel in her one hand. As she got nearer to where her husband was holding vigil, she then put both hands on the shovel, raised it over her head, and only a few feet away, brought it down on his hatted-head with a great thud, knocking him over, face first, onto the ground. Not being satisfied that he had received the message, clear enough, she continued to beat him with the aluminum shovel, as he tried to protect his head, and get up, in order to run away. My friend said, that the assault lasted for about five minutes, and when he finally did manage to get to his feet, and start to stumble and run into the backyard, she was right behind him, making laps around the tiny bungalow, with the shovel still raised in the air. Then somehow, he got another bigger shovel, and started to chase her the opposite way around the house, until finally, he dropped his weapon, at the doorway of the house, ran up a few stairs, opened the door, snuck in and locked the entrance, so she couldn't get back inside. The neighbor went out on his front walk, to see what was happening next door, and there she was, hitting the door with the shovel, while he made faces at her through the front window. I remind Suzanne that I am always watching for her to suddenly take up an interest in snowshovelling, amongst other things that involves tools, she might wish to use as persuaders. And any spin-off desire to keep me awake 24 hours a day, so she won't feel bad when she can't sleep herself. Would Suzanne hunt me down, and thwack me with a shovel over the head, for doing something she didn't approve? Of course not. She threw me out into the yard one night after a party, because she said I was acting like a drunkard; which was the truth considering what I had consumed that night. She's far too subtle and sensible to employ a shovel, when words can accomplish so much more, and leave less bumps as aftermath.
     We've actually arrived at a long-negotiated settlement, at least while we are home at Birch Hollow. I don't complain about her knitting needles clashing, in that annoying ticky-tacky way, while she makes acres of knit-ware, watching the television, and she won't throw things at me, including catnip, if by some chance, I am found to be napping in my chair with a cat on my lap. This will change only if I fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, or that I have a headache and the knitting needles sound like hockey sticks slapping at a puck, and need her to cease desist. In the studio, anything goes, so it's best that I don't nod off unless she leaves the building. Her argument is, "if I have to work, so do you." The argument I use, which suggests I am actually in deep thought, when in fact I'm sound asleep, doesn't fly with Suzanne, because I can never explain my great new ideas when she wakes me up. I babble a lot, and can't really come up with anything profound, to offer as a great new idea for the shop or for my blog. Robert tips me off when Suzanne is rounding the corner, of her room, and I ask him with some visible consternation, whether she's got by chance, a shovel in her hand.

