A Vintage Walk In Downtown Bracebridge

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

A Preamble to Today’s Post

By Ted Currie

     It may surprise you,  or not,  that I have no relationship to speak of, with other regional historians, past, present, and unlikely to change in the future. It’s not about my unwillingness to co-operate when my input is required, but more so because of my complete insistence on independence. Meaning that I don’t often agree with the points of view from my colleagues, and I don’t have much interest in the kind of histories they find of great importance. They are not much into my passion for the conservation of regional folk stories, folk tales, or folk history generally, because it doesn’t offer the hard realities like the cornerstones secured into historic buildings, with time capsules containing absolute vessels of historical entities of the period it was cemented into place. I don’t argue against the “fact is everything” histories, and they serve an important part of historical accounting, but I grew out of that dominating burden of responsibility a long time ago; and I haven’t felt any personal shortcomings because of my personal choice to favor a less than rigid historical retelling. So suffice say, I don’t get invited to the “historian’s ball,” at this festive time of the year, and as far as getting on their mailing list, for Christmas card distribution, forget about it Ted. It’s not going to happen. I’ve always thought it might have been nice to work a little closer together for the advancement of some large heritage projects, but whenever there has been one that modestly interested me, we sir, my invitation was undoubtedly lost in the mail. It makes me feel better to say this, because it means that my colleagues really did want my input, but it was the darn mail delivery service that screwed up, leaving me without my invitation to participate. 

     It’s important to note this because it is the validation I possess, that folk histories have never been a priority for most of the historians who have lived, worked, researched and known-well, the community in which they have spent most of their lives. The fact that I have been insistent on the exact opposite, much to their chagrin, so I’ve been told on numerous occasions, it has made me even more determined to fly into the wind at my own risk. It hasn’t been easy without colleague support and encouragement, but it matters more that the old stories, and not just the old facts, are given as much significance as the hard core facts that are the brick and mortar of what we best know of how our communities were built up from pioneer times. For me, well, I have been a keeper of old tales and oft told nostalgia for so long, it is hard for me to imagine ever abandoning what has brought me so much joy for so many years. When I began writing a series for the Muskoka Advance in the early 19000’s, I was given some guard-rails by the publisher, and editor at the time, as to what I should write about each week, and that it be a popular and bright piece of writing, to bring attention to whatever page I was adorning on any particular week. That’s important in the newspaper business, as it brings in advertisers, and let’s them know that readers are spending extra time on the page in question; for example, reading my column, and then dwelling a little longer on their ads published on the same page. I grew weary of the more factual stories they most desired, and shifted gradually to what could be labelled frivolous tales from my old neighborhood, that had very little in the way of historical fact. But it certainly wasn’t fiction either.

     In these weekly columns that ran for about eight years, I made Alice Street the centre of the universe for not only myself, but for many of my readers, making that Hunt’s Hill neighborhood in Bracebridge of the mid 1960’s and early 70’s, seem so much more interesting and human, than what had been the dry cracker crumbs of a well known and over-written-about history of local architecture, and political mainstays who get most of the credit or the progress we have achieved thus far. I don’t buy that of course, as you may have thought already. Our towns, not just Bracebridge, were established and progressed by the blue collar working stiffs, who did the grunt work all week long, decade after decade, to keep the bricks and mortar from collapsing into the streets. The so called common-folk were running the baker’s ovens, the waiters and waitresses were keeping the citizenry fed, and with ample beverage; the carpenters hustled, the sales clerks in the old general stores, worked long and hard hours, and the laborers at the woolen mill, tanneries, logging camps, mills,  and on the logging drives each spring, made the economy grow and prosper, just as the nurses and doctors tended the injuries they sustained, and the staff of fledgling medical facilities, like the Red Cross Hospital in Bracebridge, kept the place clean and safe for the many patients who needed care. The teachers who taught, the janitors who kept up standards, the good folk that kept the horses in shape, and in the best horseshoes in town, the mechanics who kept the fire engines and ambulances in top gear,….and by golly the list goes one and on and on. The working folk of our towns are the heroes, and when I wrote about my home neighborhood, of Bracebridge’s Hunt’s Hill and good old Alice Street, it was based on my own inside knowledge, of just how much this one generally modest income bailiwick kept the town businesses going full steam ahead; maybe as steam fitters keeping the boilers firing, or the electricians and plumbers who tended our household problems. It’s why I took a more in-depth look at what it had really been like as a kid growing up amidst these unsung heroes, and how their kids, as my mates, dealt with the realities that they didn’t have anything that looked or felt like social standing. They were just the kids day to day struggling citizens trying to live a good life and provide for their families the best they could be expected under the limitations of life and times in a small town.

