Dr. Norman Bethune At Calydor Sanitorium in Gravenhurst; Sketch Is Questioned

Sketch of patients of the Calydor Sanitorium in Gravenhurst? Could this have been sketched by former patient
 Dr. Norman Bethune

AN ORIGINAL SKETCH BY DR. NORMAN BETHUNE? DOES THE BACKGROUND OF THE SKETCH SHOW THE FORMER CALYDOR SANITORIUM IN GRAVENHURST?

WE NEED YOUR HELP TO IDENTIFY THE ARTIST AND THE BUILDING IN THIS LOCALLY UNCOVERED SKETCH

     The images published above, were taken from a sketch I found a few months ago, askew and stained in a cheap, bent metal frame, in the jumble of lesser art prints, on display in a local second hand shop. I picked the framed sketch up the first time, studied it for a few moments, thought it might be worth hauling home, but put it back in the bin. I wandered around the shop, still thinking it a rather odd, yet familiar depiction, of something I'd seen before. It was intriguing, and yet I kept putting it back on the shelf, while I looked at other images in the same pile. I picked it up, and put it back a total of four times, and it wasn't until I was just about to head for the check-out counter, when I decided that for the several dollar asking price, I'd take a chance I could successfully reframe the sketch to have a more saleable impact for our shop.
     Later that day, after staring at the sketch for several hours, on and off, at that point free from the cheap frame and taped-on matting, it suddenly became one of those bazinga moments. The background building the group of men are standing in front of, could be the former Calydor Sanitorium, in Gravenhurst. This private sanitorium operated from the period of the First World War until the 1930's, and was acquired in 1939 by the federal government, to be used as a prisoner of war camp for German soldiers, sent to Canada from imprisonment in Britain. I have written quite a bit about both installations, and was pretty sure the building was part of the Calydor hospital architecture, dating it to its sanitorium period, versus the prison-camp era of its history.
     The more we studied the fragile piece of paper, on which the sketch had been applied, we noticed some curious realities of the individuals in the frame. You will notice that a number of the characters illustrated, have visible ties, consistent with a hospital-issued robe. There are photographs Suzanne has viewed previously, from her archive work, showing similar garb worn by gas-victim patients at Calydor, who were being treated at the Gravenhurst facility, on arrangement by the federal government. These were the soldiers who had been injured with poison gas in the trenches of the First World War, and who required similar medical resources, and healthful environs, as were needed by patients suffering from tuberculosis. On the left side of the sketch, you will notice a patient wearing a covering over his face, which may suggest not only a respiratory injury but skin burns as well.
     We believe the tree in the background, may be an exaggerated lilac stand, which is common to that property, which would in its final years, become the site of the Gateway Hotel. There were huge lilac clusters, of old growth, around the long retired tennis courts, that probably dated back to the Prisoner of War Camp use of the acreage. So it is certainly in keeping with the nature of the property, to find such flora and fauna as witnessed in the sketch.
     There are those characters who appear clad in military uniforms, and if it is true, the sketch is indeed, of former hospital patients, those on the left side, right up to the upper edge of the paper, and obscured by the gnarled branches of the tree, may in fact, be haunting images of those who passed-away, as a result of their injuries or illness. The more you study the drawing, the stranger the art work becomes; and the more unique and curious the story-line, especially if our assumption is correct, that the subject artist was creating a group image of inmates, past and present. It gets a little unsettling after awhile, when the dots don't line-up, and more questions remain than answers.
     I have had many visitors to our Gravenhurst shop, look at the sketch, to see if they can find some identifying feature that we may have missed. Ninety percent of those we've asked about the familiarity of the architecture, in behind, and who know Gravenhurst history, have no problem quickly identifying the structure as part of the former Calydor facility, of the 1920's and 30's, in the period before the prison camp years. Several astute art hobbyists, suggested that the panel is a merging of three different images, in one sketch; being the left and right sides, and the middle, where the horse and buggy is obviously delivering, or picking someone up from the facility. And none of those we've asked for an opinion, believe that it was a staged gathering for a photograph, or for the artist to make a hurried keepsake sketch. We have had opinions that suggest a resident artist, probably a patient at Calydor, who liked to make such sketches, (to kill time), may have been working from a larger photograph, or numerous, that hung in the hospital, that were prominent to patients and guests. It could be that this was an artist's compilation of the content of three separate photographs, sketched into one rather unique scene. Why? Why would there be any reason to do this, or to organize, for that matter, a group sketch or photo of ailing patients? Who was this artist, and what was the message being relayed to others, about life and social intercourse at the Calydor facility? If indeed this is the correct location. How many competent artists were patients, or on the staff of Calydor in the twenty years or so of operation as a private sanitorium? We only know of one. Dr. Norman Bethune.
     Dr. Bethune was prolific as a sketch artist, producing many art pieces during his stay in sanitoriums, here in Gravenhurst, and when residing in a facility at Lake Saranac, during the early 1930's, when he was suffering from tuberculosis. Quite a substantial number of his sketches and paintings have been collected and preserved, and published in several of his biographies. Although he was a patient at Calydor for only a few months, it is known that he did sketch while a patient. His work is unique and a little peculiar, and he most often sketched himself, or his name, into these works; including his name etched onto a tombstone, with, of all things, his anticipated date of death. There is another image, a well known, quite proficient depiction of the "death angel", holding Bethune's lifeless body. While Bethune experts consulted, and given a copy of the sketch, have not yet offered any opinion of the work, afforded them for closer scrutiny three months ago, there are undeniable similarities, which make us ponder the possibility he may have been responsible for this obviously "storied" sketch. Is it possible that Bethune made this sketch, in part, from photographs he had access to, hanging in the Calydor facility; and that the characters on the left, high side, are indeed, portraits of the deceased he somehow had access to, during his brief stay? We also wonder, from self portraits Bethune sketched into other art panels, to include himself in the storied compositions, whether he may have done the same in the sketch shown above, being the similar looking chap, laying on the ground, at the front, on the right side of the image? Positioned as if it was a team or social club photograph. Yet strangely, it's a sketch and not a photograph.
     Could it be that the sketch was left by Dr. Bethune, when he was transferred to the larger tubercular facility at Lake Saranac, in the United States; possibly placed on a bulletin board, or discarded outrightly, and harvested sometime later by a staff person, who might have taken it home to a nearby residence. Many locals at the time, worked in a variety of capacities at the numerous local sanatoriums, from gardening, maintenance, to laundry and kitchen work, not to mention nursing and clerical staff. It might have been the case, the drawing was part of an estate clearance, without any provenance attached to the picture frame, in which it was fastened by yellowed transparent tape. This happens frequently with estate clear-outs, that heirloom and important pieces get turfed because there is no clearly defined provenance, to indicate to executors, the inherent value of select pieces with historical connectedness to major events and recognitions; such as the case of significant awards. What I'm pointing out, that it is not beyond the realm of possibility, that a staff member would have retrieved what was to be discarded, because they either admired the piece, or happened to have enjoyed Dr. Bethune's stay. This is unlikely because he wasn't a model patient by any stretch. Still, it is the kind of sketch that demands a second, third and even fourth look, as it did for me when I first came across it, amongst some really poor art pieces where the highest asking price was only two dollars.
     We are art admirers and historians who love to chase down the stories connected to unsigned works, we uncover out on our regular antique hunts. We make no claim to be experts but we have a few credentials onside, to help us, at the very least, narrow the possibilities; based on the work of other artists, and what we know of the backdrop, and unusual features, when they are clearly identifiable. We are reasonably sure the sketch above is not of the Calydor Prisoner of War Camp, although we can't say this, having any more proof than what the architecture reflects; and what the lilac tree reminds us of, having walked the property a thousand times since we moved to Gravenhurst in the late 1980's. We thought it was within the bounds of possibility, not to rule Dr. Bethune out, as the potential artist responsible for the sketch above. We have run it by several authorities, who have, to date, offered no opinion whatsoever, on whether this could be a part of Canadian history, or just a highly detailed doodle on a scrap piece of paper. Regardless, we are pretty sure it is a one of a kind relic of Gravenhurst history, that we are proud to own, and display for our customers, and for you folks checking out today's blog. You folks, by the way, are the first to see this image; as this is the very first occasion it has been published anywhere by any means. The images above are of the original, done for examination by art experts. Obviously it didn't pass muster, which seems a tad perplexing, but this also highlights the difficulty and expense of having art pieces researched and identified. At this point, it is a two dollar sketch that may or may not be of historical significance. We like it, and wish to know more about it, and the artist....if ever attainable. If you have any knowledge of this sketch, found locally, or happen to have the art experience to identify the artist, based on the composition of the work, we would love to hear from you. I love mysteries, but I like solving them better.
     Every year since I began collecting art for myself, and much of it for eventual re-sale, I have engaged in this same daunting task, of putting a name and location to an unsigned, otherwise unidentified painting or engraving. It's beyond maddening at times, but low and behold, the fault rests with me. I could have taken a specially designed course, known to art appraisers, but I decided to remain a lowly art admirer instead, counting on the expertise of others to identify what I might mistakenly believe is a lost master work worth millions. In forty years I've missed that mark by the proverbial country mile. There have been many exceptional finds, enough to whet my appetite for more, and of this, I feel adequately rewarded in profit and enthusiasm, to continue the quest. A majority of art and antique collectors, and dealers, would have purchased this same sketch, despite the fact it was unsigned, and could take hundreds of hours to authenticate; and even then, there's no guarantee it will be worth the time invested. It certainly helps in this case, when the price was low to start with; so investing in it, in terms of research, isn't all that burdensome to shoulder. What I like about this picture, beyond the possibility it might have been sketched by a known artist, or Bethune as a time killing activity, is that it possesses a story that needs to be told. I think we're close to fereting-out the truth of this art work, and its provenance, and we may be surprised at what it is, and what it isn't!
      It's currently not for sale, because we want to share the image first, with others who find it equally strange and befuddling, with however, some distinct familiarity; that may in fact, make it one of the most significant Muskoka relics uncovered in recent history. Is it worth a million bucks? I'm not that lucky, believe me!
     Feel free to comment.

A Special Meeting With Actor/Broadcaster James Carroll Of Huntsville

Ted Currie talking to actor James Carroll at The Alqonguin Theatre on Saturday. Second from left is Ted's son, Andrew, and friend Shauna Leigh Taylor.