A BOXING DAY SKI ADVENTURE - LIKE JAMES BOND MIGHT HAVE ENCOUNTERED, KEEPING ONE SKI LENGTH IN FRONT OF THE BAD GUYS

     I was a pretty fair cross country skier in my glorious youth. Not great but adequate enough, to tackle such adventures as traversing Lake Muskoka from our cottage on Alport Bay, to the former Pier 100 Marina and Lakeland Lodge, on Highway 118. I liked the level version of cross country skiing. The only negative I ever had, on the straight-away, was when I wore the wrong ski pants once, and nearly froze my privates to my leg, as the wind picked up, and I wasn't wearing my thermals. But as far as being able to navigate woodland trails, and some challenging downhill runs, I might not have been textbook in terms of my style, but I didn't fall and tumble into the trailside brambles either.
     At the time of the late 1970's, I was dating a girl, Gail Smith, who was an experienced downhill and cross country skier. Her father Gord was incredibly agile for his elder age, and used the skis like they were speed skates; and he had absolutely no fear of speed or winding, narrow trails, through the thick hardwoods. When they invited me to come over and ski with them, on an exciting new trail they had been visiting, on a nearby hillside, a short distance from their house, I assumed they recognized my skills were not up to their speed and competence. I thought they knew I was a rookier when it came to challenging trails. The kind of hills I had been traversing to that point were knobs of topography; mere garden variety knolls, without honking big trees in the way. They never once mentioned, that it was a "James Bond" style network, of uphill and downhill trails, that were savagely dangerous to anyone who wasn't an "A" level skier. I was a "C-" at that point, and should never, ever, have attempted to follow these people up the hillside in the first place. The hill was called "the widow maker," which was a pretty fair overview, and would have been useful information before I started sliding down that slope with a devil-may-care attitude for what might happen out of the ordinary.
     When you're cutting uphill, sideways, foot by foot, you can be forgiven for not estimating the number of feet between the peak of where you're climbing to, and what the speed will be like, on the way down to the bottom again. Add to this, a wild number of sharp curves, where trees line the trail on both sides. I put on wax, ahead of the adventure, suited to the cold temperature of the day, and what Gail had recommended. I think it was from a can that must have read "super sonic wax - use at your own risk!" The route up to the top of this massive hillside, that you can see from Highway II8, opposite the Ziska Road intersection, was fairly routine, and it was not an integral part of the trail system, as I was to later find out. In other words, I was climbing the easy part of the trail, so much less interesting than the insane route once we skied into the interior.
     When we got to what they determined as the starting point, of this winding, downhill odyssey, Gord was the first to take off down the wooded hillside, on the opposite side to where we had just climbed up. So it as an unknown quality and quantity to one of three skiers on that occasion, and that was me. When Gord's toque disappeared around a far bend in the trail, Gail took off, yelling back at me to be careful on the way down. Not wanting to show my fear, or my lack of prowess on these two thin boards with curved tips, I waited until she disappeared around the corner, before inching toward the point of no return. To better appreciate the coming description, it's helpful to recall the Chevy Chase scene in the movie "Christmas Vacation," when he takes to the slopes with a saucer sled, with a special treatment for the bottom, to make it travel even faster. James Bond speed!
     It only took a few moments, before I understood something important, about personal safety, as relates to not being proficient enough on skis, to handle an Olympic cross country ski course. I had no control of the skis, or way to bring down the speed, except to crash into one of the trail-side trees, which would have resulted in serious limb and skull injuries. I tried to abort a dozen or more times, when I'd pass a small, soft looking shrubbery, to cushion my fall. The problem was, the icy trail and the wax I'd used, gave me wings going down that winding, curving hillside, deep in what can only be called, Muskoka bush. I have never been so frightened, as on that fifteen minute decline, around the hilltop like pealing an apple. I was going through evergreen narrows, that were so tight, and the boughs overlapping the trail, that I was getting slapped in the face by a million needles, a few to the groin, careening around sharp curves, just before being dropped into a basin, and going so fast, that I think I passed into the future. There were moments when I had to balance on one ski, going around corners, and other times, when I hit an unexpected bump, and I had no skis on the trail whatsoever. I passed my guardian angel twice, and she said, "Ted, I can't help you on this one," and the devil was waiting for the moment of impact, that would dislodge my soul to carry on down the hill.
     All I could do, was try to keep my skis in the grooves laid down by the others, and hope the adventure would wind-down the closer I got to the bottom. That never happened. For gosh sakes, I kept going faster, as if I was being pushed by the winter wind, down that icy slope. There was one point, where I did have to meet up with the Grim Reaper, betting on my demise. I came around a bad corner, and on the short straight-away, there was a log across the trail. I remembered Gail telling me about this, before we started downhill, and how I had to squat down, in full flight, to ski beneath. When you come upon sobering like this, with that kind of warning attached, the question is, thusly, how tight a squeeze will it be to slide below, without removing one's skull. I had little time to weigh this over, before I had to squat as tight as I could, and even then, I felt the brush of its bark hit my toque on the pass underneath. When I looked back, because I was compelled to, I hit another sharp drop in the trail, and around the very next corner, there was a second fallen tree bridging over the ice-run. I don't remember being told about this one, but it required even more dexterity and prowess to stay on my skis. I was too scared to do anything more than pray and duck. Honestly, I felt like James Bond being chased by gunmen skiing behind. I was hit, at the same time, by the bare branches of birches and maples, that encroached over the trail, and thwacked by intrusive cedars that while pretty as a picture, weren't the softest against the flesh when hit at eighty miles per hour. When I finally got to the bottom of the hill, Gord and Gail were waiting, smiling, and preparing, in fact, to head right back up the hill for another run. The only time I fell on the whole downward slide, was when I was stopped at the bottom, and shaking with fright, kissed the snowy old earth.
     I declined their invitation to try it all again, mumbling something like (not bloody likely) deciding that it was in the best interest of my future well-being, to never, ever, take cross country skiing to that extreme again. I didn't care what my girlfriend thought of my cowardice, at that moment, or that I never again strapped on skis to companion her anywhere else. I don't think it was the ski incident, that influenced her to seek out a more compatible, athletic, more recreationally savvy mate, but if it had been a condition of our relationship, I would have had to bid her a good life and find a more placid, home-body, not as frightened of downhill slopes as me. Suzanne and I can't get up to much trouble at all, just knitting and reading at Birch Hollow, leaving the death defying ski challenges to the more physically adventurous. Even on a double dog dare, no way!
     When we arrived back at Birch Hollow, late in the afternoon of Boxing Day, a few of the local kids were riding their bikes up the street, and I saw folks fixing car engines, sweeping driveways, and one elderly woman, tipping up a huge bag of bird seed, into a verandah feeder. There were lots of dog walkers, parents with strollers, and the smoke hanging in the air, from a neighbor's belching wood stove, it sure smelled a lot like springtime in Muskoka. It was a day when you could walk outdoors without toque and coat, and where you didn't need winter boots or snowshoes to navigate your property or town streets. There were Christmas trees of yesterday, already tossed to curbside, and the inflated Christmas themed figures on area lawns were looking pretty deflated, ready to be boxed up for another year. Business at the shop was pretty fair for a day when most Gravenhurst mainstreet shops were closed, but it was still worth opening, if only to get ready for the busy Saturday we expect, of the more accepted Boxing Day sale country-style. The boys are out with friends tonight, and we have some wine chilling, a few leftover candles, and a heck of a lot of turkey and dressing, so we'll happily stuff ourselves once again, in the spirit of the season. You thought I was going to suggest we were going to have a romantic evening. It doesn't get any more romantic around here, than a quiet house, with good food, no rock 'n roll music, candlelight evening in front of the boob tube, waxing nostalgic about Christmases past.


From The Archives

WHAT NOT TO DO WITH A FIVE HUNDRED POUND CASH REGISTER -

THE CONVERSATION PIECE AT BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES THAT ALMOST KILLED A GUY

DON'T KID YOURSELF. ANTIQUE DEALERS HAVE A LITTLE CARNEY IN THEM. A SMIDGEON OF THE CARNIVAL DNA. THE THREE RING CIRCUS PIZZAZ. ADVOCATES OF THE OCCASIONAL RAZZLE DAZZLE, TO SHOWCASE THEIR TREASURES. IF I HAD THE SKELETON OR THE SHRUNKEN HEAD I'VE BEEN HUNTING FOR AGES, I'D HAVE A GREAT GRAPHIC TO ACCOMPANY THIS BLOG…..AND MAYBE I'D MAKE OUR BOYS A GENEROUS OFFER, TO SHOWCASE IT IN THEIR GRAVENHURST MUSIC SHOP. THROW A COWBOY HAT ON THE SKELETON. PUT A SMALL ONE ON THE SHRUNKEN HEAD, AND NEXT THING YOU KNOW, THERE'S A LINE-UP OF GAWKERS TAKING A GANDER. WE DEALERS LIKE TO IMPRESS OUR CLIENTELE. IT'S AN AN ODD AND OLD PASSION, YOU SEE, TO "OUT-WOW" THE COMPETITION, WITH THE BEST OF THE BEST. MOSTLY, IT'S A SHOW OF "A" QUALITY ANTIQUES. MING VASES AND PAINTINGS BY THE MASTERS. SOMETIMES IT CAN GET KIND OF WEIRD, THIS ATTEMPT TO GET THE ULTIMATE SHOW-STOPPER. I'VE HAD A FEW INTERESTING PIECES OVER THE YEARS, THAT PEAKED CUSTOMERS' CURIOSITY, BUT ONE STICKS IN MY MIND. IT WAS A DANDY. NOT WEIRD. BUT A GREAT LOCAL ANTIQUE TO PLAY WITH.

A LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CAME IN ONE DAY, WITH A COUPLE OF PHOTOGRAPHS OF A LARGE VINTAGE PIECE, HE WANTED TO SELL.TO ME SPECIFICALLY, BECAUSE I HAD THE SPACE IT REQUIRED, AND AS HE POINTED OUT, "A GOOD CEMENT FLOOR," FOR IT TO SIT ON. THAT PEAKED MY CURIOSITY. IT WAS A HUGE CASH REGISTER, WHICH I BELIEVE WAS A NATIONAL (CAN'T BE SURE NOW), THAT WAS ATTACHED TO A SUBSTANTIAL WOODEN CABINET, THAT LOOKED LIKE A VICTROLA BASE. THERE WERE DRAWERS IN THE FRONT OF THE CABINET, AND WHEN YOU HIT A CERTAIN COMBINATION OF KEYS, THE APPROPRIATE ONE OPENED. IT WAS A MAGNIFICENT PIECE, AND I BOUGHT IT SIGHT-UNSEEN. WHEN IT WAS DELIVERED, ON A TROLLEY, I WAS SPEECHLESS. I SAT IT BESIDE MY SALES DESK, AND AS FAR AS I WAS CONCERNED, IT WAS THE MOST INTERESTING ANTIQUE PIECE I HAD OWNED, TO THAT POINT IN MY CAREER AS A DEALER.

BARRY MARSHALL, AND HIS ASSISTANT RON YEOMAN, HAD MOVED IT WITHOUT ANY FUSS WHATSOEVER, DOWN THE SINGLE FLIGHT OF STAIRS IN THE SHOP, AND POSITIONED IT PERFECTLY FOR MAXIMUM VISIBILITY. EVEN FROM THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, CUSTOMERS COULD SEE THE HUGE OAK AND BRASS CASH REGISTER. BARRY DID WARN ME, THAT IT WOULD TAKE A TROLLY, AND SEVERAL WEIGHT-LIFTERS TO GET IT OUT OF THE BASEMENT, IF AND WHEN IT SOLD. HE SHOWED ME HOW IT ALL WORKED, AND HOW EACH OF THE DRAWERS HAD A DIFFERENT CODE, AND A BELL BEFORE IT OPENED. ONE OF THE TRICKS, WAS TO AVOID GETTING HIT IN THE GROIN AREA, WHEN THAT PARTICULAR DRAWER SHOT-OUT OF THE MAIN CABINET. I SUPPOSE QUITE A FEW LADS FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY, WHY IT WAS NECESSARY TO STAND BACK A TAD, WHEN PLAYING WITH THOSE DRAWERS. IT HAPPENED TO A COUPLE OF MEMBERS OF THE BIRCH HOLLOW "LIAR'S CLUB," (LITERARY AND POLITICAL DEBATING SOCIETY) EVEN AFTER I WARNED THEM TO BE CAREFUL ABOUT MID-ZONE DRAWER OPENINGS. THE DRAWERS ONCE HELD INVOICES, AND THEY WERE LIKE A VERTICAL FILING CABINET.

WHAT WAS SPECTACULAR ABOUT THIS PIECE, WAS ITS ALMOST PRISTINE CONDITION. IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM. IT WAS A LATE 1900'S CASH REGISTER, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, AND IT JUST COMMANDED PEOPLE TO TAP AT IT, WHILE WAITING FOR ME TO RING UP A PURCHASE AT THE SALES COUNTER. NO I DIDN'T USE IT. I HAD AN OLD TIN BOX WITH A RECEIPT BOOK. KIDS AND THEIR PARENTS SPENT SOME QUALITY TIME, PLAYING WITH THAT AMAZING TECHNOLOGY OF YESTERYEAR. FOR A LONG TIME I DIDN'T WANT TO SELL IT. I DON'T REMEMBER PRECISELY WHAT I PAID FOR IT, BUT IT HAD BEEN A BARGAIN, I CAN TELL YOU THAT MUCH. BUT THEN, AS USUALLY HAPPENS IN THIS CRAZY BUSINESS, WE WENT THROUGH A ROUGH PATCH, AND IT SIMPLY BECAME NECESSARY TO OFFER IT FOR SALE. I STARTED HIGH. AND THAT'S EXACTLY THE PRICE IT SOLD FOR, AND ALTHOUGH IT TOOK ABOUT SIX MONTHS TO PAY OFF, IT HAD BEEN A PROFITABLE PURCHASE ON MY PART.

SUZANNE WASN'T SURE I'D MAKE A DIME OFF IT, BUT I PROVED HER WRONG. I LOVE DOING THAT. BESIDES, AS DEALERS, WE ARE WELL AWARE, SHOW-STOPPER PIECES, CAN ACTUALLY HELP SELL OTHER THINGS. POTENTIAL BUYERS WILL FEEL THAT ANYONE WHO WOULD HAVE A WONDERFUL PIECE LIKE THE CASH REGISTER, OBVIOUSLY KNOWS ANTIQUES VERY WELL. I'M NOT EVEN SURE, ANY MORE, WHAT THE ASKING PRICE WAS, BUT I'M PRETTY CONFIDENT IT WENT FOR ABOUT TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, WHICH GAVE ME A SOLID MARK-UP FROM THE PURCHASE PRICE.

THE CASH REGISTER HAD ONCE BEEN OWNED BY BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSKOKA GARAGE, ON MANITOBA STREET, AND AS SOON AS MY FATHER-IN-LAW, NORM STRIPP, CAME INTO THE SHOP, HE FELL STRANGELY SILENT, FOR HIM, SEEING WHAT HE HAD LEANED-ON FOR SO MANY YEARS, IN THE "OLD DAYS" HANGING AROUND THE FORMER GARAGE. HE COULDN'T BELIEVE IT WAS STILL IN ONE PIECE. HE HADN'T SEEN IT IN ABOUT FORTY OR SO YEARS, AND ASSUMED IT WAS LONG GONE. SO WHEN HE WAS PLAYING WITH THE KEYS, AND BEFORE I COULD WARN HIM ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES, HE PUNCHED THE KEYS, DID A LITTLE DANCE BACK, AND WATCHED THE DRAWER COME WHIPPING OUT, GROIN-HIGH. "YOU SEE, I REMEMBER IT DOING THAT," HE SMIRKED. "I LOT OF GUYS GOT TAKEN IN MY THAT GAG, LET ME TELL YOU. MORE THAN A FEW GOT THEIR OWN BELLS RUNG."

