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| Photos of vintage Christmas post cards by Suzanne Currie |
COMING IN FROM THE WILD WOOD HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW I AM LEFT TO REMINISCE ABOUT A ROBERT FROST POEM ABOUT STOPPING IN THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST
BY TED CURRIE
I can remember being in a university course that specialized in alternate meanings to everything literary. I was in no position to refute anything the professor was offering us, about what various poets, and their work, meant in social, cultural conflict; offering us the opportunity as literary critics, and word surgeons, to re-examine the very great work of poets such as the American Robert Frost. A poet I had long enjoyed reading, but never in high school English, been told that what I was reading wasn’t what the actual poem meant. For one, I have always enjoyed the poem, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and I confess, without apology, to appreciating the work at face value. My face, and my value, and if Frost meant something completely different, with his poetic license, well, I really don’t care. Like looking at an abstract painting. I see what I see, and while the art critic can tell me it represents something ridiculously different that what I’m rather enjoying, at first, and even second glance, I just refuse to over-examine any creative enterprise, because frankly, although I love Sherlock Holmes stories in print, because of their inner truths, I am not a detective. I enjoy the simple things in life, and I will not read anything else in Frost’s work for the sake of literary argument.
I have only just arrived back to Birch Hollow, after an early evening stroll through The Bog, and having crossed over to what we like to call “The Wild Wood,” in honor of Kenneth Grahame’s well known story, “Wind in the Willows,” I enjoyed a most deliciously haunted and silent woodland, so magnificently adorned in newly fallen snow from the day before. There were the usual compliment of brown and black squirrels, flying through the still light sky, branch to branch above my head, and blue jays and a venerable old crow were stirring through the branches of leafless hardwoods, and there may have been an owl in the mix of wildlife, because I heard it calling out, but couldn’t see where it was perched. I did think back to the first time I read “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” penned by Robert Frost, because it was at a time when, for one reason or another, I was being wrestled emotionally, by a crush I had on a school mate, who I had met in just such a snow-laden woodland, back when I was living in Burlington. Her name was Donna Clarke and she represented my first boyhood crush, and it was at this time of year, just before Christmas, that it all arrived in my psychic muddle; that she was an angel, and I was smitten by her loveliness, with a background of similarly snow enhanced hardwood boughs, as they bordered my sanctuary then; the ravine of Ramble Creek, where she had to pass daily on the way to school at Lakeshore Public. It was Frost’s poem that always made me think of her, even to this day, as she walked to school, during the kind of sentimental flurries known to shaken snow globes, that to the heartsick, is enough to bring chills and modest tears in the corners of the voyeur’s eyes. I thought of scenes like this constantly that Christmas, and pined for the opportunity to meet her in that Snowy Woods that the poet made famous, but as truth hurts, and never falters even to the beckoning heart, she never knew me beyond what the teacher called me each day. “Teddy.” Gosh I hated that, as my official handled is “Ted.” But it was still better than Edward, Ed or Theodore which I hated most. It was a failed love affair from the start. Of course we were too young in human terms, but in spirit, I felt quite mature. Just very inadequate when it came to expressing my feelings. Something I did get over by the way.
It doesn’t matter how old I am, and how much proverbial water has passed under the bridge, so to speak……I will always think of Robert Frost on snowy evenings while hiking through the wild wood, and wonder silently, how Donna ever wound up in life, and if she ever thought of the big eared kid who used to dream big dreams, and reminisce about the relationship we never had. By the way, I think we were both in grade four at the time. But one thing is for sure. I have had no reason, then, now or in the future, to over analyze what was always a wonderfully written and significant poem, for what it didn’t possess of social or cultural commentary. I liked it then, just the way it was, and it is no different today. I am a sentimental old fool and I admit it readily. I am happily married to a wonderful wife, and writing partner, Suzanne, but she understands that I have been a very passionate human being in the past, who has always worn his heart on his sleeve, regardless of how many times it has been knocked to the ground and stomped on. But, it’s my take on life, and I’m too set in my ways to be unromantic now.
