Super Bowl Bets Antique Hunting This Sunday

IT'S THE OCCASION OF THE FIFTIETH SUPER BOWL ON SUNDAY, AND I'M GIVING UP ANTIQUE HUNTING TO BE A COUCH SPUD FOR THE BIG EVENT

MY ONE LUXURY IS TO INDULGE IN THE HOURS AND HOURS OF PRE-GAME HYPE BEFORE THE MAIN EVENT

     I was raised on sports. I played hockey and flag football from eight years of age. My parents watched baseball, hockey and football as if it was the most important viewing opportunity of any given week. Of course, it's obvious I was influenced this way, but I didn't know there was another way. And my character, for better or worse, was forged in ball parks, hockey rinks and on the grid iron. So you'd think I would have married a partner equally smitten by the same sports. Truth is, I have only ever had two girlfriends who could tolerate sports, and that was confined to public skating. Not skating with a hockey stick. Just skating. Well, it didn't happen, that the woman who would take a guy like me, worts and all, for a partner, would have any use for the sports I cherished, except, in Suzanne's case, golf. She was a former pro shop at the Windermere Golf and Country Club in her youth. But, Suzanne is patient with me in this regard, and has always allowed me recreational time to watch television sports, including golf. Except, I only have one option these days, thanks to fiscal restraint and cutbacks, to those stations I depended on for other programs, and yes, sports events. This has profoundly influenced my leisure time, and I've had to resort back to radio, in order to catch the Blue Jay games. Sure it bites to be cheap, but it's the way we had to live as a family of four, dating back to a past recession, when I lost three jobs in two months. I don't pay for television. I watch the advertisements in lieu of paying a monthly fee. As a result, you might say, my channel selector doesn't get much of a work out these days.
     Thanks to sports networks that you have to pay to view, I have been reduced in this country, to watching the games of the National Football League, on my one station, nostalgia model television set from a bygone era, every Sunday afternoon, thanks to the generosity of CTV. I appreciate their kindness to some of us cheapskates unwilling to pay to view. When the CBC had its budget chopped, by the former Harper-ites, forcing it to cut its broadcasting signal, to poor blokes like us in the rural clime, I lost my free opportunity to view Hockey Night In Canada, each Saturday evening, a tradition our family had benefitted from, since the good old days of black and white television, and the rabbit ears to pull in the signal from outer space. I'm a Canadian, by the Jesus, and I can't receive my country's contribution to cultural re-enforcement. I didn't always like what the CBC got up to, but I liked my weekly Hockey Night in Canada broadcast. And yes, for a young fellow raised on a twice weekly diet of Hockey Night In Canada, (Saturdays and Wednesdays) during the long, cold winters, it was a tremendous blow to be denied access, due to the fact someone of high ranking on Parliament Hill, didn't particularly care for the policies and politics of the national broadcaster. Nuts to nothing. Maybe the change of governance will have the decency to juice-up the signal again so I can continued watching Canada's national sport for the price of watching the messages presented by advertisers.
     Back in the recession of the early nineteen nineties, in order to have enough money to eat after mortgage and utilities were paid, we were forced to cut our cable subscription. We went from having forty channels, and a movie option, to having three stations; being CBC, CTV and TV Ontario. It wasn't much, but with a VCR we found we could get by rather well, as a young family, desiring a household culture bolstered by boob tube watching. Scorn me if you will, but I'd been born into this culture in 1955, and free television broadcasts were part of the package of being North American. I have written about this many times before, but being a latch-key kid when I was growing up in Burlington, and having parents who didn't get home until six in the evening, I depended on the kindness of the television set, and the host broadcasters, which truthfully, gave me convenient access to an electronic best friend, and non judgmental partner. When the digital age came upon us, and the signal changed from the antiquated way of connecting station to viewers, we lost both TVO and CBC. We were left with CTV and although I'm a little less enthusiastic about their fascination with science fiction these days, and comic book dramatizations for their obviously younger audience, the fact they have ten to twelve shows, I do like each week, plus the NFL games, endears them to this television addict.
     Although Suzanne will engage in a day of sharp critiques about how ridiculous football is, and brutal to its players, her biggest objection, will be that the pre-game show begins at two o'clock in the afternoon, yet the game doesn't get underway until 6:30 in the early evening. It's not like this happens every week, and afterall, it is the fiftieth anniversary of the Super Bowl, and for the Currie family, it is a longstanding tradition, to attach ourselves to the television, with a literal smorgasbord of snack and food items from chicken wings and chile, to chips, dip, tacos, cheese and salsa. We can't afford ribs any more, or anything that is being sold as being beef, pork or lamb. Chicken, for the most part, is still a good value, although I suppose grocers will "up" the price for us Super Bowl fanatics looking for good deals on wings; us poor schlubs who put on tail gate parties in their residences, with football adornments, that make guests feel like they're sort of at the game but not really.
     On most Sundays through the year, we are travelling to antique venues across the region, in hunt of elusive treasure for our shop here in Gravenhurst. We haven't had a full day home since Christmas and New Years, and let me tell you, it's going to feel nice sitting in my armchair, covered in barbecue sauce and salsa, with a dog on my lap, and a cat on my shoulders, cheering for the Denver Broncos, and my favorite quarterback, Peyton Manning. He's boss! I'm not even going to mention the other team. It's a karma thing. I'm betting my stash of pennies, loaded to the rim in a Crown sealer jar, which could add up to a whopping ten bucks, on the Broncos, but Suzanne doesn't want to wager a nickel on a sport as foolish as football. She can think, and can say it, but she's not going to make me feel bad, because I take one full day out of the whole year, to satisfy my football cravings. I should note, that because we get back late from antique hunting, on other Sundays, I usually only get to see one quarter (or period in American terms) of play. So I feel quite justified to enjoy the pre-game show on top of the actual game. Suzanne doesn't see it this way, and will run interference all day long, to make her point, that Super Bowl Sunday is just an excuse for old farts like me, to slack off and dream back upon their own glory days marching the grid-iron; a point which she delights in reminding me, was of a recreational nature. That's right. I didn't make it to the professional level. But, and this is a big one; as a keen, inches from the tube, football watcher, since I was a kid, I have become an exceptional in-livingroom commentator. I may have screwed up my vision in the process, but I know my stuff when it comes to reading the defensive line-up a scrimmage, and whether they'll be a blitz or not.    I'm just following up the work of both my mother Merle, and Father, Ed, who treated the NFL as a sort of athletic religion, and she could recite the names of almost all the quarterbacks of any merit, and all star running backs, playing at that specific time; even knowing their stats for the year. For most of the week she listened to her classical record and CD collection, until football Sundays. I never really understood her unfaltering passion for the pigskin, and the brave souls who carried it through a line of very big fellows trying to rip the ball out of their arms; and attempting to tear their respective heads off their shoulders, just to entertain us rank and file sports fans. She passed it on to her son but I couldn't pass it down to my boys who have zero interest in sports today; and as a vegetarian, Robert's against the whole idea of pig-skin being used to play a game. Gosh, do they still use pig skin? I miss having them part of Super Bowl Sunday, but to each their own, as they say. I don't watch rock concerts, so we're even.
     I really just like something different in my week, which one day long ago, used to be Hockey Night In Canada on the CBC. Now hockey has been replaced by the National Football League, in my competitive hard-wired heart, courtesy those kind souls from CTV who still provide me with the old analogue signal I was raised-on from childhood. I used to be ten times the sports enthusiast when I could watch the hockey games on the television, because frankly, I couldn't afford the cost of going to the games in person. Or, better stated, I like the home comforts of my own livingroom, where I don't have to line up at a concession for a ten dollar hot dog and six dollar pop, and the line-up for the bathroom doesn't stretch down the hall. But I hate, and I meant that, paying for the right to view a hockey game, or the Canadian Football League. The way I look at it, as I have for my entire life, hooked on the television signal, I am willing to watch and suffer through all the crappy commercials sent my way, as payment, to get the games for free. I might even buy some of the products advertised. But I will never pay cable fees or subscribe to any of the movie and program services available, for an assortment of charges, because I grew up in the era of free television. Next they'll try to charge me for the radio stations I listen to each day.
     I don't have a fake Super Bowl trophy in the house, and there are no team sweaters to don, or NFL approved footballs to toss around the room, and there are no special game programs to buy. It is my low key day, to sit back, and watch my new favorite sport (I've given up on the NHL because the CBC doesn't reach my television any longer), and carry on a family tradition that goes back to my early teens, when my parents began a serious fan relationship with American football. There won't be a drop of alcohol in the house, unless there is some Suzanne uses for the wounds I receive opening cat food tins, and for when I've scraped my knees, tumbling down the back stairs. I will fall asleep two or three times during the pre-game show, and Suzanne will delight in reminding me of my infraction, each time she passes my chair. I've learned to take it all in stride, even the part where she mocks me for having food on my shirt and stuck in my beard. I tell her it's my reserve stock of provisions, in case we run out.
     Suzanne is a pretty good sport about my NFL Sundays, truth be known, and she has a long list of projects she had been unable to get to, through the week-days, when we leave home early and get back late, that will get done this Sunday, to her satisfaction; regardless how much she would like me to be more gainfully employed by some of the other chores, that are also on the back burner. I offer my sincere apology in advance, and suggest we could cuddle through the game, and when she scorns me for such an one sided strategy to pacify her, I remind the good woman, that she at least, was in my thoughts at that moment of benevolence; and that she should thusly, accept the fact, nothing is going to haul me away from the television set and my favorite chair, except an undertaker, and by that point, I wouldn't have much of an argument against. For those football lovers out there, Broncos by fourteen points.