I DON'T THINK THERE HAS BEEN ANOTHER PIECE IN OUR COLLECTION, THAT ATTRACTED SO MUCH ATTENTION, FOR THE YEAR OR SO WE OWNED THE CASH REGISTER. I WAS SAD TO SEE IT GO, TO BE HONEST, BUT THE MONEY WAS NICE TOO. THE ONLY GLITCH WAS ITS REMOVAL. WHEN THE YOUNG MAN CAME TO PICK UP THE CASH REGISTER, HE BROUGHT AN ELDERLY GERMAN CHAP, AND DID I MENTION THE GLOVES. THEY DID HAVE PROTECTIVE GLOVES. NOTHING ELSE. NO WEIGHT-LIFTERS, NO CART, AND NO SUITABLE VEHICLE, IF AND WHEN WE DID ACTUALLY RAISE IT FROM THE BASEMENT.

BUT WHAT THEY DID HAVE ON THEIR SIDE, OR SO THEY THOUGHT, WAS THAT KIND OF MISGUIDED, TESTOSTERONE DRIVEN, "MANLY MAN" APPROACH, BELIEVING THEY COULD RAISE THIS TITANIC PIECE UP THOSE STAIRS, BY WILLPOWER ALONE. LOTS OF BLUSTER AND BACK SLAPPING, AND DISPLAYS OF MUSCLES, SOME A LITTLE INVERTED FROM THE DAYS WHEN THEY FANCIED KICKING SAND IN THE FACES OF WEAKLINGS. GADS, I KNEW WE WERE SCREWED THE MOMENT I SAW ALF AND RALPH (FROM GREEN ACRES), PLANNING TO DEAD-LIFT THE UNIT UP THE STAIRS. A FEW OF THE LIAR'S CLUB, IN THE SHOP THAT MORNING, EXPRESSED GRAVE CONCERN ABOUT THE MAGNITUDE OF THE PROJECT, AND THAT BEING TOP-HEAVY, WAS GOING TO MAKE IT AS AWKWARD AS IT WAS OUTRAGEOUSLY HEAVY. THE GERMAN FELLOW WAS VERY ADAMANT THAT IT COULD BE DONE BY OLD FASHIONED "GUMPTION," AND GOD WILLING, PROPORTIONAL LEVERAGE. OKAY. WELL, IT WAS AFTER ALL, THEIR RESPONSIBILITY TO REMOVE THE UNIT FROM THE STORE. THEY DIDN'T PAY ME TO HAUL IT AWAY. SO I LET THEM CALL THE SHOTS.

NOW IT'S IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTAND A COUPLE OF DETAILS THAT WILL BETTER ILLUSTRATE THE SCENE, UNFOLDING HERE, IN THIS MANITOBA STREET BASEMENT-SHOP. IT WAS ABOUT NOON, ON A SATURDAY. ONE OF OUR BUSY DAYS. WE HAD ABOUT TWENTY CUSTOMERS IN THE SHOP AT THE TIME, SO I WASN'T ABLE TO DEVOTE MY TIME TO JUST ONE PROJECT. SO THE LIAR'S CLUB CRONIES, HELPED THE TWOSOME SLIDE THE CASH REGISTER THE LENGTH OF THE ROOM, UP TO THE BASE OF THE STAIRS. AT THE POINT THEY WERE SETTING ABOUT TO LIFT IT UP ONTO THE FIRST STAIR, IN THE PROGRESSION OF ABOUT TWELVE STEPS, I CAME AROUND THE COUNTER TO HELP OUT. ONE MUST ALSO APPRECIATE, THE CASH REGISTER WAS ABOUT TEN INCHES LESS THAN THE WIDE OF THE ACTUAL STAIRCASE. THIS MEANT ABOUT FIVE INCHES ON EACH SIDE TO GET OUR HANDS IN TO GUIDE IT UP THE STAIRS. THIS SHOULD HAVE CAUSED INITIAL CONCERN, BUT THE ELDER FELLOW WAS LATE FOR WORK, AND DIDN'T HAVE A LOT OF PATIENCE FOR THE JOB AT HAND. FAIR ENOUGH.

SO THE IDEA WAS THIS. THE GERMAN BLOKE, WAS AT THE FRONT, WITH THE STAIRS AT HIS BACK. NOW THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO HUMAN WAY, TO DEAD LIFT THE CASH REGISTER IN THIS FASHION. WHEN WE TRIED TO POINT THIS OUT, THE CO-ORDINATOR OF THE JUMBO LIFT, SHOT BACK, "JUST PUSH LADS, PUSH!" I THOUGHT LIFT WAS THE WORD WE WERE WAITING FOR, NOT PUSH. SO BY JESUS, WE TRIED OUR BEST, FROM THE BACK SIDE, TO GET THAT UNIT UP ON THE FIRST STAIR. WE DID IT! WE PUSHED. AND PUSHED. IT WAS A MAGNIFICENT SHOW OF STRENGTH AND ENDURANCE. HERE'S A POINT AS WELL. WITH A TROLLY, WE WOULD HAVE BEEN UP THE STAIRS, AND OUT THE DOOR, IN THE SAME TIME IT TOOK US TO MAKE IT UP TO THE FIRST STEP. THIS IS WHEN THINGS GOT INTERESTING. WE GOT TO A POINT WITH THE LEAN OF THE UNIT, AS TOP HEAVY AS A CAR ON STILTS, THAT IT SIMPLY BECAME TOO MUCH FOR THE OLDTIMER ON THE STAIRS. GRADUALLY, THE GUY LOST HIS ABILITY TO KEEP IT UPRIGHT. WE HAD ALMOST NO SAY IN THE MATTER, BECAUSE THERE WAS LITTLE WAY OF BALANCING THE PIECE ONCE IT PASSED THE THRESHOLD, GRAVITY DOING THE REST.

