Eric Brown and The National Gallery; and How He "Broke Barriers"

THE NEXT MOST IMPORTANT BOOK ON CANADIAN ART, OF WHICH I HAPPEN TO OWN, AND IT IS A DANDY - "BREAKING BARRIERS"

ERIC BROWN AND THE NATIONAL GALLERY, BY HIS LIFE PARTNER, F. MAUD BROWN, PUBLISHED IN 1964

     From the Paris Exhibition in 1927, there was a review in a French art magazine, that stated the following: "(Tom) Thomson never fumbles. He orchestrates, with an imposing and decorative largeness, the rugged and sumptuous natural aspects that present themselves to his vision. His painting is strong, and without subterfuge, the painting of a man immensely concerned with the nature he depicts."

Of the exhibition as a whole, the same critic wrote, "It is this character of robust simplicity, of fine healthiness, which gives an impression of unity to this exhibition, in spite of the individual differences in temparment and execution. The paintings, as a whole, express this broadly decorative feeling which we have just noted in the style of Tom Thomson. These paintings are all imbued with a primitive and elemental poetry; the natural result of close communion with the grandeur of nature."

     The reviews at home, not so encouraging. The critics wanted Eric Brown's head, for selecting paintings for exhibit, without their consultation on the matter. They called him an art "dictator," who needed to have his "wing's clipped." Eric Brown defied them all, and we should be eternally grateful, he was stalwart in his convictions, to bring Canadian art into the modern era, forcefully when it was justified.

     "I have never required an art scholar's over-the-shoulder opinion, in order to fully appreciate a work of art. It has never been necessary to have a gallery curator explain the nuances of a work I appreciate. And whether I find a painting attractive, provocative, compelling or boring, it is a personal opinion I am comfortable with, whether or not my assessment ranks only among the untutored.

     "Just as one hears the howling wolves on a moonlit Algonquin night, the shiver I get looking at Tom Thomson's painting of the Northern Lights, is as genuine as might be felt by the critic, who may not want to admit such a sensation of awe. It is what Thomson desired, in emotion, from those viewing his art panels; to know a painting inspired feelings of a storied landscape, and all the mysteries each viewer might choose to concoct, from a stimulated imagination.

     "If someone, looking at his art work, found it to be "spirited," or "hauntingly cold" in appearance, the Canadian landscape artist, would listen attentively, as if it had been the highest praise possible; beyond the critic who might have observed some technical shortfall or flaw in composition. Thomson painted what he felt, and what he desired, and was indebted by honest appraisal from those who judged a painting without tutored, or prejudicial opinion. To these innocent admirers, who may have been passing by the dock at Mowat, watching him unload some of his sketches, from that day's work in Algonquin Park, he might also have given away these same panels, to the great pleasure of the recipients; for only the cost of a most fundamental observation. Which he benefitted from, as an earthy, innocent, unsolicited source of encouragement; he very much needed to move on with his work.

     "I can never casually dismiss the poetic, ethereal subtleties, or the soulful nostalgia, of knowing these places depicted in Thomson's art. Beyond the draw of heartfelt intimacy, and the deep, powerful undertow of attraction, what is left to interpret? What is left to question of alluring art, and clever artist?  Being unable to feel the deep vibration of inner spirit, that rises from the Algonquin soil, as the unseen witness, where Thomson once stood, overlooking a windswept lake, the critic alas has missed, in the subject painting, the energy that manifests like wind and waves, within its framing. The painting of a special place in time, that invigorates our senses, so powerful of its own accord, analysis based on the scholar's insight, is redundant before being spoken. This is my feeling about the paintings Tom Thomson created for us, as a gift to our national imagination.

     "If I should mire down with the lasting impression, his art panels have a haunting spirit, I am thusly happy to remain in this self imposed state of ignorance and delusion, about the finer points of what art is supposed to be, in its most refined state of exhibition."

     I was surprised to find this Tom Thomson overview, scribbled onto several open back pages, of another hugely important book, in Canadian art history. Despite tearing my archives apart, at least twice, in the past year, I couldn't find my 1964 hardcover copy of "Breaking Barriers - Eric Brown and the National Gallery," written by his wife, Maud, and published by The Society for Art Publications. The fact my copy of this amazing little book was missing-in-action, isn't anything knew for me, because I hide things all the time, always on the plan to keep something or other safeguarded. Take for example, the ten antique toy soldiers I put away last year this time; so well in fact, that they seem to have disappeared for good. I know they will turn up eventually, just like the Eric Brown biography, which I do consider of critical relevance to the Tom Thomson story, and to the launch and success of the Group of Seven artists, Thomson helped inspire before his death. But there's something extra attached to my discovery this morning, of "Breaking Barriers."

     Whenever I have initiated work on my own version of the Tom Thomson mystery, dating back to the mid-1990's, I have been inundated with coincidences, some that were pretty bizarre and always involved the surfacing of new information from the strangest sources. It deserves a blog on its own, which I will provided as a sort of catch-up explanation, following a review of the Eric Brown book. Seeing as I have been working on the Thomson story again this week, highlighting two rare books written by Blodwen Davies and Albert Robson, I really needed the Eric Brown biography, because he was the first director of the National Gallery; who, despite objection from numerous critics, validated Thomson's art work, and the eventual Group of Seven, by including select work from their collections, in major international exhibitions. The whole story of Thomson and the Group of Seven artists, can't be told properly without referencing the undaunted spirit for change, exerted by Eric Brown, for as it turns out, the good of Canada, and the promotion of experimental art generally. So I guess, when looking again today, I employed the old Thomson charm of "helpful coincidence," and took another scan of my art books. It took exactly one full minute, to find the red dust jacket, on the book in question. I don't know how I missed it before, or if Suzanne happened to find it somewhere else, and relocated it to my art bookshelf, but who cares, as long as it has been discovered and made available for purposes of this blog? Even stranger, is the little editorial piece, penned onto the open back pages, (published above), that I must have written a decade or more ago, when I was piecing together another newspaper series, regarding Thomson's mysterious death, while canoeing in Algonquin Park, back in July 1917. I have no recollection of doing this, but seeing as the material is in my hand-writing, it confirms that I had no intention of ever selling this book. I will occasionally write in some of my old reference texts, something personal, that will stop me from ever placing it in the store's book room for sale. It devalues them for re-sale, but endears them to me because of content. The short opening, was probably used when I was writing a year-long series of columns, for "Curious; The Tourist Guide, earlier this new century. I might re-write it today, if I wanted to use it in print, but it does hit the mark, as far as my opinion about Thomson's work, and the reason I will chase the story until my final days in this mortal coil.

     Now, a look at a great little relic of Canadiana, containing a story about one of our country's true pioneer visionaries, in the field of art.