We Kids Of Bracebridge Needed The Norwood Theatre and It's Saturday Matinees

WHAT WOULD WE HAVE DONE FOR ENTERTAINMENT, WITHOUT THE NORWOOD THEATRE IN BRACEBRIDGE

THE GIASCHI FAMILY LEGACY; THE ICONIC THEATRE, REACHES ITS 67TH ANNIVERSARY OF OPERATION


     How important is a 67th anniversary. Well, not quite as important as a 75th, but fifteen years more impressive than a fiftieth! It might not be an anniversary recognized generally, as a major milestone, or landmark achievement, except of course, in the theatre business in rural Canada. As many of the old movie houses have been closed up after impressive runs, managing to survive for six and a half decades, in retrospect to all the financial obstacles, borders on the remarkable. For these same 67 years, to be in company of the same family, is quite impressive, and not so typical. If you are not familiar with the Norwood Theatre, of Bracebridge, Ontario, or even if you are, I believe that a 67th anniversary, is a big deal, and well worth celebrating. It is, of all things, a survivor of post Second World War economics. It is a sort of baby-boomer relic, and it is the children of the late forties, and fifties, who should have some truly great memories to share, of how their lives were improved by the silver screen in their rural, no traffic light, hometown.
     In the winter of 1974, on the return trip, from a Christmas season holiday, in Florida, my parents found a comfortable motel in a charming small town in Ohio, to spend the night, before the last leg of the journey back to Bracebridge. We had stayed in Findlay, Ohio on previous trips, but had always arrived too late in the night, to see much of the community. A family friend, and school-mate, Rod Baldwin, was with us on this trip, and we arrived early enough to have dinner out, and catch a show at the local theatre. Playing that night, was "American Graffiti," with Ron Howard, Richard Dreyfuss, Suzanne Somers, Harrison Ford, and Wolfman Jack. Great movie, and I've seen it about a hundred times. Even at The Norwood. The theatre was close to being full that night, and when we came out the doors, at the end of the show, gosh, it was as if we had walked right into the movie set. There was a lot of traffic, cars and pedestrians, music from car radios, late into the evening; it was very bright and electric with the commercial signage, and with all the show-goers hitting the street, in a steady parade, it had a nostalgic magic, that made me think of our own Norwood Theatre, back in our hometown. This had been main street U.S.A., and The Norwood, at home, was an intregral part of main street Canada. Every main street had to have a theatre.
     The Norwood Theatre, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, just north of the Uptown Esso, owned by Ted Smith, and then the public library and the post office. I don't know what it was, or still is exactly, but whenever I would pop out the swinging doors of the Norwood, after a two hour movie, the streetscape always appeared so surreal, whatever time of day, for those few moments of sensory adjustment. I suppose, as if it was, in itself, an extension of the movie, just then morphed into the real world, in which I happened to live. It was a sort of testament, to just how absorbed we got in those shows. I was a "Carry-On" Movie fan back then, featuring British actor, Sid James.
     There is a substantial advertisement, in the June 25th issue, of "What's Up Muskoka" under the heading, "Norwood Theatre 65 Years," as written by current owners, Gina Giaschi Mitchell, and her husband Brian. It is a brief and interesting history of the Norwood Theatre, and the Giaschi family's relationship with the entertainment business in Ontario, which began with her great grandfather's theatre enterprise, in Port Colborne, opened in 1926. According to the new century publication, "A Good Town Continues," published in 2000. "Andrew Giaschi, manager of the new theatre, (The Norwood) noted that the building would seat 615 people, and was equipped with a curved screen to permit a direct view from any angle." The historical notation, published in this week's magazine, is an important part of the chronicle of Bracebridge, because the theatre building has become iconic, in so many social / cultural ways, and an important landmark, of community well-being; known and adored by thousands of local residents, cottagers and frequent visitors to town.
     When you consider how many business transitions and overhauls have occurred on Manitoba Street, since 1949, the fact that the Norwood Theatre has survived the economic downturns, and the decentralization of the main street, with commercial pods changing the dynamic of the business landscape, it is a great credit then, to the Giaschi family, that the Norwood Theatre has reached this milestone anniversary. Much credit has to go to Gina and husband Brian, for upgrading the theatre, so respectful of its heritage, while, at the same time, making it a contemporary luxury, for those who love an evening out on the town. I know a lot of the history of the Norwood, but from a long-time patron's point of view. Honestly, I don't know what we would have done, as kids, and teens back in the 1960's, and 70's, without the Giaschi family's dedication, to keeping the theatre up and running. I'm sure they had a lot of slow times, and low turn-outs to contend with, and I suppose it got pretty discouraging having to run shows for a handful of patrons. This wasn't lost on us, I can tell you that, because most of us, at that time, knew it was tough to run a theatre and please everyone all the time. More than one of us, in tough and recessionary years, thought to ourselves, "Why is the Norwood still in business?" At the same time, some who asked that question, also felt a little bit guilty about not attending shows, even on a monthly basis. Not because of a boycott, but because we took it for granted, more than anything else. We assumed, come hell or high water, the Giaschi family knew how to make it all work. They were correct, although it was presumptuous to say the least.
      It was an expensive proposition, to run a theatre, and bring in the best of the best movies, to satisfy all members of the community. Everybody is a critic, as they say, and yet, those who were critical of the new shows, were those who never attended anyway; no matter what was playing. Truth is, and of this there is no doubt, we would have been devastated, if the theatre had closed. But I'm not at all sure if the Giaschi's, at the time, really knew how important the entertainment venue was, in the social / cultural life, of the younger generation particularly. Well, this is where I have a little extra history to add, to the chronicle Gina put together, in recognition of the 65th anniversary.
     The Norwood Theatre was where our mothers sent us on Saturday afternoons, with folded money in our pants and a few coins for snackbar treats; after it was decided by parental authority, on that day, we were getting up to mischief in the neighborhood. No kidding. The Giaschis became our guardians on those Saturday afternoons, over the four seasons, when it was either a movie, or being plunked into the back of a police cruiser, by Constable Rod White or Bob Spence, say, for breaking a window in a neighbor's house. The Hunt's Hill gang was really not a bad bunch to get along with, and outside of tossing green apples at passing cars, or playing "Nicky-Nicky-Nine-Doors," (daytime and in the evening) we were at the most "annoying," more so than actual hard core troublemakers. But we were still a wild but conservative force to be reckoned with; being charter members, Rick and Al Hillman, Jim Niven, Larry Tougas, Mark Parlett, Don Clement and Randy Carswell. And it was, at that time, owner Larry Giaschi, who would make sure our bad behavior was curtailed in his theatre. Actually, we had enough respect for this theatre family, that we wanted to conform to his rules; the greatest and most hurtful penalty that could be bestowed upon us, back then, was being asked to leave the theatre, and not come back. I don't know if this happened frequently, or if any one of our mates received a lifetime ban, but I'm willing to bet, if there was any, it would have had to be the result of something far more serious than wet suckers in a girl's hair, or a licorice slap in the chops, from the patron behind. I think the owners, and staff at the Norwood, had us all figured out, and knew how to keep us from tearing the place up, with a firm but gentle approach; letting us know they were watching us constantly, and fact is, the owners knew our mothers and fathers, and we suspected they might call home directly, if there was any real trouble to report.
     I probably attended five hundred or more shows at the theatre, up to and including the mid 1980's, including the period after I had become editor of The Herald-Gazette, and a newlywed with a very small entertainment budget. My bride Suzanne and I, used to attend on Friday nights, as a minor tradition in our married life, which eventually would come to involve my young sons, Andrew and Robert. I can remember when the boys came out of theatre, after watching the "Ninja Turtles," and then demanding that mom and pop, take them, to investigate all the sewer grates in and around Memorial Park, and the theatre building, just in case there were any Ninjas about to break out of hiding. I remember being with my fellow newspaper staffers, at the time of the first Star Wars movie, at the Norwood. I was with Allison Griffith, Brant Scott, John Black and Scott McClellan, and it was, if memory serves, a Sunday matinee, but I stand to be corrected. We were escaping, the best way we could, from the newspaper week that could get pretty hectic for a smaller than required staff. We found the Norwood a convenient respite from pressing realities.
     It was the romantic role the Norwood Theatre served, by circumstance and convenience, that most of us hometowners recall most vividly. It was where us young and interested lads, went to meet with our female classmates, which for the Hunts Hill gang, were from Bracebridge Public School, initially, and then of course, Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. We went to the Friday night shows, and would purposely sit in the row directly behind the girls, we were trying to impress; and get their attention initially by kicking the back of the seats. Or pushing on them with our knees. Our need, was to get their attention. And yes, we acted beneath our ages. Sub-juvenile. We were first class goofs, but apparently, some of the girls, we were chasing after, thought our childish pranks and conversation were somewhat and strangely endearing. Pretty soon, we would find ourselves, if all worked according to Hoyle, imbedded between them, although there was no hand holding, or arms around the shoulders, at least at this point in the relationship adventure. We were on our way, thanks to the opportunities afforded by the creature comforts, of the Norwood Theatre.
     I took my girlfriend, Linda Dawson, to quite a few movies at the Norwood, and may have managed to hold hands at the very least, except when we had popcorn and beverages to contend with. Later, in that halcyon decade, Gail Smith, another of my gal pals, and I, would attend almost weekly, and she would bring her sisters June and Glenna. These were great, and memorable moments, of considerable intimacy, and I am confident, the Norwood Theatre history could be broadened, to a manuscript of a thousand pages, if we all wrote-up our relationship moments, sparked in the darkened rows of this very important social haven. I wonder how many marriages, truth be known, were rooted in the subtle nostalgia, and aura of romanticism, generated by Norwood movies; and one of the friendliest, most obliging buildings in the whole town. I suppose a few break-ups might have occurred here too, and undoubtedly, a few lost in love, found solace in the company of other singles, who also, had either just been dumped, or were there to relive some of the finer, happier moments of past relationships. Even today, I get a flood of memories, just pushing through doors of the theatre. Suzanne says it's probably the popcorn smell, with hot butter topping. It's a family bylaw that I must have a large container of hot buttered popcorn, and a cold pop, before I sit down for a movie. I never go treat-free at the Norwood. When I was a kid, I'd get one of those Blackpool rock candy sticks, that took about four days to consume. It was the one piece of candy my mother Merle, ordered me not to eat, because I would then have to visit Dr. Savijarvi, the next day, so he could repair what, of my teeth, had just been broken-off.
      Of course, the former show has now been expanded into three separate theatres, from the old days, of having just one large screen for six hundred plus patrons. The main entrance today, was the former North Villa Restaurant, where Brant Scott, John Black and I, used to have our lunch, back in the early eighties. The Giaschi family home was where the neighboring bank is today, next to the post office.
     My most vivid memory of the Norwood Theatre, as oddly as this may read, is not as a patron at all. In the years I lived in the former three story brick home, built in the early nineteen hundreds, by Dr. Peter McGibbon, (which was acquired by the Giaschi family), located across Manitoba Street, from both the theatre and Memorial Park, I could view the activities in and around the Norwood Theatre; and some times that was well into the night, and in fact, early morning. When I worked for The Herald-Gazette, we would always have a news photographer in attendance, at the Midnight run, of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," and what made it neat, was, that at least half the patrons would be dressed-up. There may have been a ticket discount if you dressed up. I did go to two of the midnight shows, with my girlfriend Gail, and then some of my mates, and it was all "fantastic"  fun. I had a second story balcony connected to my park-facing apartment, and I could sit up there with my tele-photo lens, and take photographs of the costumed show-goers, and some of the curious scenes, that developed as a direct result, of the warm summer nights; and the festive time-of-our-lives atmosphere, that was so profound and memorable. I would even get up to catch a few images of the crowd dispersing after the show, which was generally pretty unremarkable, at least as far as vandalism and general bad behaviour.  The police would be keeping an eye on the main street, for any civil disobedience that could be directly attributed to the late night, early morning showings. If there were inebriated patrons, they were not allowed into the show in the first place, which kept the nonsense during and afterwards to a minimum. The Norwood staff has always been conscientious in this regard, and it has made going to a show a pleasure; not having to worry about the actions of bad actors tossing popcorn and spraying pop. Show-goers have respect for this Bracebridge family, and that goes back sixty-seven years.
     I remember sitting on my balcony, one hot summer night, just after the show had let-out at around eleven. The lights on the marquee had just been turned off, and I saw a staff person checking outside, before leaving for the night. I was about to head indoors myself, and had just folded up my chair, when I heard an awful crash of glass below. A late-years teenager, I had seen loitering in the park shadows, had undoubtedly, on a dare, decided to vandalize the front glass, that slides across the posters on the right (north) side of the building. He had run by, and somehow got his fingers between the glass panels, in only a second or two, and yanked so hard, it broke the glass into huge shards, which smashed down onto the sidewalk. I believe the young man was cut himself, when the glass hit the ground and exploded, but he never stopped running until he was out of sight. What was interesting to me, was that he had done this, even as two men approached from the south, heading north to the park. I heard the father, say to his adult son, as they walked by the front of the show, that they shouldn't stick around for the cops, in case they were blamed for the damage. The father made this comment, after the son had tried to secure some of the large, leaning glass shards, that were dangerous to any one walking by. They did not see me out on the balcony, but they did beat a hasty retreat, and even though they could have given the police an excellent description of the vandal, they chose to let the owners handle it on their own. It was somewhat ironic, the next evening, to see this same father and son, lining up at the Norwood, to buy tickets for the evening movie. The woman they would have purchased the ticket from, was one of the theatre owners, and the gentleman inside the door, who ripped those tickets, for their entry to the movie, was also an owner; the broken glass from the night before, being at their expense. I wondered if they bothered to tell the proprietors, that they had seen the vandal, or known who he was from encounters in the community. They did not want to get involved, of course. I gave as much information to Larry Giaschi as I could recall, and I sure wished that my camera had been within easy reach, to capture a crime in progress. I wonder how many times events like this have occurred, that the owners had to pay for similar damage out of pocket; and how discouraging it was to be treated in this fashion, by their home community.
     But make no mistake. There was always an unspoken code of respect, I knew even as a kid, passed along from my mates, that the Giaschi family, of the Norwood Theatre, was giving us something special, for the benefit of our hometown, and thus, we needed to act kindly toward them. So if you happened to be caught by us, doing something nasty inside or outside, the theatre, it was accepted protocol to snitch. We did. We didn't want the proprietors to give up on us, because of a few bad actors. I suppose we thought they might close the theatre for good, if there were a lot of ongoing problems, like vandalism, initiated by the younger generation. My mother probably reinforced this idea, before I left for the Saturday matinee. "You better behave yourself, because I know Mrs. Giaschi, and I'll find out for myself." She also wouldn't let me sneak candy into the show either, because, as she said, "They have to make money to keep the show open, you know, so buy your treats at their snackbar." God bless her, because she always sent extra money for the snackbar, which I saddled up to many times during any afternoon show. It's true. Like many others of my ilk, I'd miss at least half the show, pondering what chocolate bar or licorice I should buy. The rest of the movie was spent trying to win over the girls.
     A few years ago, I got a chance to congratulate Gina on the restoration of the Norwood Theatre, and to tell her, and her husband, just how much we enjoy coming on hot summer nights, to experience a movie in air conditioned comfort. We don't have an air conditioner at home because I'm cheap, or so says Suzanne. I told her that I have written many historical pieces for the local media, reflecting on my great memories of the Norwood Theatre, since the late nineteen seventies, when I first joined Muskoka Publications. She had not read them, but that was of lesser importance, than offering her and all the Giaschi family, associated with these grand theatre years, a thank you from a family, that has so greatly benefitted from their dedication to entertainment; and the longstanding commitment to their home community, to enhance our social and cultural recreation.
     I can remember, during my jogging years as a part-time athlete, in the early eighties, running by the illuminated ticket booth, at the theatre, and seeing Mrs. Giaschi patiently awaiting patrons to that evening's show. Her husband would be working the door, and often times, the crowd was pretty thin. When our family visits today, and finds his daughter Gina, and her husband Brian, also greeting patrons at the front of the show, well sir, for a sentimental old fool like me, it inspires a strong sense of community and neighborhood tradition; more than just about anything else I still enjoy, for history's sake, of my former hometown. Some may believe, the Giaschis were just following the protocols of good business, and profiting from the investment of 67 years. There are others, who know differently; appreciating just how hard they worked to get to this milestone, which, by all business standards, is a great achievement. This achievement has been a boon to the main street of Bracebridge, and I have a feeling, as a Bracebridge Historian, that their work to restore and modernize the Norwood Theatre, will become an important source of inspiration in the ongoing work of revitalizing Manitoba Street.
     A short time before Larry Giaschi passed away, after a lengthy illness, I stopped to chat with him outside another of his many commercial buildings, downtown, and I shook his hand, because I felt it necessary, and long  overdue, to thank him, and his family for giving us a well run theatre for so many years, through such adverse circumstances. When I moved to Bracebridge in 1966, there were only 2,500 residents. And this did not change for quite a few years to come. But they managed to get enough patron turn-out, through the seasons, and the long years, to make it financially sustainable. I shook Gina's hand, a year ago, and expressed the same feelings; we would be lesser folks, in so many ways, without the benefit of that old theatre on upper Manitoba Street. How glad we should all be that it has lasted well into this new century; and that it has such an outstanding future ahead.
     As a sidebar, to this story, our family runs a vintage music and antique shop in another Giaschi family property, here in Gravenhurst, being the former Muskoka Theatre building, on Muskoka Road. You wouldn't believe the folks who come in here, each month, sentimentally recalling their youth, attending shows in this building. We have two binders full of clippings from those years, at the front of the shop, and yesterday, we had a former usher come in for a visit, who shared some stories about the former Muskoka Theatre. It's kind of neat, to listen and learn about a theatre I only visited several times; but each story is one we write down for posterity, to showcase its history of once, long ago!