Ted Currie pointing out a spot on his son's coat that was going to need dry cleaning while talking with actor James Carroll. (just kidding about the dry cleaning)
Both photos by Jamie Oppenheimer

MY FACE TO FACE MEETING WITH A HELL OF A GUY - THE FELLOW I KNEW BEST AS THE KINDLY MR. SUTTON, IN THE CAST OF, "WIND AT MY BACK"

JAMES CARROLL AND I, FRIENDS AND SIGNIFICANT OTHERS, HAVE A MEMORABLE GET-TOGETHER AT THE END OF THE SHOW

     The Algonquin Theatre's most recent event, "A Stage Door Thingy," produced and performed-in, by friends and colleagues of actor / broadcaster, James Carroll, of Huntsville, raised $3,100, to help offset medical costs, for his ongoing cancer treatments.
     At the conclusion of the afternoon show, Mr. Carroll, forever humble, silently bowed his head, when he received a standing ovation and thunderous round of applause, that lasted several minutes, bringing tears to the eyes of many in attendance who have known, and worked with the actor over many years. They were in attendance, on this day, to lend support, financially and in any way needed, to assist their friend on his tough journey ahead, facing the protocol of cancer treatments. It was a moving occasion, and it demonstrated that his struggle, to improve his health, wouldn't be one undertaken alone.
     I have only known James Carroll for a whisker of time, a mere smidgeon of our respective lives, in this mortal coil, yet I feel we've known each other since childhood. If we had gone that far back, I assure you, he would have taken off my toque, run like an Olympian, and given it to the neighborhood dog to gnaw on; and I would have chased him up a nearby tree, pulling off his boot, and sock on the way up. We would have boxed each other over a girl we both liked, and he would have given my nose the first of many crooks and lumps. But I would have got the girl, anyway, who liked a rugged looking chap with a "bent and bumpy beak" (now repeat that over and over). No, unfortunately, we didn't know each other in childhood, although we weren't that far apart in miles. I spent my first years in Burlington, Ontario, and he was just across the border, in Philadelphia. But I think we both felt as if we had once played British Bulldog in the school yard, or hide 'n seek in the open spaces of our home communities, and that moment of introduction, broke the ice in a rare conversation, we would both remember for a long while; as having evaded us for a seeming eternity, without eternity having a set value of hours or days. It was an unspoken, unknown familiarity, that diminished the need for conversational protocol; and where a handshake and a twinkle of the eye bridged whatever gap there might have been at the beginning. In fact, I wrote a little editorial piece to cover this social awkwardness, in the style of which, I seem to have most experience. It is sincere and heartfelt, without being overly sentimental or snobbishly stiff, as if it had been a meeting between leaders of government, instead of plumbers comparing who was offering, for public exhibition, the best and fullest butt cracks; without being intentional about it, of course.
    Let's just say, I grew up surrounded by the harder stuff of athletics, where getting a slapshot in the face was character building (or so our coach said); and hobbling off the ice after a wicked body check, was a sign of character weakness. I heard the coach yelling at one of my team-mates, in a game in which we were losing badly, who had just been cracked hard in the face with the shaft of an opponent's stick. The coach couldn't figure out why he was on his hands and knees in front of the bench, while the play went on around him. "For Christ sakes kid, get back in the play," yelled the angry coach. The kid yelled back, "I will coach, as soon as I pick up the rest of my teeth off the ice."  So forgive me for waxing athletic because it's most of what I know at this elder age of penning columns. In this case, it's an inspiring story, hockey or not, and one I wouldn't have missed for, as mother used to say, "love nor money."
     In one of the photographs published above, compliments, by the way, of Jamie Oppenheimer, (Shauna Leigh Taylor also snapped some images as well) it appears, that I'm giving signals down the third base line, for the runner to steal home plate on the next pitch. In the other, I seem to be making some profound statement about the shape of the earth, flat more so than round, while James Carroll tries to figure out what the hell I'm getting at, with all the finger pointing and behind-my-back signaling.
      If you have been reading the recent pieces I've written about James Carroll, and the special show his friends and former colleagues, put on at the Algonquin Theatre, in Huntsville, this past Saturday, (you can archive back through our facebook page posts to catch-up), you would know that I had been writing about the well known, and respected actor, without having first met the man; which is not the usual protocol before setting down to do something even remotely biographical. I had already written three pieces, that by the way, attracted a huge audience of readers, and was intending to meet-up with James at the special fundraising event, "A Stage Door Thingy," when son Andrew and I went up to support the actor, and to further the purpose of the tribute show; which was, of course, to help raise funds to offset the high cost of medical treatments he has been receiving, to abate the progress of a recent cancer diagnosis. I was really looking forward to talking to the actor, admittedly, who I knew best, as the good natured, community minded, charitable (also ran an open-air soup kitchen for the homeless, in the fictional Bedford Falls), Mr. Sutton, the physical education teacher, and part-time radio host, on the historical television drama, "Wind At My Back." His "special angels" as he calls his friends, Shauna Leigh Taylor and Jamie Oppenheimer, found a box set of the show for sale on Amazon, which as a matter of interest, ran for five seasons, and kindly purchased it for me (I have wanted to own this for years); and Suzanne and I have been watching three episodes each night since they arrived in the mail. I won't repeat all the background about the first couple of articles I wrote about Mr. Carroll, the effervescent radio host on Hunter's Bay Radio, in Huntsville, because you can find them all on our facebook page, going back to just before Christmas.
     Well, it's like this. I hustled Andrew out of our shop on Saturday morning, because I knew it was going to take close to an hour to drive from Gravenhurst. And, once again, (as is my hallmark as a motorist) I had nothing in the gas tank except some thin vapours, enough to get us to Skyways Restaurant and Gas Bar, on Highway 11, and not one inch beyond. The idea of getting there a tad early, was to get a few minutes with James before the auditorium filled-up with patrons (which it did pretty well). We sat at the back, off to the north side, where we could get a good look at the stage, and Mr. Carroll, sitting two rows below, just to our right side. From the moment my hind-end hit the chair, there was never a single moment, until the lights dimmed and master of ceremonies, Roger Bird, began to introduce the upcoming acts, when James Carroll wasn't either sitting while hugging, or standing while hugging, or shaking hands with those who approached him from all angles, with only good wishes of course. There were even dozens of patrons turned back from approaching him, when the lights began dimming, and I watched them sit back down, to wait for the next opportunity at intermission. When intermission rolled around, it was second verse, same as the first. He was mobbed in a most friendly, loving way, but make no mistake, he was mobbed. You can therefore guess, then, that at the end of the show, after a rousing standing ovation, the mobbing session was repeated a third time, and there just wasn't any room to get my enormous frame through the crowd to talk with the star of the hour.
     I finally turned to son Andrew, and told him I was going to head to the van, but he should stick around and take his place in line, to extend our kind wishes to James, if that is, the crowd didn't carry him away on their shoulders, which at times seemed highly likely. I didn't want to be rude but I have a bad case of hockey-hip, and I can't sit for a couple of hours anywhere, comfortable seat or bleacher pine, without the need to get up and stretch my legs; and clack noisily into place, my knobby, slapshot altered knee-caps, and back, that is pissed off at me most of the time, because of indiscretions of the past. I'm not good after this, standing on a stairway, and my best bet in avoid toppling over, is to keep the body-works moving forward. It took me ten minutes to walk a single block, but I was in pretty good shape, yup, by time I opened the van door. At this point I could have run the Boston Marathon. This is the contradiction of my body at sixty years of age. It's those first two hundreds steps that beat me up. I got in, turned the ignition, and dialed-up the heater to "inferno" level, because I was cold from the walk; and I switched on Hunter's Bay Radio, the same one James Carroll works with, as an afternoon host. I was enjoying the music and getting toasted.
     I was shaking off the shivers, when Andrew came to the driver's side, pounding on the glass (a real heart starter) as if a car-jacker, opened the door, and began tugging at my arm to get out, like he used to, when we finally arrived at the beach when he was a kid. "Come on dad, James is free now, and he's waiting in the lobby to meet you." I hesitated for one reason only. Once I sit, even for a micro-second, the knees and hip resort to their old ways, and I have to untangle all the bits and bobs of tangled muscles, compromised nerves, and bone sparking off bone. I asked Andrew how long James was going to be there, and if he would be willing to wait the ten or fifteen minutes for my return to the theatre building. "He's told me he's not leaving until he meets you, so we'll get there when we get there," Andrew said, considering how he might just as easily, and for the sake of time, toss me over his shoulder, for the short haul next door. Well, I thanked him for his offer, but suggested that the sheer weight of my considerable frame, would compact him down into his shoes, and seeing as he had his whole life in front of him, declined to either jump into his arms, as I used to carry him, or climb onto his shoulders as if my personal Sherpa, to get me up the small incline to the entrance. I limped a bit, hobbled a lot, whined incessantly (I started to annoy myself), but I really did want to shake the hand of a fine actor, and exceptional mentor in the performing arts, who I knew from television and radio, but not in person. All the way into the theatre again, I thought about how I would handle my greeting and introduction, which for a socially awkward guy like me, can go askew quicker than my knee can click-out the opening notes of the national anthem. I used to be a public relations director, once upon a time, but you'd never know it today, when I get tongue tied trying to order from the restaurant drive-thru; and then make it worse trying to clear up the misconceptions. Which my the way, usually costs an extra twenty bucks for all the extras I apparently ordered by mistake.
     When Andrew and I arrived back at the theatre lobby, James Carroll was indeed waiting for me, with friends Jeff Carter, manager of Hunter's Bay Radio, a close friend and colleague of the host, and both Shauna Leigh Taylor, seen in the photograph above, and her partner, Jamie Oppenheimer (not seen obviously). After brisk handshakes with the group, a hug from Shauna, and a warm clasp of my hand, from James Carroll, what do you think I offered him in return, as an introductory anecdote? Obviously I've been reading far too many Paul Rimstead sports columns, from his book "Cocktails and Jockstraps," because I immediately tried to show how out-of-place I had felt, during the tribute show, by offering the preamble apology, headed, "I'm not used to such a calm, respectful, warm display of affection," as was in ample evidence earlier in the auditorium. At this point I hadn't detected the twinkle in his eyes yet, which usually means for me, the person I'm talking with, has picked up on the anecdote and is tweaked for the full circle of the short story. "I mean, I usually attend sports related socials, and award events, where, hockey cronies put each other in headlocks as a tribute greeting, or robustly smack each other on the backs so hard, the beer blows out their nostrils like a short fire hose. You know, where they give each other wedgies and call each other names, coined in fun, back in their glory days, like 'Crusher' 'Funnel' (that was mine as a goalie), and 'Moose'." Honestly, and in my defense, I've spent a hundred times more writing time, profiling sports and sport personalities, than covering theatre, the entertainment scene, or interviewing actors; although I did cover shows at Deerhurst Inn during the 1980's, when we got free tickets and dinner to attend for our newspaper, and I covered a lot of plays put on by Muskoka Festival at the Gravenhurst Opera House, in an around the same period. Point is, I was out of my element, and having a wee bit of trouble finding words that didn't have a hockey or sports connotation, and that wouldn't, in any way, insult this fine chap who had waited for me to come back to meet him, at last.
     Whether it was his quick wit as an improv master, or his years of social gad-abouting as an actor with a considerable fanship, he knew I was having difficulty wordsmithing in my mind, and he looked at me for a moment, as if removing unnecessary reverence on my part, and with only a few words, and that magic twinkle of the eye, said he knew exactly what I meant, as he had grown up in a family with multiple siblings, and all the rivalry that can entail in earnest; a family that enjoyed sports, aggressively-so, in backyard competitions, and in the schoolyard; and he seemed to appreciate that he was talking to a long-time sports writer, and not a reporter overly familiar with the performing arts. In only a few words, and an endearing look, this humble, but determined gentleman, had set me at ease, by countering with other anecdotes, general, and about the event he had so capably officiated for most of that afternoon. In only a few moments, I felt as if I had known James Carroll for years, and not merely a matter of moments, in the cavernous lobby of the Algonquin venue. I told him that I was very honored to meet him, and he retorted, in a quiet, assuring way, telling me, it was an honor to finally meet me. I was in a mild state of shock, because no one has ever said that to me before. Andrew pointed out that I was blushing, and he was right about that; I've always been a journeyman writer, like I was a backup goalie, (a rider of the pine), a football centre (to hup the ball) and a left fielder in my sporting days, seldom if ever to get singled out, for any special honor or duty, unless I was being asked to carry out some equipment to the waiting bus.
     I wasn't there to interview James Carroll. Maybe that will come another day, if he desires. I was in attendance, and in his company, to pay tribute, because I respect the man, his accomplishments on stage and in film, and most of all, in the contemporary sense, his mentorship as a radio host, to so many up-and-coming regional musicians, who he supports so thoughtfully, and aggressively, on his Hunter's Bay Radio Show. In essence, it was the reason for our meeting, because of our introduction, through a live-performance at the radio station, prior to Christmas, when my sons Andrew and Robert played with Bet Smith, a group he has promoted on air for months. All I was concerned about, at that moment, was that he would think of me as a rough hewn Muskokan, who was not used to such tender, heartfelt moments; that didn't involve a hockey stick, puck or net to shoot it into.
     I enjoyed our brief but poignant meeting, and expressed to him, as much as I could, being tongue-tied and in-awe, that I was truly delighted to finally meet the actor, who had characterized "Wind At My Back's" Mr. Sutton, so craftfully, and believably, such that I wished I could have attended his phys. ed. classes at the Bedford Falls public school, or topped the human pyramid at the young olympics he organized. In the fictional sense, of course.
     James shook my hand again, with the vigor of a phys ed teacher, and the sense of commitment, that come hell or high water, we'd meet-up again, and I think we both left feeling we had completed unfinished business, and anointed a new friendship between sports writer and actor; that you know, has seemed to me ever since Saturday, to be a pretty narrow divide, when it comes down to it, in the grand scheme of what veterans of both professions can talk about without getting bored of each others company.
    Truthfully, I'm a much more interesting person, to take note of (if I'm noticed at all), when I'm in company of someone like James Carroll, a compelling story spinner, a witty responder, and enthusiastic companion of the arts. It's what years spent staring at a keyboard and white screen, and hockey ice rink, can compromise of personality and social elegance; that being me of course, and not him. I had a blast at the show, and a fine meeting with the man of the hour, James Carroll. We all wish him the best, of course, in the latest round of medical treatments, and trust he knows for sure now, just how many fans he has out there, who are pulling for him in this latest, greatest challenge. Thanks once again to all those who helped organize the fundraising event, and facilitate a short, but wonderful meeting with James at the end of the show. I also wish to acknowledge Jeff Carter, an unsung hero, representing Hunter's Bay Radio, for his enthusiastic support of the performing arts, and the generous promotion of local musicians, of which our own family has benefitted greatly. I'm sure James Carroll would agree with me, that this fellow deserves a lot of credit for building a well accepted, dynamic community radio station, with a largely volunteer contingent, and a lot of good will.
     Bless you all. Let's keep in touch!
     And in the words of my hero, Red Green, "Keep your stick on the ice!"