     NOTE: I purchased the book, during an estate sale quite a few years ago, held by the Bennett family of Gravenhurst, at their parents' Sarah Street home. The book on Eric Brown, had belonged to Muskoka artist and author, Ruth Bennett, who had studied art with well known Canadian painter, Charles Comfort. She penned this onto the acknowledgement page, written by Maud Brown, when the author wrote, "My sincere thanks are due to the Trustees of the National Gallery of Canada, and its director, Dr. Charles Comfort, for permission to study the gallery's files and correspondence relative to my husband, Eric Brown's work." Ruth Bennett added a note on the margin of this page, indicating, "1932-37 - My instructor at Art College in Toronto," signed "Ruth Gaunt Bennett. Ruth Bennett by the way, was author of three books, including "Yorkshire Rose," "Where the Loons Call," and her best known effort, "Diary of a Muskoka Maid," an exceptional Muskoka-based story and biography, with a connection to the Village of Windermere, on Lake Rosseau. I purchased a large collection of books during this day-sale. Ruth's husband was Dr. Wilfred Bennett, Muskoka's former Chief Medical Officer of Health.

"BREAKING BARRIERS," THE STORY OF ERIC BROWN

     "Eric Brown, a young and unknown Englishman, won his wings as first director of Canada's National Gallery, and piloting it through barriers of resistance to change, public apathy and artistic orthodoxy, brought it to a safe landing in a terrain of recognition and respect. This very human story tells of the remarkable understanding and support given by an outstanding Canadian, Sir Edmund Walker, to his youthful colleague, of the effective work of the trustees of the gallery when only five in number, of lasting friendships and recurring conflicts, of starting married life on one hundred dollars a month, and of the close bonds of affection between husband and wife which carried them safely through all adventures," wrote his wife Maud, as a brief summary of the story yet to come.

     "It so happened that Eric's coming to Canada (from England), coincided with a vitally important time in the development of the country's art. A strong national spirit was developing. Painters were becoming dissatisfied with the academic approach to art, realizing that the rugged majesty of our landscape could not be portrayed with the brush of a Corot or even a Constable. And so the search began for a new concept and a new language of art. Eric (Brown) described this movement in one of his articles written in the early twenties, pointing out that something had happened, though when and where it actually began was difficult to say. The Canadian Art Club (including Morrice, Ernest Lawson, Horatio Walker, Homer Watson, William Brymner, Maurice Cullen, Suzor-Cote and Clarence Gagnon, among its members) seeded from the Ontario Society of Artists in 1907, and that awakened a spirit of rivalry," wrote Maud Brown, in her biography of her husband, Eric Brown.

     Eric Brown had written the following about this new and exciting direction coming down the pike. "Painters went west to the prairies and north to the wilderness and saw them with an introspective as well as photographic eye. Then one fine day the O.S.A. hung a picture of Tom Thomson's called 'Northern River,' in the place of honour and the National Gallery bought it, and the battle, though no one knew it, was joined because here was a new idea....here was decoration of a splendid kind, within a frame and what was more puzzling still, it was decoration plus character, the inmost character of the country it represented, to say nothing of the character of the man who painted it."

      Maud Brown writes, "Thus the new trend began, with Canadian artists beginning to see and compose decoratively, emphasizing pattern and color scheme, and searching out the spirit of their country. This was rebellion, said the older men; wait and see, said the tolerant; but the young in heart were glad. The most spectacular result was the formation of the Group of Seven (artists) in 1920. The story of these seven young painters who banded together in a protective and active alliance is too well known to need retelling here. One thing that I recall very clearly is a visit to Toronto at a time when at least four members of the Group were returning from their first sketching trip in the northlands of Algoma. Eric had been asked casually to go and see the sketches they had made. As so often happened, I went along with him, and as we went from one studio to another and saw the stacks of small sketches each had brought back with him, our astonishment and delight grew beyond belief. This was something different, something exciting! Eric waited with the keenest interest to see the large canvases that would ensue from such promising material."

THE WEMBLEY EXHIBITION

     "Eric's absorption in the gallery, and his fostering of the country's art as a whole, alerted him to every opportunity to promote their growth. When the news filtered through to him that the British Empire Exhibition, to open at Wembley in north-west London in 1924, would include a section devoted to the fine arts, he saw what a blessing it would be for Canada, if her contribution were well chosen and thoroughly representative - and what a disaster if its management should be assigned to some self-centered and narrow-minded organization," recorded Maud Brown, of her husbands negotiations to mount a dynamic and diverse exhibit of nationally significant art, at the prominent British showing. "He wrote post-haste to friends in England who gave him the names of the two men who were responsible for art at Wembley. He wrote to these immediately before they had time to make other plans. Setting the facts before them, with due emphasis on the rift that existed in Canada, he suggested that the task of forming a committee to select the Canadian pictures might well be left to the National Gallery. The authorities were in complete agreement and to Eric's amused delight, the upshot was that the manager of the British Empire Exhibition suggested to the Canadian Government that the Board of Trustees of the National Gallery was an appropriate authority to take charge of the Canadian Section of Fine Arts. There was nothing irregular or unusual about this procedure, but it offended the amour-propre of the Academy. It felt that the gallery was usurping its privileges and expressed itself emphatically on the points at issue. In retrospect, it appears plain that the academicians could not then be said to represent the art of the whole country; and their deep-rooted dislike of the unconventional and experimental in art was proof that, had the selection of the pictures been left to them, there would have been but meagre representation of those very artists whose works made our Canadian contribution such an outstanding success.

     "As the time for the British Empire Exhibition approached, the ever-faithful George Harbour was sent ahead to London to cope with the preliminary arrangements, and Eric and I followed, arriving a month before the opening day. The spring was wet and cold and 'Wembley mud,' was the byword of the day. For me, with no responsibilities except the typing of a few letters, it was fun to see the mushroom city grow. Eric's hardest job was to gain the 50 percent more wall space so badly needed for all the pictures chosen to be hung. The exhibition authorities told him over and over again this could not be done, but as with the man in the parable begging bread, importunity won the day. Art last came the crucial test, press day. Our pictures were well hung and looked well. They had colour force, individual attack, and deep sincerity. We waited unperturbed. The art critics, thirty or more of them, came drifting into the galleries. They had already seen the British, Australian, New Zealand, and South African contributions, and were looking more than a little bored. The Empire's art had obviously left them cold. Here it would be one more paragraph to add to their already hopelessly stereotyped articles; some of the confessed as much to us afterwards. But after their first look round, you could almost hear their gasps of surprise. Notebooks and pencils came out and there was a buzz of conversation. Here was something new! They talked to each other, they talked to us. They wanted to know if Canada really looked like this. Were the shadows on the snow really as blue as Albert Robinson had painted them? Surely MacDonald had exaggerated the brilliance of the autumn colours. Who were all these painters, and why had their work never been seen before? The show was a success and we knew it. No need to wait for the evening papers; the critics had been unanimous in their praise. One of them, I think it was Mr. Wilenski, came round to Eric the same evening to hear more of art in Canada."

