Christmas At The McGibbon House

 

Photos of Vintage Christmas Post Cards by Suzanne Currie

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

WHAT I VIEWED OF MY HOME TOWN FROM THE ATTIC WINDOW WAS AS MUCH ART, AS IT WAS EYEWITNESS HISTORY IN THE MAKING

BY TED CURRIE

     Last Christmas I was shaken from my happy little portal of complacency. I hate when that happens, because like our cats and dogs, finding that comfortable place to relax, takes a lot of circling and roughing up the surface of where a respite will soon be made. Don’t get me wrong, I do like adventure and excitement in my life, but during the Christmas holidays, I do very much enjoy the commonplace of Birch Hollow, and gearing-down from what is usually a very busy holiday season tending our family business. On a night just before Christmas Eve, I believe it was, with work place situations still on my mind, Suzanne called me to the computer to read an email received from someone who wanted to touch base with me, about a series of columns I had written some years earlier about Dr. Peter McGibbon and his house on upper Manitoba Street, opposite Memorial Park.

     If you have been reading along this past six or so months, the name McGibbon will be familiar to you; as being the wonderful old home build by the well known and respected Doctor, for his wife Mabel and daughter. It was to be a residence and medical office for his practice. I came in to the McGibbon picture, long, long after his demise, and at a time when it had been converted, in the mid 1970’s to a multi apartment, commercial building, where we would come to launch Old Mill Antiques, and I would start my writing career in the double room length of the attic, which afforded a most amazing panorama of Memorial Park and the traffic, on foot and vehicular, that passed by throughout the day and night, much, I might add, to my general advantage. The message came from a family member who had spent considerable time at the McGibbon house as a youngster, and agreed how warm and inviting the estate was; as if the happy times of once had never truly left the building even after the family had departed, and new owners and tenants moved=in. She told me many things about the family, and the history of the house, and how its history matured over the decades; but nothing diminishing her recollections of a kindly family home where so many were welcomed into its inner sanctum as guests of the McGibbons. I was astonished by the information, and for most of the Christmas holiday, the two of us shared stories of the house and family, and it was so incredibly providential to me, as if the spirits of that dear old home had come to get me once again; as they had stirred me so many times, as a fledgling writer, working from that pleasantly haunted attic, that made a voyeur out of me, to my great advantage. I was able to witness the town as I had never before, and I learned a lot from being somewhat distant, and disjointed, but no disenfranchised. I was able tu be the interpreter, and the folk historian, being able to offer an editorial opinion of what it all represented in the modern context, yet with an historical ambience that provided a depth to all that was contemporary and seemingly shallow.

     I can remember that first Christmas spent there, circa 1977, and spending many late nights sitting at my desk, making copious notes about what was going on below me, around me, and recording the creaking and groaning sounds of the old house and its rickety heating system. There were many curious scenes and dramas that unfolded in the park and along the walk directly below my third floor window, including lover’s spats, and the consequent hasty partings, yet often resolved matters of the heart, occurring only moments later, when love brought  combatants back to sensibility; youngsters making snow angels on the way to school in the morning, taking advantage of the new layering of snow, and games of tag breaking out, amidst the din of childhood revelry, when toques and scarves were ripped away in fun, and thrown helter skeleter throughout the park; making most of the participants late for morning roll call at Bracebridge Public School,; the great old school I used to attend. I confess to having a most enhanced enthusiasm to view all that was within my scope of observation, especially around this time of the year, because it was a dimension of my hometown that I had never seen before from a voyeur’s perspective. I might have been amongst those rapscallions playing in the park, and being late for school, but I could not have truly understood what it all meant as an animated play of living, breathing folk art. It all came together as being a most spirited part of what I could only conjure up, as a writer, as mere mental photographs of my own old days growing up in this same bailiwick. This was too full of life and energy to be described as a photographic anything; it was thusly imbedded in my mind and soul, that this was the real hometown unfurling across this amazing panorama of honest life and times, that was a clear and free of embellishment, as were the criss-crossing of a myriad foot trails and snow angels, that made a most compelling mosaic, a quilt, I suppose; but more like a tapestry or mural, that wasn’t a static thing, or a work of art that would always be there to be celebrated. It was temporary. Fleeting I suppose you might say. But I had been a part of this giant Christmas play, that was not fiction. It was a Merry Christmas to myself, you might say, and one that has never failed me as a memory, when I need to recall those days, to re-inspire the writer of once, who sat up at that window, just as engaged in the play and drama of our town, that I could feel the cold spray of an exploding snowball, winging off one of the venerable maples that line the park to this day. What a joy to have witness that very soft, gentle history, we most often never enjoy, as it is usually so quickly evaporated by harsher realities of life and times.