The Soft Interview With A High Impact; Wayland Drew and Les Rutledge

THE SOFT INTERVIEW - IN THE STRANGEST LOCATIONS

I WAS NEVER A TRADITIONAL REPORTER WHEN CONDUCTING INTERVIEWS, AND THEY WERE ALWAYS A LOT MORE ANIMATED AND HONEST AS A RESULT

     I've held informal interviews for stories, in crowded pubs, diners, restaurants, on buses, planes, cars, and in dark hotel alcoves, where the smell of stale beer made me nauseous, and the beat of the music used by the strippers on stage, nearby, was like a sledge hammer on the walls dividing us from the big show. I've had interviews on my front deck overlooking the wetland of The Bog, and I've walked through the trails of Algonquin Park, chatting about the life and tragic death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. I don't care where an interview is held, when I'm the writer, it will be by my rules; and it will involve a casual, non intrusive discussion. If the subject wants to open up, I'm all ears and, well, no notepad. It's not how I work. I'm not a hard news reporter any more, and I'm glad of that fact.
     I'm still buzzed, and in all the right ways and directions, inspired by my recent, albeit short meeting with actor James Carroll, this past weekend, in Huntsville, where he was the guest of honor at a special event, entitled "A Stage Door Thingy", put on by his friends, associates, and several of the actors he worked with on the television series, "Wind At My Back". I only got to meet James for a few minutes at the end of the show, in the lobby of the Algonquin Theatre, but we crammed a lot into a few sentences spoken to one another. He was as gentle and kindly a man as I supposed, knowing him mostly to that point, by stories my musician sons had told me, garnered from a recent personal concert at Huntsville's Hunter's Bay Radio Station, in which James Carroll was hosting the on-air component. And of course, from episodes of "Wind At My Back," where his character is pretty much the same charitable, affectionate type, as is the actuality of the man, in person. It was a tremendous privilege to be in the audience, on Saturday afternoon, at the Algonquin Theatre, for this event, to help raise funds to offset the high medical expenses, for his ongoing cancer treatments. I told him that we were going to get together real soon, to talk more, because he's got a wealth of experience and knowledge about the creative arts, and frankly, I want to know more. It's just the way I am. I know a good story when in its midst, and I have a feeling he's a proficient spinner of interesting tales. I don't know many movie and television celebrities, so I'm a tad smitten by his long list of accomplishments. I hope to have a lot more about James Carroll in the future, as Suzanne and I are currently watching all the episodes of "Wind At My Back," at present, thanks to kind folks in Huntsville, who hunted and found a box set for us via Amazon.
     Canadian author, Wayland Drew, the man who penned one of the country's most memorable texts, "Superior, The Haunted Shore," amongst dozens of other high quality, well composed published works, always suspected I was interviewing him, but there was no detectable format, no visible notepad, no recording device, and I never once whipped out a camera to snap his picture. He knew I worked for the local weekly newspaper, and that I was a fairly well read columnist, so it's not like he didn't know I was making copious notes in my mind, about all the meetings we had, when we were both founding directors of the Bracebridge Historical Society, in the late 1970's, and both in on the opening of Woodchester Villa and Museum. We had a great repoire, and while working on heritage matters, we got a chance to talk casually about writing and authors we both knew, and projects he was working on at the time. He was incredibly modest about his accomplishments, and almost shy, when I'd suddenly compliment one of his books, such as being my favorite; this was "Brown's Weir," which he co-produced with his wife Gwen, also a key member of the Historical Society, and the restoration of the Victorian era, octagonal estate known as the "Bird House," named after its builder and woollen mill founder, Henry Bird.
     I had a huge admiration for his writing style, and his wealth of knowledge about Canadian history, and nature, which at times made me a terrible partner on projects, because I was always trying to get some snipit of information, that would give me some rare glimpse into the man's creative inner sanctum. Wayland never once treated me as a junior writer, or an apprentice, and he never wanted our relationship to change. I think he wished I would go away sometimes, when I over-stayed my welcome. But he was nice about it, and tried to conceal his yawns. He didn't want to give me an interview for the newspaper, and I didn't want to ask for one. But it didn't mean that I wasn't working on a character profile, with best intentions of course, because I knew that what this accomplished Canadian author had, that I needed, was a deep well of self confidence. There isn't a writer, or artist alive, or deceased, who didn't benefit from that same resource, of believing in oneself, when others, for whatever reason, didn't. Over years of meeting-up with Wayland and Gwen, and reading all his books, including some of his science fiction work, I got an inside glimpse that any other reporter, surface skimming, would have missed, or avoided because of the intimacy factor. I benefitted from the writer to writer intimacy, and it wasn't just as two historical-types talking about the good old days. We talked about all kinds of stuff, and I absorbed everything of those social get-togethers, because it was important then, and of critical relevance today, when I consult his work frequently, to appreciate what a fine author employed, in order to captivate an audience. I have great memories of Wayland and he became a mentor whether he wanted to sign-on or not. He taught me to challenge myself as a writer, and never, ever give up trying to upgrade skills, or rest on the laurels of accomplishment. He also advised against ever narrowing or shortening my horizon of potential projects, and he was, in this case, the visionary a young writer needed, to carry-on despite all the set-backs of a hugely competitive profession. I remember getting a compliment from Canadian author, John Robert Colombo one day, after he had read one of my ghost stories that I had been working on, with his encouragement of course. He wrote that my writing style was reminiscent of what he knew of Wayland's work; and it floored me, because he didn't know how much I respected Wayland's work, and that I even knew him as a friend. I was thrilled to get this compliment, but it didn't make me wonder if I had been shadowing so close that I was even comping his material. Gads, that would have been terrible. But, as it turns out, this wasn't the case at all.
     When I worked for Muskoka Publications as both a reporter and editor, I used to conduct ten or more interviews for every issue of The Herald-Gazette. When I'd get down to writing the news or feature stories, based on those same interviews, I was most often faced with the fact I had barely enough to make three good paragraphs, let alone filling a third of a page, in a broadsheet format. There was never any personality to the stories, and they were not very interesting to read either. By studying the work of other writers, including Wayland, I gradually learned how to incorporate actuality into the interviews, which was observational more than stuffing the copy full of quotations; the interviews began to show some dynamic, to what had been flat and unremarkable. I wasn't inventing copy, or padding quotations to make the subjects appear more interesting. I began studying their physical and emotional responses to questions, and I wasn't going to miss a point of clarity, that for example, I had noticed a tear in their eye, a nervousness in demeanor, or anger in expression, related to what we were chatting about. Over the decades, I've been conducting interviews in similar fashion, and it's been the case, that my contact with subjects, as an end result, has never been adversarial. The stories don't appear much like what one would expect as the result of a reporter asking questions. I'm not intrusive, but rather, responsive to a prevailing situation, crisis or victory. A lot of my subjects will get back to me to enquire how I got so much about them, from so little personal information, and nary a note having been scribbled during our talk. I've never crossed the line with these folks, revealing off-the-record comments, and my point for including them in a story, is not to expose them, but to acknowledge their efforts in a particular area, leading to some accomplishment or other. Hammering these folks with rapid fire questions, wouldn't give me a better interview; but instead, burden what shouldn't be weighed down by unnecessary references to things most readers couldn't care less about. The human realities. Now that's what interests people, who want to know more about the subject. The only people I talk with, as a blogger, are those who have, and are having, an impact on the scene I work in today; and yes, entertainment is certainly in the top ten of my day to day areas of interest.
     I've casually or "soft" interviewed amazing characters, living and working in Muskoka, on the golf links, at the same time as I'm slicing tee shots into the bush; in restaurants where I'm likely to spill my tomato juice on the white linen table cloth, at get-togethers where everyone in attendance offers their opinion, which is duly acknowledged, and many, many of the most casual and enjoyable interviews are conducted in the music studio of our Gravenhurst business, where confidentiality is always guaranteed, and privacy protected; and the blogger can be trusted to listen and learn, but never repeat for an audience. I'm a writer who would rather know the truth of stories, even the information acquired that can't ever be revealed. I'd rather be in-the-know, than ignorant about the details of life and times in our communities. Like knowing, in the darkness of an unfamiliar room, where the obstacles are situated, in order to avoid taking a tumble. I can be far more insightful when writing about local matters and regional history, knowing the obstacles that have burdened us, for long and long; and even though I can't resolve them, I can more fully appreciate why the puzzle pieces won't, and will never fit, in the common interpretation of local history for example. It becomes an important resource when you're faced with a huge shortfall of information, in what is otherwise, an important story that can't be told sensibly by known facts alone. You get a lot of insight in casual conversation, that a reporter would never get with a hard deployment of a traditional interview for publication. I never liked this when I was a reporter, because a subject would freeze-up, worried about saying too much or making a mistake with a statement soon to be published. Every reporter has to deal with this stalemate, that can kill a story before it has been written.
     I like tapping into a subject's personal point of view, and often times, it would be a bad idea to print all that was told to me; and in fact, dangerous to do so for many different legal reasons. Yet I benefit on all these occasions, knowing what should be known, but just not exploiting the nitty gritty as they say. Let me tell you, the nitty gritty gives me clarity, and a lot less room to make an error in judgement; knowing where the pitfalls exist, is pretty darn important to someone writing an intimate story for public consumption. I want to know everything I can about the person I'm interviewing, and if it makes me wince, well, I've winced before by what has been revealed to me, and survived emotionally, to write the story; and not just the polite version. My subjects over the decades, appreciate how I can allude but not reveal, and expose, without reducing the story to a sensationalist front pager just to attract readership.
     Les Rutledge, of Gravenhurst, was both a friend and an adversary, depending on whether we screwed up his auction sale advertisement that week or not. Les was a mountain of a man with the disposition of a rattlesnake having a bad day, unless you met him socially and that was usually away from our respective work places; the place where an auction was happening for him, and The Herald-Gazette where I worked, and the newspaper in which he advertised his upcoming sales. For whatever reason, we seemed more than a little proficient making mistakes with his ad copy. After he had exhausted the clerical staff, trying to pacify his latest objection to something we had, or had not done, he would ask to see "Mr. Currie, the fellow who does the writing around here." I had dozens upon dozens of occasions, when I was the last line of defence, with Les, and keeping his business with our publication, instead of changing to the opposition press. I knew how to calm Les down, and give him plugs in my column or offer him some auction coverage, to make up for any shortfalls otherwise. Thus, I did more stories on Les Rutledge auctions than any other business that advertised with our paper, and honestly, it was always fun profiling this unique railwayman who became an auctioneer as a retirement preoccupation. He could get wildly animated at the sales if things weren't going his way, and bidders frustrated him, just as he became at our front counter. But it all blended into the character I knew, of an outstanding auctioneer, and a fellow with a bigger heart than many of us knew. I've republished the blog I wrote about him, because it's one of my favorites, and represents the process of soft interviews, and the insightful stories garnered as a result.

