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| Photos of vintage Christmas post cards by Suzanne Currie |
IT WAS MY VERY GREAT PRIVILEGE AND HONOR TO HAVE KNOWN JOHN WOOD - AN HOW MUCH I ENJOYED OUR PRE CHRISTMAS VISITS AT THE SHOP
A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST
BY TED CURRIE
Dom Thur was my hockey coach a million or so years ago. He was a grumpy old fart even when he was young, but all his players accepted his gruffness because he was one of the finest coaches most of us had ever known, in the rank and file of coach volunteers in Bracebridge Minor Hockey. Don and I have been friends and on some occasions colleagues, when he needs a writer and I need a paying gig, and when we used to get together at our Gravenhurst antique shop, (before he moved way, way north), usually when he was trying to unload some of his historic relics, we’d spend an hour or so talking about those recreations we had in common. Hockey and all the practical jokes he’d played on his neighbors when he lived up on Aubrey Street. I can’t repeat those of course, but they were rich. But by the end of our recreational conversation, and the handing over of money in order by me to purchase what he was trying to off-load, one of us would bring up the name “John Wood.” Now, honestly, there are about a billion John Woods out there, but folks, the John Wood Don and I knew was a mortal beacon of “the better life,” for lack of a better description, to define someone who was so incredibly magnetic, in the most positive sense of the word, and so involved in so many areas of our mutual interest, that we were drawn to his persona simply by, first, thinking of him, and then bringing him up in conversation. He was just one of those individuals, a character of profound interest in everything and anything, most of us only encounter once or twice a lifetime. But we always remember the way the connection imprinted and influenced our opinions. Don Thur was accomplished, not only in hockey, but as a wood turner of considerable acclaim, with his business, Knots and Burls to Bowls, and if memory serves, this is where he met and got to know John better; but then I’d known John long before him, and yes, I was all the wiser for letting this gentleman scholar teach me what I needed to know.
John Wood passed away last week. It was particularly poignant to me, when I found this out yesterday, because for quite a few years, John would arrive here at our antique shop, for his annual pre-Christmas visit, of which our family always appreciated, and even though he didn’t need to buy a book to enhance his collection, (which I am informed was enormous), he would always find a little something to read, just to help our business a wee bit. Truth be known, we had been selling John old and antiquarian books for many decades, often from a booth we used to operate each summer at the antique boat show at Sagamo Park here in Gravenhurst. While we had a lot more in common than old books, and Don Thur, the “burl expert,” John and I could spend hour upon hour talking about all kinds of stuff, ranging from environmental protection and matters of local conservation, onto matters of heritage and historical stewardship, and local politics, although it can be said, on my watch at least, that he wasn’t one to show all his cards when it came to who he liked, as a political representative, and I never knew the man to used a negative approach to paint an image of governmental likes and dislikes. John was practical and his critiques were always honest and the kind of “nuts and bolts” overviews, that were sensible and proportional to whatever crisis we were trying to avert, by conversation, of course.
I can remember giving heritage lectures at the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling, of which I was a director earlier this new century, and as Suzanne, my curatorial assistant, would size up the audience for the evening’s Currie performance, (never a big draw for the museum main stage), she would sigh relief, and be so pleased to tell me that John and his life partner, Jennifer, (such a wonderfully suited couple regardless of their varied areas of personal interest), had just then come into the lecture hall for the evening’s festivities. Which were dull I suppose, but it was so settling to both of us, to know that we would have these two kindly, and interested guests in the middle of what could be, and had been, an indifferent audience over a half dozen engagements. And John always seemed to know when to break the uncomfortable silence, at the end of the presentation, and try to engage Suzanne and I in some historical debate. He loved that, and so did we, because it inspired more questions, and equally, more debate. The last time we met John and Jennifer at one of these events, we were on the other side of the podium, having arranged instead, a lecture from Gravenhurst’s Tom Brooks, a Civil War re-enactor, who specialized in the research of those soldiers who fought for both the North and the South who were British subjects, particularly Canadians. He gave the audience a great lecture and I know John filled a lot of time after the speech, questioning Tom about his general interest in the Civil War, and what it was like to appear as a re-enactor in the well known Turner Films movie, “Gettysburg.” Suffice to say, that many lecture and event promoters in our region, felt a similar wave of relief, when John and Jennifer were in attendance, because they never appeared disinterested in the subject matter. Even if the presentation had been boring, they would never have shown the least disrespect for those who had put on the event, and participated in the presentation.