  

CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA - THE NOSTALGIA, GOOD NEIGHBORS, FAMILY TIMES, COMMUNITY GATHERINGS AND FESTIVE CHEER

NATURE HAS ALWAYS BEEN PART OF OUR CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS

     AS I WAS SET TO EDIT TODAY'S BLOG, I WATCHED FROM MY GRAVENHURST PORTAL, AS A YOUNG BOY AND GIRL WALKED DOWN MUSKOKA ROAD, EACH SWINGING PAIRS OF SKATES. I ALWAYS GOT NEW SKATES FOR CHRISTMAS. SKATES, A HOCKEY STICK, A COUPLE OF PUCKS, EVEN SOME OF THE SPONGE KIND THAT DIDN'T KILL OUR ROAD HOCKEY GOALIES; AND I MUST NOT FORGET A PACKET OF FRICTION TAPE, FOR OUR LEGS TO HOLD THE PADS ON, AND SOME FOR THE STICK BLADE. AND IF THERE WAS ANY LEFT OVER, WE'D USE IT WITH THE PAPER CYLINDER, TO PUT A KNOB ON THE SHAFT END.

     I USED TO GET A LOT OF WINTER JOY SKATING, BOTH ON MUSKOKA'S OUTDOOR RINKS, FROZEN PONDS, AND EVEN THE NATURAL ICE ARENAS, IN COMMUNITIES LIKE BAYSVILLE, PORT CARLING, BALA AND MACTIER. MY PARENTS BOUGHT ME NEW SKATES EACH YEAR, BECAUSE I WAS ALWAYS OUT-GROWING THEM, AND ADMITTEDLY, THE KIND OF SKATES THEY COULD AFFORD, OFTEN FELL APART AFTER ONLY ONE YEAR OF HEAVY USE. A LOT OF MY YOUTH WAS SPENT GLIDING ON SKATE BLADES. I CLEARLY RECALL THE RARE OCCASION, BEFORE THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE WELLINGTON STREET PLAZA AREA, KNOWN AS "BALLS FLATS," WHEN MULTI ACRES OF OLD PASTURELAND, WITH INTER-CONNECTED PONDS AND CREEKS, SNAKING THROUGH THE VALLEY, FROZE INTO A GENEROUS SKATING NETWORK, TAKING FIFTEEN MINUTES TO GO END TO END. I HAD NEVER BEFORE, SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS. THE WORD GOT AROUND TOWN FAST, AND THAT LATE NOVEMBER EVENING, SAW HUNDREDS OF CITIZENS SHOW UP, TO SKATE ON THIS OLD-TIME POND-RINK AND ICED-OVER FEEDER CREEKS, AND YES, UNDER A MOST BRILLIANT MOON LIGHT.