THE GUY JUST WOULDN'T SHUT UP - AND THAT REALLY ANNOYED LES

     Les Rutledge was a later years auctioneer. I believe he had been a railway man before this, and was known as a hard living, hard playing chap, who dearly loved and defended his family. I remember once, at a senior league fastball game, in Bracebridge, when I was a kid, sitting next to Les in the bleachers. I didn't know who he was, but by golly, was he loud and aggressive. I was sitting next to several young men, who were yelling at a number of opposition players, and specifically, one player on the Gravenhurst team. One of the player's was his son, Keith, and when the name calling continued, especially referencing the "Rutledge" name, in a most adverse fashion, Les pushed his Stetson back for a better view, huffed and puffed a little, tapped one of the spectators on the shoulder, and said something like, "The fellow you're calling a bum, happens to be my son," he said. "Why don't you go from around the backstop here, and say that to his face when he comes in off the field……I'm sure he would be willing to talk to you about it." His words were gentle, in comparison to the volume of smoke coming out of his ears, and the red sparks in his eyes, as if an inferno was engaged in his soul. "Maybe you're a better player than he is……so what are you doing sitting up here in the bleachers son?"

     One of the first auctions I took Suzanne to, was here in Gravenhurst, where Les was not only well known, but revered in his circle of acquaintances. It was an outdoor sale to settle an estate, and there were some interesting antique furnishings, we wanted for our future house, still a few years away. As it usually happens to me, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I found myself beside a loud mouth wearing a ball cap off to the side of his head. If I hadn't heard a word he said, before this, I would have thought he was going to do exactly what he did to Les. He looked the part of a blurt-for-a-laugh heckler. But still, as is my tradition, I just ignored the warning signs, and it wasn't long before this total goof, started making smart-ass comments about every auction item, Les was dealing with, and even taking pot shots at some of the bidders themselves. If we could have blamed it on alcohol, possibly he could have been removed with justification. It's not that Les wasn't used to critical comments from the cheap seats, but not every time he went to sell something else. The guy was a sort of "Foster Hewitt," type, of the former "Hockey Night in Canada" broadcasts, who felt compelled to provide the play by play. On this day, Les tried to keep his focus. It was hot, and he was getting tired with the work it was taking, to get through the large quantity of sale items. Having some background with Les, and knowing some of the warning signs…..like the sound of a rattlesnake before it strikes, I told Suzanne that we were going to have to move our pile of purchases, and get away from this guy quickly. The apocalypse was imminent.

     You could tell Les was annoyed. Several of the helpers that day, were trying to cool things down, and let the mouthpiece know, he was being rude to the other bidders, because of his constant interruptions. His comments were just dumb. It was obvious all he wanted to do was get a laugh from the audience. Some times he did get his moment of glory, when two or three of his cronies, in the cluster of people near the podium, laughed out loud. If he had actually been asking sensible questions, or making reasonable suggestions, instead of the verbal horseplay, that was getting real tiresome by the halfway point of the sale……I'm pretty sure Les would have preferred to let it all pass. Then it happened. All those who knew Les intimately, inhaled and held their breath, for what seemed to be an eternity. He had a look of jagged stone, that was quite frightening, even from a distance. All eyes were fixed on his movements on the platform.

     This time, he stopped the bidding on an item up for auction, initially because he couldn't concentrate on the cadence any longer, because of the jerk's constant chattering. I watched him push his trademark Stetson back on his head, wipe the sweat off his forehead, stop to pull up his trousers, regain a firm grasp of the cane in his hand, and saw that first powerful, confrontational step off the small riser, that elevated him for the sale. He walked through the audience, that parted very swiftly to let him pass (these were the regulars, who had seen this before), and with cane elevated to jousting level, he approached the trouble-maker. With body language alone, he let this tool know, his outbursts would no longer be tolerated. He was almost nose to nose, and the chap was as white as his Stetson. The guy couldn't even blink, he was so scared, looking at this huge chunk of humanity, who with his cane, made what many of us believed, was a threat to cause bodily discomfort …….if he spoke just one more word during the rest of the sale. I don't remember what he said, because most of us were sure Les was going to knock him onto the ground. But he was quite tactful, and never raised the cane to striking position, and most of the crowd applauded him, when all was said and done. Les was a minor folk hero around here, because of this ingrained tough love characteristic. When he turned around to go back to the podium, to finish the sale, people were slapping him on the back. "Way to go Les…..that'll teach him." The scrawny chap was lucky that day, Les was in a relatively good mood. Me thinks he would have had an unmistakable wood grain imprinted upon his forehead, from the auctioneer's cane, had he offered one more auction critique…..when nose to nose in the scrum of bidders, moving close to catch all the impending drama about to unfold. Maybe there were some people disappointed that day, he hadn't fulfilled their fantasy, by creaming the loudmouth, then and there. But it was the Les Rutledge I knew, from many misadventures at the Herald-Gazette front desk. I can remember walking into the office one morning, and finding the clerk in tears. When I asked what was wrong, she said, "I just heard Les died yesterday." Funny thing that! Her Monday morning adversary, had expired, and she was going to miss their little over-the-counter debates, about billing rates. We were all shocked that day, because he was just one of those colorful characters you run into, who captures your attention……and not always for the best reasons. Les was always kind to Suzanne and I, as was his son Wayne, who would later take over his father's auction tradition. Wayne was a fascinating guy as well, and I'd like to share some stories of our relationship with him, in the next several blogs.

     The point is, if you're going to be a court jester, go and find a location where there isn't an auction ongoing. It's just plain stupid to heckle the auctioneer, who inevitably has the authority to stop the bidding, if he so chooses, and offer no other apology than…."I'm sorry, I didn't see (or hear) your bid." Well sir, the heckler never won a single item in that day's bidding. Les had a good memory too, so there wasn't much chance he was ever going to win a bid, at any of his future auctions either. I've been at dozens and dozens of sales, where these penny-for-your-thoughts showboats, feel they have to entertain the audience, by bellowing their comedic one-liners…..which after a couple of hours, stir nothing more than angry grumbling, and threats of bodily harm. If you are genuinely interested in securing items from the auction, by placing the winning bids, then it is imperative, to mind your manners. Having a pissed-off auctioneer, pretty much guarantees that the going won't be fruitful that day. Not every auctioneer, who is heckled, tackles the perpetrator as aggressively as the good Mr. Rutledge. Many just prefer to issue a casual warning, or to pause for a gentle word with the intrusive bidder; but honestly, short of being on a hockey rink, I've never witnessed anything as powerfully informative, as the afternoon, Les Rutledge pounded down hard, off that wooden podium, to set the record straight……about what he felt was fair comment, and what he believed was insulting to his reputation as a country auctioneer. He had spunk that's for sure.

     Please join me tomorrow, for a look at the work of his multi-talented son, Wayne Rutledge, a former professional hockey player, a glazier, and a hell of an auctioneer. Thanks for dropping by today for a visit. Lots more to come, if you can stand all the excitement and good humor of the "lighter side of antique hunting." See you again soon. Cheers.

Gravenhurst Winter Carnival Extended To 7 Day Celebration

Gravenhurst Winter Carnival Extended to Week Long Celebration

    There's Wiarton Willie, from Wiarton, Ontario, and Punxsutwaney Phil, seasonal star of Gobbler's Knob, in Punxsutwaney, Pennsylvania. Groundhogs, that come out of their cozy dens on the 2nd of February, each year, to predict, according to whether they see their shadow, or not, how many weeks of winter are left before the warming days of spring.

    Gravenhurst has groundhogs alright, but they're nestled comfortably in local farm fields. Here there is no place of honor or event that celebrates their prognostication about the arrival of spring. The town has an otter, but this furry little fellow doesn't emerge until the 15th of February, and his sight is only set on seven days of glorious, albeit potentially brutal winter weather. It doesn't want an early spring to ruin a mid winter spectacle.

    In Muskoka we never know if it will be an extended thaw or a continuous blizzard. But historians can write reims about the sleeper-month, of February, that can throw all kinds of wild weather at inhabitants. It's the magic of a Canadian winter afterall, and we've got a six foot otter to "mascot" the big party, organized in February's honor!

    Do you get the shivers just looking at a winter coat? Get nervous at the first sight of a snowflake hitting your window pane? Are you a winter complainer? A hater of all things that are covered in snow and ice? A reluctant participant in winter season sports that require toleration of the cold? Might you be ticked-off this year, because a winter vacation to the tropics, is going to cost a lot more than it did last year, and the year before? Are you interested in a bargain priced outing, good for the whole family? And by the way, how do you feel about otters? The winter event I'm writing about, involves a regionally popular critter, the otter, and a South Muskoka community, that considers winter the best time of the year to play outside. An otter in the winter! A strange but interesting combination to celebrate mid-February. 

    It has been recently announced, that the Gravenhurst Winter Carnival, borrowing from the pages of local history, has increased their annual February event, from a three day celebration, to one that will run for an entire week this year. The re-booted winter festival will run this month from February 15th to the 21st, making it a week long cousin of its founding Muskoka Winter Carnival, which dates back 45 years. Thus, the still-active Carnival mascot, "Skokie," the regionally popular winter otter, will turn 45 year of age, when the event opens on February 15th in Gravenhurst.

    Contrary to popular belief, and we're not kidding about this, an old fashioned Canadian winter is pretty special to many of us, who dwell year round, in the vast, enchanted hinterland, content to be clenched in the teeth of its traditional inclement weather. This is what motivated organizers, in the District of Muskoka, way back in the winter of 1971, to initiate a special week long event, to promote the best, and most invigorating opportunities of winter season recreation. Well, truth is, they invented some unique, crowd-pleasing events as well as the usual fare, to fill out the week long schedule. Such as curling with frozen turkeys, sculpting all things big and small, from a big pile of snow, and pushing beds on wheels down icy lengths of local main streets.

    A few years back, and despite naysayers who said it wouldn't fly, and with only a modest amount of enthusiasm from the business community, the restored Gravenhurst Winter Carnival Committee took a chance on a spark to build a bigger fire. They began stirring-up interest in the idea of re-introducing the historic February celebration, originally begun in 1971 as a district wide event. And, with a trial and error willingness to learn, and a few years of lesser attendance for a down-sized and localized Skokie party, the event slowly began showing increasing support, more volunteer commitment, greater interest from the municipality, and much larger turn-out of both participants and spectators. Which has created a spin-off buzz in the business community. It gave organizers reason to step up their game, and return to the week long event, that the Muskoka Winter Carnival began with, 45 years ago, and operated successfully for quite a few years.