The Photos I Remember As Being Epic For A Guy Who Didn't Know How To Use A Camera

O.P.P. cruiser positioned near Norwood Theatre after midnight viewing of Rocky Horror Picture Show early 1980's

Early 1980's Air Ambulance at South Muskoka Memorial Hospital

Bracebridge Firemen at scene of Manitoba Street Fire Early 1980's; Don Currie wearing oxygen tank

I STILL HAVE A SOFT SPOT FOR PHOTOGRAPHS AND TAKING THEM - BUT I NO LONGER OWN A CAMERA

FOLIO OF MY OWN VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPHS MAKES ME WONDER - IS THERE A PHOTOGRAPHER ITCHING TO BREAK FREE

     NATO IS BUILDING UP MILITARY ASSETS, IN BOTH POLAND AND ROMANIA. SURVEILLANCE PLANES ARE MONITORING THE BORDERS, WATCHING FOR ENEMY CREEP, INTO THEIR COVERAGE AREA, THAT MIGHT SPILL OVER, FROM THE RUSSIAN "OCCUPIED" CRIMEA. THERE'S A LOT OF FEAR AND TREMBLING GOING ON IN EUROPE AT THIS HOUR. MAKES THE GRAVENHURST TAX BILL PALE IN COMPARISON, DON'T YOU THINK? BASED ON THE GUARANTEED POSITIVE RESULT, OF SUNDAY'S SNAP REFERENDUM, IN CRIMEA, (BECAUSE YOU KNOW THAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN, OR ELSE), I THINK MANY IN EUROPE JUST ASSUME, FORCED COMPLIANCE MIGHT SPILL OVER ONTO OTHER NEIGHBOR COUNTRIES AS WELL; THAT RUSSIA WILL SENSE AN OPEN AND WARM INVITATION TO INVADE IF SCHEDULING PERMITS. IF YOU BELIEVE THE RUSSIANS, THEY'VE BEEN HEARTILY WELCOMED TO A MILITARY TATOO, TO SHOW OFF THEIR MARCHING AND GUN WAVERING SKILLS, GUARDING THEIR HOST'S PRIME SEA-SIDE REAL ESTATE. TO PROTECT THE INNOCENTS FROM THE EVIL INFLUENCES OF THE WEST. I GET NERVOUS WHEN THE RUSSIANS DECIDE THAT INVITATION OR NOT, THEY'RE DROPPING OVER FOR A LONG-TERM VISIT. IT'S THE "PUTTING THE FOOT DOWN" THING, THAT WORRIES ME THE MOST. SINCE THEY WELCOMED THEMSELVES TO THE ASSETS OF THE CRIMEA, I'VE ALMOST FORGOTTEN THAT GRAVENHURST HAD THE WORSE ROADS, SHORT OF DRIVING ON THE MOONSCAPE, THIS WINTER. UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES IT EVEN SEEMS MOOT, TO HAVE WORRIED WHETHER OR NOT, THE WINTER CARNIVAL MASCOT, SKOKIE, HAD BEEN DUMPED FROM THE MAIN STREET, THIS YEAR, OR THAT THE LOCAL BIA PLANS TO INVADE THE OUTER REACHES OF THE MAIN STREET, TO EXPAND ITS SERVICE AND TAXATION AREA. AH, BUT IT'S NICE BEING SAFE AND SOUND HERE ON HOME TURF. THE RUSSIANS AREN'T LIKELY TO VISIT US YET, AT LEAST FOR AWHILE. IT'S FUNNY HOW A WORLD EVENT OF THIS SUPER POWER PROPORTION, MAKES LOCAL STUFF SEEM SO DARN TRIVIAL AND DISTANT. DIGGING IN THE HEALS IS GOING TO HURT. JUST AS DIPLOMACY HASN'T ENDED THE WAR IN SYRIA, IT'S NOT LIKELY TO THWART THE CRIMEA FROM BECOMING UNDEMOCRATICALLY RUSSIAN. AND THEN THERE'S THE QUESTION OF QUEBEC SEPARATION FROM THE REST OF CANADA. THERE'S HARDLY TIME TO THINK ABOUT RUNNING A CAMPAIGN FOR THIS YEAR'S MUNICIPAL ELECTION. AS THEY SAY, THERE ARE BIGGER FISH TO FRY.