      The art director's wife writes that, "I doubt if any other exhibition ever gave Eric so deep a satisfaction. He had nursed it along with the greatest of care because he was so keen that Canada should take her rightful place in the art of the day. What was more, his unfailing support of the modern movement in Canada was now abundantly vindicated. The next year, the second year of Wembley, Canada repeated her initial success with an entirely new group of paintings. The Group of Seven, well able to fend for themselves, had already won recognition in the United States. An exhibition of their paintings had toured that country with great success for two years and had got excellent press notices. In Ottawa it was a different story, when, in 1927, the trustees arranged to show the the pictures from Wembley in our own galleries. The canvases looked just as well. They still glowed and sang with colour. Here, you felt, was simplicity of method and a direct approach that surely would please. The opening night fame, and contrasted sharply with the press day at Wembley. A great many guests arrived. They were stirred, but not with admiration. There was more indignation than approbation. People bristling with anger asked me, 'How can your husband allow such things to be hung. Well, that was Ottawa in the twenties. Today these same pictures, many of them having found a permanent home in the National Gallery collection, are considered almost academic. Reproductions of them greet us everywhere. Thomson's 'Jack Pine,' Varley's 'Stormy Weather,' 'Georgian Bay,' and Jackson's 'Red Maple,' adorn the walls of homes and schools all over the country."

     "The part Eric played in nurturing contemporary Canadian art and in making it known outside Canada, I realized only much later," wrote his friend W.G. Constabe. "Once the exhibition at Wembley and Paris were over, his main business in London was with old masters, and it was with these that most of our earlier meetings and discussions were concerned. But I grasped at once that, for him, the old master collection at Ottawa was only one aspect of a single problem, that of making Canada conscious of the arts as an element in civilization and of stimulating the production in Canada of works of art on an increasingly high level."

     Sir Kenneth Clark, director of the National Gallery in London, noted of Mr. Brown, on news of his passing, that "Eric Brown was known to all lovers of art in the English speaking world, as one of the most sensitive and distinguished of all gallery directors. He understood painting as an artist, but he retained the detachment of the critic. His was, in fact, a supremely civilized mind in which great enthusiasm was concealed by irony, humour and tolerance. It was rare good fortune that the National Gallery of Canada, in the early stages, should be directed by a man of such distinction and so avoid the amassing of mediocre work which is the usual fate of growing galleries."

     Frances Loring wrote, "I felt that he was a much-loved friend and I owe him much gratitude for his unfailing help and appreciation. Art in Canada has lost its greatest champion. It would have been a hard struggle without his courage and help."

     When one looks at the transition of Canadian art, and we praise the artists who have made our creative enterprises so progressive on the world scene, we must also look back in time, to the true visionaries, who were willing to take a gamble on change of direction, expression and future ambitions. Eric Brown withstood an horrendous amount of criticism from those, of the art establishment in this country, who desired stalwart devotion to the way things had been for decades. Eric Brown decided otherwise, and with the help of exceptional artists like Tom Thomson, and members of the Group of Seven, he found the foundation to launch Canadian art into an exciting new era of experimentation and discovery.

    Eric Brown saw something in the work of the Group of Seven period artists, and certainly in the panels painted by Tom Thomson, that reminded him of his own intimate interpretations of nature, especially noted after one particular camping adventure to Algonquin Park with his wife Maud. If words could be interpreted as a painting, his little story would have looked like a Thomson panel. It reads as follows:

     "We had explored our lake afresh from the head of the creek, where the wolves had sung on moonlight nights, to the string of tiny lakes back of the shelter hut. We had sketched and photographed; we had climbed the hills to the stands of original white pine, where the morning mists hung so long after the sun had burnt them up elsewhere that we imagined forest fires, and were always wrong. We had watched a porcupine swim half a mile from an island to our beach without distress, and a swimming lynx had crossed our canoe one early morning and had stared us out of countenance from the shore. Loons, ospreys, pileated woodpeckers, had been nearer nieghbours than humans; and as for the deer, they had stumbled over our tent ropes and whistled round our camp most nights, and the salt we left in a hollow log was always gone by morning which probably explained their interest in us.

     "No form of travel equals the ease and comfort of paddling a sixteen foot canoe, loaded with two people and a month's supplies, and moving at a steady four miles an hour, in any depth of water, from a foot to a mile. As we washed the supper dishes and got our hands clean for the night, the heavens put on such a show for us by way of good-byes as we had never seen before and never have since. The auroa was blazing from every point of the compass. Red, blue, green and yellow streamers flamed and flickered, waxed from the horizon to the zenith and back again. We lay down in our tracks, with our heads on a log, and watched entranced. It was unbelievably remote and infinitely grand in its changing color, shape and movement. Words could do no justice, so we said nothing but occasionally pointed when the coruscations were especially brilliant. Our cup was as full as it would hold, and, when at last the flames died down and the stars returned to their duty, there seemed nothing more that nature could do for us. We almost hoped that we should never go back, for the sake of remembrance of it; and as it has turned out, we have never made that particular trip again."

Irvin Ace Bailey Hockey Star With The Toronto Maple Leafs Should Be More Visibly Recognized

IN RECOGNITION OF HOCKEY CANADA'S CENTENNIAL, 1914-2014 - BRACEBRIDGE SHOULD PROMOTE ITS HOCKEY HERITAGE; RIGHT ON THE MAIN STREET

HERITAGE AS A BUSINESS RESOURCE? IF WE POSSESS LEGENDARY ACCOMPLISHMENT AS OUR CHRONICLE, WHY THE HECK AREN'T WE BRAGGING?

     "IRVIN 'ACE' BAILEY BECAME ONE OF NORTH AMERICA'S GREATEST PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY PLAYERS, WHOSE ACHIEVEMENTS INCLUDED WINNING THE CUP FOR HIGHEST SCORER IN THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE, BUT HIS STELLAR HOCKEY CAREER WAS ENDED BY INJURIES, INFLICTED UPON HIM IN 1934 BY EDDIE SHORE IN A GAME AT BOSTON."

     IN A LIFE MAGAZINE ARTICLE, WRITTEN BY MARSHALL SMITH, IN THE FEBRUARY ISSUE, OF 1951, THE TRAGIC INCIDENT WAS RECOLLECTED, WITH SOME CHAGRIN BY A SMATTERING OF HOCKEY HISTORIANS, DISPUTING A NUMBER OF THE FACTS CONTAINED IN THE STORY. MANY IN BRACEBRIDGE WOULDN'T CONCUR, AT THIS TIME, UPON HEARING STORIES THEY FELT WERE OUTRAGEOUS, THAT MR. BAILEY WOULD EVER RESORT TO SUCH AN EXTENT, AS TAKING A GUN TO BOSTON, IN ORDER TO SHOOT THE PERPETRATOR OF HIS SON'S INJURY.