    Due to the increasing costs to run the original event, in the three towns, of Bracebridge, Huntsville and Gravenhurst, through the decades of content evolution, and more involvement required by the sponsoring municipalities, plus the natural and obvious changes affecting the number of volunteers, needed to pull off the ambitious Carnival, the Muskoka-wide event began to suffer from its own successes. It was what many major events experience at their peak. The demands become a burden, and in this case, the only way to save it, was to allow each community to celebrate it in their own way. This worked for awhile but the event had suffered from funding shortfalls each year, fewer volunteers were showing up to run events, and public interest was waining. It was unfortunate when the Muskoka Winter Carnival ceased as it had begun, but it had enjoyed a fairly long run, as these large-scale events are known to have, and the survivor of the collapse, was the spin-off Gravenhurst Winter Carnival, that found the old Skokie mascot suits were still stitched together suitably, to put them back on the shoulders of willing volunteers, to hustle-up support on the main street of town.

    The history of the Muskoka Winter Carnival has a plethora of highlights, including music that has promoted "Skokie" the otter, and the event itself, performed by such well known musicians, as Howard Cable and his Orchestra, the duo of Brad and Bonnie Veitch, and most recently, by the local group, "Pressure Point." All promoting the idea that winter can be a lot of fun amongst good company, with interesting recreational events.

    Us Muskokans, and Gravenhurst hometowners, like the idea of sharing winter with visitors. If you think Muskoka is a beautiful recreational region in the summer months, you really have to experience what it's like in the throes of a Canadian winter. It might be snowy, cold with a bitter wind, but we've found many ways of taking advantage of its invigoration, and spectacular scenery, to recognize, participate, and celebrate the diversity of climate, that's not as bad as you have been led to believe. Another misconception is that once the tourist season ends in Muskoka, all businesses close up until the very next 24th of May holiday weekend. If you come up for the events of this year's Gravenhurst Winter Carnival, you will find quite the opposite, and the main street of town will play host to a number of the events. It's a Gravenhurst sponsored event, but it's a celebration of winter in Muskoka, and all are invited to attend.

    There might be a blizzard. There could be blistering cold. There may well be a sunny stretch of weather, that hits a near-melt, and then again, it might be seven days of whacky weather, akin to all the traditions you've ever known, or heard, of a Canadian winter. It's our weather, and we should enjoy it! Consider a winter vacation that doesn't have palm trees and ocean breezes. How about one that inspires artists, sculptors, painters, photographers, poets, philosophers, and oh yes, those who play hockey, like to curl, and follow a winter otter event to event, for good family time adventures. Just dress warm and expect a chill to blow in off the lake. Just enough to keep you fleet footed event to event.

    Instead of the winter blahs, here is an affordable stay-cation opportunity, to visit a region best known for boating and summer recreation, that also, on the frozen, other side, is a most hospitable little burg, quite comfortable in its warm winter attire. Come and see for yourself, if you don't believe this hale and hardy, dressed-for-comfort Muskokan.

Paul Brodie, "Ambassador Of The Saxophone" Part 2

A FEW NOTES ABOUT BEING REVERENT - MINDFUL, AND APPRECIATIVE, OF THOSE WHO GOT US FROM THERE TO HERE - BUT NEVER KNEW IT!

     IT MIGHT SEEM TO READERS, THAT I AM SWEETLY REVERENT ABOUT EVERYONE I'VE EVER MET. POSSIBLY IT APPEARS, AT LEAST ON YOUR ELECTRONIC SCREEN, THAT I'VE BEEN INFLUENCED BY EVERY OTHER PERSON ENCOUNTERED, IN THIS LIFE OF FIFTY-NINE YEARS. MAYBE I HAVE, AND I WILL CERTAINLY NEVER OFFER AN APOLOGY, FOR TAKING INSPIRATION WHEN IT IS OFFERED. EVEN IF IT'S NOT, I WILL TAKE WHAT I FEEL MAKES ME STRONGER AND MORE RESILIENT. IT'S NOT LIKE I'VE BEEN INFLUENCED TO JOIN THE KLAN, OR A RADICAL GROUP, PLANNING TO OVERTHROW A PRESIDING GOVERNMENT. BUT I HAVE ALWAYS LOOKED FOR, AND FOUND, THOSE FOUNTAINS OF OPTIMISM I FELT WERE NEEDED, TO IMPROVE MYSELF, AND MY WORK, IN SOME PARTICULAR DIRECTION.
      WHEN I WAS EDITOR OF THE MUSKOKA LAKES-GEORGIAN BAY BEACON, BACK IN 1980, I HAD A CHANCE TO WORK WITH A REPORTER WHO WAS PART-TIME WITH OUR PAPER, AND THE HERALD-GAZETTE, OUR SISTER PUBLICATION, IN BRACEBRIDGE. HIS NAME WAS MIKE, AND WE'LL LEAVE IT AT THAT. HE WAS FRESH OUT OF COLLEGE, AND HAD HIS EYES ON A BIGGER CAREER IN JOURNALISM. OF COURSE, WE ALL HAD THOSE KIND OF ASPIRATIONS, BUT A YEAR OR TWO, OF DAY TO DAY WRITING WORK, ON A SMALL PAPER, USUALLY BEAT THOSE ASPIRATIONS OUT OF US; EXCEPT A FEW THAT DID GO ON TO THE DAILIES. THE CASUALTY RATE IS HIGH. THERE'S MORE LIKELIHOOD OF A BEAT REPORTER FOR A SMALL NEWSPAPER, GOING ON, TO BECOME A HOUSE PAINTER OR REAL ESTATE AGENT, THAN A FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT, COVERING THE LATEST OUTBREAK OF WAR.
     I ATTENDED UNIVERSITY TO BECOME A WRITER. NOT A REPORTER. MY AMBITION WAS TO WRITE NOVELS NOT NEWS STORIES. BUT HAVING TO EAT, I HAD TO ACCEPT A JOB WITH THE COMMUNITY PRESS, AND HOPE TO GOD, I COULD COME OUT THE OTHER END, AND STILL WANT TO PEN NOVELS. WELL, I HAVEN'T WRITTEN A NOVEL YET. MIKE HAD A GREAT YET NAIVE OUTLOOK, BUT HE SHARED A LOT OF COLLEGE STORIES WITH ME, THAT I DIDN'T GET IN MY COURSE OF STUDY, AT YORK UNIVERSITY. ONE OF HIS SHARED TUTORIALS, WAS ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF MENTORING AND BEING MENTORED; PASSING KNOWLEDGE ON TO FLEDGLING REPORTERS, FOR THE GOOD OF THE INDUSTRY. WE DIDN'T LOOK AT OURSELVES AS COMPETITORS, BUT RATHER OARSMEN IN THE SAME SINKING BOAT. IF WE WORKED TOGETHER, AND UTILIZED EACH OTHER'S STRENGTHS, POSSIBLY WE COULD SURVIVE, AND ONE DAY, ACTUALLY BEACH OUR CRAFT ON SHORE AGAIN.
     HE EXPLAINED TO ME, THE IMPORTANCE OF "BLEEDING ME DRY!" WE HAD ALREADY CONSUMED A HALF DOZEN BOTTLES OF BEER EACH, BY THIS POINT, AND I WAS A LITTLE CONCERNED HE WAS GOING TO KILL ME. HOW ELSE DO YOU BLEED SOMEONE DRY? OH YEA, THE PHILOSOPHICAL WAY. WHAT HE MEANT BY THIS, IS THAT HE WAS GOING TO LEARN ALL MY GOOD QUALITIES AS AN EDITOR, AS WELL AS STUDY ALL MY POOR AND FAILING QUALITIES. HE NEEDED TO KNOW WHAT I BROUGHT TO THE PAPER, AND THEN, HOW MY LETHARGY AT THE TASK OF EDITING, WAS HURTING THE PUBLICATION. THE IDEA, WAS TO NEVER MISS AN OPPORTUNITY, TO LEARN FROM COLLEAGUES, AND NOT JUST ABOUT PROFICIENCIES. MIKE WAS WATCHING ME PERFORM AT MY TASK, WHICH ON SOME DAYS WAS EXCELLENT, OTHERS, NOT SO MUCH. AND THEN TAKING THIS AWAY FROM THE JOB, AS A SORT OF LIVING TEXTBOOK, ON HOW TO STAY EMPLOYED AND EXCEL, AT THE BUSINESS OF GATHERING AND WRITING NEWS. I THINK THE FIRST FAULT, WAS THAT I DRANK TOO MUCH, AND WAS TOO INFLUENTIAL, GETTING HIM TO MATCH ME BEER FOR BEER AT THE LOCAL WATERING HOLE. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN CUNNING THAT WAY. I HATE TO DRINK ALONE. BUT THE POINT WAS A GOOD ONE. WE HAD TO LEARN FROM EACH OTHER, AND AN EDITOR CAN LEARN A LOT FROM A REPORTER; EVEN ONE FRESH FROM SCHOOL. I'M GLAD I LEARNED THIS EARLY IN MY CAREER, BECAUSE IT HAS WORKED LIKE A CHARM FOR ME, EVER SINCE. BUT UNFORTUNATELY, IT LOOKS IN PRINT, LIKE I'M INDEBTED TO EVERYONE WHO EVER PICKED UP A PEN, AND WROTE A BYLINE ABOVE A NEWS PIECE. I CAN TELL YOU, THAT IT'S THE ONE HUGE NEGATIVE I SEE TODAY, ALMOST EVERYWHERE, AS SOCIETY IS OVER-CROWDED BY SELF PROCLAIMED EXPERTS, WHO DON'T NEED TO "BE IMPROVED UPON." AS A SORT OF MINOR COUNTER-MEASURE, I'VE BEEN DETERMINED TO PROVE, BY EXAMPLE, THAT THIS SHADOWING, MENTORING THING, IS NEVER WRONG, UNLESS ITS A RADICALIZATION WE'RE TALKING ABOUT. I'VE KNOWN A FEW OF THESE FOLKS AS WELL, AND I'VE LEARNED FROM THEIR OVER-ZEALOUS AMBITIONS, THAT IT'S NOT A LIFE FOR ME.
     I SUPPOSE YOU THINK, THAT I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE BRONZE STATUES OF EVERYONE I'VE ADMIRED, LINING THE STREETS OF OUR TOWNS, HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. WELL, JUST FOR THE RECORD, I HAVE NEVER ONCE PETITIONED ANYONE, OR GOVERNMENT AGENCY, AT ANY TIME, TO AFFORD A STATUE, BASED ON MY RESPECT AND ADMIRATION FOR AN INDIVIDUAL. I DON'T BELIVE THAT A STATUE CAN REPLACE FUNDAMENTAL RESPECT, THAT WE PICK UP BY ASSOCIATION, AND BY CONNECTION, TO THE WORK AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF OUR PEERS. WHILE IT WOULD BE NEAT TO SEE A STATUE OF BRACEBRIDGE BORN, HOCKEY ALLSTAR, ROGER CROZIER, OR IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY, WRITERS WAYLAND DREW, AND PAUL RIMSTEAD, BAND-LEADER JOHN RUTHERFORD, AND NAMESAKE, AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE MAN WHO NAMED BRACEBRIDGE, IN 1864, WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, IT STILL WOULDN'T MAKE ME FEEL VERY GOOD, TO HEAR THE CASUAL PASSERSBY, WALKING THROUGH THE PARK ASKING, "WHO THE HELL WAS THIS GUY?" UNLESS I WAS POSTED IN THE SAME PARK, TO BE THE SCULPTURES' INTEPRETOR, IT JUST ISN'T THE WAY TO GO. HIGH PROFILE STATUES, AS LASTING MEMORIALS, TO THOSE WHO PERISHED IN WAR-TIME, YES INDEED. A HALL OF FAME LINE OF BUSTS IN A PARK. WOULDN'T WORK. TOO MANY QUESTIONS AND TOO FEW ANSWERS.
     SO I'VE TRIED, IN MY OWN WAY, AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN AND OLD BOOK SELLER, TO KEEP THE NAMES OF SOME OF THESE SOURCES OF INSPIRATION, AND FRIENDS OF OUR COMMUNITIES, FOR LONG AND LONG, CURRENT AND RELEVANT TO WHAT IS GOING ON THESE DAYS IN SOUTH MUSKOKA.
     PAUL AND RIMA BRODIE ARE TWO EXAMPLES, OF CITIZENS WHO CONTRIBUTED A GREAT DEAL TO THE ARTS AND CULTURE OF OUR COUNTRY, PROVINCE AND REGION, WHO ABSOLUTELY ADORED THEIR RECREATION IN BALA, AND AT THEIR COTTAGE ON THE MOON RIVER. I HAVE RIMA'S BIOGRAPHY, AND THE STORY OF HER DANCE, AND FIBRE-ART ACCOMPLISHMENTS, ALONGSIDE PAUL'S "AMBASSADOR OF THE SAXOPHONE," BIOGRAPHY, PROFILED IN YESTERDAY'S AND TODAY'S BLOG (SEE BELOW). SHOULD THEY BE AFFORDED BRONZE STATUES IN THE BALA FALLS PARKETTE? MORE SO, THEIR NAMES SHOULD STILL BE IN CIRCULATION, AND WE SHOULD STILL FIND PEOPLE ASKING ABOUT THEIR BIOGRAPHIES, AND IF WE HAVE ANY COPIES AVAILABLE. THESE ARE, BY ALL MEANS, GOOD AND POSITIVE STORIES, FROM PEOPLE WHO LED THEIR LIVES AS ROLE MODELS FOR THOUSANDS OF OTHER ASPIRING ARTISTS AND MUSICIANS. THEY, THROUGH THEIR WORK, AND RELATED MENTORING, HAVE INFLUENCED MANY OF US, IN SUBTLE WAYS, TO WORK HARD AT OUR INTERESTS, AND HONE OUR SKILLS, IN ORDER THAT WE BECOME MORE PROFICIENT; AND LEARN HOW TO ENJOY THE FRUITS OF OUR LABORS.
     THE TWO PART STORY OF PAUL BRODIE, AND HIS PARTNER RIMA, IS NOT TO SCULPT MEMORIALS THAT WOULD PROBABLY EMBARRASS BOTH, WHO WERE HUMBLE COMPARED TO THEIR ACCOMPLISHMENTS. IT'S NOT A BID ON MY PART TO SELL THEIR BOOKS, BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE THAT MANY TO OFFER, TRUTH BE KNOWN. I KNOW A GOOD STORY WHEN ONE BITES ME ON THE NOSE, AND WHEN I FOUND A SIGNED AND INSCRIBED BOOK, AT A CHARITY SHOP THIS WEEK, AND A PROGRAM FROM A 2001 CONCERT PAUL GAVE IN PORT CARLING, IN 2001, I DECIDED, FIRST OF ALL, TO READ IT COVER TO COVER TO REFRESH MY MEMORY (I READ THEM SHORTLY AFTER THEY WERE PUBLISHED); AND SECONDLY, TO REMIND MUSKOKA, AND ALL THOSE FROM OTHER AREAS OF THE WORLD, JUST HOW IMPORTANT THESE LATER-IN-LIFE MUSKOKANS, MEANT TO OUR CULTURAL QUALITIES AND QUANTITIES; AND I'M PRETTY SURE WE NEVER TOLD THEM, JUST HOW MUCH WE APPRECIATED THEIR DEDICATION. MY OWN BOYS BENEFITTED FROM PAUL'S MUSIC WORKSHOPS, AT PUBLIC SCHOOL, AND NOW THEY OWN THEIR OWN MUSIC STUDIO, WHERE THEY RECORD OTHER MUSICIANS AND BANDS, AS WELL AS CONDUCT LESSONS, ON TOP OF SELLING VINTAGE INSTRUMENTS AND VINTAGE VINYLE. I ASKED BOTH OF THEM A FEW MINUTES AGO, WHEN THEY DROPPED INTO THE STUDIO, ABOUT PAUL BRODIE, AND THEY REMEMBERED HIM FONDLY, AS A GOOD TEACHER, WITH A KIND STREAK ABOUT A MILE WIDE. WE DON'T HAVE A STATUE IN THE SHOP TO HONOR PAUL BRODIE, BUT WE DO HAVE HIS BOOKS AVAILABLE, JUST IN CASE ANY OF US ARE ASKED, ABOUT THOSE SPARKS OF INSPIRATION, FOR WHAT WE HAVE TODAY; AND WE CAN TURN AND PULL OUT HIS BIOGRAPHY, AND SAY, "HERE'S A MAN WORTH KNOWING."
     SO IF IT SEEMS I'M OVERLY FOND OF TOO MANY PEOPLE, S FOR MY OWN GOOD, WELL FOLKS, I'VE GOT A LOT MORE ROOM TO BE INSPIRED; AND I WILL NEVER CEASE LOOKING TO OTHERS, FOR THE STRENGTH TO CARRY ON; NO MATTER WHAT THE PURSUIT.