In the past while, I have been happily shopping for my old books at the Bracebridge Restore; a place the John Wood greatly appreciated because of the benevolent work of Habitat for Humanity, the sponsoring organization. I have been buying quite a few military and naval histories dating back to the First World War, and have been surprised, on occasion, to have found my old price tags, still impressed on an inside cover page; I remember pausing with one particular book, entitled “Memory’s Wall,” which is the biography of Flora McCrae Eaton, the wife of John Eaton, who of course was the son of department store founder, Timothy Eaton, and you know, I could remember so clearly selling John Wood this book, and I knew exactly where it had occurred. In fact, it had been Suzanne that had sold him this Muskoka backgrounded book, while we had our booth at the antique boat show. And then I asked the question of myself, at that moment of deja-vu that was dancing with reality. “I hope John its okay.” Well, for me, this kind of after-life connection isn’t all that rare, and on this occasion, I most definitely felt that my old book collecting friend was standing behind me, as he used to do, so happy to announce his presences with a warm hand of friendship on my shoulder. How ironic we would meet in the Restore in this way; me buying his old books, some that had been mine many years previous, and helping out Habitat for Humanity at the same time. I have been visiting the store daily now since Suzanne was able to find a memorial posted online, that verified John had just recently passed away. But there was nothing unsettling about this connectedness in the present tense. It was, at this time of the rolling year, that I would hear John’s voice greeting son Andrew or Robert (or both) at the front door, and before coming into the studio where I reside on most days, he would enjoy a visit with Suzanne in her cookery nookery, as we call it, and after that visit, he would find his way to the book room, and spend about an hour browsing, before coming back up, and checking in with me for another half hour or more; until he realized that Jennifer was going to worry about his whereabouts; and then we would extend customary Christmas greetings, and he would shake hands with the lads, and then disappear off into the typical December snow flurries, for his road trip back to Bracebridge.
John Wood and I never actually finished a discussion, because ninety percent of any information sharing, turned into a question against question kind of sparring event, that seemed to be the case of one-up man-ship, each of us trying to trip up the other in an attempt to shift the focus of conversation into something even more profound and illuminating. We just questioned each other into a sort of theoretical stalemate, and when we parted, it had proven entirely recreational and entirely enjoyable. Whether he turned up at our home here at Birch Hollow, or the store, or even at the Restore, I never met John Wood, that I didn’t want to tap his vast knowledge; and then occasionally, and for fun, talk about our mutual mate, Don Thur, and his most wondrous turned burls. Don’s hockey legacy never came up in conversation. But his art work, well, that was some neat stuff.
Suzanne and I, and Robert and Andrew extend our sympathies to the Wood family at this time of loss. We’re so glad to have had his influences on our life and times, and his input about everything from old books to local history and then some.
INTRODUCTION TO THIS OPEN WINDOW'S STORY
I've told this story numerous times, but it's impossible to minimize its overall importance to the story of how a bibliophile manages a relationship with a "civilian." My book collecting buddy, Dave Brown, on his honeymoon, spent a goodly portion of their "together" time, scouring through local old book shops, and wandering on the battlefield at Gettysburg. Dave was greatly enthused about Civil War histories, especially any chance to stand out on a battlefield like Gettysburg. Dave's marriage didn't survive his love, or rather obsession with books and history. He bought books about history in case you were wondering.
When Suzanne and I were on our honeymoon in Virginia, we spent a lot of time in antique venues, and for me, some quality time in the printing shop at Colonial Williamsburg. She had to come and retrieve me on four occasions, when I'd suddenly slip back inside, because I still had some questions for the interpreter on-site. The whir of activity in that room, as they were printing the Williamsburg newspaper, I suppose, was incredible to me, an editor of our community paper back in Ontario. I was told that once I had printer's ink in my blood, I would be hooked on it for the rest of my life. Watching the workers manipulating the manual press was an exceptional experience, and observing how the letters were set individually was so incredibly neat, I just didn't want to leave. Gads, what about my wife?