     "THE MOMENT BEFORE A MAN GETS HIS BRAINS KNOCKED OUT - OR ALMOST KNOCKED OUT, IS ONE NOT EASILY FORGOTTEN. CONN SMYTHE, PRESIDENT AND MANAGING DIRECTOR OF THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS, REMEMBERS IT AS VIVIDLY AS IF IT HAPPENED TO HIM. FROM HIS BENCH IN BOSTON GARDEN, HE SAW HIS MAPLE LEAFS AND THE RIVAL BOSTON BRUINS SCRAMBLING FOR THE PUCK. HE SAW HOCKEY'S GREAT 'BAD MAN,' BOSTON'S EDDIE SHORE, COME CHARGING DOWN ON ACE BAILEY LIKE A LOCOMOTIVE IN A PEARL WHITE MOVIE. SMYTHE TIGHTENED UP. THERE WAS A CRASH. ACE BAILEY CATAPULTED INTO THE AIR AND CAME DOWN ON HIS HEAD. HE LAY BLEEDING, MOTIONLESS, EXCEPT FOR A CONVULSIVE TWITCHING OF THE MUSCLES."

     SMITH NOTES THAT, "AFTER THE FIRST STUNNED SILENCE, ONE OF SMYTHE'S OTHER BOYS, BIG RED HORNER, SKATED UP TO SHORE, 'PUT YOUR HANDS UP; I'M GOING TO HIT YOU,' HE SAID, AND THEN HE SWUNG. THE BLOW KNOCKED SHORE BACKWARDS IN A HALF FLIP. HE TOO CAME DOWN ON HIS HEAD. HE LAY STILL IN ANOTHER WIDENING POOL OF BLOOD. BEDLAM BROKE LOOSE IN THE GARDEN. AS THE UNCONSCIOUS PLAYERS WERE CARRIED FROM THE ICE, SMYTHE WENT RIGHT WITH THEM. SO WHEN A LOUD-MOUTHED FAN BLOCKED THE WAY, SMYTHE SWUNG ON HIM, PUTTING EVERY ONE OF HIS 132 POUNDS BEHIND THE BLOW. THE FAN'S GLASSES WERE SHATTERED AND MORE BLOOD FLOWED. THERE NEVER WAS A NIGHT LIKE IT IN BIGTIME HOCKEY.

     "SMYTHE, PROTESTING VEHEMENTLY, WAS HAULED OFF TO THE POLICE STATION. ACE BAILEY WAS RUSHED TO AUDOBON HOSPITAL, WHERE AN EMERGENCY OPERATION WAS PERFORMED ON HIS BROKEN SKULL. HE WAS GIVEN A 50-50 CHANCE TO LIVE. EDDIE SHORE, WITH SEVEN STITCHES IN HIS SCALP, WAS HUSTLED OFF TO BERMUDA, TO WAIT UNTIL THINGS COOLED DOWN. IT WAS JUST AS WELL THAT HE WAS. A MAN WITH A HARD LOOK IN HIS EYE BLEW INTO TOWN FROM BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AND BEGAN MAKING INQUIRIES. 'I'M ACE BAILEY'S FATHER (CHARLIE),' THE MAN SAID, CALMLY PULLING A SIX-SHOOTER OUT OF HIS POCKET. 'WHERE CAN I FIND SHORE?"

     THIS VERSION OF EVENTS WAS REFUTED LOCALLY, BUT IT IS VALIDATED IN HOCKEY HISTORY, IN FRANK SELKE'S BIOGRAPHY, INDICATING THAT A POLICE FRIEND OF HIS, IN BOSTON, WAS ASKED TO INTERVENE. SELKE HAD APPARENTLY HEARD FROM A UNNAMED SOURCE, THAT BAILEY'S FATHER HAD LEFT BRACEBRIDGE WITH A WEAPON. CHARLIE BAILEY WAS THEN INTERCEPTED BY THE OFF-DUTY POLICE OFFICE, AN ACQUAINTANCE OF SELKE, BEFORE HE COULD ACT ON HIS MISSION, TO SHOOT THE MAN WHO HAD NEARLY KILLED HIS SON. WHAT AN AMAZING HOCKEY STORY WITH A DEEP ROOT IN BRACEBRIDGE.  

     EARLIER THIS FALL SEASON, I PROMISED READERS A SHORT SERIES OF BLOGS, HIGHLIGHTING BRACEBRIDGE'S MAJOR CONTRIBUTION TO THE EARLY YEARS OF PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY ON THIS CONTINENT, AND AS WELL, IN THIS COUNTRY. I DO APPRECIATE THAT THERE ARE QUITE A FEW READERS UNINTERESTED IN HOCKEY, AND SPORTS GENERALLY, BUT THIS STORY WILL BE IMPORTANT FOR A NUMBER OF OTHER REASONS, SIGNIFICANT TO CONTEMPORARY VIEWS OF THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. IT APPLIES TO OTHER MUSKOKA COMMUNITIES AS WELL, WHO DON'T TAKE FULL ADVANTAGE OF THEIR HISTORY, AS AN ECONOMIC PROMOTION.

     NEARLY A YEAR AGO, THE "MAKE BRACEBRIDGE GREAT AGAIN," CAMPAIGN BEGAN, AS AN ONLINE INITIATIVE, TO FORCE BRACEBRIDGE TOWN COUNCIL, TO RECKON WITH THE STALEMATE THE MUNICIPALITY HAS BEEN STRUGGLING WITH, IN TERMS OF, FOR EXAMPLE, RECREATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES, AND ECONOMIC ENHANCEMENT. I'M ASSUMING PART OF THE COMPLAINT FROM THE YOUNGER GENERATIONS, MOVING THIS INITIATIVE FORWARD, HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE EMPTY STORE FRONTS ALONG THE MANITOBA STREET BUSINESS CORRIDOR. WHILE I DIDN'T AGREE WITH THIS INITIATIVE, AS FAR AS THE "GREAT AGAIN" ASPECT, (BECAUSE BRACEBRIDGE WAS NEVER GREAT, BUT IT WAS A GOOD HOMETOWN IN THE PAST AND REMAINS SO, IN THE PRESENT), I DID FEEL THIS MAY HAVE PROVIDED AN OPENING FOR A PESKY HISTORIAN LIKE ME, TO REMIND THESE FOLKS, AND THE TOWN'S ADMINISTRATION, THAT ONE POWERFUL STRIDE FORWARD, OUT OF STATUS QUO, WOULD BE TO FINALLY, AND TOTALLY EMBRACE THE HISTORY THEY HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO POSSESS, AND BRAG ABOUT, IN A PROFOUNDLY PROMOTIONAL SENSE. NO, DON'T WORRY, I'M NOT GOING TO YAP-ON ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE'S UNDER UTILIZED PROMOTION, OF THEIR CONNECTION TO WASHINGTON IRVING, ONE OF THE WORLD'S MOST REVERED AUTHORS. WHAT A SHAME NO ONE IN THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY WILL TAKE THE INITIATIVE TO HARVEST THIS ASPECT OF LOCAL HISTORY, BUT IT'S NOT FOR MY LACK OF TRYING. I GET QUITE BEFUDDLED WHEN THERE ARE COMPLAINTS MAKING THE PRESS, ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE ECONOMIC SHORTFALLS, YET THOSE WHO HAVE A VESTED INTEREST IN MAKING IMPROVEMENTS, CAN'T MUSTER THE INTEREST TO RESEARCH, AND PROMOTE WHAT IS FREE AND OF INTERNATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE. IT'S NOT THAT I HAVEN'T OFFERED TO HELP OUT. INSTEAD OF A STATUE OF WASHINGTON IRVING, THERE IS A MOVE TO CREATE A HUGE BRONZE OF SANTA CLAUS, PRESUMABLY IN REFERENCE TO THE TOWN'S LONG AND SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP WITH SANTA'S VILLAGE. I'M NOT AGAINST A STATUE OF SANTA. BUT A PUBLIC, BOLD AND BEAUTIFUL RECOGNITION OF WASHINGTON IRVING SHOULD COME FIRST. IT WAS AFTERALL, AS FAR BACK AS 1864 WHEN BRACEBRIDGE WAS GIVEN THIS AMAZING LITERARY PROVENANCE.

