It's Not Looking "A Lot Like Christmas" But It's Never Thwarted Our Currie Family

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Of Course, It’s Not Looking “A Lot Like Christmas” Yet, But - Well - It’s Never Thwarted Our Currie Family, Birch Hollow, Pre-Holiday Warm-up

By Ted Currie

     When we lived in Burlington, I can remember spending hours staring out the big picture window in our third floor apartment, that looked out over the backyard of 2138 Harris Crescent, and being spellbound by the way the snow would dress the venerable old cherry tree that stood so stately in the centre of the small but scenic open space. It was so appropriately framed but all it really did for me, at that age, was make me hyper that I couldn’t go out to play. As I’ve mentioned previously in these posts, I was rather a sickly child back in the mid to late fifties, and I thinking back, I really didn’t grow out of this situation until I was in my mid teens, and by then living in the Town of Bracebridge. I did go out to play a great deal back in my Burlington years, especially in the valley of Ramble Creek that ambled and gurgled through our neighborhood draining eventually into Lake Ontario.

     In our Bracebridge apartment, situated at 129 Alice Street, I very much enjoyed the view from our third floor residence, this time affording the occupants a pleasant panorama of what we came to know as “Bamford’s Woods,” in honor of the Bamford family, Fred and Mary, who owned most of the block across the road, and kindly allowed us neighborhood kids to play there at will. As long as we didn’t hurt the trees and damage all the natural plants that Fred conserved for the sake of the wildlife that dwelled there as a rare bit of urban greenbelt. The view was precious after the first major winter snowfall, and us kids couldn’t wait to get out there and build a fort or hike through the small but enchanted woodland that still plays an important role in my over-active imagination with a flare for nostalgia.

      When I sat in the principal’s office, whether at Lakeshore Public School, in Burlington, or at Bracebridge Public School, or for that matter, the windows in every classroom I ever attended, I was enthralled to stare out the windows I was afforded as a student, and I very much enjoyed the visual chronicle of the three seasons. I wouldn’t have ever like being trapped behind glass in the summertime. What about you?

       I can remember one snowy evening, shortly after I had been appointed editor of the Bracebridge Herald-Gazette, sitting in my office that afforded a nicely framed view down the length of Quebec Street toward the Bracebridge High School, where I had once been a student, and once again, being mesmerized by the framing of that street scene, that many other newspaper staff had witnessed for long and long, at this same time of the year, but in the chronicle of the publication’s long history. As I enjoyed that scene, probably like no one other, as this is my “thing” so to speak, (being someone who appreciates a good window-framing and a really nice scene showing just beyond), and I have realized only recently, that a majority of my creative enterprise for all these years, has seemingly always depended on the liberation such framing can provide a committed voyeur. When I lived and worked from the former home of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, I had both a third floor window view, and second floor portal, down onto the picturesque triangle of Memorial Park, the old bandstand, the cenotaph, two vintage mounted canons, and of course the beautifully appointed maple trees that lined the small acreage. It’s not like I lived entirely behind glass, like fish in a bowl, but I did come to value the window framing for what it provided me with in a sort of mental battle between the chaos of actuality in the open, and the feeling of prevailing order looking out at my home town, or neighborhood if you will, throughout the day and night, and letting myself be amused and enlightened by what crossed through, what dawdled in my rectangular lens, and what sequenced by, like the frames of a film, always refreshing the mood of the backdrop which was a combination of trees, forest, lake, or urban stylings. It is what happened over a lifetime, I suppose, that I felt most inspired watching out from these portals onto my world at the time, and judging it according to my own level of interest and enthusiasm at the moment I was a witness to real time situations, sunrise to long after sunset.

     Here at Birch Hollow, I have a seat situated within few feet that affords me a similar panorama of neighborhood and forest, as I have enjoyed pretty much throughout my life, in one bit of modesty, or extremity, based on circumstance, and from this most heavily used positioning at the harvest table, I can witness a generous proportion of natural and neighborhood events, comings and goings, storms moving over the lake, moonlight bathing of the snow-laden woodland across the road, and the arrivals and departures of oh so many birds and squirrels who feed aggressively at the feeders positioned on the verandah railings. This particular portal, and some of the other windows here at Birch Hollow, that offer impressive views over our humble property, and The Bog across the lane, serve me well beyond simply the actuality of what has been framed at a particular time in the day. In fact, the scene from here, to there, has expanded the whole significance I place in framed “vantage points,” wherever they are situated, or what they look out upon. I can sit here by the hour, through the daytime if I have the luxury, and think, like Peter Pan, “Wonderful Thoughts,” about everything an inspiring view can afford the keen imagination. Add a crackling fire, the faint scent of an oil lamp on this harvest table, the aroma of Christmas treats being baked in the kitchen only steps away, and the reflection of the tree lights in the darkened window, make, for me, a most delicious opportunity to tap out a story or two on this cranky old Underwood manual.