It's the problem of such obsessions, of course; that and the fact I was a writer and newspaper-man, and budding author. It was dawning on her that she had more than likely, married the wrong guy. Shortly before we were married, Muskoka region photographer, Tim DuVernet and I published a book, featuring my early foray into short story writing, the companions to Tim's exceptional photographs. It was our first shot at publishing something beyond what we both did for Muskoka Publications week to week. We had the book signing at Hart House at the University of Toronto, courtesy of Tim's author / mother Sylvia, well known for her Muskoka books. Suzanne was there for the book launch, and it was pretty neat. Just before the book made it to the public domain, one of our Muskoka Graphics' printers, (it was part of Muskoka Publications), Harry Ranger, warned me against standing too close to the press when the pages of the book were being run through the cylinders. "If you get too close Ted, you're going to get printer's ink in your blood." What he meant by this, was that by being close to the action of a book in creation, I would be forever influenced by the power of ink to write more, and more. He also pointed out that a bar that was swinging down with the movement of the press, might also rip my head from my shoulders. "See that yellow line on the floor Ted," he stated, while pointing, meaning I was getting too close for comfort. I gradually learned, as my tenure at Muskoka Publication continued, what Harry had meant about the danger of printer's ink. I didn't have to swallow any to be infected by the blessing or curse, depending on how it worked for me in the long haul. Basically, it means a writer will always be a writer and it can lead to madness, if ever a writer's block was to inhibit the creative process. Well, so far so good, and that was advice from the early 1980's.
My printer's ink syndrome continues to this day, manifesting more so now, by the fact I am also a bookseller; a book admirer, more so than a book writer. And as you can see, reading this, I've pulled myself away from actual ink, and put it on a computer screen instead. Same thing though! It's more the super juice of seeing the printed word, that compels a writer to continue hacking away at whatever keyboard lays in front. What for me has always been a rewarding occupation bordering on preoccupation. I love to write and I adore the good company of books. Here are some more observations about Dora Hood, one of Canada's well known book sellers.
THE ADVENTURES OF A BOOK HUNTER / BUYER / SELLER IN CANADA
"It is one thing to buy accumulations of books as I had been doing up to now, and quite another to be offered a collector's library," writes bookseller, Dora Hood. "In the former, as a rule, no one hand and mind have been at work to bring all the books together; they, therefore, yield many unexpected finds, and in truth are rather exciting to handle. But when one person has, perhaps over many years, devoted himself to collecting all he can find on one or more subjects, it is an education itself to sort and catalogue such a library.
"One such collection came my way, with very little effort on my part. I was asked to look at a library which had been in storage for many years. It filled a good sized room from floor to ceiling and was not very easy to examine. The books were tied up very securely in bundles of about one and a half feet high. The cord with which they were tied was firm, though soft, and did not, fortunately, cut into the books. I took my small son along to help move the bundles so that I could get some idea of the material that was in it. This time it was summer and hot and we toiled at the work for about three hours, and had only managed to examine about a third of it. It looked extremely good. I asked what the owners wanted for it and agreed to their price and the collection was mine. It arrived in two truck loads, and taxed my storage room to the limits. Would that all other libraries were in such good condition, contained so rich a store, and were easily handled. For months I read nothing else than the books and pamphlets of this collection. Night after night I chose a bundle and took it upstairs for bedside reading. I learned more from it than from any other collection of books I ever bought, and I also learned something of the mind and character of him, who had brought together all these records of the past. Charles Canniff James, whose collection it was, died in 1916, in his early fifties due, it was said, to over-work in the organization of Ontario's agricultural contribution during the first Great War.
"As I sorted and catalogued the books and papers I was saddened to think he did not live to old age, when he could have enjoyed the fruits of his years of collecting. The only consolation one can find on these occasions is the knowledge that they go mostly into the hand of others who value them," noted the Toronto bookseller. "By 1932 I had acquired a really good stock of books, and that spring had issued my seventh catalogue. Among my letters about this time I received a communication from the American Library Association, asking me if I would consider taking a booth at their annual meeting which was to be held that year in Montreal.
"I had done practically no advertising so far but was quite well known to many of the librarians of the American universities and institutions, and this seemed a good opportunity to meet them as well as some of my clients in Montreal. I had at that time far more collectors in Montreal and Quebec than I had in Toronto. The rent of the booth did not seem high and I suppose I was ready for a new experience outside the Book Room," she noted of her business at the time. "The books were to be arranged all round the large banquet hall of the Windsor Hotel. Publishers from all over the United States and the leading ones in Canada, all from Toronto had taken booths. I was the only antiquarian bookseller in that great company and a very inexperienced one at that. I bought some pretty clothes, for it was to be in May, packed a big carton of my most outstanding books, and notified some of my bookish friends that I was coming to Montreal for a week, and asked them to look me up."
