It's One of those Believe it or Not Confessionals of an Antiquarian That Money Just Isn't the End-All, But if it was, well then, it Wouldn't be Half as Much Fun

Birch Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

     When my father needed the services of a local tradesman, shortly after we arrived in Bracebridge, Ontario, back in the mid 1960's, I remember standing with him on this particular visit, and feeling a little embarrassed about his antsy behavior at the service counter. He was a "pocket change jingler," and the more he got frustrated at being ignored by the owner, the more he jingled into a literal symphony of pocket change and car keys. The owner was chatting with another customer, but more likely just a friendly business owner from up the street, but it was obvious to this kid, watching from just behind my father, that he was not going to be disrupted by this new guy to town with the annoying habit of disturbing his peace. And his peace, as I could see it, was to enjoy a little bit of down time, in the casual enjoyment of conversation, before the tasks of the day took over the work clock. It was only a few minutes before nine in the morning after all, and the shop wasn't even officially open yet. The owner had just opened the door to a mate a little bit early. It was by the way, a beautiful early spring day, with a very light snowfall, making our new home town look charmingly historic and this old time shop, certainly very nostalgic by its adornments of old glass cabinets and an elbow worn wood main counter that, as an historical witness, had heard many tall tales I bet, of what the town used to be in its infancy. I guess you know by all this that I was rather infatuated with our new hinterland home in small town Ontario. My dad was used to city life and times, and business people who hopped-to-it when a customer came through the door. Well, this wasn't Toronto, Hamilton or Burlington, where we had business and residential dealings for many years previous. I could see the frustration building in the owner's eyes, and I knew sooner or later it was going to blurt into a rather blunt reprimand; as I used to get for interrupting an adult during a conservation with someone else.

     After my father cleared his throat for the umpteenth time, and jingled his last jingle, the business proprietor turned away from his conversation at the sales counter, and glared at me, first, much as if I was a victim of a controlling father, and directed a few choice words at Ed Currie Sr., that served him well for the rest of his years residing in Bracebridge. Which, by the way, were words that resonated until his death, because he learned gradually, from this starting point, how to be patient and more sensitive to the reality that small town folk don't want to emulate city slickers, just to get a seal of approval from urban transplants who can't quite understand the slower pace and easier going lifestyle most of us locals happen to enjoy.

     "You're Mr. Currie aren't you," the shopkeeper asked my father. "Why yes I am. I'm surprised you have heard of me." "You're the new manager down there at Shier's Lumber Company," he continued. "Yes, I am, and I'm really looking forward to getting to know all the contractors here in town." "Well, that's a good way to start." he added with a nod, to my father, and the gentleman he had been talking with at the counter. "But up here, in this town in particular, because it's what I know, and my family knew from living here for generations, we don't snap to attention as business people must in the city; although that's never been my experience when I have to visit the city for supplies. I have to wait for them to get around to me, but I'll tell you what I wouldn't do, if, that is, I wanted my order in my truck the same day." After a brief pause and rolling eyes, and my father perplexed look. "I sure as hell wouldn't jiggle what's in my pockets, because as it just made me mad, when you did it, it would probably anger the clerk I would be dealing with too.....and my order would be purposely delayed. You see, we operate on the same clock as city people, but we don't have the same sense of urgency that they do; meaning, we live here in this part of the country, because we don't want that city lifestyle, the rushing around, and the constant worry of that thing about "time being money." And my father had to close his mouth manually. "Mr. Currie, it's okay to take life a little bit slower up here, and pretty soon you'll find that it can be pretty appealing, and better for your health than always being in a hurry." It was kind of neat having my father in this prone position for a few moments, because he was a city bred maniac when it came to his urban frenzy to keep up a schedule, as "there were only so many hours in a day." He would actually come to cherish this low key, slower, more passionate way of dealing with small town life and times. I was sold on it the moment we hit the outskirts of town on the day we made our move from the city official, and became new locals by that afternoon.