     HOW DOES THIS SPIEL GET AROUND TO HOCKEY HISTORY? IT'S PRETTY MUCH THE SAME DEAL, AS WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE ONLY WAY IT'S DIFFERENT, IS BECAUSE I WAS ABLE TO ACQUIRE FUNDS FROM THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, TO CREATE THE BRACEBRIDGE SPORTS HALL OF FAME DISPLAY CASES, AT THE COMMUNITY CENTRE. WHEN I WAS ASKED BY ROGER CROZIER, FORMER N.H.L. ALL STAR, A NATIVE SON, IF I WOULD AGREE TO BE THE PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR FOR THE MUSKOKA BRANCH OF THE NEWLY CREATED CROZIER FOUNDATION FOR YOUTH, AT THE SAME TIME, HE ASKED WHAT I THOUGHT WOULD BE A SUITABLE GIFT TO THE TOWN, TO INAUGURATE HIS CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION. IT ROLLED OFF MY TONGUE WITH EASE. "A BRAND NEW SHOWCASE FOR THE ARENA LOBBY." WHILE HE DIDN'T LIVE TO SEE IT OPENED, AND FULL OF THE RELICS OF BRACEBRIDGE'S SPORTS HEROES, IT WAS BUILT FROM MONEY THAT HE HAD HELPED RAISE FOR THE START-UP OF THE FOUNDATION. AND ONE WHOLE GLASS CABINET, OF THE WALL OF EXHIBITION CASES, WAS DEVOTED TO THE MAN WHO BECAME AN N.H.L. LEGEND, AND TRAGIC FIGURE AT THE SAME TIME; IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY.

     DURING MY TWELVE YEARS, WORKING AS THE HALL OF FAME CURATOR, I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO HANDLE THESE AMAZING N.H.L. ARTIFACTS, INCLUDING THE PAUL WHITEMAN TROPHY, WHICH WAS ONLY EVER GIVEN TO ONE PLAYER, AND THAT WAS TO "ACE" BAILEY. WHITEMAN, AN INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED BAND LEADER, WAS A BIG FAN OF ACE BAILEY, AND HAD THE TROPHY MADE FOR HIM. I WAS IN AWE EVERY TIME I HAD TO RE-FASHION AND CLEAN THE SHOWCASE, AND DUST OFF THE ARTIFACTS, WHICH INCLUDED BAILEY'S SKATES. THE HOCKEY MEMORABILIA WAS LOANED TO THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES, AFTER HE RETIRED FROM COACHING HOCKEY AT THE UNIVERSITY LEVEL IN TORONTO. UNFORTUNATELY, THE SMALL DISPLAY SPACE, AFFORDED THE RELICS, DID NOT ADEQUATELY SHOWCASE BAILEY'S CAREER, AS THEY DID, IN A BRAND NEW, BRIGHT SHOWCASE, FINANCED BY THE CROZIER FOUNDATION. WHAT SURPRISES ME TODAY, IS THAT SO MANY FOLKS IN BRACEBRIDGE HAVEN'T GOT A CLUE WHO ACE BAILEY WAS, AND THOSE WHO HAVE HEARD THE NAME, DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE TOWN. I SURPRISED A BUSINESSMAN RECENTLY, WITH THIS BIT OF HOCKEY HISTORY, RAISED IN CASUAL CONVERSATION, AND HE COULDN'T BELIEVE, AS A HOCKEY LOVER HIMSELF, THIS BIT OF LOCAL HERITAGE HAD EVADED HIM. THERE'S A SIMPLE EXPLANATION. IT ISN'T CONSIDERED A BIG DEAL IN THE CONTEMPORARY SENSE. THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY HASN'T SERIOUSLY EMBRACED THE IDEA, THAT OUR HISTORICAL MILESTONES ARE WORTH PUTTING OUT THERE, AS AN ECONOMIC INVESTMENT IN THE FUTURE. WHY NOT BRAG ABOUT OUR STORIED PAST? THE BIOGRAPHY OF IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY IS OUTSTANDING. IT IS RIPE FOR EXPLOITATION. PERFECT TO PROUDLY HANG OFF A SIGN BOARD, OR MAKE VISIBLE VIA A HUGE PAINTED MURAL, THAT ACE BAILEY, ONE OF THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE'S BEST KNOWN PLAYERS, WAS FROM BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO.

     WHY IS IT NECESSARY, WITH SUCH A NATIONALLY SIGNIFICANT PROVENANCE, THAT WE CAN ONLY FIND THIS OUT BY GOING OVER TO THE ARENA, AND STARING INTO A SHOWCASE? OR GOING INTO THE BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC LIBRARY, AND ASKING THE CLERK IF YOU CAN SEE ANYTHING REGARDING THE SPORTS HISTORY OF THE TOWN; AND THEN BE HANDED A COPY OF GEORGE BOYER'S BOOK, "EARLY DAYS IN MUSKOKA," PUBLISHED BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS, IN 1970. BY THE WAY, THESE OUT-OF-PRINT MUSKOKA FIRST EDITIONS, ARE UNDER LOCK AND KEY, WHICH MEANS ONE WOULD HAVE TO READ THE SECTION IN THE LIBARY, BECAUSE THEY AREN'T FOR LOAN. SO GENERALLY SPEAKING (OR WRITING), TOURISTS TO TOWN AREN'T LIKELY TO MAKE THIS FORAY, PART OF THEIR VISITING EXPERIENCE. SEEING AS I JUST PURCHASED A COPY OF GEORGE'S BOOK LAST WEEK, FROM A HUNTSVILLE ANTIQUE SHOP, I'LL SHARE SOME OF GEORGE'S INSIGHTS, ABOUT HOCKEY HISTORY IN BRACEBRIDGE WITH YOU. A GREAT STORY THAT NEEDS TO BE EXPLOITED, NOT JUST TUCKED INTO AN ARCHIVES COLLECTION, OR VISIBLE ONLY, IN A POCKET OF DISPLAY CASE, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA. BY THE WAY, HOW DO YOU KNOW PARRY SOUND WAS THE HOME OF BOBBY ORR? WELL, THAT WOULD BE THE RESULT OF THE MUNICIPALITY PROUDLY PROMOTING THE KINSHIP. WE COULD LEARN FROM PARRY SOUND, HOW TO CELEBRATE THOSE WHO HAVE REPRESENTED OUR MUSKOKA MUNICIPALITIES SO WELL, ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCENE.