Dora Hood reports of the book sale, "In spite of the undoubted fact that the depression was getting deeper, a great throng of librarians attended the meeting, chiefly I think from the United States. There were meetings all day in other parts of the hotel and at McGill University and, in between sessions, groups wandered into the banquet hall to examine the displays of the publishers. Each of us had his name on a placard over his booth and I had my share of inquiries. In the evening the book-loving public turned up, for it was a book fair such as Montreal has never before seen. Many of my collectors came to have a talk and I thoroughly enjoyed it, for I am convinced that by and large book collectors are among the most delightful people one can meet. The next booth to mine was occupied by a German firm from New York. I cannot now recall the name but their children's books they displayed were the most attractive I have ever seen. There were three young women in charge who told me they had been in New York a year, and adored it, but they would soon return to Germany as their visas had expired. I asked them if they would continue to work with their firm, but they said unfortunately, being married women, they would not be allowed to work. This was a year before Hitler seized power, so it could not be laid at his door, but Germany was in the throes of distress and only unmarried women were permitted to work. These young women interested me because I knew they had grown up during the decade after the war when the youth of Germany, was struggling to educate itself and teachers in schools and universities were handicapped for want of money to buy books.
"I had received pathetic letters from a professor (in Germany) who had spent a year in Canada and was anxious, if possible, to build up a working collection of Canadian literature for his students. He was quite frank in telling me that he and his students hoped gradually to pay me for the books I sent. For two years small amounts came by special permits and then suddenly stopped. I wrote it off as a trifling bad debt, though I still felt it could not be the fault of the professor. Two or three years later came a letter from one of his students, telling me that he had died suddenly at the time the money had ceased to come. His former students were heartbroken at losing him and as a memorial were paying the money still owing, and ordering a further lot of books to complete the collection they called after him."
She notes of the successful show and sale, "At the end of the week I had a note book full of addresses of institutes of learning in United States, all, it seemed, with plenty of funds for book buying. This was a most satisfactory outlook in spite of general forebodings. Before leaving for home I drove out of Montreal for a brief holiday in the lovely Laurentians. I remarked to my host that I hoped nothing would happen to the United States of America. His smile was rather wan. Well, nothing did happen just then and fortunately I was well established when the American banks, one after the other, closed their doors and the appropriations of many of their educational institutions were cut to a discouraging minimum."
In the year 1579, Francis Bacon took a shot at describing the value of books…..in non monetary terms of course: "We see then how far the monuments of wit and learning are more durable than the monuments of power, or of the hands…..(but) the images of men's wits and knowledges remain in books, exempt from wrong of time and capable of perpetual renovation. Neither are they fitly to be called images, because they generate still and cast their seeds into the minds of others, provoking and causing infinite actions and opinions in succeeding generations."
A short while ago, I took a break to read the daily newspaper. I found an article about decorating with books. And the way colorful spines positioned together on a book shelf can enhance the ambience of any room. I had to read the article twice. Now folks, I don't want to be a hypocrite here, because my antique business does cater to home decorators every day of the business week; but when we start putting books together on a shelf because of the color of their spines, I can't help but be aghast at how far we've degenerated as a society…….when we care less about reading them, and more about their decorative value and if they can be stacked artistically and made into lamps. When I see and read this tripe, I know I'm far more a purist than I ever thought. But I do have one story about my book collector friend, David Brown, and of all things, "home enhancements."
Dave came in to my store one day, and asked if I'd like to make a trade. He was always doing things like this, and I really didn't wish to participate…..but the books he wanted to trade for, had been on the shelves for about three years without a single copy being sold. In return I got some sports related books, our boys would enjoy, and a number of art books he didn't particularly care for. After he boxed up what books he wanted, and loaded them in his trademark Ford pickup with the yellow canoe lashed on top, he came down to chat for awhile, before heading back to Hamilton. "Thanks for the books Ted. They're for a friend of mine," he said. "His wife threw him out of the house, and now he's got this big apartment with empty bookshelves. He just wanted some books to fill the open spaces, and these will do just fine." I just stared at him, and honestly, I didn't know whether to throw him out of the store by his shirt collar (which would have been hard, as he was a substantial size), or strike it up to on-the-job training. I had just traded books away as the attractive good graces of home decor. Now it has reared its ugly head again. Well sir, I don't decorate with books. I have books, which I adore, and read daily. Sure they look good on a shelf, and in a cabinet, but if that was all they were worth…..just to look at from the outside, then I would have them all removed from our house……as I am morally against facades, unless they are items that are solely meant for decoration and functional furnishings….art of course for art's sake. The funny thing about Dave Brown, is that he was my book mentor, and here he was, the broker of fashionable design, to stave off the opinion of apartment visitors, that this gentleman friend was out of sorts with the world. God forbid there should be an empty book shelf.
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