BORN TO PERFORM - PAUL BRODIE CELEBRATED - AND BESTOWED GENEROUSLY, TO "THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE SAXOPHONE"

THE PRIVILEGE THE BOOK SELLER HAS, TO PROMOTE WHAT HAS BEEN FORGOTTEN; A BIOGRAPHY THAT SERVES TO INSPIRE

(THIS IS PART TWO, OF THE PAUL BRODIE BOOK REVIEW. YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO READ PART ONE)

     Since I first began selling vintage, out-of-print, and rare books, back in the early 1990's, I have always put Muskoka related biographies, and histories above all else. They have always appeared at the front of our shop. And by tradition, they are our best selling titles and authors. They have always been our most important books, because we feel it is incumbent for the local book seller, to reflect the social / cultural values of the home region. Today, in our new Gravenhurst antique and old book shop, we have included the biography of saxophone ambassador, Paul Brodie, in three sections of the store. We have his book proudly on display, as one of our Muskoka books, in the hallway leading to our back shops, and in the front book case, of our vintage music business, operated by sons Andrew and Robert. Actually, Paul's book is even available from our Canadiana section, in our haunted book room, in the back. The book out-front seems appropriate, as this building is the former Muskoka Theatre, and with Paul's face visible inside the door, it looks at a glance, as if he will be performing here at an upcoming concert. The movie "Heaven Can Wait," did play here once, and Paul actually played saxophone on the sound-track. We are proud to showcase his work, and his story, and we like his overview of Muskoka, his home away from home...and then, finally, his home, on the Moon River.
     "My first engagement with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Walter Susskind, on December 27th, 1959, was not only as soloist with the  orchestra, but included a segment with piano accompaniment that included the 'Intermezzo,' from the Opera 'Goyescas,' by Enrique Granados, the well known lollipop, 'Shon Rosmarin,' by Fritz Kreisler, and 'Hora Staccato,' by Dinicu-Heifetz. This program was going to be broadcast live on the CBC Radio-Network right across Canada. Rima flew in from New York to be at the concert, and both her folks and my entire Toronto family were going to be in the audience."
     I purchased the biography of Paul Brodie, yesterday, and found a 2001 concert program tucked inside. The concert on that night, of Saturday, June 16th, was entitled, "The Golden Age Of The Saxophone," and was to feature two exceptional performers. One being Robert Kortgaard, on piano, the other, Bala cottager, and friend of Muskoka, Paul Brodie; being held at the Glenwood Chapel, in Port Carling, Ontario.
     On the reverse side, the brief biography of Robert Koortgaard reads as follows: "born in Regina, Saskatchewan and was raised in Calgary, Alberta. He completed both his Bachelor and Master degrees at the Julliard School of Music, in New York City, before leaving for further studies in Italy and England, as the recipient of arts awards from the Canada Council. Since winning the grand prize in the Canadian Music Competition, Mr. Kortgaard has performed extensively throughout Canada and the United States, as well as England, Finland, Portugal, Italy, the Czech Republic, Indonesia and China. He has given numerous recitals and has appeared as a soloist with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. The Hamilton Philharmonic and the Edmonton Symphony."
     The biography of Paul Brodie notes, that he was "born in Montreal, in 1934. Since 1960, he has performed over 2,500 concerts in England, Canada, the United States, Hong Kong, the Philippines, India, Singapore, Australia, China, Scotland, France, Italy, Russia, Israel, Argentina and Mexico. In March 1988, The Crescendo International Magazine from London, England, gave him the title of 'Ambassador of the Saxophone.'
     "Warren Beatty featured his (Paul's) saxophone playing on the soundtrack of his Academy Award winning film, 'Heaven Can Wait.' He was also included on 'Clyde Gilmour's Favourites,' an album celebrating Gilmour's thirty years as the most popular music program ever heard on CBC Radio. Paul Brodie has appeared as a soloist with most of the leading symphony orchestras in Canada, and has often been featured on CBC AM/FM Radio, and Global Television. He has recorded 50 albums and C.D.'s, with some of Canada's finest musicians, including harpist Erica Goodman, clarinetist, James Campbell, pianists Eric Robertson, Valerie Tryon, and George Brough, for companies such as Crest Records, CBC Records, China Records, Truly Fine Records, ROI Records and Capitol Records. Over 50 composers have written music for him. He is the author of 'A Student's Guide to the Saxophone,' as well as three books of saxophone solos, published by Frederick Harris Music. In 1999 he wrote his autobiography, 'Paul Brodie - Ambassador of the Saxophone.' In 1969, Paul founded 'The World Saxophone Congress, and he has been an artist / clinician for 'The Selmer Company,' of the United States for over 30 years. In 1994, the Governor General of Canada appointed Paul Brodie as an Officer of The Order of Canada."
     In 1962, Paul Brodie's personal agent, Ronald Joy, issued a flyer advertising the concert saxophonist. with the following companion overview. "Paul Brodie is Canada's foremost concert saxophonist. In addition to his duties as Director of the Brodie School of Music and Modern Dance, in Toronto, he is extensively engaged in concert work. The public has responded enthusiastically to the Brodie saxophone, a beautiful instrument interpreting repertoire of the great masters, and leading contemporary composers." Music critic, Raymond Ericson, of the New York Times, once noted of Mr. Brodie, that his "skill made everything he played sound fluent and easy. He varied the color of his instrument as much as he could, within the bounds of good taste, producing a lovely, soft tone when he wanted to, in splendidly vital performances."
     "In the hands of a serious artist like Paul Brodie, the saxophone takes its right place in the musical firmament. Mr. Brodie is a skilled performer; in his hands the saxophone becomes a very different sounding instrument from the way we commonly know," wrote Dr. Leslie Bell, of the Toronto Daily Star. "A virtuoso performer, precise clarity, suavely executed," wrote John Kraglund of the Toronto Globe and Mail, in 1962. "Mr. Brodie is a musician of considerable merit, a master of the saxophone," noted the Toronto Telegram. "A finness of phrasing, lightness and fluency of line, a limpid meditation of vast delight. The tone rippled and flowed, soared and floated like a well trained human voice," wrote Ray Maley, of the Winnipeg Tribune. "His recital was one of the most unusual to be heard here for some time. It was also one of the most satisfying." Jamie Portman, of the Regina Leader Post.
     I could include another thousand similar reviews, of Paul Brodie's work in the music profession. From what I know of Paul, if all the accolades went to his head, no one who knew him, saw anything of the "big-headed" syndrome. He was proud of his accomplishments, in reflection, but he was remarkably generous with credits, to everyone on earth, who had contributed something, however small, to the advancement of his career, from his first days as in a Regina Lion's Junior Marching Band, in Saskatchewan, to the concert in Port Carling, in 2001, with pianist Robert Kortgaard. He wanted to bestow the same kindnesses on underlings, students and young musicians, as he had benefitted as a youngster himself, growing up in Western Canada. There is considerable evidence of his reverence and appreciation for those early instructors, he had in school, and in private lessons, and then in university and mentorship thereafter.      His biography is full of these references, and it's obvious, he knew just how many people it took, to polish his professional career. There is no tone of "self made" arrogance, or "I did it my way," bravado, despite the fact, according to his biography, he was headed to the stage no matter what; maybe as a singer, possibly as a dancer, or actor. The die was cast very early in life, for Paul Brodie, and it was all by choice. He had supportive parents, and he was quick to muster friends and colleagues, which made him a popular fellow, especially in the budding music community, that he kept expanding as his prowess with the saxophone increased. If his credits and reviews, make him look self-absorbed, well, that's what biographies do, afterall. The reader wants to know this information, to compare it to other biographies, and to other musicians they've known or read about.
     I have read three quarters of the book in only a day. I find it a fascinating re-telling of his life's story, and truly inspiring, as far as dedication goes. It's a model, you see, to show how anyone, with ambition, can succeed. You don't need to spend hundreds of dollars on self-help courses, and motivational lectures, to learn the simple process of "believing in yourself." I'm not one of those subscribers, or country philosophers, who would ever write, "You can succeed at anything you put your mind to in this life." I'm sorry, but even the good Mr. Brodie, would have had to put his arm around my shoulder, and beg me, to stop playing the saxophone. But at the same time, he would have suggested I follow my passion, in other situations that were important in my life, and as he knew my position with Muskoka Publications, would have said, "be the best writer you can, and I'll be the best saxophone player, I can be." We would have smiled at one another, grasped each other's hand, with a solid shake, and sat a few moments longer, overlooking the picturesque Moon River, from his cottage property in Bala. He might have played a few tunes for me, while we lounged in paradise, and I would have made copious notes, for a story just like this one, for The Muskoka Sun.
    There was no mistaking the fact, Paul was passionate about his music. There was also no mistake, that his greatest joy, was to look out on the young audience of a school assembly, and see spellbound students, who he had fascinated with the sounds, he could make on his alto saxophone. These young folk, you see, were the future to him; and maybe he saw himself in retrospective, sitting amongst them, as a young musician "hopeful," looking for someone to give him a hand up. His visits to schools in Muskoka did have an impact. Maybe he didn't always get the impression, his demonstration of instruments, hit the mark with the audience, but I only have to chat with my sons, Andrew and Robert, to know for sure. They, you see, had the benefit of a Paul Brodie musical tutorial, while students at Gravenhurst Public School. Both boys of course, graduated high school, and immediately opened up their vintage music shop, here on the main street of Gravenhurst. That was eleven years ago. Did Paul Brodie have an influence? He was one of many mentors, who showed them that they could imbed in the music profession, and with hard work, and immense patience to improve their capabilities, prosper and succeed; and have a life, actually looking forward, to going to work every morning.