Quite a few years ago, I used a resident “cricket” here at Birch Hollow, to commence what became a longstanding writing tradition; the silence-breaking little fellow working his way into many of my early posts, and giving me an inadvertent mascot here in my archives, which doubles as an extra bedroom and a writing work space. I haven’t heard the wee cricket for some years now, but for a long while we communed quite affectively, at a time when I was just getting back into daily writing after a considerable hiatus, running the antique shop in our former Bracebridge location. It was at Christmas, and I mean it, that we did some of our most prolific work together, and it was never a silent partner. I want to dedicate this little Christmas tome to our own Jiminy Cricket, wherever he is tonight. I miss the interventions, and the way in which he annoyed me to creativity.
A WRITER'S NIGHT - A CRICKET - A CHRISTMAS HEARTH - BY THE LIGHT OF THE OLD OIL LAMP - A SENTIMENTAL REFRAIN
Note to reader: This cricket of which I've informed you about, has annoyed me for the last hour. I have chased the bandy-legged wee beastie, from one corner to the next, and despite its sense of peril, it chirps with total disregard, for what the proprietor of this establishment might eventually resort to, for peace and quiet once more. I shall endeavor to tell my story, in between the exorcism of this insect, so pardon the deviations you might find within……as the cricket on the Christmas hearth, enjoys its winter respite, in the sanctuary of my humble book-strewn office.
WHEN I RETURNED HOME FROM UNIVERSITY, IN THE SPRING OF 1977, I OPENED UP A SMALL ANTIQUE AND GIFT BUSINESS WITH MY PARENTS, IN A TURN OF THE CENTURY BRICK HOME, ON MANITOBA STREET, IN BRACEBRIDGE. IT WAS THE FORMER HOME AND MEDICAL OFFICE BELONGING TO DR. PETER MCGIBBON, WHO ALSO SERVED AS OUR REGION'S M.P. IN OTTAWA, AND HE IS SAID TO HAVE PLAYED HOST TO A WOULD-BE PRIME MINISTER, SIR ARTHUR MEIGHEN.
OUR FAMILY OPENED THE BUSINESS ON THE MAIN FLOOR, AND RESIDED INITIALLY IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, WHERE I HAD A SMALL BEDROOM. BUT WHAT I DID GET, WAS ACCESS TO A THIRD FLOOR ATTIC, THAT WENT FROM THE FRONT OF THE LARGE HOUSE TO THE BACK, AND THAT AFFORDED ME A SPECTACULAR VIEW OF MEMORIAL PARK AND THE ILLUMINATED BANDSHELL. I HAD MY WRITING DESK PULLED AS CLOSE TO THE WINDOW AS I COULD, TO GET THE BEST PANORAMA OF THE PEDESTRIAN AND VEHICULAR TRAFFIC ON THAT SECTION OF UPPER MANITOBA STREET. IT WAS THE PLACE THAT GOT ME STARTED ON MIDNIGHT WRITING JAGS THAT WOULD END AT SUNRISE. IT WAS A FASCINATING PLACE TO WORK THROUGH THE FOUR SEASONS. IT WAS A PORTAL ONTO WHAT WAS THEN, MY HOME BASE. FRANKLY, I THOUGHT IT WAS THE PLACE I'D REMAIN UNTIL THAT LAST KEYSTROKE HIT THE PAPER. I WANTED TO BUY THE HOUSE. AH, THE CEASELESS DILEMMA OF THE WRITER. I DIDN'T HAVE THE FUNDS. AND I COULDN'T FORSEE A TIME, IN THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE, WHEN THAT WAS GOING TO CHANGE. ON A REPORTER'S SALARY, I WAS LUCKY TO MAKE RENT, LET ALONE PAY-DOWN A LARGE MORTGAGE.