     As the youngest non-family editor of The Herald-Gazette, I confess to spending a lot of time staring out that office window, down the length of historic streetscape, that I had trundled along for so many years of adventure-seeking youth. I used to head down this street when our team had a baseball game at Jubilee Park in the summer, and I walked up and down this urban artery four times a day, five days a week, for five years, as I slowly ambled to Bracebridge High School, and then home again at lunch, all the way up to Alice Street, and then back again for the afternoon session, such that I am sure a trace vapor of my ghost, still wanders expectantly along there still, in my absence, scared of being late for class and having to visit the principal’s office yet again. As a fledgling but seriously committed editor of this historic Muskoka publication, the framing of this window was much more than a poetic sidebar to my day to day writing and story-pursuits. I don’t want to give you the opinion that I purposely framed myself in, denying the great wide open of the community I was hired to serve; just that I needed parameters then, just as I do now, and it always assisted me to maintain a sense of order when chaos reigned supreme. And it did so frequently. The framing offered the context of both history and what was “real time” actuality, being accented by constant phone calls, to the newsroom, about major events occurring, or about to at any moment, and the situation, for example, of “press day,” which meant that the paper was being “put to bed,” soon to be shipped to the printer, and prepared for distribution the next morning. But we usually had to bend that frame, so to speak, because it wasn’t wide, or tall enough to handle all the occurrences that needed our news staffs’ attention. So as organized and rigid as I often preferred to examine the affairs of the day, or week, it was the case that everything needed to be super-sized when opportunity and demand required a wider horizon. Yet after some of these crazy and certainly memorable days, the very last setting I had in the former Herald-Gazette building, was in my office, putting away the notes of the week, the rough drafts of front page stories, and unused photographs, and before retiring to the Holiday House for a pint of ale, as a modest reward, I made a tradition of spending a few extra moments, looking out that tall, narrow office window, intrigued by the glow of the street lamps, and how the falling snow crystals still sparkled in color, despite the low light of a cold winter’s night; and what I witnessed were the ghosts of so many press nights of the past; where tired writers and layout staff wandered slowly and thoughtfully, up and down these same streets, at this same intersection, of Dominion and Quebec Streets, hoping silently, that the paper would be well received in the morning, by its loyal readership, and yes, that there would be no glaring errors to apologize for, when the publisher came calling. I am one of those ghosts, most definitely, and I am quite sure my spiritual essence still dwells, especially during the Christmas season I loved so much in company employ, in the office at the top of the stairs, looking out over the streetscape, enjoying the scene unfolding, if only the spiraling drifts of newly fallen snow, obscuring at times the lamplight of a very old but dear chronicle about another time of which I was familiar; and I am still writing about it today; but from the framing of this kindly and forgiving haunt, at Birch Hollow.

     A reader once commented to me that, in his opinion, I was both a fine writer, and possessed the sharp, keen, vivid imagination of one with a great future as a novelist, but I should stop, at once, being “maudlin”! Overly sentimental. Too sweet and nostalgic to be taken seriously. Out of touch with what the modern reader wanted. Not romanticism. No use of history for sentimental journeys to sentimental places, with sentimental themes, and sentimental narratives that serve no real purpose than to please the writer and no one else. I was astonished that he thought I had talent. Even a fibre of it. As for the maudlin part, well, I thanked him for his kind comments, and suggested that I was made a maudlin kind of chap, and like the style of a self taught golfer, tennis player, hockey net minder, ball player, or football quarterback, I was happy with the success achieved thus far, and while not offering any excuse why I don’t mind being called overly-sensitive and sweet to a fault, there was no way I could ever be as harsh, blunt, unromantic, or purposely negative, if it clashed with my own values. It’s why I never made a champion of myself as a news reporter or editorialist. It was true what they said. I just wasn’t mean enough to exercise the criticism the profession most required. Yet, this being said, and understood, I have never felt, for one moment of one day, since I began writing as a child creating short stories, that I was in anyway handicapped from enjoying the full throttle of being a creative-writer; and how romantically and sweetly nostalgic it is, to be sitting tonight by this window onto the world here at Birch Hollow, and commencing this Christmas season series for you fine folks; who have stuck with this writer for so many pleasant years, reminiscing about, yes, the good old days. And yes, there were many. Please join me daily up to New Years Day, for this traditional Christmas celebration with all the trimmings of a maudlin fellow.