     THE SCRAPBOOK PHOTOGRAPHS FEATURED ABOVE TODAY'S BLOG, WERE SNAPPED BY ME, BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S, WHEN I WORKED IN THE NEWSROOM OF MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS, IN BRACEBRIDGE. I JUST RECENTLY UNCOVERED THESE HERALD-GAZETTE SCRAPBOOKS, THAT I KEPT-UP FOR THE FIRST YEARS OF MY EMPLOYMENT, IN THE NEWS GATHERING PROFESSION. ADMITTEDLY, I WASN'T A VERY GOOD PHOTOGRAPHER, IN TERMS OF TECHNICAL OPERATION OF A CAMERA, BUT I SEEMED TO KNOW HOW TO COMPOSE NEWS CONTENT, WITHIN A TIGHT BORDER. THE IMAGES ABOVE WERE IMPORTANT ENOUGH, BACK THEN, THAT THEY WARRANTED BEING GLUED IN THE BOOKS, WHICH WERE COMMENCED EARLY IN 1979. I'M MY HARSHEST CRITIC, SO THEY OBVIOUSLY WERE A LOT BETTER THAN THE HUNDREDS OF OTHERS THAT DIDN'T MAKE THE GRADE. I SHOULD NOTE HERE, THAT I CAUSED THE PREMATURE BALDNESS, OF ALL THE DARKROOM TECHNICIANS WHO WORKED WITH ME. THAT'S RIGHT! I CAUSED THEM TO PULL OUT THEIR HAIR IN HANDFULS. I HEARD THEM TALKING AMONGST THEMSELVES, ABOUT THE HOURS OF "DODGING AND BURNING," THEY HAD TO PERFORM, TO PULL A DECENT IMAGE FROM THE CRAPPY NEGATIVES I PROVIDED. I UNDERSTOOD THE DODGING AND BURNING THING, AS EXTRA STEPS THAT COST THEM PRECIOUS TIME ON PRESS DAYS.
     THE PHOTOGRAPHS INCLUDE THE EMERGENCY SCENE, AT THE NEW SOUTH MUSKOKA MEMORIAL HOSPITAL HELI-PAD, (EARLY 1980'S), AND AN ACCIDENT PATIENT BEING REMOVED TO A TRAUMA UNIT, IN TORONTO, BY AIR AMBULANCE. I HATED TAKING THIS PHOTOGRAPH, BUT THE HELI-PAD WAS NEW, AND WE WANTED TO STUDY HOW IT WAS GOING TO CUT DOWN TIME BETWEEN A REGIONAL HEALTH-CARE FACILITY, AND CITY HOSPITALS. THE CHAP IN THE PHOTO WAS SOMENE I KNEW, AND THE INJURIES WERE LIFE-ALTERING. THE PHOTOGRAPH OF FIREMAN, DON CURRIE, (WEARING THE AIR TANK), WAS TAKEN AFTER A SERIOUS BUSINESS FIRE, THAT BROKE-OUT ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET, ALSO IN THE EARLY 1980'S, WHICH IF MEMORY SERVES, BEGAN IN A DOWNSTAIR'S FLORIST SHOP. THE PROXIMITY TO OTHER DWELLINGS AND BUSINESSES ON THE STREET, MADE THIS A PARTICULARLY DANGEROUS FIRE, IN TERMS OF THE RISK IT POSED, SPREADING RIGHT DOWN THE STREET. WITH THE FINE PHOTOGRAPHIC WORK OF THREE OF OUR REPORTERS, AND THE SET-UP OF GRAPHIC ARTIST, HAROLD WRIGHT, WE PUBLISHED A FULL PAGE FEATURE ON THE FIRE, AND THE FIREMEN WHO SAVED THAT SECTION OF STREET, BY CONTAINING THE BLAZE TO ONE BUILDING AMONGST A DOZEN VULNERABLE STRUCTURES. I WILL SHOW YOU THAT FULL PAGE SPREAD IN TOMORROW'S BLOG. THE FINAL PHOTOGRAPH WAS THE HAZY, LATE NIGHT IMAGE OF AN ONTARIO PROVINCIAL POLICE CRUISER, CIRCA THE EARLY 1980'S, WHICH WAS SITTING ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE NORWOOD THEATRE, (MANITOBA STREET) ON A NIGHT WHEN THE MOVIE "THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW," WAS PLAYING AS A LATE FEATURE. I LIVED IN THE FORMER HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, AND TO GET THIS PHOTO, LOOKING SOUTH ON MANITOBA STREET, I WOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SNAP THE PIC, FROM THE SIDEWALK IN FRONT. THE SCENE THROUGH THE VIEWFINDER JUST LOOKED NEAT, AND WE RAN IT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AS FEATURE SHOT OF LATE NIGHT THEATRE CROWDS, IN UPTOWN BRACEBRIDGE. THERE WAS NO BREAKING NEWS ATTACHED. I PROBABLY RAN A STORY ABOUT THE LARGE CROWDS THAT USED TO ATTEND THE MIDNIGHT SHOWINGS, ALWAYS POPULAR, IN THIS ERA, WITH THE YOUNG ADULTS. WE USED TO RUN PICTURES OF THE PATRONS DRESSED UP AS CHARACTERS FROM THE MOVIE. THERE WAS A MILD AMOUNT OF ROWDINESS, BUT VERY SELDOM, DID IT EVER ADD UP TO ANY VANDALISM OR PERSONAL ASSAULTS. A FEW TIMES. NOTHING MAJOR. THE POLICE ALWAYS MADE THEIR PRESENCE HIGHLY VISIBLE, JUST IN CASE.
     AS I'VE MENTIONED PREVIOUSLY, I DIDN'T LIKE GOING TO EMERGENCY SITUATIONS, BUT IT WAS PART OF THE JOB. WHAT MADE IT A NECESSITY, UNFORTUNATELY, WAS THAT IF I RAISED MY ARM ON EITHER SIDE, I WAS GOING TO HIT THE SHOULDERS OF OUR COMPETITION, FROM THE BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER, AND MOST LIKELY, GAR LEWIS, THE CAMERAMAN-REPORTER FOR CKCO NEWS. SO IF WE DIDN'T SHOW UP, AND THE EXAMINER RAN THE PHOTO IN THEIR NEXT ISSUE, I WOULD GET A GRILLING, ABOUT WHY WE HAD MISSED THE STORY ALTOGETHER. THE SAME WOULD HAPPEN, IF ONE OF OUR MANAGERS WAS WATCHING THE EVENING NEWS, AND SAW THAT GAR HAD PICKED UP ON, WHAT WE HAD APPARENTLY SLEPT THROUGH; OR POSSIBLY WE WERE HOISTING ALES INSTEAD, AT THE PRESS CLUB, DOWN AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ALBION; WHEN NEWS WAS, AS THEY SAY, "GOING DOWN." THE POINT IS, COMPETITION NECESSITATED US KEEPING UP ON THESE BREAKING NEWS EVENTS. BUT FOR TWO OF THESE PHOTOGRAPHS, I CAN TELL YOU HONESTLY, MY KNEES WERE WOBBLING, AND THE BIGGEST TASK, WOULD HAVE BEEN TO STOP SHAKING LONG ENOUGH, TO GET A COUPLE OF CLEAR SHOTS. SO I TOOK A LOT OF PHOTOS, TO MAKE SURE AT LEAST ONE WAS SUITABLY FOCUSED, TO PUBLISH IN THE PAPER. AS A REPORTER'S PRIVILEGE, IN THIS CASE, I HAD KNOWLEDGE OF AN ACCIDENT OVER AND ABOVE THE FAMILY IMBEDDED IN THE TRAGEDY. I HAD TO BE CAREFUL WITH THE INFORMATION I POSSESSED, AND HOW IT WAS RELEASED TO THE PUBLIC. WHAT MADE IT MORE DIFFICULT, WAS THAT ALL OF US, AT THE NEWSPAPER, KNEW THE FAMILY (OF THE PATIENT ON THE STRETCHER). THIS WAS THE MISFORTUNE OF THE JOB GENERALLY, BECAUSE IT WOULD HAPPEN WITH FATALITIES AS WELL, THAT I WOULD KNOW BEFORE THE FAMILIES DID; AND SOME THAT I DID KNOW ON A PERSONAL, FAMILY LEVEL, MADE IT EVEN MORE EMOTIONALLY DIFFICULT, TO WITHHOLD INFORMATION. EVEN IF I RAN INTO A PARENT, BROTHER OR SISTER, RUNNING TO THE HOSPITAL, I COULDN'T SAY A WORD TO THEM, EVEN IF THEY ASKED WHAT I KNEW ABOUT THE ACCIDENT. I'D JUST OFFER AN APOLOGY THAT I DIDN'T KNOW THEIR CONDITION, OR ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE ACCIDENT, AND OF COURSE, IT MEANT I HAD TO TELL A LIE. SOME DIDN'T FORGIVE ME FOR THIS, AND I UNDERSTOOD THEIR CHAGRIN. I COULDN'T HAVE DONE ANYTHING DIFFERENT, UNDER THE RULES WE HAD TO OPERATE, FOR PRIVACY CONCERNS. WE HAD TO WAIT FOR THE OPP TO RELEASE THE INFORMATION, BEFORE IT COULD BE CONSIDERED IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN.
     I HAD A HIGHER THAN AVERAGE FAILURE RATE, AS A PHOTO JOURNALIST, IN LARGE PART, BECAUSE I SIMPLY DIDN'T LIKE BEING IMMERSED IN THESE TRAGIC SITUATIONS. BUT I NEEDED MY PAY CHEQUE, LIKE THE REST OF US, WHO ALSO DIDN'T WANT TO COVER THIS STUFF, OR STAND AS CLOSE AS WE WERE FORCED, TO CAPTURE THE EMOTION OF EACH EVENT AND MISADVENTURE. WE SOLD A LOT OF PAPERS BECAUSE OF THIS COVERAGE OF COMMUNITY EMERGENCIES, BUT I WOULD RATHER HAVE BEEN GIVEN READERSHIP APPROVAL, FOR TAKING FEATURE PHOTOGRAPHS, DURING PLEASANT EVENTS. SO NO, I WOULD NEVER HAVE MADE A GOOD WAR CORRESPONDENT. I WAS OKAY WITH BIRTHDAY PARTIES AND SKATING CARNIVALS; GRIP AND GRINS, AND ANNIVERSARY SHOTS. THOUSANDS OF THESE, IN FACT, SO I WAS ABLE TO REBOUND FROM EMERGENCY PHOTOS, BY VOLUNTEERING FOR SOME OF THE ROUTINE PHOTOGRAPHS THAT MORE THAN FILLED THE WEEKLY PAPERS.
     ONE OF MY FAVORITE PHOTO COLLECTIONS, ACTUALLY WARRANTED GLUEING THE WHOLE BOOKLET INTO MY SCRAPBOOK. IT'S FULL OF PHOTOGRAPHS I TOOK, FOR THE PROGRAM OF THE HUMPHREY SKATING CLUB, BACK IN ABOUT 1980. IT WAS ENTITLED "THE WIZARD OF OZ AND THE FABULOUS '50'S,"
AND WAS FOR THE CLUB'S APRIL SKATING CARNIVAL. I REMEMBER IT BEING A BITTERLY COLD WINTER NIGHT, AND HAVING TO DRIVE IN HORRENDOUS SNOW CONDITIONS, FROM MACTIER, NORTH ON HIGHWAY 69, TO THE INTERSECTION WITH THE HIGHWAY TO ROSSEAU. THE HUMPHREY ARENA WAS A SHORT DRIVE EAST, BUT WITH THE BLOWING SNOW, IT SEEMED TEN TIMES THE DRIVE. I WAS EXHAUSTED AFTER THE WHITE KNUCKLE TRIP, AND A LONG WORK DAY, AND WISHING THE PUBLISHER HADN'T FORCED ME INTO THIS EVENING GIG. THE SKATING MOMS AND COACHES WERE HAPPY TO SEE ME, WHICH WAS SURPRISING, CONSIDERING I WAS LATE, AND MY CAMERA WAS FROZEN; BUT THEY KINDLY HELPED ARRANGE THE SKATERS FOR ME, WHICH IS ALWAYS A MINEFIELD CHORE, FOR ANY ROOKIE PHOTOGRAPHER. THE KIDS WERE ALL DRESSED IN THEIR CARNIVAL COSTUMES, AND THE WHOLE PHOTO-SHOOT ONLY TOOK AN HOUR FROM BEGINNING TO END. STRANGELY ENOUGH, I ENJOYED THE SESSION, IN LARGE PART, BECAUSE THE MOOD WAS REALLY UPBEAT, AND THE WIZARD OF OZ WAS, AFTERALL, MY FAVORITE BOOK AND MOVIE. THE KIDS IN COSTUME WERE DELIGHTFUL, AND I WAS HAVING TOO MUCH FUN AT WHAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WORK. BUT IT WASN'T UNTIL I SAW THE FINISHED PROGRAM, "THE BEACON" HAD SET UP, AND PRINTED, FOR THE SKATING CLUB, THAT I KNEW MY CALLING WAS AS A FEATURE PHOTOGRAPHER, AND IT WASN'T SO BAD BEING A FEATURE WRITER EITHER. MY CONTEMPORARIES AT THE TIME HOWEVER, WANTED THE BIG NEWS COVERAGE, AND THAT INCLUDED ALL THE EMERGENCY DETAILS. SOMETIMES I COULDN'T AVOID THE FIRE AND ACCIDENT CALLS, BUT MY COLLEAGUES WERE ONLY TOO WILLING TO BARTER THEIR WAY OUT OF FEATURE GIGS, IN RETURN FOR THE VERY NEXT NEWS EVENT COVERAGE. GOING THROUGH THIS LITTLE, NO FRILLS, NEWSPRINT CARNIVAL PROGRAM, IT ALL COMES BACK INTO FOCUS. IT HAD BEEN WORTH THE TRAVEL NORTH AND EAST THROUGH SNOWY MUSKOKA, TO BE A PART OF THIS NEAT EVENT IN THE VILLAGE OF HUMPHREY, SITUATED JUST NORTH OF LAKE JOSEPH. I CAN STILL HEAR THE MAGICAL ECHO OF THEIR DISTANT LAUGHTER, AS I TOOK THOSE GROUP PHOTOGRAPHS. I WONDER IF THOSE SKATERS' PARENTS KEPT COPIES OF THE PROGRAM.
   I STILL RECALL THAT NIGHT, AS ONE OF MY AWAKENING MOMENTS, IN THE NEWS GATHERING PROFESSION. EVEN THIS WINTER SEASON, IN AN ARTICLE I WROTE FOR A REGIONAL ONTARIO PUBLICATION, I FONDLY RECALLED THE TRIP, COMING FROM HUMPHREY THROUGH THE STORM, AND HOW NICE AND CHEERFUL IT WAS, TO ARRIVE IN THE VILLAGE OF ROSSEAU, THAT STORMY NIGHT; TO SEE ALL THOSE WARM, TWINKLING LIGHTS, FROM LOCAL RESIDENCES, DAZZLING LIKE JEWELS THROUGH THE SPRAY OF DRIFTING SNOW. I REMEMBER BEING TERRIBLY HUNGRY, AND COLD, AS THE HEATER IN MY DATSUN DIDN'T WORK VERY WELL; AND PONDERING, ON THE DRIVE THROUGH, WHAT THOSE CITIZENS WERE HAVING FOR DINNER AT THAT MOMENT. I SURE WOULD HAVE LIKED TO BE INVITED IN, TO THOSE BIG, BRIGHT, WARM KITCHENS. IT WAS A COPING MECHANISM, I KNOW, TO GET THROUGH THE STORM, (IMAGINING SUCH A PLEASANT RESPITE) AND WIND MY WAY HOME, ALONG SOME DANGEROUSLY ICY HIGHWAY, TO MY APARTMENT IN BRACEBRIDGE. IT'S QUITE SOMETHING, TO QUOTE A DRIVE THROUGH THE WINTER LANDSCAPE, THAT OCCURRED ON A SNOWY EVENING, BACK IN THE WINTER OF 1980. I THINK IT MAY HAVE BEEN A TURNING POINT IN MY YOUNG CAREER; A DESIRE TO STAY-ON IN THE NEWS BUSINESS FOR A WHILE LONGER. OR I COULD HAVE QUIT AND GOT A TEACHING DEGREE, TO ADD TO MY CREDENTIALS IN CANADIAN HISTORY. I STAYED. SOMETHING THAT NIGHT, MAYBE THE KIDS, POSSIBLY THE WINTER COUNTRYSIDE, MAYBE THE ROMANCE AND SENTIMENTALITY OF BEING A WRITER IN THE RURAL CLIME, SAVED ME FROM MAKING A SERIOUS MISTAKE. I WOULD HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE TEACHER ANYWAY. SO I MARRIED ONE INSTEAD.

