By Ted Currie
Catherine is our haunted little Victorian lady, residing these many years at our Gravenhurst, Ontario, homestead, just across the lane from an equally haunting mist-laden wee bogland, a sort of enchanted moor, where it might be the case fairies and hobgoblins freely roam, silently weaving through the ferns, in the milky moonlight of such spring evenings with the vibrancy of re-birth of lowland life.
The very spirited image of Catherine, long ago enhanced by a photographer's assistant with coloration, being a somewhat impatient and moderately unhappy child, at sitting, has been very much a good luck adornment at Birch Hollow for reasons largely unknown. As challenging as she has been, to hang straight and even stay on her wall mount for the past thirty years, her ghostly appearance in the low light of late evening, in our parlour, has strangely yet invitingly, been more a source of inspiration than of trepidation to any degree of residential disharmony, in keeping with the goodwill of home sweet home. Although this is not the time to delve into the post life and times of our adopted child Catherine, purchased so many years ago at a Muskoka Lakes auction, she is the very striking image of my own "Alice" in my deliciously intriguing gentle fictions, that grow with prolific unabated enthusiasm; like a most magnificent, fantastic, magical garden here in the entirely humble modesty of our home at Birch Hollow. She, in my mind, is the true and unpretentious patron saint of this fountain of creativity, I enjoy each day residing amidst the pleasant antiquities that come from my own life long involvement in old things big and small, and the rich provenance and providential qualities they represent in the contemporary sense of living in the company of touchable history.
I have been a true life-long collector of old stuff, this and that, pulled from refuse piles, secured from flea markets, church sales, neighborhood yard sales, estate offerings, and of course auction sales, which were always my venues of choice as a young and aspiring dealer. I very much benefitted from the socialization of these intimate sales, and communed many times with some of the most noted antique dealers and collectors in the our region of Ontario. It was my immersion into a very historic and storied profession dating back many centuries. I felt particularly privileged to be in their company, and it can be said with integrity, and generous thanks, that I had hundreds of teacher / mentors back in those fledgling days, emerging onto the highly competitive scene, with such raw enthusiasm through, and beyond, all the professional roadblocks, that routinely presented money and opportunity challenges. Pretty much and issue from the starting point of the mid 1970's, when I made my first foray into collecting. Initially with a small selection of late 1800's oil lamps which I truly adored for their simple appointments and slightly colored, highly flawed glass.
Year after year I fell deeper and deeper into the enchantments of the hard realities of times past. I became a rather inadvertent historian by association. Yet it was never the allure of big profits fuelling enterprise, and I have spent most of my antique profession conflicted between the "collector" passions, and the dealer "for-profit" side, that affects most in our trade from time to time. It's what makes us hang onto certain interesting collectibles and discharging less compelling pieces, as a means of keeping up a cash reserve to carry-on our acquisition cycle. "Buy what you like," has always been my mainstay philosophy. I'm surrounded by this neat old stuff right now, and benefitting entirely from the infusion of character from times and places I can only reminisce about, and then, only from what I have read and understood of world history.
This blog, one of many I have authored over the years, is pretty much a "paperless" biography, a sort of beginning and final chapter of my years in the antique trade here in Muskoka, highlighting the many adventures we've participated in, singularly, and as a family of collectors, up to and including the present; as owner operators of the more clearly defined Birch Hollow Antiques and Currie's Music, on a quaint but busy central stretch of Muskoka Road, opposite the Gravenhurst Opera House. It is also a beginning chapter as much as it is a concluding editorial, hopefully highlighting my most memorable and interesting years working as a Muskoka newspaper writer, editor and columnist for dozens of local publications; and authoring a few community histories and biographies of regional artists, my favorite, being the memorial text for my old book collector colleague, Miles David Brown, who taught me more about the printed word than anyone else in my orbit of ongoing education.