THE MUSKOKA RESPITE IN THE VILLAGE OF BALA

     "The summer before Claire (Rima and Paul's daughter) was born, Rima and I rented a cottage for two months, in the Muskoka region of Ontario," wrote Paul, in his biography, under the chapter heading, "1970's Adventures." "I was completely unfamiliar with nature and cottage living because I had previously spent my summers going to university or being a practice room freak. However, it didn't take me very long to learn to enjoy basking in the sun, walking in the woods, and floating on a lake for weeks on end, with no real concerns about making a living, career promotion or the real world, but only being peaceful and gentle.
     "About two years later, we discovered the town of Bala and for several summers, we rented a cottage on the Moon River, which links Lake Muskoka to Georgian Bay. One day, while Claire and Rima were having a swim, I called Tom Edwards, a real estate agent in Bala, and asked him if there were any properties for sale on the Moon River. He said, 'A lovely place was just listed yesterday, but it would require a large downpayment, because the owners have to move to Vancouver quickly, and they need funds to buy a home.' I asked if we could at least see the cottage and he said we should meet him in about ten minutes. Rima and Claire got out of the water, and with towels wrapped around their wet bathing suits, we got into our car and drove to meet Mr. Edwards.
     "The moment we arrived and looked at the beauty of the land, with its moss covered forest floor, tall pines, rugged granite rocks and lovely pine cottage, with natural stone fireplace, directly facing the river, we were hooked. Rima and I gazed into each other's eyes and realized that this was heaven on earth to us, and we were head over heels in love with this place. We signed an offer in Tom Edward's office about half an hour later, and it was accepted almost immediately. Then Rima and I had to start to round up money, for the downpayment, because we were still paying off the mortgage on our home in Toronto. So, we made a couple of quick telephone calls to our parents and they came through with flying colours, giving us interest free loans to help us out. In the summer thousands of cottagers throng to Muskoka from all over the world, to enjoy this unique part of Canada. This is the time we particularly love to paddle our canoe, sail our dingy, float in our inner tubes, and walk to town, where we relax in a variety of coffee shops and restaurants, and chat with pleasant folks that we have come to know over the years. In the winter, Bala has only about four hundred residents. Except for the bare necessities, the town shuts down as tight as a drum. Our country road through the forest becomes a snow-covered winter wonderland, and unlike the summer, we have all this beauty to ourselves."
     In the "Finale" of Paul's biography, he writes, "Since 1972 Rima and I have been spending summers, and any free time we could manage, at our cottage in Bala. At first, we would escape to our Shangri-La just for Saturdays and Sundays, whenever possible, then that grew very gradually over the years to three or four day weekends, until July 1998, we became full time residents of Muskoka. When we left Toronto, it wasn't as if we tore up our roots and moved to another country, or thousands of miles away to British Columbia, but it was simply a continuation of the pattern we established when we bought our cottage many hears ago. Everything about Bala is familiar to us, and Moon River has long become our refuge and source of rejuvenation. It is only a two hour drive to Toronto, so we can go in whenever we want to."
      He concludes by noting, "I'm still performing school concerts, clinics and doing some recitals, and I like practicing every day, just for the fun of it. Bala is the place where Rima and I have always done our best creative and artistic work. We now have the luxury of being able to spend even more time together than before. She (Rima) has been such a great help as the editor and designer of this autobiography. Who else could have done as well...after all, she's the one who has been there!"
      A beautiful ending, to a wonderful story. If your curiosity is peaked, we have his biography in stock.

Paul Brodie "Ambassador of the Saxophone"

PROUD TO HAVE PAUL BRODIE'S BIOGRAPHY IN MY REVAMPED BOOK ROOM, HERE IN UPTOWN GRAVENHURST

LOCAL BOOKS HAVE A PLACE OF HONOR, AND I WILL ALWAYS BE PLEASED TO REPRESENT THE "AMBASSADOR OF THE SAXOPHONE"

     "ONE DAY, I WAS STROLLING IN DOWNTOWN REGINA, AND I HEARD A MARCHING BAND PARADING DOWN THE STREET. AS THE BAND CAME CLOSER, I SQUEEZED MY WAY THROUGH THE CROWDS THAT WERE LINE UP ON 11TH STREET, JUST IN TIME TO SEE THE BANNER OF THE REGINA LION'S JUNIOR BAND COME INTO VIEW. THE CROWD CHEERED, THE DRUMS WERE BEATING AND THE BAND STRUCK UP A ROUSING MARCH. THE MEMBERS OF THE BAND WORE DARK PURPLE UNIFORMS WITH GOLD BRAID, LARGE GOLD PLUMES ON THEIR HATS AND WHITE SPATS ON THEIR SHOES. MY HEART ALMOST FELL OUT WHEN THE BAND MARCHED BY ME. I RAN ALL THE WAY HOME AND IN GREAT EXCITEMENT AND TOLD MY MOTHER AND FATHER ABOUT THE INCREDIBLE EVENT THAT HAD JUST TAKEN PLACE, AND I IMMEDIATELY ANNOUNCED THAT I WANTED TO BECOME A MEMBER OF THIS BAND." (PAUL BRODIE, FROM HIS BIOGRAPHY)

 
     SURE, I HAVE A LOT OF REGRETS ABOUT THOSE OPPORTUNITIES I MISSED AS A REPORTER. IT'S NOT LIKE I DIDN'T HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY, ON ABOUT A THOUSAND OCCASIONS, TO PHONE PAUL OR RIMA BRODIE, AND ASK IF THEY'D GIVE THIS MUSKOKA SUN WRITER A FEW MOMENTS FOR AN INTERVIEW. INSTEAD, I'D LET SOMEONE ELSE, ANOTHER STAFF REPORTER DO IT, AND EVEN THOUGH IT WAS AN INTERVIEW I WANTED TO CONDUCT, MORE OUT OF PERSONAL INTEREST, WHEN IT CAME RIGHT DOWN TO THE MOMENT OF EXECUTION, SOMETHING ALWAYS GOT IN THE WAY. SO I HAVE TO CONFESS SADLY, I NEVER MET MUSICIAN PAUL BRODIE, OR FOR THAT MATTER, HIS ARTIST WIFE, RIMA. I HAVE HEARD PAUL ON VARIOUS RECORDINGS, AND I HAVE SEEN RIMA'S FIBRE WORK SCULPTURES. FOR WHATEVER REASON, AND THERE ARE PROBABLY A DOZEN, I PAID ATTENTION TO THE BRODIES COMINGS AND GOINGS AROUND THE GLOBE, WHEN HE WAS ON TOUR WITH VARIOUS BANDS OVER THE DECADES. I WAS INTRODUCED TO PAUL VIA THE LOCAL MEDIA, WHERE MOST OF THE INFLUENTIAL MOMENTS OF MY EARLY WRITING LIFE, IMPRINTED SO PROFOUNDLY. I PROBABLY HAD MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO HIS SAXOPHONE PLAYING, BACK WHEN I WAS WITH MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS, IN THE 1980'S. MORE SO WHEN I WAS ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THE MUSKOKA SUN. AND AFTER THIS, AS A REGULAR CONTRIBUTOR TO ALL THE MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS NEWSPAPERS, THAT CARRIED STORIES ABOUT PAUL AND RIMA, WHO OF COURSE, WERE WELL KNOWN BALA RESIDENTS, WITH A COTTAGE ON THE MOON RIVER.
    SO EVEN THOUGH I NEVER GOT UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL, TO EITHER THE MUSICIAN OR THE ARTIST, AFTER READING AND SEEING SO MUCH MEDIA COVERAGE OF THEIR WORK AND TRAVELS, I FELT I KNEW THEM PRETTY WELL, LONG BEFORE THEIR RESPECTIVE BOOKS WERE PUBLISHED IN AND AROUND THE TURN OF THIS PRESENT CENTURY. I'VE GOT BOTH RIMA'S BOOK ON HER UNIQUE TEXTILE ART, AND I JUST PICKED UP ANOTHER SIGNED COPY OF PAUL'S BOOK THIS MORNING, ALL ABOUT HIS ADVENTURES AS A TRAVELING SAXOPHONE PLAYER, OF CONSIDERABLE INTERNATIONAL ACCOMPLISHMENT. I HATE THE FACT THAT SO MANY FOLKS LOOK AT THIS BOOK, ON MY SALE TABLE TODAY, AND ASK OUT LOUD, "SO WHO THE HELL IS PAUL BRODIE, ANYWAY. I'VE NEVER HEARD OF HIM?"
     "THAT'S WHY YOU BUY THE BOOK, LADY," I MUMBLE TO MYSELF, IN A VOICE LOW ENOUGH, SO AS NOT TO BE HEARD. WHAT REALLY FRUSTRATES ME, IS THAT HE ISN'T BETTER KNOWN AND RESPECTED, ESPECIALLY HERE IN MUSKOKA, WHERE HE INVESTED A LOT OF HIS RECREATIONAL TIME. IN SCHOOLS FOR ONE THING. PAUL DEDICATED A HUGE AMOUNT OF HIS FREE TIME, TO FURTHER MUSIC EDUCATION IN CANADIAN SCHOOLS, AND THE STUDENTS LOVED HIS VISITS. THEY SURE AS HECK SHOULD REMEMBER HIM! NEWS COVERAGE OF HIS VISITS, WERE "IN THE PAPER," OR ON "THE LOCAL TELEVISION NEWS," OR POTENTIALLY, AS CLOSE AS A PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OCCURRING RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM. FOR LONG AND LONG, HE WAS KNOWN FOR HIS AMBITION, AND BEING A FOUNTAIN OF ENERGY, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT CAME TO PERFORMANCES. IF I WAS WATCHING IT, SO WERE A LOT OF OTHERS. WE SHOULD KNOW HIS BIOGRAPHY. THOROUGHLY SO! YOU CAN'T READ HIS BOOK, WITHOUT LEARNING SOMETHING PROFOUND; LEARNING SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF AT THE SAME TIME. HE WAS AN EXCEPTIONAL MUSICIAN, EDUCATOR, AND CANADIAN, WHO WAS NOT ONLY AN AMBASSADOR OF THE SAXOPHONE, BUT IN MANY WAYS, AN AMBASSADOR FOR THE GOOD LIFE HERE IN MUSKOKA. HIS YEARS OF MULTI-INVOLVEMENTS, IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN, AND BY THE STANDARD OF EXCELLENCE HE UPKEPT TO A SHARP POINT, ARE A FEW OF THE DOZENS OF REASONS, HE WAS AWARDED THE "ORDER OF CANADA." PAUL AND RIMA AREN'T AROUND ANY MORE, SO I CAN'T INTERVIEW THEM IN PERSON. BUT I CAN DO A SMALL PART, BY SHOWCASING HIS OUTSTANDING BIOGRAPHY, AND SELLING RIMA'S BOOK IN OUR SHOP.