LOVE VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPHS, JUST DON'T THINK I COULD HANDLE TODAY'S TECHNOLOGY

     At times, I probably owned a hundred or so vintage cameras. I even had the original Brownie box camera, the heavy top-handled plastic unit, from the 1950's, that always took a good picture; and of course, the tell tale image of the photographer's thumb. My father's thumb appears in hundreds of photos, pasted into the family albums. Even when I bought him a nice Polaroid camera for Christmas one year, he managed to sneak the tip of his thumb into those "instant" photographs as well. I thought cameras, as old technology, would be cool to collect, in the years following my departure from the day to day newspaper chores. I had all kinds of neat bellows cameras, and even underwater units. When we opened our antique shop in Bracebridge, I needed inventory, and started selling off the collection. The best money I made, was off the high-tech underwater camera, I had picked up at a local flea market. I got paid twice for this one. The photographer I sold it too, for fifty bucks, met me for a coffee one morning, a few weeks later, and stuffed a hundred dollar bill in my hand, because he had made such a large profit on the re-sale. What a decent guy. But even after we closed the shop, to sell online instead, I kept picking up more old cameras if the price was right. Then when we opened the present annex, to the boy's vintage music shop, I did the same thing, and sold off all of my collected cameras. One of the key reasons, I suppose, was that camera collectors were making me look really stupid, when I couldn't answer anything but the simplest questions about the way they worked. I have never been technically inclined, and my father was worse than me. He'd take a toaster apart, and from the moment the first screw, or wire, was removed on a Sunday fix-it project, my mother started to scan the sale catalogues for a replacement. The same went for electric frying pans, blenders, electric knives and vacuums. So it began bothering me, that I was collecting the cameras, based on some background sentiments, of having once been a professional photographer, but now really just liked the way they looked on a shelf. So I decided that it would be best to release these vintage cameras, to customers who would appreciate them, more than for just the way they looked, in the illumination from a table lamp, as Martha Stewart home decor.
     I still have a few of my cameras leftover, from those news days, and based on condition, they have no real redeeming quality value wise, other than to remind me emotionally, of some of the good, and bad moments, of being a news and feature photographer. I still have a photograph, that had been snapped by staffer, Harold Wright, after I wound up in the emergency room of the hospital, after injuring my ankle, running to get some fire shots. I was trotting down, what is known as the "Monck Hill," (actually known, in the annals of local history, as Cheese Factory Hill), to a fire at a residence halfway down, on the north side of the road. There were emergency vehicles parked up and down the hill, on both sides, and I had to run on uneven ground, because the walkways were compromised, with fire hoses and equipment. I got to an opening between the vehicles, so I could cut to the north side of the road, from the south. I should have expected it, but I didn't. Just as I was turning on the fly, to make the cross-over, a firemen wearing an oxygen tank, swung out from the back of a fire truck, and to avoid it, I "zagged," and quickly pulled my camera out of harm's reach. I got too far over on the lip of a drainage ditch, and rolled over heavily onto my ankle, and boy did it pop. The pain was unbelievable, and I fell onto the grass in a terrible drop and roll event, that was newsworthy on its own.
     Once I stopped rolling, I immediately checked my ankle, and found a huge bulge where an ankle bone used to be, and by the minute, it was getting bigger. I couldn't put any weight on it, so I had to crawl up on the embankment of the property, rather awkwardly, even for someone injured, and managed to shoot a roll of film from a sitting position; looking through the gap between emergency vehicles. Ambulance personnel, on the scene for potential fire victims, saw me fall, and did come over to check out my ankle, assuring me that it was likely a bad sprain and not a break. I had a massive telephoto lens, and I used it to my best advantage. But the pain was pretty intense, and I took the first responder's advice, to go to the hospital for an x-ray. It wasn't a pretty picture, me hobbling and tripping all the way back up that hillside. Once in the hospital, I phoned Harold Wright, our associate photographer, and he raced to the fire scene for some more coverage, and then came to fetch me home from the hospital on crutches. The worse part? I didn't have health coverage, as my card had elapsed. That was back in 1981. I had to pay a hundred and fifty bucks out of pocket, and boy did that ever hurt. I did get a few good shots of the fire, sitting on my arse, along that hillside, so I was glad of that fact. I remember the fire department lads calling me "scoop" that night, whenever they passed me sitting there, wincing and shooting photos. "What's the matter there scoop, getting weak in your old age." Gosh, I think I was twenty-three. I learned from that misadventure, to keep an eye on firemen moving in and around their trucks, before trying to bypass them with a camera in my hand.
     My most memorable emergency call, and photograph, actually warranted my first spot-news front-pager, in April of 1979. I was living in Bracebridge, at the time, commuting to MacTier every day. A late night fire call came in, while at home, and because I worked for the general Muskoka Publications as well, with sister papers, I took off to cover-it, just in case no one else was available. The fire was at a residence, in the Village of Uffington, east of Bracebridge, and my Datsun was the third vehicle at the scene. I was already out, shooting the eerie house fire, with nearby trees engulfed as well, before the main body of the fire brigade. At the time, it wasn't known if the owner(s) was inside or not. That's a real knee-wobbler, for rookie reporters, and I was feeling this way until it was determined no one was in the building. A dog was tied in the yard, but the firemen were able to get it away from the house, as one of the first details upon arriving.
     One of the firemen I knew personally, warned me about the little explosions that were happening in the house, that could affect me, as I was getting too close without protective gear. This was the first time, as a reporter, that I learned about the way spray cans of paint etc., would fly-off like missiles, when they caught fire and exploded. Geez, these suckers were falling out of the sky all around my rented Datsun, that I was sure didn't have adequate insurance, as a work vehicle; one that was going to be parked at fire scenes around Muskoka. Only one of these flying cans had hit the car, and it did so on the roof, where the dealership likely wouldn't look, when I turned it back in. The car was getting a lot of soot and stuff landing on it, during the time I was on site, but in the light of emergency vehicles, and firelight, it didn't look like there had been any serious damage to the finish. I'd find this out for sure later. I had to wash it three times before I got all the soot off. The finish was a lot duller, I think, but it was a used car anyway, so it never became an issue at the end of the lease.
    But that fire? It was a news photographer's bonanza, and I shot two rolls of thirty-six exposures. The editor of The Herald-Gazette, gave me a spot on the front page for the Wednesday edition. I was only four months into my reporting career, and this made a big difference to my attitude. My colleagues were a little ticked they didn't get the shot, and that a rookie beat them for front page exposure.
     The disadvantage of getting the best "scoop" that week (I even beat the opposition press), was that I had to spend the whole night at the fire scene, as a direct result of my quick response to the emergency call. I didn't know this, when the fire trucks pulled up close behind me, but my efficiency tending the event, meant I was blocked from leaving, by not only the trucks behind, but by the fact, the firemen refused to let me drive over the fire hoses, which formed a web around my car. So I sat in my cold Datsun, and kept myself from falling asleep, and freezing to death, by making copious notes, about the routine work of firemen at these scenes; who spend hours after the main incident, mopping up the site, and carefully rolling-up the fire hoses. No easy task. This on-the-job learning, came at a good time, seeing as there were many other fires to attend, during the next ten years, working as a weekly newspaper reporter / editor. It was the last time I arrived at an emergency scene ahead of the fire trucks, and I was never again trapped by the matting of fire hoses. It took a cold night, with a very light sweater, and no working car heater, to learn the first rule of reporting. It's not about getting there first; it's who gets the best picture of the news event. I had been the only reporter at the fire, so obviously, I owned the front page that week. Not because I got to the scene before most of the first responders. So I adjusted my arrival protocols after this, and chuckled to myself, when other reporters would get wedged-in, like I did, on that belated and cold April Fools, of 1979.
     I might find the resources, one of these days, to once again, purchase a camera; one of these new fangled machines, that are supposedly fail-proof. I'm just not too sure, if I'd be tempted once again, to respond to those emergency calls, to see if I still have the right stuff to be a news photographer, after all these years of relative solitude; reading the news, not reporting on it! Until then, I will content myself, looking at photos from past adventures, and ponder if I could ever do better, than what has already been accomplished, pasted into these dog-eared folios.
     In case you're wondering, vintage cameras and equipment, are amongst our best sellers, in the antique wing of our family shop these days; but that hinges of course, on whether we have any left on the shelves. Supply and affordability is the issue. Surprisingly, most of the past sales, have been made to the under thirty crowd, especially the under-twenties, because apparently, they are now "museum" examples, of antiquated technology; the same as all my old typewriters, which have all been sold-off. What I used in the news business, only a short time ago, is now considered antiquated. I'm only fifty-eight, and yet I feel ancient, because of what I don't know and embrace of new technology. Suzanne thinks I should spend my day at the shop, working on an old manual typewriter, instead of this laptop; displayed, worts and all, huddled over an old desk, in a glass showcase; a sort of living diorama, exhibiting old time journalism in its fullest color, for the educational pleasure of all our young guests, who could never imagine such a thing, as a cordless typewriter. Or a guy like me, who is old enough to have used one, in those dark, primitive days, before the computer.

I Want To Take A Trip To England When They Build The Bridge

THINKING ABOUT MY TIME IN ENGLAND, AND WISHING I WAS THERE RIGHT NOW - AT THE ROSE AND CROWN

THE WEATHER IS MORE SUITED TO ENGLAND THAN A MUSKOKA WINTER

     My dear wife confront me the other day, asking me rather abruptly, how many times in my hockey-playing days, I was hit in the face with the puck. Seeing as I was a goaltender for most of that time, I had to answer, "At least twice every game." How many times did you fall and hit your head on the ice, or get conked over the head with a stick. I had to think about that one for a couple of minutes, and the best I could do was described the occurrences as "frequent." Okay, then, how many times did your team-mates have to push you out the dressing room door, unclenching your fingers from the gate, in order to place you in the net for the start of the game." "Never," I replied with some indignation. "I wanted to play," I retorted. "I wasn't scared of getting hurt, if that's what you're getting at!"
     "Do you know how many hockey players have had their careers ended by concussions, and broken bones," she asked. I do know that the number is a big one, but I never missed a game in decades because of an injury received in practice or a game. "Then as far as risk of life and limb, playing hockey has a high potential of injuring those who play the sport!" "Point being?" I asked. "Well, it seems to me that you risked your health every single time you stepped on the ice, ready to play a game, or participate in a practice. You've admitted to me that you were taking whacks to the noggin almost every game, amongst other hits that could have even proved fatal, if you got hit into the boards awkwardly." I couldn't argue with the good woman. "Well then why in the world would you be fearful of getting on a comfortable plane, with climate control, reclining seats, cocktails, and onboard meals, with only the very slim possibility you might hit some turbulence and have to use the air-sick bag?" It's the first time in my life, a comparison was drawn between the dangers of playing hockey and flying on a passenger jet. Nice try but it didn't change the reality, that I am a "kicking and screaming" type of reluctant flier, and I would sooner take a slapshot in the kisser than board an aircraft.    
     I have flown a few times to Florida, before winging it to England, and experienced the kind of turbulence, that curled my hair; when I actually had hair to curl. I'm a nervous passenger in a car, so it's not so much of a stretch, to apply it to being a wickedly nervous passenger on one of these football-field length aircraft, I see advertised on television. I have always had height issues, and that's standing still, looking down. Looking down at eight hundred miles per hour, would be the same but to the exponent of ten. I get along in this life quite well, not flitting here and there in the belly of the beast. Of course I have regrets, and there may be a day coming, when I finally decide that it is keeping me from an important destination, important to the rest of my life. Such as if I was to inherit, for example, a wonderful old country estate, like the one Squire Bracebridge owned, in the Washington Irving book, "Bracebridge Hall," and the only way of claiming it, was to appear in person. I could get on a plane for considerable capital gain, I suppose. A wee pint at the Admiral Rodney isn't quite enough to convince me to climb aboard the big bird.
     It is a joke around here, meaning our Gravenhurst music and antique shop, with my lads, Andrew and Robert, that the old man is scared of flying. It's accepted fact, that I despise heights, to begin with, and really dislike having to climb into a coffin with wings. The last time I was on a jet was when I flew from Wilmington, Delaware to Cleveland, and then Muskoka, with Roger Crozier, who at that time was an executive with the American Bank, MBNA. Roger of course was an original six National Hockey League Goaltender, with the Detroit Red Wings, who later played with the expansion clubs, the Buffalo Sabres and the Washington Capitals. Roger was from Bracebridge.
     In his playing days he also hated to fly, and often found alternate travel arrangements. I thought of all people, he'd understand, when I confessed to him that the reason I couldn't come down to see him in Wilmington, was due to my very real fear of planes and all they represent. He left the business of getting me on the plane to Suzanne, who pretty much shamed me, into climbing aboard the MBNA corporate jet, with Roger's mother Mildred, and lawyer, Jack Huckle, formerly of Bracebridge. I hated every moment of the flight, and aged a year for every hour it took to get to our destination. My fingerprints are probably still visible, gouged into the arm rests; which went a lot deeper when we hit turbulence ten minutes from the airport. It's not that the crew wasn't perfect and the plane magnificently safe, just that when you're frightened to fly, it doesn't matter how good, or opulent an aircraft; it's the fact that people like me know stuff happens which has nothing to do with the quality of pilot, crew or aircraft. We just get consumed by all the possibilities, that while ridiculous to frequent fliers, is hugely potential to me.
     I wanted to rent a car for the trip home from Wilmington, but Roger talked me out it by saying, "Ted, do you think I'd fly on one of these jets that was going to crash," which, when I think about it now, was kind of strange logic. "The planes are expertly looked after Ted and our pilots are the best of the best," he said, with such a confident look on his face, that I immediately felt his assurances would be enough to get on board for the trip home. Of course, he didn't tell me on that day, that we were going to stop in Cleveland. I hate the take-off preparation, and as I know this is a dangerous part of the flight experience, it was adding an obstacle to my psyche; the protocol of the day I had bargained for at breakfast, when Roger, over a beautifully prepared breakfast, made flight sound as if the plane would be carried north by angels, holding onto each wing to guarantee its safe journey.
     I know all the stats about how safe flight is, and that my chances of dying in a traffic accident are far greater. I've just become rather steadfast about enjoying life on the ground, and experiencing travel as my ancestors used to engage, being by foot in the stone age, by horse drawn cart as time went by, and then the horseless carriage. There are times when it does pain me to recognize that an ocean separates me from where I want to be, right now, at this very moment, with a pint of ale in my hand, and bangers and beans on my plate. Yes, I would either like to be at a pub known as the Rose and Crown, or the Admiral Rodney. I'm afraid that by time they build the bridge to Europe I will be pushing up daisies. I could opt for some sort of tranquilizer to settle my nerves on the plane, but it all seems like a lot of trouble, and emotional expense, just to sit in a pub and consume a few frothy beverages. I only drink a few beer each year now, so it's not like I would wish to get sloshed in one of these pubs. I can coast on a beer for hours and hours.
     I think that one day, I shall work up the nerve to, once again, board one of those cylinders with wings, and take flight to jolly old England, where I would honestly like to spend the rest of my days. Well, it's where many of my family members came from in the mid 1800's, to settle in the Bay of Quinte area of Ontario. I think their gum wads might still be found in these pubs, stuck under the bar stools or table tops. I could sail over of course, but then I'm scared of being on a sinking ship. In sports, I was on a lot of sinking ships. The rain today reminds me of the late winter of 1974, when I did brave the trans-Atlantic flight, with the Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School Band, to play concerts in London, Nottingham and York. I was smitten with England and did not want to return home, which would have seriously compromised the band conductor, John Rutherford, who would have had a Dickens of a time trying to explain my absence to Merle and Ed, my parents. But I really did like the British experience, and I know that one day, based on some unexpected circumstance and benevolence, I will once again be winging it to my favorite place on earth (other than Muskoka). I want to go to Scotland and also sit in a pub. I don't drink much, but that's what I want to do.
     I wrote the piece below, some time ago, about arriving in England, with the school band, and what we got up to, in short order, to make ourselves appear characteristically British; wearing peak caps, carrying umbrellas, and donned with London Fog apparel. I don't remember how they got me on the plane on those occasions, going and coming back, other than there were several young ladies I was love-sick about; which if anything, blinded me to the risks associated with crashing. Writing about King Richard I, this week, and the neat little folk art carving we found with his likeness, at a local antique venue, it's all just ganged up on me, to think once again, (at least twice a year I pine for England and Scotland) about braving the emotional battle, of getting on one of those giant birds, and whisking off to a place where my heart tells me, there is a greater purpose. I'm weird that way. Suzanne isn't afraid of flight so that's not an issue. But I'm too big to throw over her shoulder, or stuff into a suitcase. Here is a story that will have to suffice, today, as it is unlikely that by the time you're reading this, we will be in the middle of the Atlantic.  Or in a raft in the middle of the Atlantic.

SOUVENIRS AND WHY WE BUY THEM. IT ISN'T FOR THE INVESTMENT VALUE. BUT SOMETIMES IT WORKS OUT THAT WAY.