AN OVERVIEW OF IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY, IN THE WORDS OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORIAN, GEORGE BOYER

     I stopped my car one afternoon, on the shoulder of Santa's Village Road, in January a few years ago, because I saw a game of shinny being played on a small stretch of ice coating the Muskoka River. What a wonderful image of Canadian hockey heritage, in a community, that had lots of outdoor rinks cleared, some on the river just like I was seeing this particular afternoon. It was snowing a little, but it was still bright in the closing hours of daylight. I got thinking about some of the great hockey games played on the open air rinks, at around the time Irvin 'Ace' Bailey was honing his skills that would earn him a place in the National Hockey League. Bracebridge had a lot of hockey teams, and hundreds of players, including a women's team that was well known as one of the toughest teams in the region. What a great history to relive and bring back to public focus, in this 100th year of Hockey Canada.

     To begin with, imagine if it was possible, and financially feasible, to employ an artist, or many artists, to paint a series of heritage panels, depicting hockey, as it was being played on the river and ponds, in the the period of the early 1900's in Bracebridge; and how dazzling and nostalgic, having these finished panels exhibited at this time of year, while celebrating Christmas and winter here in South Muskoka. Bracebridge Town Council might consider sponsorship, of a regional art contest, that would make this portrayal, a national initiative for the conservation of hockey history, from a region known for its contribution of allstar players (in commemoration of the centennial of Hockey Canada); artists who could depict heritage hockey games, on open rinks, from around the turn of the 1900's, when Irvin "Ace" Bailey was a player on the team "Bailey's Aces." Possibly, given this wishful thinking on my part, you can try to visualize what the scenes, described by George Boyer, would look like in art-work, to be shown off to the townsfolk, and visitors to Bracebridge. Here it is, for gosh sakes, the 100th anniversary of Hockey Canada. What a great way to participate in the heritage recognition. So who will paint these images? If I could, I most certainly would! Open it to artists to interpret these colorful scenes of old time hockey.

     "The river has been an advantage to the youthful hockey enthusiasts of Bracebridge, providing a good sheet of ice for considerable time each winter. Of course the brand of hockey was of the shinny type, but the boys learned to skate and carry the puck, and when Mr. John Dunn provided a covered rink, there were some players ready for organized competition. The first rink was not conducive to good hockey, as it was small and the rows of posts prevented any attempt at combined play. When Mr. Dunn's second rink was erected about forty years ago (1930), teams were entered in the Ontario Hockey Association and there were many fine games."

     Mr. Boyer writes that, "A wise move was made in forming a town league, with several teams, and these created a lot of interest and developed players who afterwards made a name for themselves in hockey circles. The Gravenhurst team provided the biggest opposition, and some fine contests resulted. We were usually grouped with Gravenhurst, Midland, and Penetang, and as interest increased, the Bracebridge team would run special trains to these points. It took a lot of cash to finance the teams in those days. One of the town groups in the early days, comprised the 'Merchants,' the 'Old Tannery,' and the 'Printers.' These were some spirited contests but the Printers won out. The Gazette supplied Allie Stephenson, Alf McIssac, Jack Richea, and the Herald, the Bastedo boys, Charlie Bailey, Harold Eby and the writer (George Boyer). We also played a Printers' team from Huntsville, and won quite handily. Other town leagues were made up of the Beavers, the Uptown, the Flat, the Clerks, the Delivery Boys, and others, and these games served to develop players for the Ontario Hockey Association games, some of who became famous."

     George Boyer adds, "A product of these games, who attained international fame, was Irvin "Ace" Bailey. Irvin learned to skate on the river and when he tried out of the Ontario Hockey Association, was first played in the nets, and made a success of it; but he was a fast skater and a good shot, and he was tried out on the forward line, at right wing, playing junior hockey. From Bracebridge Irvin went to Peterborough, and soon found himself with a professional team in the National Hockey League; the Toronto St. Patricks. (soon to become the Maple Leafs) He was with the (Toronto) Maple Leafs when, in 1931-32, they won the Stanley Cup. He led the League in scoring and it was the pleasure of the writer to see the game ,in which Ace clinched the scoring honors for the season. He was against the New York Americans and the goal which assured him undisputed lead, was tallied when he took the puck from his own territory, and eluded the entire opposition to draw out the goalie and score. Irvin was one of hockey's greats, and when his career was suddenly cut short by an injury sustained in a game with Boston, there was universal regret. However, Bailey has retained his interest, and is the coach of the Senior Varsity team, (in Toronto), and is always interested in the players of his home town."

     In a wrap-up of local hockey history, Mr. Boyer writes the following summation: "Another Bracebridge player, who entered the professional ranks was Clarence (Dutchy) Jamieson, who played for years with Cleveland, and afterwards became a well known referee. Earl (Squirrellie) Walker also played for a short time with Cleveland, and for about thirty years with the home team. The hockey-loving people of Bracebridge, owe a great debt of gratitude to Earl for his fine performance, from year to year, and for the interest he has taken in the teams, since he gave up active participation in the game, about ten years ago. We might mention the Jocques, five of them, who excelled in hockey and lacrosse; the Coopers, the McLeods, the Bastedos, Bill Kinsey, Horace Parlett, the Dunns, Russ Salmon, Pat Ryan, Lyle Cowan, Russell Best, Roy McDonald, Archie McKay, Mel Robinson, all of whom, with many others, gave of their time and talent, to uphold the old town in hockey. Bracebridge has only won one championship in competitive hockey but has several times reached the semi-finals in the O.H.A. (this was only up to 1970)."

     He also notes, circa 1970 about Roger Crozier's advancement in the National Hockey League, writing that, "In the past few years, one of our fine young men, Roger Crozier, son of Mrs. Lloyd Crozier and the late Mr. Crozier, has become the pride and joy of his home town of Bracebridge, for his outstanding record in the National Hockey League, as goalie for the Detroit Red Wings. We take great pleasure in watching him in action by way of television." When this book was published, Roger would have been moving on, in professional play, joining the second expansion of the N.H.L., as part of the newly launched Buffalo Sabres. He would go on to play with the Washington Capitals where he would finish his professional career, later in the 1970's.