     I REMEMBER COMING HOME THAT NIGHT, ON MY WAY UP TO OUR APARTMENT, ON ALICE STREET'S HUNT'S HILL, AND STOPPING FOR A MOMENT IN FRONT OF THE BIG PICTURE WINDOWS IN THE OLD PATTERSON HOTEL, AT THE CORNER OF MANITOBA AND THOMAS STREETS; TO GAZE, JUST FOR A MOMENT, IN UPON THE RETIRED RESIDENTS, DRINKING CUPS OF SOMETHING HOT, SITTING IN FRONT OF THE HEARTH, IN BIG COMFORTABLE CHAIRS. AND ME BEING HALF-FROZEN, SWINGING MY ICED-UP SKATES IN ONE HAND, THE OTHER HOLDING MY HOCKEY STICK THAT I SELDOM LET GO OF, ONCE WINTER BEGAN. ALL THIS, BECAUSE I SAW A COUPLE OF YOUNGSTERS HEADING SOME PLACE TO SKATE THIS AFTERNOON. BEING AN ANTIQUARIAN HAS IT DOWNSIDE FOR SURE. BUT THESE WERE HAPPY THOUGHTS ABOUT THE KINDER, MORE INTERESTING SIDE OF WINTER TIME RECREATIONS. IT WAS JUST ANOTHER OF MY POIGNANT MUSKOKA MEMORIES, I LOVE TO DUST OFF, AND ENJOY ONCE MORE, BEFORE I FORGET THEM ENTIRELY.

     THIS MORNING, THE LILAC BUSHES IN THE FRONT YARD OF BIRCH HOLLOW, WERE WEIGHED DOWN BY GIANT PUFF BALLS OF NEWLY FALLEN SNOW. THE EVERGREENS AND MAPLES LADEN WITH CLUMPS OF SNOW, MAKE IT ALL LOOK SO AMAZINGLY PICTURESQUE; AND WHILE A LITTLE EARLY TO BE ADORNED IN THIS WINTER FASHION, IT IS STRIKINGLY CHEERFUL. FOR A MOMENT, STANDING OUTSIDE, LOOKING OVER THE BRILLIANT WHITE CANOPY BLANKETING THE LOWLAND, AND BEING SUBTLY INFLUENCED BY THE SOUND OF FALLING SNOW OFF THE LEANING BIRCHES, AND STRETCHING PINE BOUGHS, ONE COULD FORGET THE EXPECTATIONS AND OBLIGATIONS OF THE DAY. I CAN SEE TRACKS FORM THE DEER, THAT TRAVEL OUR LANE ALMOST DAILY, AND THE IMPRINTS OF A LONE RABBIT, AND SEVERAL SQUIRRELS, ARE VISIBLE, BECAUSE OF THE SHADOWING IN THE BRIGHT MORNING ILLUMINATION THAT, AT TIMES, IS BLINDING. THE IMPRINTS ARE BLACK ON WHITE, AND UPON LOOKING INSIDE THE FOREST WHERE I USUALLY WALK ON DAYS LIKE THIS, THERE ARE ALREADY DOZENS OF INTERCONNECTING TRAILS OF THE WEE CRITTERS, THAT CALL THE BOG HOME.     THE SILENCE IS SHORT-LIVED, AS A NEIGHBOR HAS STARTED UP HIS JET-POWERED SNOWBLOWER, AND THE TOWN SNOWPLOW HAS JUST RUMBLED BACK UP THE STREET, NECESSITATING THAT I TAKE UP THE SHOVEL TO OPEN THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY. I CONTEMPLATED STAYING HOME AND PULLING A CHAIR TO HEARTH-SIDE.

     IT ONLY TAKES A SLIGHT RUSH OF WIND, TO DISLODGE THESE PLEASANT LOOKING SNOWBALLS, FALLING IN A SILKEN, SILVER SPRAY OF ICE CRYSTALS, DASHING AGAINST THE BLUE MORNING SKY. IT'S EASY TO FORGET THE MORE DIFFICULT ASPECTS OF LIVING IN A SNOWY ENVIRONS; THE NECESSITY TO SHOVEL LANES AND DRIVEWAYS, SIDEWALKS AND THE ROOF-TOPS OF OUR STORAGE SHELTERS. AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, WHEN IT IS NOT SO COLD, AND THE WIND NOT QUITE AS STINGING, AS A MONTH FROM NOW, THESE ARE MILD, JUNIOR TASKS, THAT STRIKE A NOSTALGIC CHORD, AS WE REMEMBER MAKING SNOW ANGELS AS YOUNGSTERS; AND ATTEMPTING TO BUILD FIRST-OF-THE-SEASON SNOWMEN, AND SNOWWOMEN, AS WELL AS DISLODGING THE OLD SLEIGH, OR TOBOGGAN FROM THE SHED, TO GET IN SOME RUNS BEFORE THE SUN MELTS AWAY THE FIRST MAJOR SNOW.