WHEN YOU BROWSE THROUGH A THRIFT SHOP, A CHURCH FUNDRAISING SALE, SECOND HAND STORE, OR VISIT FLEA MARKETS AND YARDS SALES, I GUARANTEE YOU, SOMEONE'S TRAVEL SOUVENIRS WILL BE UP FOR GRABS. A LITTLE LESS ATTRACTIVE BECAUSE THEY WERE PURCHASED POTENTIALLY ON ANOTHER CONTINENT, OR OTHER PROVINCES, STATES, AND ON HOLIDAYS THAT YOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY DIDN'T GET TO ENJOY. THESE WERE PART OF SOMEONE ELSE'S TRAVEL MEMORIES, AND WHILE POIGNANT AT THE TIME, LOST THEIR LUSTER BECAUSE THE THRILL OF THE ADVENTURE IS A FADING REALITY. THERE ARE OF COURSE, SOME SOUVENIRS THAT MAINTAIN THEIR VALUE NONE THE LESS. THESE INCLUDE CULTURAL AND HISTORIC ART, CRAFTS, JEWELRY, HAND-MADE ITEMS OF CLOTHING, HATS, BLANKETS, RUGS, AND ADORNMENTS LIKE SHAWLS. THERE ARE MANY OTHER EXAMPLES. YOU CAN FIND THESE AT SECOND HAND SHOPS, PARTICULARLY CHARITY STORES, AND IF YOU CHECK OUT THE RACK WHERE THERE ARE BEDSPREADS, BLANKETS AND QUILTS, YOU WILL UNDOUBTEDLY FIND PRODUCTS FROM SCOTLAND, IRELAND, DENMARK, HOLLAND, BELGIUM, AND EVEN FROM SOUTH AMERICA, FROM WEAVING TO WOOLEN BLANKETS. MANY OF THESE PIECES WERE BROUGHT TO CANADA AS USEFUL HOUSEHOLD ITEMS……UNLIKE THE BETTER KNOWN DECORATIVE SOUVENIRS, LIKE CUPS AND SAUCERS AND WALL-HANGING PLATES, THAT APPEAR IN HUGE NUMBERS ALL OVER THE SECOND HAND MARKETPLACE. DESIRED ONCE, BUT MUCH LESS DESIRABLE ON THE REBOUND.

THE SOUVENIRS THAT ENDURE, ARE PRETTY MUCH THE ONES ABOVE, THAT HAVE PRACTICAL, FASHION AND GENERAL HOUSEHOLD USE. HAND CRAFTED ART PIECES, PAINTINGS, SCULPTURES, CARVINGS AND TEXTILE ART, LACE, WEAVING, TO RUGS, ARE THE KIND OF DECORATIVE SOUVENIR THAT HOLDS VALUE IN PERPETUITY, IN LARGE PART, BECAUSE OF THE HIGH QUALITY OF THE WORKMANSHIP. CERAMIC AND GLASS SOUVENIRS ARE OKAY, AND WE HAVE BEEN SELLING THESE HERE IN MUSKOKA, SINCE THE LATE 1800'S, BUT BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT STRICTLY FROM THE REGION WHERE THEY ARE AVAILABLE, THEY DON'T TEND TO BE THE MOST COVETED ITEMS AFTER THE ORIGINAL ON-SITE PURCHASE. I'LL GIVE YOU AN EXAMPLE FROM MY EARLIEST DAYS AS A COLLECTOR, AND WHAT SOUVENIRS I WANTED TO BRING HOME FROM ENGLAND.

IT WAS THE EARLY SPRING OF 1974. I WAS IN A BAND. A BIG ONE. IT WAS LED BY WELL KNOWN CONDUCTOR, JOHN RUTHERFORD, AND THE STUDENTS MAKING UP THE SENIOR TOURING BAND, WERE FROM BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL. I THINK OUR MOTTO WAS, "SEND SOME NOISE TO ENGLAND." I HAVE THANKED MR. RUTHERFORD MANY TIMES SINCE, FOR THINKING ENOUGH OF ME, AND THE BENEFIT AN OVERSEAS ADVENTURE WOULD DO FOR A BUDDING WRITER, TO HAVE INCLUDED ME IN THE SENIOR BAND THAT GLORIOUS YEAR. IT WAS DAMN CLOSE CALL YOU SEE. I HADN'T BEEN STRONG ENOUGH, AS A BARITONE PLAYER, TO THAT POINT, TO HAVE MADE THE CUT. I'D BEEN IN THE MUSIC PROGRAM FOR THE PREVIOUS FOUR YEARS. JOHN WAS DETERMINED, BY MY FINAL YEAR, TO SHAPE ME UP FOR THE BIG LEAGUE. IT WAS THE YEAR ABOUT SEVENTY BAND-MATES WERE GOING ON A PLAYING TOUR OF ENGLAND. THE DAY HE TOLD ME I WAS IN THE BAND, WELL SIR, I DIDN'T KNOW WHETHER TO LAUGH OR CRY, BECAUSE I WAS HAPPY, AND SCARED OUT OF MY MIND AT THE SAME TIME. AS JOHN POINTED OUT, "WE'VE GOT A LOT OF WORK TO DO TED." I COMPLIED. I WORKED AS HARD AS I COULD TO EARN HIS TRUST. I WAS NOT THE BEST, THAT'S FOR SURE, BUT I THINK JOHN KNEW I WAS COMMITTED TO IMPROVING MY PLAYING, CONCERT BY CONCERT. BY LETTING ME GO ON THAT LIFE-CHANGING ENGLAND TOUR, HE OPENED UP A WORLD OF OPPORTUNITY……AND I'M NOT REALLY SURE IF HE KNEW JUST HOW INFLUENTIAL HIS TRUST WAS, THEN AND ALL THESE YEARS LATER. HE MAY HAVE BEEN THE ONLY TEACHER, WHO FIGURED THERE HAD TO BE SOMETHING WITH THIS CURRIE KID, BENEATH THE HIPPY HAIR AND THE GENERAL ATTENTION DEFICIT. I WAS GOOD AT BOTH. I COULD HAVE GOT AN "A" IN PERPETUITY, FOR MY ABILITY TO ZONE OUT. I NEVER REALLY GOT BACK FROM WOODSTOCK, YOU KNOW.

AT THIS TIME, I WAS VERY INTERESTED IN WRITING, AND IN FACT, I WROTE A JOURNAL OF THE TRIP ON AIR CANADA STATIONARY, BOTH IN THE AIR, AND WHILE TRAVELLING ABOUT IN ENGLAND. I WAS ALSO A BUDDING COLLECTOR, AT THE SAME TIME, AND IT WAS A SOUVENIR BONANZA GOING THROUGH THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE, STOPPING ALONG THE WAY FOR WEE VISITS…..AND PERFORMANCES. I DIDN'T BUY ANY ROYALTY MEMORABILIA, BUT I WASN'T ON THE GROUND MORE THAN A FEW HOURS, AND I'D BOUGHT AN UMBRELLA, AND A TWEED PEAK CAP. ALL THE LADS DID. IT WAS THE FUNNIEST THING TO LOOK AT THE BEFORE AND AFTER PICTURES, TO SEE HOW CANADIANS FIGURED THEY COULD BECOME BRITISH BY ADORNMENTS ALONE. THE GIRLS DID SOMEWHAT THE SAME, THOUGH I CAN'T BE SURE IF THEY BOUGHT UMBRELLAS TOO. A LITTLE EXPENSIVE, THIS ENTERPRISE, BUT WE WANTED TO FULLY CELEBRATE THIS IMMERSION INTO, WHAT SOME OF US RIGHTFULLY CALLED, OUR ANCESTRAL CULTURE. FULL ENGLISH BREAKFASTS AND BANGERS AND BEANS FOR LUNCH. ROAST BEEF AND YORKIES (YORKSHIRE PUDDINGS) FOR SUPPER. FOR THE SEVERAL WEEKS WE WERE IN ENGLAND, WE LOOKED FOR EVERYTHING WE COULD, THAT, IN OUR OPINION, REFLECTED BRITISH VALUES. IN FACT, WE ATE BANGERS AND BEANS A LOT, (I MEAN THIS….IT WAS LIKE A SCENE OUT OF BLAZING SADDLES, BACK AT THE UNIVERSITY DORMITORY) IN ADDITION TO CRUMPETS, ECCLES CAKES, AND WE ALL SUCKED BACK GALLONS OF TEA. AND WE ALSO THOUGHT IT WAS ONLY FITTING, WE SHOULD BE CLOAKED IN BRITISH-WARE. FROM SHOES AND PANTS, TO SWEATERS, TWEED JACKETS, AND AN ARRAY OF PEAK CAPS……MAKING US GENTS RATHER DAPPER, OR SO THE GIRLS IN THE BAND THOUGHT…..OR AT LEAST WE HOPED THEY THOUGHT! TWO OF THE YOUNG LADIES THOUGHT I LOOKED LIKE A YOUNG BENNY HILL. WHILE THE REST THOUGHT I WAS CHIP OFF THE MONTY PYTHON BLOCK!

WHEN WE TRAVELLED NORTH TO NOTTINGHAM, WHERE WE WERE SCHEDULED TO STAY WITH HOST FAMILIES, BAND MEMBERS STARTED BUYING AND COLLECTING AS MUCH LOCAL MEMORABILIA AS THEY COULD. I HAD A NUMBER OF INTERESTING EXPERIENCES THIS WAY MYSELF. THE FAMILY I WAS STAYING WITH, HAD A TICKET FOR ME, TO ATTEND A FOOTBALL (SOCCER) GAME, BETWEEN BLACKPOOL AND NOTTINGHAM FOREST. "BUT YOU CAN'T WEAR THAT SCARF TED, I'M AFRAID, OR YOU'LL BE CARRYING YOUR HEAD UNDER YOUR ARM," SAID MY NEW ENGLISH MATE. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN," I HAD TO ASK. "WELL, THAT SCARF YOU BROUGHT FROM CANADA, REPRESENTS THE COLORS OF BLACKPOOL, AND AS WE ARE GOING TO BE SITTING IN THE NOTTINGHAM SECTION OF THE STADIUM, IT WOULDN'T BE A GOOD IDEA AT ALL, TO WEAR THOSE COLORS…..UNLESS OF COURSE YOU WISH TO BE BEATEN SENSELESS." I'D BEEN READING UP ON THE OFTEN VIOLENT AFTERMATHS OF THESE BRITISH MATCHES, SO I CERTAINLY DIDN'T HAVE TO BE TOLD TWICE ABOUT SCARF APPROPRIATENESS. THEY GAVE ME A NOTTINGHAM SCARF AND A BEAT-UP OLD COAT. "I'VE ALREADY GOT A GOOD JACKET TO WEAR," I RESPONDED TO THEIR GENEROSITY. I WAS A LITTLE MIFFED WHY THEY WOULD WANT ME TO WEAR A COAT WITH SO MANY HOLES. "EXACTLY. YOU DON'T WANT TO WEAR A GOOD COAT TO THE GAME, BECAUSE YOU'RE LIKELY GOING TO BE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIGHT, AND THIS JACKET HAS ALREADY BEEN IN A HALF DOZEN ALREADY." GADS, I WAS GETTING WORRIED. I'D GONE TO LOTS OF HOCKEY GAMES, AND WATCHED SOME FIGHTS BREAK-OUT IN THE STANDS, BUT FROM WHAT THEY WERE DESCRIBING, ALL FANS GET IN ON THE POST GAME SHOW. OH WELL, WHAT AN ADVENTURE.

WELL, I'VE NEVER BEEN TO SUCH A WILD AND WHACKY EVENT AS THIS SOCCER MATCH. THE FANS NEVER SAT DOWN THE WHOLE GAME. IN UNISON, LIKE A HUGE WAVE ON THE OCEAN, THEY MOVED THE TEAM COLORS TO THE THEME SONG, FOR THEIR SIDE, AND THEN THE OPPOSITION, WOULD COME BACK WITH A ROUSING RENDITION OF THEIR OWN. AND I'M TELLING YOU, IT WAS UNNERVING BECAUSE OF THE TIGHTLY WEAVED CROWD, AND THE FACT THAT WHEN THEY MOVED TO THE SONG, SO DID YOU (THERE WAS NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER). THE BLEACHERS SEEMED TO MOVE AT THE SAME TIME. WHEN THE GAME WAS OVER, I'D ONLY SAT DOWN FOR A COUPLE OF MINUTES IN THE WHOLE GAME, AND I WAS HOARSE BECAUSE OF ALL THE SINGING. MY MATE WARNED ME TO SING LOUDLY, SO THEY WOULDN'T SUSPECT I WAS A PLANT FROM THE OTHER SIDE, INFILTRATING THE OPPOSITION FOR SOME SORT OF SABOTAGE AT THE END OF THE GAME. MY GOD. THE END OF THE GAME. I FELT LIKE I WAS BODY SURFING OUT OF THAT STADIUM, BECAUSE THERE WAS NO STANDING AROUND, AND DEFINITELY NO POLITE "LETTING SOMEONE GET AHEAD OF YOU." I COULD SEE HOW SOMEONE COULD GET CRUSHED, AND HOW BLEACHERS COLLAPSE, WITH ALL THE SIDE TO SIDE SWAYING I'D EXPERIENCED. OUTSIDE, IT WAS VERY MUCH LIKE A RIOT SCENARIO, EXCEPT THERE WAS NO CAR OVER-TURNING OR FIRES BEING SET…..JUST PEOPLE RUNNING ALL OVER THE PLACE, WAVING THESE SCARVES WITH THE OCCASIONAL DUST-UPS BETWEEN FANS. MY HOST FAMILY KEPT US MOVING AS FAST AS WE COULD. NOTTINGHAM WON THAT DAY, SO WE WERE RUNNING ON POSITIVE ADRENALIN. NO NEED TO BURN ANYTHING, OR PUNCH OUT SHOP WINDOWS, I GUESS. POINT IS, I SPENT SOME QUALITY TIME, LATER THAT DAY, SHOPPING FOR NOTTINGHAM FOREST SOUVENIRS……BUYING MY OWN OFFICIAL SCARF…..WHICH I SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN WEARING TO YORKSHIRE AND THEN BACK TO LONDON. MY CHUMS REMINDED ME TO ALWAYS BE AWARE OF THOSE IMPORTANT BRITISH SOCCER WORDS OF WARNING. "GET HIM!" SO FOR THE BALANCE OF THE TRIP, I TUCKED THAT SPORTING SCARF INSIDE MY JACKET.