     My long standing series on these Alice Street reminiscences was a hit from the beginning. Even when I had been editor of The Herald-Gazette, and then the Gravenhurst Banner, I had never known so much general appreciation, for validating the citizenry of the town who did not aspire to become anything more than successful at the enterprise they had chosen to follow in life and business. These were kids from often poorer households who had to get by with holes in their pants, their shoes that flapped down the sidewalk admitting all the moisture encountered on the way uptown and downtown, and who never thought of themselves as disadvantaged in any way; other than when they showed up at the rink or the ball park with lesser equipment, because it’s what our folks could afford. It’s at Christmas more than at any other time during the year, that I most think about those wonderful and sharing folks in that modest old neighborhood, who never betrayed their neighbors even when they could afford to move upward in local housing; they knew just how comfortable that neighborhood was, back then, and how easy it was to be a part of what was, by tradition, unpretentious and excepting. No one made fun of the tatters of my pants, coats and shoes, until I got to school. Oh well, it wasn’t a weighing-down burden of my family’s situation,  not be able to spend much of our reserve on new clothes, because it was made up for, in so many other ways a family comes together to battle the odds. And, yes, it was at Christmas when we shared our modest bounty with others, and they certainly shared with us. Up in that Weber apartment, gosh, now that was a living, breathing folk story that will never lose its significance, and, yes, magic, for this gnarled old story teller…..who has no hesitation whatsoever, bypassing the brick and mortar “somethings” to keep alive the heart and soul stories that really did build our towns from the pioneer homesteads to the present.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

I WISH YOU COULD HAVE SEEN IT - BUT LET ME TAKE YOU FOR A WALK DOWNTOWN ANYWAY - FROM MY VINTAGE OF 1967 OR SO - JUST WHAT CAN YOU SEE FROM A BARBER SHOP WINDOW?

YES I CAN. I DON'T NEED MUCH EXERTION OF RECALL, TO PUT MYSELF BACK IN BILL ANDERSON'S BARBERSHOP, SITUATED ON THE CORNER OF WHAT WAS THEN, THOMAS STREET AND MANITOBA……A TINY OIL PAINT / HAIR TONIC SCENTED SHOP, IN THE OLD PATTERSON HOTEL…..FORMERLY OF COURSE THE QUEEN'S HOTEL. IT WAS ANY THIRD SATURDAY OF A MONTH. THAT'S WHEN MY MOTHER MERLE, TUCKED A BIT OF PAPER MONEY INTO MY SHIRT POCKET, AND TOLD ME TO GET DOWN TO SEE BILL ANDERSON FOR A HAIRCUT. WHILE OTHER YOUNG LADS OF MY VINTAGE, WOULD COME UP WITH A WHOLE BUNCH OF IDEAS AGAINST, AND FEIGN ILLNESS RATHER THAN WASTING TIME ON A SATURDAY SITTING IN A BARBER SHOP, I LOVED TO SEE BILL IN HIS, WELL, ART STUDIO. REALLY. IT WAS WHERE HE DID SOME OF HIS WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA LANDSCAPES. A WELL TRAVELLED AND ACCOMPLISHED ARTIST, BILL ANDERSON COULD ALSO CUT A LAD'S HAIR……SUCH THAT NO ONE, AND I MEAN NO ONE MADE FUN OF IT IN THE SCHOOL YARD. AT VIRTUALLY THE SAME TIME, I'M PRETTY SURE, THOUGH I NEVER ACTUALLY SAW SCISSORS AND PAINTBRUSH AT WORK SIMULTANEOUSLY, HE COULD HAVE DONE IT WITH OUTSTRETCHED ARMS AND THE SENSORY PERCEPTION OF THE ARTIST/ BARBER. HERE'S HOW IT WORKED.