I'D NEVER SEEN A GROWN MAN CRY LIKE THAT BEFORE. IT CAME OVER GRADUALLY, SO THERE WASN'T A BIG BANG OR ANYTHING. BUT THE FULL WEIGHT OF THE CASH REGISTER LANDED IN HIS CROTCH. NOT JUST THAT, BUT APPARENTLY HE WAS HITTING THE RIGHT BUTTONS, BECAUSE THE DRAWERS WERE SMASHING HIS LEGS LIKE HAMMERS. I THOUGHT THE GUY'S HEAD WAS GOING TO EXPLODE. SO WHAT TO DO NOW. THERE WAS NO MORE THAN FIVE INCHES OF CLEARANCE ON EACH SIDE, TO TRY AND GRAB THE FRONT OF THE WOODEN BASE. MOST OF US COULDN'T GET OUR ARMS IN FAR ENOUGH TO GRAB ANYTHING. THIS GUY, BENEATH THE UNIT, WAS SINGING LIKE A CANARY, AND IT WASN'T PRETTY. IT WAS GOOD HE'D ALREADY RAISED A FAMILY, BECAUSE HE WAS DEFINITELY GETTING A CHEAP NEUTERING. SO THEN ADD ON, THE FACT, THAT I'VE GOT ABOUT TWENTY PEOPLE WHO WANT TO EXIT THE SHOP, AND TWO KIDS WHO WERE COMPLAINING THEY HAD TO PEE, AND THIS GERMAN GENTLEMAN GETTING CRUSHED ON THE STAIRS. NOW WHEN THE GUY WAS YELLING AT US, IT WAS AS IF HE'D SUCKED BACK A WHACK OF HELIUM, AND IT TOOK US A LOT OF GUMPTION, AS HE SAID EARLIER, TO AVOID LAUGHING ABOUT THE STAIR IMPASSE.

SO HERE WAS THE EMERGENCY PLAN. WE NEEDED TO GET ONE OF THE LIAR'S CLUB MEMBERS, OVER THAT REGISTER, AND THE GUY TRAPPED BENEATH, TO HELP LIFT IT BACK OFF HIS, WELL, PRIVATE PARTS. THE PROBLEM OF COURSE, WAS THAT IN ORDER TO DO THIS, WAS GOING TO REQUIRE ONE OF US, ADDING TO THE WEIGHT OF THE UNIT ON THE GUY'S GROIN. WE HAD TO CRAWL UP AND OVER THE UNIT TO HELP HIM OUT. THE SMALLEST GUY WEIGHED ABOUT TWO HUNDRED POUNDS, AND WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE CASH REGISTER AND STAND, THAT WOULD HAVE MEANT THE VICTIM THUSLY, COULD HAVE PUT THE FAMILY JEWELS IN A VERY THIN ENVELOPE, FROM THAT POINT IN HIS LIFE. THANKFULLY, JUST AS WE TOYED WITH THIS PLAN, A MOUNTAIN OF A MAN CAME THROUGH THE STORE DOOR, AS IF BY THE GRACE OF GOD. IN ONLY SECONDS, THE CASH REGISTER WAS UPRIGHT AGAIN, AND DOWN OFF THAT FIRST PRECARIOUS STEP. AND WHILE THERE WAS AN UNDIGNIFIED MASSAGING OF THE GROIN, AND A LOT OF WHEEZING, THE RESCUE HAD BEEN SUCCESSFUL WITH MINIMAL PHYSICAL DAMAGE DONE. OF COURSE THERE WAS A LITTLE PRIDE THING THAT DIDN'T FARE SO WELL BUT I'M TOLD THAT OUTSIDE OF A FEW BRUISES, THAT WERE NEVER REVEALED, THANK GOODNESS, THE GUY SURVIVED; THE TWOSOME REMAINED FRIENDS FOR SOME TIME TO COME.

THE NEXT WEEKEND, MOVERS CAME WITH A TROLLY, AND WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, THE CASH REGISTER WAS HEADING TO ITS NEW HOME. EVER SINCE, I'VE TRIED TO AVOID PURCHASING ITEMS LIKE THE CASH REGISTER, FOR SOME PRETTY OBVIOUS REASONS. ANTIQUE DEALERS TEND TO BE GOOD AT RETROSPECTIVES, BUT NOT SO GOOD AT "IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT" DECISION MAKING. EVERY GIRL I DATED, AND THE ONE GAL I MARRIED, ALWAYS FIGURED I HAD SOME SORT OF UNDIAGNOSED DISABILITY WITH PERCEPTION. I COULDN'T UNDERSTAND THEIR ASSESSMENT. I'D BEEN A HOCKEY GOALIE, A BASEBALL FIELDER, AND A GOLFER, ALL REQUIRING FINELY TUNED PERCEPTION. "THEN WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THE FLAT-TO-THE-WALL PINE CUPBOARD YOU JUST BOUGHT, WON'T FIT INTO MY VOLKSWAGON (BEETLE)," MY GIRLFRIEND WOULD YELL OUT IN FRUSTRATION, AT THE CONCLUSION OF MANY AUCTION SALES. MOST OF THE TIME SHE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I'D PURCHASED, UNTIL I ASKED HER TO HELP ME CARRY IT TO THE CAR. "ARE YOU NUTS TED," SHE'D BLURT. "IT WON'T FIT IN MY CAR. NO WAY." IT'S TRUE. I FREQUENTLY ASKED IF SHE WOULD DRIVE ME TO THESE AUCTIONS, IN HER NICE LITTLE ORANGE CAR. I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW MANY TIMES WE DROVE HOME WITH HUGE PIECES HANGING OUT THE WINDOWS, AND THE FAMILIAR SOUND OF A DOMESTIC IN PROGRESS. SHE ALWAYS STARTED WITH THE SAME INTRODUCTION, THAT WAS ALMOST MUSICAL TO MY EARS. "YOU STUPID, STUPID MAN. YOU'RE DRIVING ME INSANE." I COULD RESPOND TO THAT, BY SAYING, "BUT I LOVE YOU….DOES THAT COUNT FOR ANYTHING?" "IF YOU LOVED ME, YOU CREEP, YOU WOULDN'T BUY ALL THIS STUFF AND JAM IT INTO MY CAR." IN ALL FAIRNESS, I COULDN'T LOAD IT IN MY CAR. I DIDN'T HAVE ONE.