     While it isn't intended to reflect on George Boyer, for his sincere editorial about the pleasure of watching Roger play, it is unfortunate then, much later in time, that in the early 1990's, there was only one water-damaged photograph of Roger Crozier, at the Bracebridge Arena, and it was found in a box, kept in storage. And when I began a vigorous campaign to rectify this, there was an unsettling criticism from some quarters, which has stuck with me for all these years. As I usually do in these circumstances, I bulldozed my way through anyway, and found funding through Roger's foundation, to build a proper display case; to house, as a matter of irony, the photograph that had been dumped in a box and placed in storage. Of course it makes me mad. It should make the citizens of Bracebridge mad. But it didn't. It's why in the present tense, it is such a daunting task, to in this instance, of the Ace Bailey story, sell the town on promoting his biography by whatever means possible, in recognition of Bracebridge's stake, in the history of hockey in Canada. What an amazing resource, that receives little to no public reverence, even by the movers and shakers of the "make Bracebridge great again," agenda, apparently uninterested in re-capturing that particular era of "greatness." Well, here's a heck of a place to start. Irvin "Ace" Bailey. And there are others deserving promotion in modern day Bracebridge. It isn't enough, to just to have these references contained in the text of books. There are many ways to increase exposure, from wall murals, to a new era of heritage signing with photographs, to celebrate folks like Ace Bailey. It should be shared with the world.

     As a final note, on this subject of public recognition for our world class athletes; I received thousands of positive comments from visitors to the Bracebridge arena, regarding what they had viewed in the Hall of Fame display cases. They were relayed to me by arena staff, and it was always nice to hear that it was being appreciated; and was a worthwhile promotion of the town at the same time.

Christmas In Muskoka - A Nice Place To Visit, A Great Place To Live

From The Archives

CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA - A NICE PLACE TO VIST, A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE, A BEAUTIFUL PLACE TO WAKE UP TO EACH MORNING

RAIN OR SNOW, WIND OR CALM, SUN OR CLOUD THERE'S SOMETHING SPECIAL BEING MUSKOKAN - ESPECIALLY SWELL ON CHRISTMAS DAY

     It is a scene this morning, here at Birch Hollow, that you won't see featured in the traditional Christmas pictorials, showing the festive season in Canada. It is more likely, a vista from a coastal area of Canada, or of the British countryside, after receiving a small quantity of snow, followed by days of rain and fog. In Southern Ontario, where I spent the first years of my life, I would have heard the fog horns of passing lake freighters. I grew up with many Christmases just like this, when our family lived in Burlington, where winters were cold, with a sharply bitter wind coming off Lake Ontario, but seldom had much in the way of snow. I used to play down along the banks of Ramble Creek, and it was great fun when we could put on our bobb skates, to criss-cross the frozen shallows of the sandy bottom water course. You might remember, from a previous blog, that I fell through the ice on this same snaking little creek, and nearly drowned. There were a few deep pools with swirling water that never froze over solid. My mother issued orders to stay away from these pockets of open water, or I'd be in "so much trouble." That's something I knew a lot about. My chum Ray Green and I, were a sort of Dennis the Menaces back in those days, when we both resided up on Harris Crescent. I can still see that day before Christmas, when so many of the brightly clothed and toqued youngsters, were skating on the silver ice in the ravine, surrounded by the vintage architecture, of the three multi-story apartment buildings in the neighborhood, and the decorated houses around us, and along the embankment on the other side of the creek. It was the first time I had ever used bobb skates, fastened to my snow boots, and well, it was a disaster. I couldn't do anything more athletic than stand on the two bladed skates, but that was okay, because there was a lot to see, and kids my age to laugh with, through the afternoon snowflurries; generated from the earlier rain that day. The ice got better through the rest of that day, and was perfect throughout the holiday as I recall. I liked Burlington back then because it was either a big town or a small city, but our neighborhood had a perfect post war patina, and rural character, partly because it was bordered by a large farm field owned by the Ratkowskis I believe, and the ravine and woodland of the Ramble Creek basin. When we moved to Muskoka, I got a lot more hinterland to enjoy that's for sure.

     The rain was much heavier when I got up this morning, and looked out over The Bog, as I do every morning, even before brushing my teeth; and having the first of many coffees to get myself in gear. I have seen a few Christmases like this before, and as I am very fond of traditional English holiday celebrations, and the dining fare of our ancestors, this scene in the hollow, is just as remarkable, as if it was a recollected vision of my past; playing down in the ravine of Ramble Creek, or wandering through the haunted woods of Nottingham Forest, in England, where Robin Hood is said to have robbed from the rich to give to the poor. I have enjoyed many Christmases, where the weather could be described as inclement, according to what we generally hope will amount to a white Christmas; to go with the song of the same title. But it is no less a charming, and picturesque scene, because there is green ground cover showing up in The Bog, the result of previous days of sun, and rain, washing the snow away into the myriad little creeks, that eventually drain into Muskoka Bay, of the greater Lake Muskoka. I can remember Christmas Days in the past, here at Birch Hollow, when our family could walk across the snow crust, deep into the woodlands, across the basin; and others, where I used snowshoes to access the same region, of the tiny acreage of urban wetland. And there have been Christmas Eves just like this, and although not quite a parallel to poet Robert Frost's "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," is just as enchanting and invigorating for the hiker passing along the barely visible pathways. Looking out upon the woods, has been my passion here, since we arrived in the fall of 1989, and I can't imagine what it would be like now, to not awake and see it sprawling so beautifully to the horizon; its inhabitant foxes, deer, squirrels, rabbits, moles and mice, keeping the birds company; that thrive in the tall pines, and venerable old oaks, which have yet to shed their leaves. I really don't care whether it is raining or snowing, on Christmas Eve, because the wilds of Muskoka are special places no matter what time of year, or what the prevailing weather. The Hawks and Owls, and noisey Crows, mix with the huge Blue Jays in the mix of thick evergreens and hardwoods that provide roosts and safe haven through the rolling year. To some citizens, who pay it little, if any attention, it is just a wasteland, that would be put to better use, affording more urban residences and apartments. It is the danger of the modern era, that we truly don't appreciate what we have, until it no longer exists in its natural splendour.

     I have re-located just now, to work for the afternoon, in the studio of our Uptown Gravenhurst shop, where the door has been opening and closing like mad, with last minute shoppers buzzing through the building, looking for last minute gift ideas. In only a few minutes, I've already had my quota of chocolates for the day, and Robert came into the studio, to drop off yet another box just given to us, by a parent of one of his guitar students. Talk about perks of the job. The nicest part, is hearing all the Christmas greetings being extended to us, by our regular customers, and half listening to the conversations breaking out between those folks meeting up with friends, in our cozy digs; and honestly, it would be quite impossible to remain unmoved by the seasonal goodwill, up and down the street. Despite the fact it has again begun raining heavily, with a pronounced mist moving across the region. It's always so remarkable to me, to find so many citizens who still honor those old and tired traditions, at this time of the year, of going shop to shop, wishing the proprietors the best of the holiday season. I know of one kindly chap, who wears a full Santa outfit, and wanders about the town, wishing "Merry Christmas," with a hale and hardy laugh, just because he insists on keeping tradition alive, as he has celebrated it, for long and long; as his own initiative to bring the neighborhoods and citizens together in the light-heartedness of Christmas and New Years. He may never be rewarded with a "Citizen of the Year," citation, but in our eyes, people like this are our greatest human resources.