THE MOST INTERESTING SOUVENIR STORY I HEARD, CAME FROM A STAFFER AT NOTTINGHAM CASTLE, WHERE, I BELIEVE, WE SAW THE STATUE OF ROBIN HOOD. THE TOUR GUIDE OFFERED AN APOLOGY ABOUT ROBIN'S MISSING ARROW. "THE AMERICAN TOURISTS KEEP NICKING-IT," SHE SAID. "SOON AS WE GET A REPLACEMENT, THEY TAKE IT AGAIN." IT WOULD BE KIND OF NEAT TO HAVE ROBIN HOOD'S ARROW, BUT I WASN'T GOING TO STEAL ONE. LATER THAT SAME DAY WE GOT A CHANCE TO MEET THE ACTUAL SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM. TALK ABOUT GRABBING UP THE SOUVENIRS OF THAT VISIT. IF IT WAS OFFERED TO US, EVEN BROCHURES, WE CLEANED OUT THEIR SUPPLY. PAPER SOUVENIRS MADE UP A MAJORITY OF MY COLLECTIBLES FROM THAT TRIP, AND I STILL HAVE MOST OF THEM TUCKED INTO AN OLD PHOTO ALBUM…..WHICH I CAN'T SEEM TO FIND IN MY CLUTTER OF LIFE'S SOUVENIRS.

I WAS PULLING BARK OFF TREES FROM SHERWOOD FOREST FOR GOD'S SAKE. WE STARTED TO RUN OUT OF MONEY SO WE GRABBED EVERY CONCEIVABLE FREEBIE. IT WAS AS SORT OF TEMPORARY INSANITY. I WATCHED BAND-MATES AT A LOCAL BAKERY, SAVING THE PAPER LACE, CUP-CAKE BOTTOMS FOR THEIR TRIP SCRAPBOOKS. WE MUST HAVE TAKEN TEN THOUSAND PHOTOGRAPHS OVER THOSE TWO WEEKS.

THE NEATEST OF THE PAPER COLLECTIBLES CAME FROM THREE SHOWS WE ATTENDED IN LONDON. MY GIRLFRIEND AT THE TIME, GAIL SMITH, AND I, ATTENDED THE OPENING OF THE MOVIE "THE EXORCIST," AND GOT MITT-FULLS OF WARNINGS BEING HANDED OUT BY NUMEROUS RELIGIOUS ORGANIZATIONS, TRYING TO KEEP US FROM GOING INSIDE. WE WENT IN. SCARED US PRETTY BAD, BUT WE MADE IT ALL THE WAY TO THE CLOSING CREDITS. WE ALSO HAD TICKETS (KEPT THE STUBS), AND SOUVENIR PROGRAMS, FROM THE STAGE VERSION OF "JESUS CHRIST SUPER STAR," AND THEN A CONCERT AT ROYAL ALBERT HALL BY THE LONDON SYMPHONY, I BELIEVE. WE MADE THE ROUNDS MANY TIMES OF PICADILLY CIRCUS, AND EVERY TIME I WATCH AUSTIN POWERS, I THINK BACK TO THE FUN WE HAD MINGLING WITH THE TURNED-ON CROWD IN THAT ELECTRIC NEIGHBORHOOD THAT NEVER SEEMED TO SLOW ITS PACE. WE GRABBED UP COASTERS FROM RESTAURANTS, A FEW MENUS WE SCOFFED AS KEEPSAKES, AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THAT WE THOUGHT WOULD REMIND US, OF THE HALCYON TRIP TO ENGLAND, THAT SPRING OF 1974.

EVERY NOW AND AGAIN SUZANNE WILL UNCOVER SOME RELIC OF THAT VINTAGE, AND ASK WHY I KEPT AN OLD CATCHUP-STAINED PLACEMAT, OR DRINK COASTER WITH WET RINGS ON IT, OR A DOG-EARRED PROGRAM FROM A SHOW SO VERY LONG AGO. I DON'T HAVE AN ANSWER THAT WOULD MAKE ANY REAL SENSE TO MY WIFE. WHAT MADE IT SO POIGNANT FOR ME, IN PARTICULAR, WAS THAT I HAD ACTUALLY MADE THE BAND THAT LAST YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. MAYBE I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO PLAY THE FIVE OR SIX CONCERTS WE PERFORMED BETWEEN LONDON AND NOTTINGHAM. I DON'T KNOW. BUT BECAUSE OF JOHN RUTHERFORD'S BELIEF I COULD UPGRADE, IF I WANTED TO GO BAD ENOUGH, I GOT THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME. AS I HAVE NEVER BEEN MUCH OF A WORLD TRAVELLER, AND MOST OF MY MEMORIES OF 56 YEARS ARE OF NORTH AMERICAN TRAVEL, AND LOTS OF ROAD TRIPS IN THE HOME REGION, IT REALLY WAS EXCEPTIONAL FOR ME, AND THESE TIRED OLD SOUVENIRS STILL WORK TO REKINDLE LOST MEMORIES OF "TED CURRIE'S MOST EXCELLENT ADVENTURE."

A COUPLE OF TIMES, SUZANNE HAS STARTED TO READ THROUGH MY AIR CANADA JOURNAL, AND I'M QUICK OFF THE DRAW, TO LUNGE AT THE FADED DOCUMENT. IT CONTAINS SOME RATHER PERSONAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE LADIES I GOT TO KNOW OVERSEAS……AND INTIMATE DETAILS ABOUT DATING THREE GIRLS AT ONCE, WITHOUT ANY OF THEM KNOWING THE KIND OF CAD I WAS AS A YOUNG MUSICIAN-KIND. THEY FOUND THAT OUT ONCE WE GOT BACK TO CANADA. THE THIRD GIRLFRIEND WAS HOME IN BRACEBRIDGE, AND I'D PURCHASED HER AN EXPENSIVE CHARM BRACELET, AND SOME NICE SILVER CHARMS WITH BRITISH THEMES. AND BOTH LADIES I CHUMMED WITH, WHILE IN ENGLAND, ASSUMED I WAS GOING TO GIVE IT TO THEM AS A GIFT. I WAS LIKE LUCY RICARDO……I HAD A LOT OF 'SPLAINING TO DO!" I WASN'T REALLY A WOMANIZER, OR A DON JUAN, CASA NOVA, BUT HAVING A BLAST IN ANOTHER COUNTRY. I WASN'T ALONE. THAT TRIP STARTED MANY NEW RELATIONSHIPS, AND ENDED JUST AS MANY AT HOME. STUFF HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE YOUNG OF HEART, AND A LONG WAY FROM HOME.

WHEN I'M OUT ON THE ANTIQUE HUSTINGS, I ALWAYS STOP FOR A BIT, TO ADMIRE THE INVENTORY OF SOUVENIRS FOR SALE, AND THINK BACK TO THOSE MEMORABLE DAYS ABROAD, AND WHAT THESE MUST HAVE MEANT TO THEIR ORIGINAL OWNERS…….ALSO HAVING THE TIMES THEIR LIVES. WONDER WHY THEY GOT RID OF THESE KEEPSAKES. AH, YES, THAT GETTING OLD THING. WHAT WILL MY BOYS DO WITH MY OLD ENGLAND JOURNAL? I BETTER DEAL WITH THAT ONE OF THESE DAYS.

AS A LITTLE SIDEBAR TO THIS STORY, I HAD A FUNNY INCIDENT THIS PAST OCTOBER, IN AND AROUND THE THANKSGIVING HOLIDAY. AS WE FREQUENTLY SELL SELECT ANTIQUE PIECES FROM THE BOY'S VINTAGE MUSIC SHOP, ON MUSKOKA ROAD, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, I SET OUT A DISPLAY OF CANADIAN PIECES UNDER THE STORE'S MARQUIS. ONE WAS A 1920'S VINTAGE UMBRELLA STAND WITH AN UMBRELLA TO GO WITH IT. NOW YOU CAN PROBABLY FIGURE OUT THE HOOK OF THIS ANECDOTAL MOMENT. BY GOLLY, I NEVER ONCE THOUGHT ABOUT IT, EVEN WHEN I PUT THE UMBRELLA ON THE STAND AS A SORT OF BUYER'S BONUS. ANDREW PHONED ME LATER THAT MORNING, TO TELL ME ABOUT SELLING THE STAND TO A LADY, ORIGINALLY FROM ENGLAND, TO USE IN HER HALLWAY AT HOME. "SHE DIDN'T WANT THE UMBRELLA DAD," HE SAID. "THE UMBRELLA," I REPEATED. "WELL THAT'S OKAY." "WHERE DID YOU GET IT DAD….THE UMBRELLA," HE ASKED. LIKE THE BELL OF BIG BEN RINGING IN THE OLD HEAD, I SAID, "THAT'S GOT TO BE MY OLD LONDON UMBRELLA." WHAT HAD HAPPENED, WAS THAT IT HAD BEEN PART OF MY PARENTS' ESTATE, SETTLED THE YEAR BEFORE, AND WE HAD BROUGHT THAT UMBRELLA HOME WITH SEVERAL OTHERS, MY MOTHER USED FOR BOTH INCLEMENT WEATHER, AND AS A CANE FOR HER WONKY HIP. BUT SEEING AS MY FATHER WOULD NEVER, EVER, EVER HOLD AN UMBRELLA (HE WAS AN OLD NAVY MAN, WHO BATHED IN RUM), (AND IT WAS DEFINITELY A MAN'S ITEM), I KNEW IT WAS THE UMBRELLA I HAD LEFT WITH THEM, WHEN I GOT HOME FROM ENGLAND. YOU KNOW, IT WAS IN PRETTY GOOD SHAPE TOO, AND I'D ALMOST SOLD IT AS A PROP IN AN OTHERWISE EMPTY UMBRELLA STAND. THE LITTLE BEND IN THE END, CAME WHEN ONE OF MY GAL PALS FOUND OUT ABOUT THE OTHER TWO, AND TURNED THAT UMBRELLA INTO A CLUB.

NOW IT HANGS BY THE FIREPLACE WITH MY OTHER CANES…..I HAVE WONKY HIP AS WELL, AND I THINK ABOUT THE GIRLS OF THEN……AND THIS WONDERFUL LADY NOW, AND JOHN RUTHERFORD, WHO OPENED MY WORLD TO THE MOST AMAZING ADVENTURES. SOUVENIRS. I LOVE THEM ALL, FOR WHAT THEY REMIND ME OF……MOSTLY GOOD TIMES.

TEDS TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT FROM THE EATONS CATALGOUE

A COUPLE OF YEARS AFTER SUZANNE AND I WERE MARRIED, SHE ASKED ME ONE DAY, WHILE TALKING ABOUT VINTAGE CLOTHING, WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO MY TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT? "YOU KNOW THE ONE YOU HAD IN GRADE THIRTEEN," SHE SAID, WITH AN EAR TO EAR GRIN. "IT WAS A NICE COAT," I ANSWERED. "I GOT A LOT OF CHICKS WITH THAT COAT," I RETORTED WITH MY OWN BEARDY SMILE. "YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT," I CONTINUED. "I THOUGHT THAT'S WHAT YOU REMEMBERED ABOUT ME BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL." OH, I DID REMEMBER YOU FOR WEARING THAT COAT," SHE REMINDED ME. "I USED TO SEE YOU WALKING TO SCHOOL, WHEN WE'D GO BY ON THE BUS (SHE WAS FROM WINDERMERE). IT REALLY STOOD OUT AGAINST THE SNOW…..AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER, AND THE BUILDINGS AND THE TRAIN STATION. IT WAS A FASHION STATEMENT." WELL HECK, NOW I WAS STARTED TO GET OFFENDED. I TOLD HER STRAIGHT-UP. "LOOK, I PICKED THAT COAT OUT MYSELF FROM THE CATALOGUE." "SO WHO PICKS OUT YOUR CLOTHES NOW," SHE SHOT BACK WITH VIGOR. "YOU DO, BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT," I RETALIATED, LIKE SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY KNEW WHAT HE WAS TALKING ABOUT. I DIDN'T.