THE FINAL STRAW, WAS WHEN I WAS LOADING IN A TIDY LITTLE VICTORIAN LOVE SEAT…..NOW TRY TO IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD LOOK LIKE IN A BEETLE, AND I HEARD A SOUND THAT BROKE HER HEART. BROKE MINE TOO. "TED, YOU JUST PUSHED THE LEG THROUGH THE CEILING," SHE SAID, HER RED FACE NOW MATCHING HER RED HAIR. SHE WAS RIGHT. THERE WAS AN "L" SHAPED TEAR IN THE FABRIC OF THE CAR'S CEILING, THAT I'M PRETTY SURE HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY VICTORIAN ANTIQUE. I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY ANTIQUE DEALERS FOUND THEMSELVES IN SIMILAR SITUATIONS, DURING THEIR YEARS DATING, BUT I'VE GOT TO TELL YOU, IT WAS A GAME CHANGER FOR ME. "YOU'RE JUST INSANE. I CAN'T DEAL WITH YOU ANY MORE," SHE YELLED AT ME, AS WE STARTED TO GET A BIGGER CROWD AROUND US, THAN THE AUCTIONEER WHO WAS STILL SELLING STUFF. "I'LL MAKE IT UP TO YOU DEAR," I SAID, NODDING AND WAVING OFF THE GALLERY. "MAKE IT UP, MAKE IT UP….I'LL TELL YOU HOW YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE IT UP," SHE MUMBLED, GETTING IN THE CAR, AND SLAMMING THE DOOR SO HARD I COULD TASTE THE METAL CHIPS FLYING OFF. YOU KNOW, SHE NEVER DID TELL ME HOW I WAS GOING TO MAKE IT UP TO HER. BUT IT WASN'T LONG AFTER, THAT SHE GAVE ME "THE PROVERBIAL HEAVE-HO," OR AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT MY MATES TOLD ME IT'S CALLED, WHEN A GIRL HITS YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A SPENT WINE BOTTLE. I DESERVED WHAT I GOT. DID IT CHANGE ME? I'M NOT GOING TO ASK MY WIFE THAT QUESTION, BECAUSE FRANKLY, IT ONLY MAKES HER MAD TO RECALL MY PAST INDISCRETIONS, WITH THE SHIPPING AND HANDLING OF REALLY BIG ANTIQUE ITEMS, I THOUGHT WOULD FIT IN THE VAN.

I SUPPOSE IT WAS MY FAULT THE GERMAN CHAP WAS NEARLY NEUTERED THAT DAY ON OUR SHOP STAIRS. I SHOULD HAVE INSISTED, FOR SAFETY REASONS, THAT A TROLLY BE EMPLOYED TO REMOVE THE CASH REGISTER. OH WELL, RETROSPECTIVES ARE WHAT THEY ARE AFTER ALL. CAN'T CHANGE WHAT IS NOW IN THE BIRCH HOLLOW HISTORY BOOK.

"YOU JUST GET CARRIED AWAY," SUZANNE SAID TO ME ONE DAY, AT A LOCAL AUCTION IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN I WAS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET THE HOOSIER CUPBOARD INTO THE VAN, WITHOUT HAVING TO DISMANTLE IT FIRST. AS SUZANNE REALLY WANTED THAT PIECE FOR HER KITCHEN, WELL SIR, SHE SPIT ON HER HANDS, PULLED UP HER SLEEVES, AND BY GOLLY, THAT CUPBOARD WAS SHOVED SO FAR INTO THE VAN IT PUSHED THE FRONT SEATS UP TO THE DASHBOARD. "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE, TED," SHE SAID WITH A WINK. THIS GAL IS A KEEPER, I CHORTLED TO MYSELF. "WE'RE GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS IN THIS BUSINESS."

THANKS FOR JOINING TODAY'S ANTIQUE HUNTING BLOG.

Hans Brinker's Wooden Speed Skates? What This Blogger Found Under The Muskoka Christmas Tree

Right Off The Shoes Of Hans Brinker.   Rob Currie Photo

HANS BRINKER'S WOODEN SKATES - FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I OWN SPEED SKATES MADE IN HOLLAND

"HANS BRINKER OR THE SILVER SKATES," WRITTEN BY MARY MAPES DODGE, CIRCA 1865

     Probably you were doing the same thing as me in the wee hours; wandering aimlessly around in the middle of the night, wondering if the Wizard of Oz was replaying in South Muskoka. Listening to the rain, the wind, and wondering how long the power would be out on Christmas Day. I might have slept through the whole power outage and wind storm, if it wasn't for the fact we are downwind of at least two honking big generators, flanking the houses of our neighbors. As Birch Hollow is built on a cement pad, without a basement, the vibration drifts in waves through every board foot of the entire bungalow. The sound of these housebound "choppers," minus Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, kick-starting up, means there is no chance of sleeping through the power outage. Impossible without ear plugs. Even then, we can feel the vibration. I don't hate back-up generators, just the ones next to Birch Hollow. The biggest concern, other than the noise pollution very early on Christmas morning, was whether or not any of our trees have toppled over in the wind. We have a lot of trees on a small piece of property, and although I trim them regularly, we have a number of poplars that defy being cut-back, when they're fully grown. They just kind of topple in sections. The good news, at first light, was that all our trees were unscathed, except for the birches, that were a little thinner than before the big wind; but the clean-up of busted-off boughs was pretty light, in comparison to what some property owners found this morning. We heard the chainsaws whirring away, so this is a pretty fair sign something made of wood, had become lodged where it wasn't supposed to be.
     The power came on before daylight, and the motorcycle engines strapped to my neighbors' houses were shut down. It was a gentle, charming Christmas morning for us afterall; but I'm sorry for those who had the complications of no power, and fallen trees on their property. It wasn't an entirely green Christmas, and there were a few snow flurries by early afternoon. Suzanne, as she likes to do at the old homestead, made so much food, we have been stuffed for most of the day with incredible edibles. There were lots of food and beverage given for Christmas presents this year, and I think that everyone got what they had asked for; or hinted about wanting for months in advance. I got my classic fare of craft beer and nice wine, and Suzanne got all kinds of bath and beauty accessories, and a wonderful array of preserves from around the world. We were spoiled by others, let me tell you. But there's no way this should be considered a complaint of the season. I feel fatter than our cats, that also enjoyed their presents from the Thomson family, as available at the Muskoka Animal Shelter. Son Robert has only had ten percent luck getting cat Zappa through the special "tunnel" and at one point got his head stuck trying. As for the catnip toy, that was a huge hit with our big Tommy, named "Angus."