I once exclaimed to a writing colleague, who just happened to, in general conversation, (and jest), ask how long I expected to sustain myself as a writer, in this awful mind bending profession;.......my response being in wry Currie fashion, that my expectation for the future was pretty clear. As visualized of course, through the clutter of past failures, and a few sundry accomplishments making a summary at least partially warranted. I wanted, in a sort of best case scenario, to pass peacefully from this mortal coil, God willing of course, after making the very last entry in my long kept journal, surrounded by my good old books, artifacts, art pieces, filling all the open spaces of wall here at Birch Hollow, and feeling the most pleasing heartbeat of a resident critter, be it dog or cat, residing restfully upon my feet; as they have for so many years here in this modest little cabin almost in the woods.
I do not want my wife Suzanne or lads, Robert or Andrew, to feel this to be an inopportune event of demise, should it happen that I fall breathlessly into the carriage of this typewriter, as it could never be thusly a sad event, in the warm embrace of a homestead that has offered so much inspiration and kindness, of what only liberally "enchanted" wood, brick and plaster can provide the comfortable inmate. I would die a happy fellow if I was allowed to flicker away at my choice of occupations, more like pre-occupations, hopefully, as one might appreciate, the best words being saved for last. But kind friends, I do believe I have a few more chapters to pen, and a few more antiques to pursue, sales and intriguing venues yet to attend before attaining that status of true finale. Please join me for this re-visitation, of the past, hopefully still fresh and pleasant in its own strange and spirit-full way, and trust in advance, you will allow me to wander off occasionally, into the magical worlds of, at times, my own childhood recollection, aided by the comforts of those great authors, who so sweetly mentored me as a budding and always passionate reader; C.S. Lewis, J.M. Barrie, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens, Washington Irving and Kenneth Graham, and his most delicious tales from "Wind in the Willows."
The stories that are soon to follow, are not written on a daily or weekly schedule, as I have performed for readers in the past. I am a lot older now and sitting at this desk, tapping out stories for public consumption, is slightly but noticeably more taxing than it was twenty years ago, when I was working with a half dozen online and regional print publications, and had a much deeper well of energy than at present. The stories, borrowing a little fiction where otherwise a story might be a little dull and lifeless, will arrive on this site when it is physically and emotionally prudent, and possible, but by promise of the writer, they will always be progressive and proportional to this modest commitment to an interesting biography. My story won't ever be described as being either fantastic or having a boring preponderance of fact, when fact doesn't fit the requirement to entertain by anecdote. This is my story collection, but it will all be irrelevant to me, in retrospect, if I never come to feel it had provided something of interest to those who take the time to look it up regularly; and come to think of this blog site as worth its hype, of being, at the very least, an old fashioned profile of life and times enjoyed, without being overly maudlin as I have been accused of dwelling on old themes.
This opening piece is dedicated to my feline companion for so many years, who has recently suffered from that unforgiving reality of old age. Angus has been with us with his mother and sister cats, for the past fifteen years at Birch Hollow. In fact, a pregnant cat we later named "Beasley," had a litter of three kittens, one male and two females, beneath an upturned lawn mower in our outside equipment shed. The other two kittens were named Chutney (Suzanne was making chutney sauce preserves at the time), and Zappa after the famous and revered musician Frank Zappa. Wee Angus is failing but he is still purring away here, ever so calming, as I compose this opening piece. But we are realistic about his future, and thus, we are enjoying every moment in the still of contemplation, he has here yet at Birch Hollow. I can't tell you how many hundreds of editorial pieces I've composed at this desk, hearing and feeling the purr of this little fellow against my feet; realizing of course, that his contribution of comfort and calm has as well, been infused into these same stories written for so many varied publications and media outlets.
There is, you see, no shortage of inspirations here at Birch Hollow. I hope you will join me regularly this year, heralded of course by our business face book page, announcing when new stories are about to be, or have been published. I always like to hear from readers so please drop me a note, or send a message through our facebook page when the mood strikes.
Expect the unexpected, and you and I will get along famously. Bye for now!
No comments:
Post a Comment