     MY OWN FIRST TOBOGGAN OUTING, AS A NEW RESIDENT OF BRACEBRIDGE, WAS IN MY GRADE SIX TERM, WHEN I WAS INVITED TO JOIN SOME SCHOOL CHUMS, I SAT CLOSE TO IN MISS MCCRACKEN'S CLASSROOM. WE MET NEAR BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, AS EVERYONE EXCEPT ME LIVED CLOSE BY; AND WE HAULED OUR SLEDS DOWN, TO WHAT WAS KNOWN THEN, AS THE OLD TURKEY FARM, ON SANTA'S VILLAGE ROAD, A COUPLE OF BLOCKS WEST OF WELLINGTON STREET. IT WAS CONNECTED TO THE CLIFF PARROT FARM, IF MEMORY SERVES THIS PURPOSE, AND THE TOPOGRAPHY WAS A MIX OF STEEP HILLS AND DEEP VALLEYS, CREEKS AND A LINKAGE OF LOW-LAND PASTURES. I HAD NEVER GONE SLEDDING IN SUCH A WILD PLACE, WITH SUCH HUGE SLOPES DOWN INTO A VALLEY OF UNKNOWN OBSTACLES, AND DANGERS, ASSOCIATED WITH CREEKS THAT HADN'T YET FROZEN OVER.

     THE GROUP HAD SIX OR SO SCHOOL CHUMS, WITH A LARGE TOBOGGAN, SOME SMALLER SLEIGHS, AND ONE TIN SAUCER THAT LOOKED MORE LIKE A RESTAURANT SERVING TRAY. WE COULD GET FOUR OF US ON THE TOBOGGAN, BUT AFTER THE FIRST TRIP DOWN THE SLOPE, THE BUMPS AND LEVELS OF SERIOUS DECLINE, LEFT ONLY THE DRIVER HOLDING THE REINS, BY TIME THE BOTTOM HAD BEEN REACHED. THE REST WERE BURIED IN THE SNOW FURTHER UP THE SLOPE. I REMEMBER IT BEING SUCH AN AMAZING NIGHT, WITH MOONLIGHT ILLUMINATING WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN A DEEP, DARK VALLEY, BURIED AS A VISTA, BY THE FRAMING OF BORDER TALL PINES. IT WAS COLD BUT NOT THE KIND OF ARCTIC AIR THAT MIGHT HAVE FROST-BITTEN FINGER TIPS, OR THE EXPOSED LOBES OF OUR EARS. JUST ENOUGH TO MAKE OUR CHEEKS ROSEY, AS MY MOTHER USED TO SAY, AND MAKING STEAM FROM OUR BREATH. IT WAS MY FIRST FULL EXPOSURE TO A MUSKOKA WINTER SEASON. I WAS A KID SO I DIDN'T REALLY REGISTER THE SCENE, AS EITHER PICTURESQUE, OR ENCHANTING.