SOMETHING SPECIAL FROM MY SON, AND I ONLY WISH I COULD STRAP THE SKATES ON, AND TAKE OFF LIKE THE SILVER STREAK

     Andrew Currie is a pretty fair musician, according to critical review, and an accomplished buyer and seller of antiques, but it is his incredible memory that continually surprises me. Even in my youth, I had a sieve-like memory, so he definitely takes after his mother when it comes to recall. The reason I make this notation, for a Christmas Day blog, is that if refers to an amazing gift Andrew got me from an Orillia vintages shop, on Mississauga Street, known as "Carousel Collectables." I saw our friend Cindy, one of the shop representatives, speedily wrapping up something at the counter, while chatting with Andrew; they're good friends brought together by antiques and a mutual love for history and music. I thought it was a little early for Andrew to have already found something in the shop, and usually he runs items past us, just as we do with him. We are a family that critiques each others' purchases, except in areas of speciality. I don't ask Andrew about purchasing antiquarian books, and he doesn't usually ask me about vintage instrument purchases. It looked like Cindy was wrapping old drum sticks or something similar, that were long and slender. I am a very astute collector, hunter-gatherer, just not very good remembering stuff unless, well, I remember first off, to write down what is important for later-on. I sort of suspected he might be making a gift purchase, for his mother, because we like to give each other old stuff on special occasions, including birthdays. What does this have to do with Andrew's sharp memory?
     When I was curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, over a period of twelve years, working on behalf of the Crozier Foundation, I was always looking for interesting sports relics for my exhibition. During this time, our family purchased many sports artifacts on our own dime, to display in the new glass showcases, former National Hockey League goaltender, Roger Crozier, had helped finance, constructed in the lobby of the Bracebridge Memorial Community Centre. Even before the showcases had been finished, I had managed to collect fifty pair of old leather skates, even a pair that had a Bracebridge-made sole from the Beardmore Tannery on the Muskoka River. I used to rotate them through the exhibits over the course of each year, showing early figure and hockey skates. In a Cookstown Antique Mall, I fancied a pair of really old wooden platform skates, that fastened onto boots for pond skating. At the time, I didn't have a lot of money to work with, and I hated bugging the Foundation for more acquisition money. I think, at that time, which has to be well more than a decade ago, the skates were priced at around one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I looked at those skates for at least three years, and I hated to leave them behind when I left on each visit, but even antique dealers have to walk away at times, despite the hankering deep within.
     On each occasion, wee Andrew would try to encourage me to lay down the money, and make the wooden skates mine; and what a nice addition they would make to the other antique skates in the collection. By golly, Andrew remembered the wooden skates, and when he saw a similar but older, and much nicer pair, at Carousel Collectables, he whipped them off the display table as fast as he could, and hustled them over to the sales counter, so Cindy could wrap them before I could catch a glimpse. I had dropped Suzanne and Andrew at the door of the shop, while I went searching for a parking spot.     When we were loading purchases in the car, on the day we visited Orillia, I was struck by the shape of the wrapped item in the shopping bag, at the back of the vehicle, and asked Andrew what he had purchased for the shop. I just assumed it was something musical he planned to sell in his vintage guitar shop in Gravenhurst. I tried to move it once out of the car, and he slapped my wrist. "It's okay right where it is, so keep your hands off." Of course I got suspicious. Who wouldn't under circumstances like this, and the fact we antiques dealers have a nose for vintage pieces, wherever they are!
     I was pretty shocked when I opened the present in front of Andrew, this morning, and after unwrapping layers for about ten minutes, got to the treasure within. Here were a pair of late 1800's wooden platform speed skates, made in Holland, where the famous 1860's story, of "Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates," was based, and although Andrew didn't know it, "Hans Brinker," was the first book my parents gave me, for Christmas, back when I was about seven years of age. It's been a while between book and skates, but it was worth the wait. Andrew had made the purchase, because of all the times I had left the skates, back at that Cookstown Antique Mall, which by the way, burned down, undoubtedly destroying those old skates I had wanted for long and long. I was astonished that Andrew remembered how much I had wanted the wooden skates, and despite not being the curator of the collection any longer, I have still maintained my interest in vintage skating memorabilia. There is another connection, and it has to do with my kin folk from Holland.
     It has only been in the past year, that I began to appreciate my own Dutch connection, via the emigrants who settled in New York in the 1600's, by the family name "Vandervoorte," who settled in the area of the Hudson River, to potentially having been in the imagined village of "Sleepy Hollow," as written by author Washington Irving, into the text of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Gradually, I am learning more about my Dutch ancestry, which I find almost incredible, considering that, as long as my parents were alive, the only family history known, was that the Jacksons and Sandercocks, who were originally from the Liverpool area of England. Even though my mother used to tell me about her grandmother, who she referred to as being of the "Pennsylvania Dutch," which meant German more so than Dutch in ancestry. It turns out that my great grandmother was a Vandervoorte, and on her side of the family tree, Suzanne, our resident researcher, found the mix between German and Dutch emigrants to America back in the mid 1600's. It was just kind of neat then, to get a pair of well made, and beautifully crafted wooden skates, actually made in Holland more than a century ago. If one can truly be smitten by inanimate objects, I am thusly and soundly smitten. I don't think I'll strap them on, because I wouldn't know how, and they are for feet much larger than mine. They are wonderful reminders of skating as it was in the days of Hans Brinker, one of my favorite old time stories.
     I hope you managed, despite the big wind storm, to have a Merry Christmas. By golly, just now I had to unfasten my pants, because I ate way too much dinner, and was in danger of exploding here in the living room. What a downer that would have been. We are back in the shop tomorrow, because Robert and Andrew are putting on a vinyl sale; and we've got some musician friends planning to drop in, which explains why Suzanne has just started mixing-up ingredients to make brownies. That's right! We always have treats available for these hard working folks, who enjoy the occasional respite at Andrew's Music. Sometimes they "jam" (play) in the studio with Andrew and Robert, and Suzanne and I kick back and enjoy the music.
     We love this festive week at the store, and enjoy all the folks who visit and share their Christmas stories, travels and adventures.

ALL OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOODS -

WHAT TO DO WITH THE MEMORIES?

I’M LEAVING THAT UP TO MY SONS AND GRANDKIDS!