THERE WAS ALWAYS AN EASLE WITH A PAINTBOARD IN THE CORNER OF THIS BARBER SHOP. THERE WAS A TEA KETTLE, A TEA POT, AND A CUP. NOT FOR ME. FOR THE ARTIST-BARBER. THE FUNNIEST THING TO ME, WAS WHEN BILL WOULD BE TRIMMING MY HAIR, OR SOMEONE ELSE'S (AS I SAT AWAITING MY TURN), AND HE'D STOP IN HIS TRACKS, LOOK AT THE EASLE, AND JUMP FROM THE TASK AT HAND, TO ADDING SOMETHING TO THE ART PANEL. MAYBE A BIT OF WHITE TO A CLOUD THAT LOOKED TOO DARK, OR A BIT MORE BLUE WHERE THE LAKE LOOKED A LITTLE TOO GREEN WITH REFLECTION. I NEVER ONCE HEARD BILL OFFER AN APOLOGY FOR ABANDONING MY HAIR, SO HE COULD FINE TUNE HIS ART WORK. I WAS FASCINATED, AND BY GOLLY, I WOULD HAVE PAID HIM JUST FOR THE PLEASURE OF WATCHING HIM DABBLE AT THE SUBJECT LANDSCAPE.

Heck, Bill would stop and make himself a cup of tea, if the mood struck, and it didn't really matter if he was finished my hair or not. He didn't look like a particularly relaxed human being, but anyone who sat in his shop for any length of time, couldn't help but be calmed by his demeanor; and of course, handiwork about the head (mine for example), or jumping back and forth from palette and brush, to application. I figure, during my youth, I probably watched him work on twenty or more landscapes in that tiny corner barber shop. Now think of this. Just down Manitoba Street, toward the silver bridge, was the pharmacist-artist Bob Everett. On top of the Queen's Hill, there was a painter-gas jockey, by the name of Ross Smith, a fine landscape artist who was also a school chum. He'd pump your gas, take the money, and sit back down to a small painting he was working on, just inside the station. He had a lot of sudden art admirers when folks came into the office to pay. He painted a lot of Muskoka landscape, particularly around the Camel Lake area, where there was a family cottage. I have a Ross Smith original in my livingroom today, and I wouldn't part with it! It was a custom order, you might say. I helped him correct his spelling on university essays, and he painted a small landscape I had wanted.

Leading up to the Christmas season, the downtown shops of lower Manitoba Street fascinated me. I'd leave Anderson's Barber Shop and slip next door to see Mrs. Green, in her gift shop. She always had a small quantity of models and games that I liked to see…..and imagine what my very next allowance could afford. Then I'd amble south, across the Thomas Street intersection, to Elliott's five and dime store, where I could spend considerable time watching the gold fish swim about, and the budgies hop from bar to bar in the giant cages. I loved the Dinky Car and Corgi displays, and the toy section, while not huge, seemed gigantic to a kid who'd seldom been to a large department store. At Christmas, I was picking out my gifts and store owner, Bill Elliott gave me all the time and room I needed to make a decision. He had a great compassion for us dreamer-kids, and I was never once, chased out of that store for not having money jangling in my pocket. He looked at us kids as good future investments, and that when we did get part-time jobs, or professions in the future, we'd return the favor he afforded us for so many years.

I'd go across the street to the Thomas Company, to buy my mother Merle a pretty china cup and saucer, for Christmas, and I remember joining my dad one Saturday, before Christmas, when we went into Thatcher Studios, and bought two busts of her favorite composers…..the head of Bach and one of Beethoven. They would be given as presents, to Merle, and would come to adorn the cabinet stereo they bought from Banks Brothers T.V and Audio, also a wonderful business on that storied main street. There was the smell of freely made chelsea buns from Waites Bakery, and the greasy aroma of freshly made french fries from either Irma's Restaurant or the Muskoka Restaurant……or the Top Hat, if you were far enough down the street. If you happened into Ecclestone's Hardware, or Myers Brothers Hardware, Brooks Drug Store, or Everett's, there were always congregations of friends, family and neighbors, the same ones who had just finished shopping at Lorne's Marketeria…..where I was enthralled by the old building, the grand advertising posters and cardboard cut-outs, and the fact we would opt for next day delivery, if we shopped on a payday…..the Friday night when Manitoba Street was bustling. Did I mention the wheel of old cheese I used to lust for, down at Muskoka Trading, or the bike accessories we longed for, at BB Auto. I'd be standing with the old-timers at the Downtown Garage, one moment, with the Hillman lads, to then running along the rail platform of the train station……sitting on the parking rail, for a time, to see who would get tossed out, by the seat of their pants, from the former Albion Hotel. I saw a lot of incredible summersaults out that front door, let me tell you…..and watched most of the disgraced patrons, take a second and third run at getting back in. Some were more successful than others.