I OFTEN THINK OF THAT PORTAL ONTO BRACEBRIDGE'S MEMORIAL PARK. EVEN HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WITH THIS FROZEN, BEAUTIFUL BOG, ACROSS THE ROAD, I DO, ON MIND-FULL OCCASION, MISS ALL THE ACTIVITY I WAS ABLE TO WITNESS DAILY, CRISS-CROSSING THE PARK…..THE KIDS ON THE WAY TO AND FROM SCHOOL, LEAVING THEIR FOOTPRINTS IN THE NEW SNOW…..WATCHING THEM MAKE SNOW-ANGELS AND SNOWMEN……SEEING YOUNG-TIMERS, OLD-TIMERS, WISE GUYS AND WISE GIRLS, MAKING TRIPS UP TOWN AND DOWN, AND THE MOTORCADE OF VEHICLES PASSING BY, DAY AND NIGHT.
YET I HAVE ALWAYS HAD GREAT APPRECIATION FOR SOLITUDE. THIS PLACE, THIS PORTAL OF COURSE, IS OF GREAT RELEVANCE TO MY OUTLOOK ON JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING THESE DAYS. WHEN I AWAKEN, AND LOOK OUT UPON THIS FROZEN LANDSCAPE, AND SEE HOW BRIGHT AND PROSPEROUS IT ALL LOOKS, I KNOW THERE IS NO FINER PLACE, FROM WHICH TO WRITE. I WAS YOUNGER AND MORE INTERESTED IN REPRESENTING THE DYNAMIC OF SMALL TOWN LIFE. THAT PARTICULAR VANTAGE POINT, ABOVE THE PARK, OFFERED ME THE VOYEUR'S PERSPECTIVE……NO ONE KNEW I WAS THERE….BUT I WAS WATCHING THEIR EVERY MOVE. THESE WERE THE ACTIONS AND REACTIONS THAT MADE THEIR WAY INTO MY EARLY NOVEL ATTEMPTS…..WERE THE EARLY CHARACTERS IN SHORT STORIES; THE SUBJECTS OF POETIC ATTEMPTS TO REPRESENT MY CONTEMPORARY CIRCUMSTANCES. I NEEDED THAT PERIOD TO WATCH AND LEARN. TO FEEL COMFORTABLE AS AN OBSERVER…..ON THE VERGE, THEN, OF BECOMING A TOWN HISTORIAN. IT WAS ALL HISTORY THAT WAS PASSING HERE, AND I WAS IN ONE OF THE MOST HISTORIC HOUSES ALONG THAT MAIN STRETCH OF SMALL TOWN COMMERCE. I SUPPOSE, FOR THOSE MANY HOURS SPENT WATCHING AND TYPING AT WINDOW-SIDE, THAT I EXHAUSTED WHAT I NEEDED TO, IN ORDER TO MOVE ON……EXPAND MY HORIZONS…..BREAK FREE OF THE BOOK I HAD WRITTEN MYSELF INTO……A HISTORY THAT VERY NEARLY SWALLOWED ME LIVE.
IT IS DIFFERENT HERE. I STARE OUT AT THE TREE LINE, WELL BEHIND THE HOLLOW OF THE BOG, AND FEEL UNBRIDLED BY THE ATMOSPHERE OF ADVENTURE, BECKONING THE VOYEUR TO COME FORTH…….AND WALK WITH SELF RIGHTEOUS CONVICTION, TO THE CENTRE OF THE STORM……THAT ONCE SCARED ME HALF TO DEATH. THERE IS NOTHING THAT CONFINES ME HERE…….JUST THE ROOF OVER MY HEAD, THE CATS ON MY LAP, AND THE ATTRACTION I HAVE NOW, TO THIS HOT TEAPOT AND ITS GLORIOUS CONTENTS.
I was out a while ago, and it seemed on the verge of rain. I've heard the weather prognosticators declaring……as if with early election results, (even before the polls close) that we will be having a green Christmas this year. I know they are only referring to the Toronto region of our province, as they don't spend much time these days, worrying about weather conditions in the hinterland. I suppose they've decided the market is too small, and unpopulated to deserve full weather disclosure on the nightly news.