     I DID APPRECIATE THAT THIS LANDSCAPE WAS VERY MUCH DIFFERENT THAN WHAT I HAD BEEN USED TO, SPENDING MY EARLY LIFE IN THE CITY OF BURLINGTON, WHERE WE USED TO SLED ON A NEIGHBORHOOD LANEWAY DOWN TO RAMBLE CREEK. OR SOMETIMES, AT A LOCAL GOLF CLUB, THAT KINDLY OPENED ITS HILLS FOR TOBOGGANING IN THE WINTER. BOTH WERE URBAN LANDSCAPES, AND WHILE STILL SPLENDIDLY NOSTALGIC, WHEN I THINK BACK, THERE WAS NO COMPARISON. BETWEEN SLIDING DOWN AN ICED-OVER PAVED LANE, BETWEEN APARTMENT BUILDINGS, AND TOBOGGANING DOWN THESE GREAT SLOPES INTO THE DEEP VALLEY, OF AN OLD PASTURE, BENEATH A STARSCAPE THAT WAS SO PROFOUNDLY AMAZING. WE'D REST ON OUR BACKS, AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL, AND STUDY THE UNIVERSE AS IT OPENED TO US IN THE DARK ENVIRONS, OF AN EVERGREEN WREATHED, MUSKOKA VALLEY, ON THE CUSP OF THE CHRISTMAS SEASON. THIS WAS IN THE EARLY WINTER OF 1966. I REMEMBER THE NAME OF ONLY ONE MATE THEN, AS BEING CHRISTINE SORENSON, FROM THAT GRADE SIX CLASS. WE ALL HAD A GOOD TIME THAT NIGHT, AND HAD A LOT OF STORIES TO SPIN FOR OUR SCHOOL MATES, WHEN WE GOT BACK TO CLASS THE NEXT MORNING.

     I KEPT MY ENTHUSIASM MUTED, BECAUSE I WAS THE NEW KID ON THE BLOCK, AND DIDN'T WANT TO SHOW MY SENSITIVE SIDE, FOR FEAR THEY'D THINK ME STRANGER THAN I ACTUALLY WAS! I WAS MOST DEFINITELY ENTHRALLED BY THE NATURAL ASSETS OF MY NEW BALLYWICK. THE KIDS I HAD BEEN SLEDDING WITH, WERE ALL FROM LONG-TIME MUSKOKA FAMILIES, THAT I SUPPOSE, TOOK THE SCENERY AND LANDSCAPE PRETTY MUCH FOR GRANTED. I WAS A CITY KID, AND WHAT I HAD EXPERIENCED, IN MY NEW HOME TOWN, SET THE SCENE FOR ME; AND GAVE ME A LIFELONG MISSION TO INTERPRET WHAT IT ALL MEANT; WHAT IT HAS ALL MEANT, UP TO, AND INCLUDING THE PRESENT. I WOULDN'T DARE SHOW OVER-ENTHUSIASM, TO MY CLASSROOM FRIENDS, BECAUSE I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH THE CITY-KID STIGMA. MY MISSION WAS TO PROVE MY QUICK ADAPTATION TO THE COUNTRY WAY OF LIFE. IF I HAD REMARKED ABOUT THE BEAUTIFUL EVENING, AND HOW MUCH I LIKED LIVING IN BRACEBRIDGE, I WOULD, OF COURSE, HAVE BEEN STATING, WHAT TO THEM, WAS OBVIOUS; THE FACT MUSKOKA IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE, EVEN TO KIDS, WAS DEEPLY AND SOLIDLY IMBEDDED. THE EVIDENCE WAS, THESE LITTLE FOLKS LOVED BEING OUTDOORS, CAREENING DOWN THE STEEP SLOPES; BLAZING AND SPARKING THROUGH SUCH A MAGNIFICENT SETTING, LIKE THE OLD FARMSTEAD VALLEY. I HAVE BEEN MAKING UP FOR MY SILENCE, AND MUTED OPINION EVER SINCE, AND THE QUEST I SUGGEST, WILL TAKE ME TO THE END OF MY LIFE. MY ONLY FEAR, I SUPPOSE, IS THAT I WILL NEVER DO IT JUSTICE; AND NEVER BE ABLE TO FULLY QUALIFY, WHY I HAVE SPENT MOST OF A LIFETIME, TRYING TO EXPLAIN THE SAME ALLURE, AND ENCHANTMENT, I FOUND ON THAT QUITE INNOCENT NIGHT OF SLEDDING, ON A FROZEN LANDSCAPE, THAT SEEMED, TO ME, A BACKDROP RIGHT FROM THE PAGES OF A STORY-BOOK. POIGNANTLY SPECIAL, AND HAUNTING, BEYOND THE REALITY OF ICE AND SNOW, AND THE TRADITIONAL FABLE OF A MOONLIT WINTER NIGHT.