     The second convincing episode of introduction to our new way of life, was when, at thirty below, Ed trundled the three blocks from our apartment up on Alice Street, to the Downtown Esso station, alongside the Muskoka River just above the falls, where Seth Hillman and Arthur Crockford, were, that morning, polishing the wood counter top in the low light of their antiquated parts shop, talking about nothing in particular, but enjoying their own company. My father rushed in like he was reporting an accident, or a fire somewhere beyond, when it reality he was attending the station to seek a battery boost for our Vauxhall, up at the apartment, that was frozen-up solid. When my dad asked when he could expect to get a boost, Seth had to go through the large appointment book to slot in "the Currie car." He already knew who my father was, and he had met me earlier when I visited with his sons Alan and Rick, my new hockey playing mates. Seth jotted down our family name next to a time and date, and then closed the big oil stained book onto the counter top, and said, "we can be there by nine on Thursday morning." My dad, a heavy smoker who hated the cold, began a long coughing jag at this news, both because of his nicotine problem, the cold, but particularly because it was Monday morning, and he needed the car as soon as possible. Thursday seemed a long time to wait for a boost, when there was a tow truck sitting right outside the shop window that could attend our place in less than ten minutes, if one of the mechanics residing here would put the appropriate clothing on, and start the great hulking beast. "Well, the tow truck would need boost first," said one of the gentlemen behind the counter, "and we'd have to get another tow truck from another garage to do that; but we would be able to get it started by Thursday if you don't mind waiting."

     My father clutched his chest as if he was having a heart attack or acid reflux, because of this country way of working and living, that didn't jive with what these same mechanics would have done, to make a buck, working in the city. Now keep in mind, that this wasn't about making money, because the gentlemen in question operated a particularly successful business for many, many years. But even back in the 1960's, these two fine old chaps, were winding down their business from its heyday, and they made no apologies for their conduct; being a little more relaxed and established comfortably in modest proportion. And yes, my dad hoofed-it as they say until Thursday morning, because by this time, and with other tune-ups from many other small business owners in "the Bracebridge" of that era, he was starting to figure out that life was better, and simpler in so many ways, in what some locals affectionately called "God's country." I didn't know much about God in those early days of life, but. I was pretty sure that from what I knew of his divinity, Muskoka, and Bracebridge, had some healing qualities that I associated with peace and peace of mind, during the course of each day, week, month and year in this rolling existence. Which to this voyeur, seemed much more fun for our whole family, because serious stuff seemed so much easier to take, when you were surrounded by so much unfettered possibility in the rural clime of things. City lovers soon became small towners and complained a lot less, the longer they lived here, about not having the advantages of once; such as city buses pulling right up to the "stop" right outside your house. Instead, the newby ruralite walked to work and liked the adventure.

     Both my parents hated small town living for those first few years of adjustment to this slower, more socially encumbering way of life, but despite threatening to leave many times over the years, to return to the Big Smoke, where their family still resided, both spent balance of their lives enjoying the ambience of the Sleepy Hollow they had been so reluctant to enjoy in the early going.

     We here in Muskoka, are facing the largest transformational period in our history, with a huge number of urbanizing developments, and property price escalations, from one end of the district to the other, east, west, north, south, and it is forcing many locals to either sell out to the vested interest, or adapt to the kind of development, and re-development, that will forever change how we live and work in this God's Country of once. How we run our small businesses is also being affected in many ways, and some of the old time enterprises may be forced out if and when commercial developers take over downtown and uptown renewals; and many business owners will be faced with many new costs associated with new landlords, new market value assessments, and higher taxes. We all have to be aware that change is upon us now, and we have little choice but to change along with these urbanizing trends, or get out of the new fast lane as soon as possible. I wonder what my parents would think about this profound transition arriving with millions of investment dollars, altering what were the sleepy hollows we once adored for what they didn't possess.

     How does a small business like our antique and vintage music enterprise survive in this era of expansion and unfurling commercial adventure? Please join me tomorrow for part two.

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