In a notebook I keep by my livingroom chair, I occasionally jot down story ideas. Not invented stories but ones that I believe my biography should contain. Reminiscences I want my grandkids to know about. I’m pretty sure my grown sons, know how important my childhood recollections are......because I’ve been droning on and on for years, about stuff I’m sure they couldn’t care less about. It has relevance in the grand scheme but on the short haul, it doesn’t make much difference if I tossed green apples at roof tops, or played “nicky-nicky nine doors” till the cows came home. It is what it is. Important to me. Annoying chatter to them, when they’ve got more important things to do,....... than reminisce about something and someplace they never visited.

I don’t know how you feel about your own childhood neighborhood. Some were better than others, admittedly, and some may wish to forget about certain unfortunate, unhappy events and circumstances. Maybe you’d rather forget about childhood generally because of bad memories. I’ve always had a mid-zone approach. There’s lots of periods I’d rather forget but I know I can’t. Like when my parents argued and argued and argued. My dad had a free-flowing Irish arrogance, often drank too much, was jealous to a fault, and could be a social problem if given all the right conditions. My mother was determined and feisty, and soldiered-on despite the grief my father could raise from the most innocent of perceived offences.

Ed didn’t have the best childhood either, and spent a lot of time, with his brothers, wards of the province. Having come from the tough Cabbagetown neighborhood, in Toronto, he was raised to be tough, and relentlessly hardened by reality. Fatherless, responsible for the family welfare most of the time, he’d learned that being gentle meant being vulnerable. He never gave the appearance of being a push-over that’s for sure. It made my mother’s life tough, and I often stepped between them, willing to risk my own neck to keep the cruiser away from the door. My peace of course, is that they patched their marriage up, Ed changed into a much kinder human being, and my mother was pleased to have calmer waters in the final decades of their life together. While I still prefer to dwell on happier times, I’m still abundantly aware, after many years, that it’s necessary to confront the adversity of personal history. It’s also true that there were many more good times than bad, in our family, and my love for the old neighborhood, in Bracebridge, Ontario will never dwindle.

The note I made last evening, was really for my lads, Andrew and Robert, who will inherit this journal and all my years of story-inscribing in these blogs......and in the stacks of publications I’ve, at one time or another, contributed columns. The note was about a game of road hockey I want them to play, some snowy Christmas Eve (after I’ve departed this mortal coil), up on that block of Alice Street where I played a thousands games during my years on the hill......Hunt’s Hill, that is! I want them to link the tradition of those years with their present, in celebration of good times in old places dear to our hearts. I want them to just show up, with sticks, ball and toques, chip off four big chunks of snow for goal-posts (as we did because we couldn’t afford nets), and with their buddies and family members, set up for a three period memorial game in my honor. How vain is this? Well, it doesn’t have to be a memorial. Just a “for fun” gathering that rekindles an activity us Hunt’s Hill / Alice Street kids enjoyed every day of the cold winter in Muskoka. We continued games on asphalt when the snow cover melted away but we played, and played. It didn’t matter that we were short changed a neighborhood park or even a big parking lot we could set up a makeshift arena. The road, as bumpy as it was, served our interests just fine.

It might seem a tad morbid to be planning your own tribute hockey game, but my boys will know just how passionate I have been in life, about preserving family legacies.....and keeping important traditions alive. I want them, in their lives, to know that good and memorable times have very little to do with money, and the privilege that can buy. We were a modest neighborhood and very few of us had money to spare. We lived from pay cheque to pay cheque like everyone else, and those on fixed incomes had gardens in their backyards, and they canned fruit and vegetables every fall, after the modest harvest. We had to be frugal. We didn’t care, or even think about hardship......we were too busy being thankful for our own blessings, our own daily rewards. We were too busy living to worry about what we didn’t have, or what others did. When we commenced the ball hockey game of the day, or under the lamplight for evening games, all differences were forgotten and we listened instead, to the lucky bloke selected to be Foster Hewitt, who would joyfully provide the game’s play by play. If you’d asked any one of us at that moment, what it was like to be poor, we wouldn’t have known how to respond. I knew my family couldn’t afford new boots because my feet were always wet, and most of us were playing with broken sticks we found at the arena, with short shafts and half blades, because we couldn’t buy new ones. Poor? We were resourceful more than we were poor. Rich kids called us that when they saw the soles of our shoes flapping and slapping noisely at recess, or when we had to wear the same clothes day after day....but it wasn’t the kind of slur we found hard to live with.

I’m fond of my old neighborhood for what it didn’t have. The was no need to offer an apology when a shared dinner was meatloaf, and “everything-in-it stew,” or cheese-dusted macaroni. Many of my mates enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches my mother made for intermissions....washed down with cold glasses of water to tide us over for another period of rigorous play.

The pay-off of all this modesty, was finishing dinner, and getting the chance to have yet another game of road hockey.....or in the spring, a pick-up game of baseball....the fall, a game of football on the modest grid-iron of our small front lawn. It was a safe and caring neighborhood, and for all that it didn’t have, it was blessed with an unpretentious honor, we upheld, wherever and whenever a show of prowess was required. We had many sporting encounters with other neighborhoods, and I would say Hunt’s Hill was always a top contender.

I want my boys to take their kids up to that sort stretch of old asphalt, to play just one more game, and to think, not just about their old dad, but about all the aspiring athletes, who had such great fun making the best out of every day in a worthy hometown. Maybe they’ll hear the echo of cheers and voices from legend, and the faint play by play of Randy Carswell, an import to the neighborhood, who always volunteered to be Foster Hewitt......and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want the boys, or family, to get misty eyed about my request, or get caught up in a perpetual mood of sympathy and mourning. I’ve had a damn fine life, with no regrets about choices I’ve made. I’d like to think they would find a connection with me, they’ve never really had in our time together,..... as team-mates (in spirit) not just the tedium of the father / sons relationship. Because I’d be there, on that snowy Christmas Eve, in my ghost-wear, just as I played every Christmas Eve for my entire tenure at the Alice Street apartments. During a truly enjoyable time of my life.....when kids spent most of their days outdoors, and even more time wondering what it would be like if this stretch of frozen roadway, was actually Maple Leaf Gardens, the lamplight, the beam over centre ice, the limelight of the official face-off.

I suppose you and I do have some warm memories of the places we used to live.......afterall!