IT'S TRUE. I HAVE VERY LITTLE FASHION SENSE. WORKING ON CROZIER FOUNDATION BUSINESS, SHE "BLACK SUIT" ME UP, WITH AN UNCOMFORTABLY STIFF WHITE COLLAR, AND AFTER THE MEETING, IF I'D SUDDENLY MET UP WITH THE GRIM REAPER, I'D HAVE BEEN COFFIN-READY. WHEN I ORDERED THAT MULTI-PATCHED, "TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT," I DIDN'T HAVE A LOT OF MONEY TO SPEND. MY MOTHER GAVE ME AN OPTION OF SHOPPING AT THE ECONOMY STORE, ON MANITOBA STREET, WHERE SHE WORKED, OR BUYING SOMETHING FROM THE CATALOGUE. I OPTED FOR THE CATALOGUE, BECAUSE YOU COULD ALWAYS TELL WHO HAD BEEN OUT-FITTED BY THE ECONOMY STORE. NO DISRESPECT TO THE STORE, BUT IT WAS THE CHEAPEST PLACE TO BUY CLOTHES IN TOWN. IF I BOUGHT A COAT THERE, YOU COULD COUNT ON AT LEAST ANOTHER TWENTY TO SHOW UP AT SCHOOL OF THE SAME DESIGN. SO I THOUGHT IF I BOUGHT FROM THE CATALOGUE, POSSIBLY AS OUTLANDISH AS THIS ONE, I WOULD BE THE SOLE POSSESSOR. WASN'T SO! NOT HAVING TWENTY SINGLE COLOR JACKETS IS ONE THING IN A SCHOOL. HAVING TWENTY TECHNICOLOR COATS, YEA, THAT'S A PROBLEM. BUT I JUST DIDN'T FEEL LIKE RETURNING IT, AND I WOUND UP WEARING IT ACROSS THE POND, DURING THAT 1974 BMLSS BAND TOUR. SUZANNE DIDN'T GO. THE GIRLS LOVED ME IN THAT COAT WITH MY LONGISH HAIR, AND BOYISH GOOD LOOKS….EXCEPT FOR THE BROKEN NOSE FROM PLAYING GOAL WITH AN INADEQUATE MASK IN THAT LAST BIG GAME BEFORE THE FLIGHT.

WELL ANYWAY, SUZANNE CAME RUNNING TO ME THE OTHER DAY, IN THE BRACEBRIDGE SALVATION ARMY, (FORMERLY THE HOME OF THE ECONOMY STORE), WITH GUESS WHAT? NOW YOU SEE, IN OUR BUSINESS, SELLING VINTAGE AND ANTIQUE ITEMS, THE FABULOUS TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT IS SOMEWHAT MORE ATTRACTIVE. SHE DIDN'T FIND MINE, BUT ONE OF THE COATS I WAS UNDOUBTEDLY COMPETING AGAINST IN 1974. THIS ONE, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, WASN'T OUTSTANDING ENOUGH WITH ITS ARRAY OF COLORS,…..THAT SOMEONE THEN HAD TO SEW ON A HUNTING BADGE……. RIGHT ON THE SHOULDER THAT READS, "SUCCESSFUL MOOSE HUNT, ONTARIO MINISTRY OF NATURAL RESOURCES." PRETTY HARD TO MISS THAT SUCKER ON A SNOWY DAY IN MUSKOKA. I HAVE NEVER HUNTED, EXCEPT FOR ANTIQUES.

TODAY WE WILL REFURBISH THE COAT, CLEAN AND TIDY-IT-UP, AND PUT IT IN THE BOYS' MUSIC SHOP FOR SALE, AND LIKE OTHER RETRO PIECES, THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABSURD IN THEIR DAY, IT WILL SELL. THEY CAN BE HOT COMMODITIES ON TODAY'S FASHION SCENE. IT'S LIKELY TO WIND UP ON THE BACK OF SOME GUITAR PLAYER OR LEAD SINGER, ABOUT TO PLAY THE ROGER'S CENTRE. WILL SUZANNE GET A KICK OUT OT THAT.

LET'S JUST SAY I'VE OUTGROWN IT. BUT I REMEMBER THE DAYS. I WAS DROP-DEAD BEAUTIFUL. I WISH I'D HAD IT AT WOODSTOCK.

JUST TO SHOW I'M NOT KIDDING, I'VE INCLUDED A LITTLE GRAPHIC EVIDENCE TO GO WITH THE STORY.

Keepsake From a Pioneer Toronto Church

KEEPSAKE FROM A PIONEER TORONTO CHURCH A NICE PIECE OF CANADIAN HERITAGE - BUT IT'S NOT WORTH MUCH ON THE OPEN MARKET

PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH OF CANADA SPECIAL PRESENTATION TO ORGANIST

     If you want a bargain in antiques and collectables, framed heritage documents, old deeds, birth, marriage and death certificates, are priced low these days, as they have become burdensome on their keepers, and less than desirable by both paper collectors and home decorators. Most of these framed certificates are considered common fare, and seeing as there is no shortage of them on the market, prices can get a lot lower than they are at present. Facing facts, there are a lot more cheerful framed art pieces than hanging memorabilia tributes for non family members, in you living room, or above the dining room table. Even if it was a relative, it's not likely a home, condo, cottage or apartment resident, would appreciate the macabre while having a romantic dinner with candlelight. There are a few out of every thousand collectors, who would disagree, but those very few buyers would be broke, buying up all the framed documents available out there on the antique hustings. The re-sale sucks. So if you buy them, you should think a little less of profit margin, and how you are going to convince your significant other, it would look great on the kitchen wall; or anywhere else for that matter. There are a few exceptions, and I want to show you one of them. It is published above today's blog.
     There are thousands upon thousands of framed paper keepsakes, certificates, memorial and death records with fitting graphics, to celebrate membership in the Masons, Oddfellow and International Order of Foresters. These are in the form of vintage presentation documents, that you can find at antique shops across Ontario. They were picked up by dealers and assorted speculators, because of their perceived monetary value. They're old, elaborate, nicely colored with great graphics, that someone allegedly and hopefully would love to hang on the wall of their livingroom, den, bedroom or recreation room. Tell me, would you hang a death memorial, with heavy gilt adorned plaster frames, with all its melancholy, in your livingroom where you like to relax after a hard day at the salt mine? Not bloody likely! Right? How about a Mason's certificate of membership, if you don't happen to be a Mason, or the son or daughter of a long line of Masons. Same goes for many other fraternal organizations that provided its membership with huge documents of appreciation, in one for or the other, that were proudly framed by the recipients. And yes, it was the kind of honor one would hang in a livingroom for show, and be proud to have guests acknowledge it, upon their visitation to the old homestead. That was then, and for personal reasons, but in contemporary times, it's not a priority or even a mild desire. If it is an heirloom piece, well, that's neat. I like this kind of collectable, but most who inherit these framed relics, tuck them away in closets for a future generations to sort out, as once again, an estate will need to be dealt with.
     I could go out this afternoon, and within fifty miles of our store-front, buy ten, or as many as twelve, of these kind of framed certificates and documents, if I look hard enough. They're priced fairly high which is absurd, and the demand is about as close to zero as it can get without being zero. It doesn't mean they aren't significant pieces of heritage, and fraternal legacies, but putting a framed memorial document on the wall over the sofa, in the condo, would appeal to a tiny, tiny portion of the population of antique and collectable buyers. I love this stuff and there are a few occasions when the name on the certificate, or family, has a broader and more historical connection, than just the graphics of the framed paper. It takes some research muscle to find out the provenance, but I have made several major discoveries, that link the name on a fraternal organization's document, to a news maker in national history. It's rare but always a possibility. We are always copying names down from documents we see in these shops, to do some research at home; meaning that if there's a major connection we can make, we will buy it on the next time by the same shop. Believe me, it will still be hung on the wall exactly where it was before. Some of these will hang around for years attesting to the reality, they aren't sought after by home decorators, and the best chance for them, is to connect with fraternal organization collectors, members in good standing, historians like us, and well, unfortunately, those who wish to re-purpose the frame, which usually has a glass panel. I hate this above all else, because it means the antiquated certificate or document gets tossed into the garbage bin.
     There are exceptions, and big ones. I study all framed and hung documents, (and yes, even the piles on the floor), just in case it is a Civil War era piece of ephemera that the antique dealer, or vendor didn't know about, falling a tad short on research. You have to read carefully, even if it's a memorial certificate, that could tie into a major world event, such as World War. There are occasions when what you see isn't all you get, because just like contracts you sign, the small print carries a lot of important information. Document collectors and historians are always looking for these relics, that if, for example, were connected with war times, especially the American Civil War, they could be worth thousands of dollars.
    There are others that, because of graphics, original art and colorations, are far more palatable to the home decorator. The certificate of thanks, to a long-serving organist at a pioneer Presbyterian Church in Toronto, is hand-colored and printed, with interesting maple leaf illustrations, making it a nice relic of Canadiana as well. The writing on the hand decorated document pre-1914, reads as follows: "The Presbyterian Church of Canada - Mr. A.E. Miller - We the members of the Board of Managers of St. David's Presbyterian Church, St. Clair Avenue, Toronto, wish to place on record our appreciation of your service as organist in the past, and trust that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you presiding at our organ for many years." The nicely framed document is signed by Church Managers including John Barron, S.E. Drinkwater, A. Donaldson, John G. Scott, Ebenezer Scott, T.H. Arthurs, David Dougan, Neil L.B. Paterson, Richard Bruce? (Not sure of spelling of last name).
     The church, under construction in 1906, after a period of Sunday meetings held in a nearby farmhouse, to satisfy the needs of neighborhood Presbyterians, was officially opened to the congregation on April 9th, 1907. The property on St. Clair Avenue was secured by the Presbyterian Church, sensing the congregation would soon increase with a proper house of worship, and a small, but adequate building, as seen in the photograph above; which was constructed on the rural lot with train tracks running directly in front. In only seven years, the members of the church demanded a bigger facility, and money was loaned to the congregation to build a new structure. Work was suspended shortly there after, due to the restriction imposed by government, at the outbreak of World War I. When the war ended in 1918, work resumed to complete the church, which opened in 1919. This building, with numerous revamps over the decades, lasted until 1999 when the property was purchased, the contents dispersed and the building removed. A time capsule from the original cornerstone revealed a collection of legal documents regarding the property, newspaper articles, and a listing of the war dead, who, from the early years of its service to the neighborhood, were members of the congregation. It is no longer a Presbyterian Church. The document I have in my possession shows an original photograph, probably just prior to its removal, in and around 1914, of the wood framed church building, showing rail lines crossing in front, and hydro service at the side. There is a barn on the bottom right side of the photograph, and a farm house and nearby barn, in the distance; just above, on the right side, closer to this side of the church structure. There is a more thorough history of the church available online, to show its chronicle of changes experienced during the 1900's up to the final days of 1999. It would have, of course, become a century building in 2019. The original church structure only had a seven year heritage of service to its congregation.
     Not only is this the kind of folk art Canadiana that has a well rounded heritage connection, to not only Presbyterians, and the citizens of Toronto, but also looks rather pleasant hanging on a wall. It has a considerable amount of damage, but it has been properly conserved, and secured in its present frame, to last another hundred years. This isn't a valuable piece but it is a relic of Ontario history, that deserves to be maintained in this state; not ripped from its mount, so that some buyer can harvest the frame and its glass. You would be horrified to know how many important documents like this, with a little bit extra in terms of audience appeal, are destroyed each year, by those who have inherited them, or purchased them at shops and auctions, simply for framing. I remember once at a local Thrift Shop trying to convince a manager, who had interpreted the store policy, to mean that it wasn't acceptable to sell some religious and iconic pieces they received as donations. I saw a beautiful century-old graphic in a mirrored frame, at the back of the shop, positioned to be priced by staff. I waited patiently for the piece to get its price tag, because the manager reacted badly to anyone requesting a price, on articles obviously being processed behind the counter. I held my opinion on the matter, and when I came back, the next morning, hoping it had been priced and placed out for sale, I was shocked to discover the manager had insisted the depiction of the Virgin Mary be removed from the beautiful frame. Only the frame was for sale. I immediately reacted, and with some hostility, as to why they had ripped out the art work, leaving only the frame. She informed me, with a gruffness of attitude, that it was store policy, that these iconic images could not be sold. So I did what comes naturally in my profession. "Well then, can you give it to me, so that I can buy the frame, and then put the picture back when I get it home?" She informed me that it had been thrown out, and was no longer available. I even offered to pick through the garbage pail, to liberate it from a horrible fate. I was pretty sure the answer was going to be a flat-out "No," and I wasn't wrong. Well, they were wrong, and what they had thrown out was worth more than the frame, and considering they liked to make money, it reflected badly on their protocols, which to me, made less sense the more they explained them. This repeats thousands of times each year, all over God's half acre, and there is no way of backtracking to save them.
     Please, consider giving these items away, to someone interested in their content, and print heritage, if at any point, you face the dilemma of what to do with these antiquated documents and certificates. There may come a time, when they become more significant as decoration, but in the meantime, they're
easy to find out there. But please, love them for more than just the frame.