An Overture to a Rich Life

     Ted Hegvik, of Seattle, Washington, was granted a great honor, when he was asked to compose an introduction, or "Overture," to Paul Brodie's biography. He knew him well, and the introduction paints a pretty good picture, of a young man who would become a huge influence on the people he worked with, and all the apprentices along the way, including students, who hung off his "every note," played on the saxophone. In Ted Hegvik's words:
     "You are about to read the story of a remarkable life. And who better to tell the story than the man who lived it; Paul Brodie. But as these pages unfold, and we realize the journey this man has taken, we can't help but wonder. How does a person accomplish all this? In only one lifetime? And just by playing the saxophone?
     "From boyhood, in the Midwest prairies of Saskatchewan, to the highest honour his country can bestow, the Order of Canada - that's quite a trip. And from his inaugural recital at New York's famous town hall, to his recent concert at the Scala De San Telmo in Buenos Aires; from the Chinese Orchestra of Hong Kong, to the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra of Moscow; from the University of Canberra, in Australia to the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City - the list seems endless. He has performed for inmates at the maximum security prison in Drumheller, Alberta - all members of the band were convicted murderers - and at the Nehru Library in India. He has played for the Inuit on the Arctic Circle - at Inuvik, Northwest Territories - and at the Teatro de Marcellow in the Ancient Roman Forum.
     "Thousands of concerts all over the world, London to Tel Aviv, without the benefit of a manager or booking agency; more classical saxophone recordings than anyone in history, without the backing and funding of a major record company - how is it all possible?"
     Ted Hegvik writes of his friend and colleague, "We tend to explain this kind of success with reasons we can identify easily - technical mastery, talent, fortuitous circumstances - but these are all really periphial. They may be important, and even necessary, but they don't, by themselves, make things happen. When people rise to the top of their profession, when they influence the lives of others, when they accomplish things no one has achieved before, it invariably comes down to one basic attribute; force of personality. In Paul Brodie's case, it is a winning combination of inner strength and outer charm. The gentle, soft spoken manner is complemented perfectly by a strength of will and clarity, of purpose that propel the events of his life. This was already apparent when we met as students at the University of Michigan, in the early fifties. Paul seemed to have burst out of high school knowing exactly what he wanted to do. It had taken me two years in a territory dance band, and two years in an army band, to arrive at the same place. There were only four major schools offering degrees in saxophone, and after much research, it was apparent that Michigan was the place to go. Larry Teal had just started the saxophone program, and William Revelli headed the instrumental Music Department.
     "So there was Paul Brodie, full of fun and zest for life, and that incredible inner drive, although, I must confess, the outer charm still had a few rough edges. But while the rest of us were struggling to make our way in the new environment, Paul was launching his first big enterprise; the Stardusters. Within three months his new group was the most active working combo on campus, and Paul's education as a promoter and entrepreneur was on its way. It was an exciting time for all of us. Paul and I lived in the same rooming house, and soon discovered that we had more in common than our woodwind degrees. We had been raised only a few hundred miles from each other, in the adjacent fields of North Dakota, and Saskatchewan. We'd played saxophone in various groups, and even may have attended the same school band festivals. But what probably bonded us most, was the discovery that we had both been inspired by the great English saxophonist, Freddie Gardner. The influence has been with us ever since. Once you hear something that affects you profoundly, you can never un-hear it."
     Again, it is Hegvik who paints the most insightful biography, of those early years of Paul Brodie's budding appreciation for ongoing musical adventure. "On graduation, Paul's momentum never flagged. He went to Paris and studied with world renowned saxophonist, Marcel Mule, while I stayed in Michigan, to get a Master's degree on Clarinet. He returned and moved to Toronto, while I married and moved to Florida, where I was Principal Clarinet of the Tampa Philharmonic. In Toronto, Paul's creative skills came into full flower (it's one of the funniest chapters in his book, and shows Paul's keen sense of the ridiculous). With no job and no connections, he began his performing career, which was to take him around the world. And he started the Brodie School of Music and Modern Dance; for twenty years it reigned as Toronto's most prestigious private music school, with a faculty of twenty teachers, most from the Toronto Symphony, and an enrollment of 650 students. His Summer Workshops brought in top saxophone professionals to present three intensive days of classes, and performance. And he started his recording career, again without backing or support. But his general accomplishment will always remain his beautiful marriage to Rima. Who can explain such a great marriage? Their differences complement, their similarities strengthen, and they support each other always. Rima is an extraordinary artist in her own right. A modern dancer, choreographer, teacher - she established the Brodie School with Paul. When the constant injuries of dancing had taken their toll, she began a new and brilliant career in woven sculpture. Not just one skill, but many, she mastered, each on the way to realizing a new creation, a new project. Paul speaks as enthusiastically about her work, as she does about the beauty of his saxophone tone (Rima once told me that when she first heard Paul, she thought he had altered his instruments acoustically in order to produce such a beautiful sound.) They inhabit the Arts comfortably, they enjoy life thoroughly, and they share the same acceptance of the preparation and hard work required by their crafts. It weaves through the very fabric of their daily lives, so a book about Paul is also about Rima."
    He writes that, "Paul always thought big, as long as I've known him. He seems to start at the top, or the final objective, and work down from there. The World Saxophone Congress is a perfect example. Others might conceive of a similar idea - an exchange of ideas, an opportunity to hear other players in performance - but they wouldn't start with a world organization in the very beginning. And with Paul, one good idea follows another. In a collaboration with Eugene Rousseau, he set up an international convention and arranged to honour the great living figures of the saxophone; Sigurd Rascher, Marcel Mule, and Larry Teal. The rest truly was history. Once the networking started, the idea took off on its own. National organizations developed - ours is the North American Saxophone Alliance, with regional divisions and its own magazine. The Saxophone Symposium. Ken Dorn's Saxophone Journal grew into an international publication, to fill the need for more communication, and because of this greater communication, saxophone recordings flourish as never before. It is also typical of Paul that he didn't try to ride this new organization for his own gain. He has always shown a generosity of spirit rare in any profession. Saxophonists guard their turf and professional secrets, zealously, but Paul goes in the other direction. He is the first to volunteer information, music, guidance, anything to help another saxophonist."
     "Listen to his Compact Disc, 'Paul Brodie and Friends,' and you'll see what I mean," wrote Ted Hegvik. "It brings together the great scope of his musical activities, and the beauty of that heritage. From the opening notes of the Saint-Saens 'Swan,' with the Beijing Orchestra, you'll understand immediately the universal appeal Paul Brodie has had, for audiences of every culture - the warm lyrical sound with the built-in-echo, and the feeling that this person is playing just for you, and telling you his story. As I said before, its a remarkable story. He's a remarkable man."
     Sons Andrew and Robert, (the seldom agreeing proprietors, of Currie's Music), had the opportunity to see Paul perform, live on stage, demonstrating a variety of band instruments, when he conducted a music-appreciation assembly, one afternoon, at Gravenhurst Public School. Both budding musicians by this point, being a tad cocky about their own playing prowess, had to admit, when they came home later that day, "You know dad, that Mr. Brodie fellow, sure knows what he's doing on the saxophone. He put on a really good show for us," said Andrew, with brother Robert, this time, actually agreeing. From the first day their vintage music shop was opened, here in Gravenhurst, there has always been a copy of Paul's book for reference, and at least one for sale in their book rack. I have collected about ten, all signed, including several of Rima's books. They know his contribution to music was immense, and they respect what he did, in the concluding years of his life, largely on a volunteer basis, to mentor young musicians, and spread the word about the life-long, social / cultural advantages, of being associated with music, in all its many forms and styles. To the students he visited with, and instructed, he made these instruments seem like an extension of his own anatomy, as naturally positioned as if it was another arm, hand, or finger. He took some of the preconceived notions, and character-arrogance away, from what students may have thought about professional musicians; that kept many youngsters from getting involved in the first place. And he made music seem, so much more accessible; especially letting them know, it was possible to learn anything, and play anything, if students had the desire to learn an instrument of choice; and follow through, as he had, on his initial ambition, to be the best of the best. He let students know, that they could become as proficient as he was, if they were prepared to work, and study hard. He obviously has had an impact on both Andrew and Robert, who were so excited by the potentials of the music industry, after visiting with Paul, that they went right from high school, into their newly established vintage music shop, in Gravenhurst, where they covered rent initially, by conducting guitar lessons; making up two thirds of the shop's annual income. That was eleven years ago. They live and breathe music, and they feel privileged every day, to be involved in such a rewarding, dynamic, ever-changing profession. If Paul was still around, I'm pretty sure he would have become a regular visitor, of this studio, with a lot of other musician cronies, of which he was well acquainted. Ragtime piano player, Jack Hutton, of Bala, for one, and Mark Clairmont, for the other. Mark's father Hugh Clairmont, one of Muskoka's well known trumpet players, and band leaders, used to talk with considerable affection, about Paul Brodie, when he and I would casually discuss the local music scene, back in the halcyon days, when I worked for Mark's paper, "Muskoka Today."
      You will never find a day in this building, not a single one, when we find ourselves naked; that's to say, finding ourselves without a copy of Paul Brodie's book, on at least the reference shelf, for quick consultation. It is still a book offering considerable inspiration around here, and is frequently called-upon for specific information, possibly to answer a customer's question. We always have four or five for sale, and in the past three years, we have sold a dozen or more. I still feel he needs to receive much more attention and reverence, in this region especially, where he loved to hang his hat, and climb into a canoe for a paddle on the Moon River. He's still fondly remembered by the citizens of Bala. There's still a haunting echo of his saxophone, deep in the hollow of the Moon River, mixed with the subtle trace whisper of a paddle, cutting the water, and the rippling of a phantom canoe upon a sunset's fire reflection. Everything about Bala is familiar to us, and Moon River has long become our refuge and source of rejuvenation," he concluded, of his important connection to the village and Muskoka.
    Paul Brodie? A biography revered here at Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables.
    I will have more on Paul Brodie, in tomorrow's blog. Please join me!