SEEING MUSKOKA IN ITS CHRISTMAS SEASON SOLITUDE

     When I was working as a reporter, for the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, in the Village of MacTier, back in late 1979, early 80's, I lived in Bracebridge, in the former house / medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon; the house where I decided to launch a writing career, and to take on an apprenticeship, to become a regional historian. While I lived in "Seven Persons Cottage," in Foote's Bay, Lake Joseph, for the summer months, I spent the winters in Bracebridge, commuting daily to MacTier. My news beat was enormous, involving regular trips to Honey Harbor, in the Township of Georgian Bay, up to the hamlet of Humphrey, north of Lake Joseph; and then to Port Sandfield, Minett, Port Carling, Bala, and Glen Orchard. When I began working with our sister publication, The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, as a supporting reporter, the coverage area doubled; but it seemed even bigger when I tabulated my mileage reports. What it meant, other than a lot of driving between gigs, and to get home every night, was that by happenstance, I was being tutored by the Muskoka landscape, at virtually all times of day and night. I witnessed this geographic area of West Muskoka, over the four seasons, from first light, to the wee hours of the morning, coming home from late night assignments, and council coverage. I drove Highway 69 north and south, through squalls and full-steam-ahead blizzards, in my little green Datsun I leased from MacTier's Riva Motors. I had many pleasant trips this time of the year, in the late autumn season, after the first dusting of snow. I witnessed breath-taking scenery, that I had never experience before, even after many years of living in Bracebridge. As a result of employment, I had to travel thousands of miles throughout the district, each year on the news beat; and while there were times it was bloody exhausting, and seemed extravagant as well as inconvenient, I know today, that these recollections of district motoring, make up a goodly store of my Muskoka memories. The wealth of knowledge and insight that I draw upon constantly for this blog. They might have been casual observances back then, that I paid only modest respect, but I wouldn't be comfortable at all, making these retrospectives; or in any way, trying to define the Muskoka experience, as I attempt almost daily, in editorial landscapes.

     I remember one particular night, driving back from a photo-shoot at the arena in Humphrey. I was responsible for taking photographs of the young skaters, who would be participating in their annual skating carnival, for the program The Beacon was producing. The theme was "The Wizard of Oz," and the skaters were outfitted in their carnival costumes. It was a neat evening for me, because skating coach, Dianne Lloyd, had everything organized for me, and above all, it was neat seeing the kids all decked out. I remember it as a bitterly cold night, and I had a long ride home in snowy weather. I decided to drive back through the Village of Rosseau, because there would be less traffic, and it was so much more scenic even at night. It had been a long day, and it was about nine o'clock in the evening, by time I hit Rosseau, on what were ice covered roads, frequently obscured by snow squalls. I was hungry on top of all else, including exhaustion, and when I'd pass by some of the old farmhouses, so picturesque in the snow fall, and set into the white and shadowed landscape, that I would make a little game for myself; as I often did on those long drives, feeling the grasp of exhaustion taking control, of imagining myself what these rural families had enjoyed for dinner, in those bright, warm kitchens. Some possibly heated by still active cookstoves as I always found so historically fulfilling; like seeing ignited oil lamps on the inside sills of frosted-over windows, of abodes I would have liked to visit. But it just made me hungry and feel lonely and a little desolate. I used to wonder what it would be like, if I just drove up one of these country lanes, to the old dwelling places, and asked if I could sit for awhile in their glorious kitchens, and sip a little cider, or egg nog, from a festive cup. What was I thinking? I was delusional. These kitchens were probably well modernized, and the woodstove long since replaced by new state of the art ranges; and what might have been an oil lamp in bygone years, was electrified. There might have been a cup of tea steeping, but not likely cider or egg nog. I have always been influenced by my love for history, but it occasionally clashes with the present. My old fashioned reckoning, of what is old, should remain old.