     I have enjoyed many wonderful Christmas seasons in Muskoka, from a young age, and whether it was playing road hockey, in the light snowflurries, on a small patch of illuminated roadway, on Bracebridge's Alice Street, or sitting in the attic of Dr. Peter McGibbon's former home, on upper Manitoba Street, looking down from the attic window, watching the kids running along the path, or even in the wet conditions, making snow angels in Memorial Park; or in the modest early 1900's Ontario Street house, where Suzanne and I moved shortly after we were married, and where Andrew arrived home as a newborn; all of the special occasions, were celebrated equally with anticipation, yet peaceful acceptance, that the place where we were celebrating the holiday, was a darn fine homestead in which to host Christmas revelry; as high or low key as the mood dictated.

     Suzanne is always very low key, about her own family celebrations, recalled from when she was growing up in the Village of Windermere, on Lake Rosseau, but fondly recalling activities at the Windermere United Church, where her mother Harriet was a frequent organist, and general community activities, that were about as Muskokan in tradition as you could get. For quite a few years, every Christmas Eve, Suzanne and I would take Andrew and Robert, to her aunt Ada and Jack's (Gillis family) house in Ufford, which was actually her grandfather's John Shea's original farmstead, in Watt Township, where Ada would fuss for no less than three hours, to make up a dinner spread for us, that was a most incredible country dinner, with the most amazing pickles and preserves, a rich treat for the senses. Ada and Jack never had children of their own, but enjoyed their nieces and nephews when they came for visits. Jack insisted on lemon pie for his special dinner treat. Me too. I'm glad our boys had this opportunity to visit with these two fine members of the family, who gave us some spectacular Christmas Eve dinners, and an old fashioned country social, in keeping with the way the Shea kin had been celebrating the holidays for generations.

     Maybe it's true that the historian-me, has more interest in the details of Christmas past, than most others, and to some readers this may seem more of an impediment than a blessing of recollection. There are of course sad memories, that take their toll on us especially at this time of the year; yet I find them now to be of the bitter-sweet variety, and tolerable, full of kinder nostalgia, despite the reality there is much of Christmas past that can, no matter what traditions are employed, never be relived as one might like.

     A few minutes at the studio, and I had already experienced one of those wild and crazy impulses, in the most conservative sense, of course, to let the boys run the shop for the afternoon, so I could take Suzanne on a trip up to the very hamlet I was writing about earlier in this blog; to Lake Rosseau and Windermere, through her ancestral grounds of Ufford, with a stop by the Ufford Cemetery, for seasonal visit to Jack and Ada Gillis, and Norm and Harriet Stripp, and all the Sheas (including John Lily Shea) and the Veitches, of which my dear wife is related. We armed ourselves with a couple of mugs, some nicely chilled egg nog, and a couple of seasonal treats, and hit the misty road. It was a great outing, and as I noted above, Muskoka looks amazing no matter what the weather, and today it was veiled by the rolling fog over the hills of Ufford; and out over Lake Rosseau at the Windermere waterfront. There was very little traffic on the road, and it was a charming motor-trip through a lovely hinterland solitude. But it was nice to see the lights of a Christmas tree, through the farmstead front windows, and watched some neighborhood kids sledding down the hillsides, despite the drizzle. I was thinking back, to what it looked like, driving through Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and Vermont where I once used to travel frequently, in the winter months, on the way to, and from Florida. I think we under-rate Muskoka, for its countryside qualities, and rural living generally. This trip today, was as romantic, nostalgic as it was contemporary to the Christmas of 2014, while we listened to Christmas Carols all the while.

     Suzanne visited her own family home in Windermere, that has been nicely restored to its former Victorian era elegance, and it was the first time back, since it was sold as part of her father's estate. I thought she would begin to cry, but I knew she had to make this visitation regardless; and she seemed quite pleased that it was looking much as it had been during her childhood. So it brought back good memories instead of adverse. We had discussed buying the house from the estate, but we knew it would take fifty thousand dollars more, on top of the purchase price, to make the necessary upgrades. It got a little tearful on the day we drove away for the last time, but I was delighted she had a good feeling about what she saw this afternoon. We have long considered buying a small house in Windermere, but Suzanne has preferred to spend more money instead, to upgrade Birch Hollow. We still have a few years left to decide on stuff like that, although we're both pretty happy with how Gravenhurst turned out as a hometown; something we weren't sure about in 1989, when we had our first Christmas at Birch Hollow.

     When we arrived back at the store, to help the boys close up, Andrew was pleased to report that his brother Robert, had sold quite a few pieces from our part of the business, and well, it paid for gas and lunch, for our pleasant little journey through Muskoka. We also visited some of our old residences, from Ontario Street, Quebec Street, Manitoba Street, and Alice Street in Bracebridge, and had a momentary stop at the former Black's Variety and Bamford's Store on Toronto Street, where I would have been browsing for last minute gifts, in the era of the late 1960's, on a Christmas Eve just like this. I even enjoyed being part of the hustle and bustle today, in a number of local shops, and we had a nice time meeting up with some old friends, also scrambling for last minute gifts.

     I hope all readers of this humble, overly nostalgic blog, will enjoy the best of the season, a Merry Christmas, and have a safe and pleasing holiday with kith and kin; a good book, favorite pets, and those old songs and carols we remember from childhood. It is okay to wax poetic at Christmas, and think fondly back to the places in your former hometowns, where you invested so much heart and soul, waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney. I used to live in apartments, so this part of Christmas used to freak me out a bit. We didn't have chimneys. My mother told me he could basically vaporize to get under the door, and then re-materialize with his sack full of toys, by our Christmas tree. I was good with that explanation. It is part of the tradition that I harp about, which probably adds to my irrelevance, but rest assured, it is my sincere belief, that we all need the strong roots of times past, our past, to secure ourselves for the future.

     I shall once again, expect the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, to visit me, to undoubtedly point out, that I have not been the kind of human being I am supposed to be; and once again, I shall make every effort to repent, and restore myself, to a more faithful, moral existence for the coming year. Now, as Santa nears, I would like to wish you all, a sincere Merry Christmas from all of the Curries of Birch Hollow, whether you're living in Muskoka, or anywhere else in the world, and have found this blog somewhat seasonally and geographically entertaining.

     The last portion of today's blog has been written with the background glow from two Victorian era oil lamps, that are as bright as they are warming, and it reminds me so much, of the way I used to compose my stories, when I composed on a manual Underwood typewriter, that I had used at the Bracebridge Herald-Gazette back in the early 1980's. Now I'm just basking here, catching the wonderful scent of Suzanne preparing our Christmas breakfast in advance; a homestead menu that might have been served up by Granny Shea in her log cabin on the hillside of the family's Ufford farm.

HOPE YOU ALL HAD A COMFORTABLE AND PLEASING CHRISTMAS DAY

FIRST, THE GIFT OF AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SLEIGH RIDE, OF THE 1870'S IN MUSKOKA

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

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

THE SLEIGH RIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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