It is all fine by me. I enjoy this landscape regardless of the weather……though I confess to being nervous about lightning strikes and damaging winds, as we have many, many maples and pines on our property. In the lamplight the lilacs and raspberry canes still have large clumps of snow and ice from the weekend bluster, and the rose bushes are bowed over awkwardly under the weight. Suzanne reminds me that I was supposed to wrap them up long before the first snow. I am delinquent and she will remind me many times until the job is complete. The rain will give me a reprieve I suppose. I'm going to get her to help me. I don't think she'd approve what I come up with to protect her most precious summer plants.
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT MUSKOKA?
Prior to 1871, Reverend John Webster wrote one of the earliest descriptions of the Muskoka countryside. It's not a stretch to see this same landscape, either from my daily walks, or even to the most limited degree, from this wee portal at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst.
"The country is diversified - it is not one great plain, neither is it a mountainous country. We have hills and dales, rocks and lands, rivers and lakes in abundance. The scenery is most beautiful. It would be hard to surpass in loveliness some of those lakes, nestled as they are in an almost unbroken forest, still with enough of clearance on their shores to give them a beautiful romantic appearance. As you sail on those waters, and pass silently around numerous rocky islands, covered with trees, mostly pine and other evergreen trees, as the balsam, spruce, and hemlock; passing now and then an island with one solitary tree standing on it, to brave the buffeting of the storm alone, you can imagine you see some of the scenery described in some fairy tale you have read in childhood. But the Christian can, however, turn the whole scenery to a better account, as he reads his Bible, and reads of Christ, the 'Rock of Ages,' upon which the soul can anchor and be safe, while the storm of life passes over him."
As a researcher, I'm always looking for early descriptions of our region, from the first folks to make notes about what they encountered of weather, the seasons, curiosities of the landscape, and even much later, what artists and poets had to say about the hinterland they came to write about, and capture on paint boards. In a modern sense, I've tried to experience everything I have read, to either concur or disagree with their assessments. While it's not possible to re-create entirely, the pioneer landscape, isolation is potential through the region……just as it is, to paddle a canoe into tranquil, wild inlets and bays, and feel as if you are the first to have come that way. And I've looked out onto Muskoka from many different portals, and not just in wild areas, but in the midst of the urban din, in order to represent it accurately, and proportionately. From an upstairs window looking down on a busy town artery, a bustling park area, the vastly different glimpses of the seasons against the townscape, to this vantage point, looking out upon the frozen gardens, and the abutting bogland, and feeling the same about it all…….that from that first winter of this mission, in 1977-78, to represent my host region, I have never once been disappointed, or felt in anyway limited, as to what I could reap as inspiration, from the immersion in this amazing, and tantalizing lakeland.
"Some imagine that because we live back in the woods, we must be extremely lonely, and destitute of all means of enjoyment. This is a great mistake," wrote Thomas McMurray, in 1871, published in his settlers' guide book, "Muskoka and Parry Sound."
"We would not exchange positions with our city friends."
"Here in the bush, life is found, work and play both abound, and yet strangely agree, here extremes we'd unite, here the sombre and the bright, mixed together you see; unrestrained seem to run, both the serious and fun, in the wool-picking bee." Have you been to one of these. Lost in history, you see!
By the glow of the oil lamp, in my office now, there is a strange reflection of it, and me in the window beyond. It might be frightening to some, as I appear quite malevolent, as if a ghost hovering over a desk, like the ones Ebeneezer Scrooge had to contend, so many Christmases ago. My cats don't find me particularly frightening, as I pat their tiny heads and perky ears, and the dog scratching its behind has little concern as well, and I'm relieved it's just a strange but truthful reflection……and not really a ghost at all. For if I was to come back, from the great beyond, and sit again at this desk, I doubt my wafting vapor would support, these two burdensome cats.
I feel so wonderfully alive. Now for some more mortal pleasure…..the rest of this still hot tea.
Merry Christmas to you.
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