I might be in the newly opened children's section of the Bracebridge Public Library, for awhile, or sitting on the window ledge of the Uptown Garage for a visit with Ross, and then spend some quality time, as an on-duty rink rat, for arena Manager Doug Smith, who paid us for shoveling the ice, with snack-bar credits. My favorite was a hot dog and Coke. I'd have about eight of them in a day. When I did wind-up at the arena, it was never for a short visit. My dad always knew where to find me on Saturday afternoon, around this time of the year. I sure as heck didn't need dinner when I got home. That made my mother crazy.

As I walk along Manitoba Street, on pre-Christmas days like this, I can't help myself. I fall back into that splendid, harmless nostalgia, that so splendidly rekindles those carefree days, when we roamed and lived, and played, and well, played some more. I miss seeing folks like Russ Salmon leading a Manitoba Street hockey talk, or seeing Bill Elliott shoveling off the walk in front of the store. I want to look at that corner block of the former Patterson Hotel, and see Bill Anderson standing in the doorway, with a cup of tea in his hand. I can hear the high pitched voice of Randy Carswell, an old chum, chatting with friends on the steps of the post office, talking about the hockey scores of the night before….and then seeing Fred "Bing" Crosby, our hockey coach, walking to the arena with skates hung over his shoulder, and his toque leaning a little to the right…..dusted with just enough snow that he looked wintry. Harold Frow might be standing outside his Muskoka Trading grocery store, and you might see Redmond Thomas, Q.C. in a gray overcoat, making his way to the arena, to watch a Saturday hockey game, or see Tommy Halliday ambling over to his boarding house on the corner of Dominion and Manitoba Streets, with a newspaper tucked under his arm……he needed to know the sports scores, in case Randy had heard them wrong. I can still see Father Mitchell, of St. Thomas Church walking through the snow of Memorial Park, from his home to St. Thomas Church, and watch the brothers of the Society of St. John The Evangelist, in their long black gowns, walk up the hill to the post office, next to the library, the black fabric bags to be loaded with the mail of the day…….and then walk back up Hunt's Hill, as mysterious silhouettes, to the "House on the Hill," their religious retreat.

In street corner scrums, the talk of the day might have been about Roger Crozier, the hometown boy who had made it big in the National Hockey League, or about that young rascal Paul Rimstead, working as a writer for the dailies in Toronto…….what about the fine work of music composer, director, Howard Cable, who had bestowed the honor of composing music for the annual Winter Carnival. And of course there were the usual political debates that were never quite resolved, but always entertaining to over-hear. It was all pretty good natured, and part of the culture of small town life. Just as town police officer Rod White might have said to me……"Teddy, your dad's looking for you……it's time to go home." Before I'd get down that short stretch of Manitoba Street, that refrain would play over and over. Butch Ecclestone might remind me the same, as would Mr. Shier of BB Auto, or Bill Elliot (my mother worked at his store), and even Bill Anderson, if he saw me dawdling at dinner time, just as he was closing shop. No, I can't help but get a little misty-eyed about what has been and gone of a neat main street. You know, I can still see my mother Merle, walking with a noticeable limp, with my two wee lads in tow, hand-in-hand, on a snowy winter night, as this…..so many years ago. I have a great span of memories in this town, and of course some regrets, that many citizens here have no idea what it was like……..when the shop-keeps here knew every kid by their first name…..and family name, and when you could get hauled aside, without warning, to "take a loaf of bread to you mother Ted. She just called, and figured you be by sooner or later." That might have come from personnel at the grocery store or the bakery. "Pay me later," they'd say.

I know the past is what it is, and that "time waits for no man." But the great privilege of the imaginative time traveller, is to recall again, those grand days of the old town, in that faded sepia tone of album photographs. The voices are distant, and tinny, with an echo of all the years past……the hands outstretched, still too far apart to connect in greeting, of one time to another……the sound of the daily trains, the chimes of the clock tower, the horns and worn-out truck mufflers echoing in the winter air. I will always see those wonderful old ghosts, and ponder if they see me too.

Congratulations Bracebridge on a magnificent light show, in the neighborhood trees, in celebration of the Christmas season, on the historic, oh so familiar main street. To a sentimental old fool, it is a beautiful walk, down a full to overflowing memory lane.

If you need to rekindle, well, this is the place to do so!!!!