     I have come upon farmhouses, hauntingly bathed in the moonlight of cold December nights, and stopped at the side of the road, to get a better look. On these occasions, I can rightfully claim, to have felt in total awe, reckoning just how influential Muskoka was, on the resident psyche, because it would be impossible to pass scenes like this, without feeling humbled by the near-divine handiwork of nature, and the way we, in this rural life, nestle into its bosom, as if painted that way by the artist on a wood panel. Within this tantalizing landscape, is a strange, intrusive melancholy, that might reference it as a sad vision for the voyeur; the sentimental, nostalgic panorama; that reminds us of Christmases past. And all the history of our families, that has evolved into the aura of what we know as "the contemporary." We might feel momentarily, as if we have passed through some portal to another time in history, of which we have had some connection; and sense the presence of those folks who have since passed. In moments, we have flashed through our own chronicle, of people, places and events, and might wish to pull away from this roadside vigil, because as it was initially an enchanting scene, it has sadly reminded us, we are no longer young,.... and our memories possessing a yellowing around the edges. Sometimes, we wonder if we have, in our hearts, been unable to move-on from those days, when time seemed so boundless.

     This is a common experience for me, whenever I travel the country roads of Muskoka, at this time of the late fall and early winter, leading up to the Christmas holiday. I do find myself retreating into the goodwill of Christmases past, without regret, and stopping by places as I have described above, and linger too long on the fading memories of once, long ago. Yet in these lonely scenes, in the pure embrace of a Muskoka winter season, we can find pleasure in its solitude; its forgiving nature, so picturesque in the bathing moonlight of mid December nights. Across this terrain of hills and valleys, sprawling pastures, and snow adorned pine forests; lowlands with leaning birches, and highlands with venerable, but barren maples, and oak, bordering the sanctuary of the friendly-appearing abodes, dotted across the landscape, as if placed there by the hand of the poet.

     I have never ceased my investigation of Muskoka and its seasons. It is far too fascinating, to ignore its familiar peculiarities I have enjoyed throughout my half century, playing in its woodlands, sledding down its hillsides in mid winter, and studying its position beneath the starscape, by the stroke of New Years Eve. On snowy days, and rainy ones, bitterly cold mornings, and warm sunny afternoons, it is the Muskoka landscape that shines through everything else; to make itself a gracious host to its inhabitants and curious other travelers. Those who traverse its hills and valleys, flats and basins, lakesides and boglands, in the grace of its seasonal inclinations. It's at this time of the late autumn, that Muskoka has always seemed at its most powerful, its nature most intense and the companion weather, as wildly dynamic, as it is, so much, a place of strange solitude. At this precise moment, a black squirrel we call Seymour, another Birch Hollow inhabitant, has jumped across three long divides, between snow-laded pine boughs, becoming a floating silhouette against a silver afternoon sky. The sprays of snow have weighed-down the branches below, and down from the heights, there is a subtle lessening of the loads, as displaced snow, filtering the diamond light, as the proverbial sands through nature's hourglass. It's not hard to become mesmerized by it all, and yet soon, this snow will melt away, and the ground will be clear again. It is too early for lasting snow, and by tradition, we should still be eligible for a late fall Indian Summer.

     "To Alec (A.Y. Jackson) the Canadian artist was not only a creative person who forged his, or her own future, he or she also had a social responsibility. 'We need artists to reveal to us the beauty of our heritage, and the adventures and the struggles, and the heroism that have gone into making Canada'." This quotation was taken from the biography entitled "The Other A.Y. Jackson," written by O. J. Firestone, published in 1979.

   Muskoka is art.