Writing for Muskoka Today, The Hometown Advantage

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

WRITING FOR MUSKOKA TODAY WAS ALWAYS AN INTERESTING STORY IN PROGRESS BECAUSE WE WERE AT THE CENTRE OF THE COMMUNITY TRYING TO SAVE THE PAST

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

BY TED CURRIE

     In front of me now, on my cluttered desk, is my favorite art biography. I am a small time art collector and I have been researching Canadian art history for a quarter of a century. Not to write about it, but rather to become a better, more informed collector. The book? “Hot Breakfast For Sparrows - My Life With Harold Town,” written byIris Nowell, someone who shared considerable time with the Group of Eleven artist. I have read the book three times now, and I can’t really explain why I have become obsessed with this rascal of the Canadian art scene, who was highly and  irritatingly opinionated and his own biggest fan, but created many exceptional pieces of art, in paintings and sculpture, that showed an amazing maturity of Canadian art and artists far away from the work of the famed Group of Seven. But what drew me to the book originally was the knowledge that Harold’s long time friend, artist and print maker, Frank Johnston, of Gravenhurst, was the fellow who had sketched my so called boyish- roguish good looks, for the banner of my twice monthly column in Muskoka Today, owned by the father and son duo of Hugh and Mark Clairmont; two of the town’s biggest boosters and most likable characters. My column was entitled “Hometown Advantage,” and Hugh asked his old drinking buddy, Frank Johnston, if he would agree to not only sketch an image of me, but all the other columnists who donated their time to work with the Clairmonts to provide a newspaper alternative to what was being offered locally. We all had been employed in the news gathering, editorial business previously, and we all rather enjoyed being part of this low budget, big impact publication, that honestly, was the closest social / cultural heartbeat to the pulse this burg had back at the turn of the 1900’s, when a lot of good stuff was happening or about to blossom for a an exciting economic future.

     Frank Johnston, not to be confused with Frank or “Franz” Johnston of the Group of Seven, was known by Harold Town, as one of the finest print makers in all of Canada; and that’s why he and Frank worked so frequently together, to produce Harold’s famous prints. There is a photograph in the book of Johnston and Town working at the press, and it may have just been on the brink of one of the famous fights that almost became physical, but never did, and it’s most interesting to me, to have been sketched by a man with such an outstanding reputation in Canadian art; and his historic site paintings done for provinces and the federal government, are well known and revered by historical societies across the country. I didn’t know Frank well personally, but I did know his work. It used to hand in the heart of the old Sloan’s Restaurant on Muskokia Road, and his depictions of the former Muskoka Wharf were incredible; and tourist attractions by all means. That and Sloan’s famous Blueberry Pie. Frank and Hugh used to escape from society now and again, and wind up sitting in the low light of the restaurant’s “Inner Sanctum,” where the fine dining and cocktails were served; and conversation was deep, profound, and, well, in the good humor of these two good friends.

     The Christmas part of this story, is the fact that shortly after Frank had offered up the head sketches of all the columnists, and had just been published, Hugh and Mark invited us to a wonderful celebratory dinner at, what was then, I believe, still the historic Muskoka Sands resort, which of course is now “Taboo,” on the shore of Lake Muskoka at Muskoka Beach. All the workers at Muskoka Today and the volunteer writers and photographic contributors were invited to participate, and the evening was not only a memorable success, but it reminded me so much, of what was so important about the work we were doing at that publication, to expand, and extend the social / cultural hand of friendship to everyone who so fit to pick up a copy for a buck or two and issue, (although I don’t remember how much it was way back then),  and as it was Hugh’s lifetime mission to entertain and promote his hometown, we couldn’t help feeling that offering us a pay cheque to do this kind of public service task, would have been counterproductive to the already good vibe of a really inclusive publication. Working for the Clairmonts was completely stress free, which was especially important to me, after years of feeling on the razor’s edge constantly, as publishers raged to beat the competition at all costs, every issue, and every story in that issue. This particular Christmas part was memorable because of the goodwill imbedded in what was a solid, well thought-out product, that was keenly assigned to help Gravenhurst wherever and whenever it could. It was a good will venture and we loved being a part of it then; and now in memory, thinking about Frank Johnston and his work to make me look good.

HE REALLY BIG HEAD OF "A BLOGGER"

WRINKLES AND ALL, FRANK JOHNSTON PUT A FACE TO THE WORDS, AND ALL WAS REVEALED

  

   

THE PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

     As you know, if you have read my blogs for any length of time, over the past few months at least, you would recognize the name of Frank Johnston, as having been, one of Muskoka's best known artist / print makers. His amazing watercolors, of heritage scenes of steamboats and trains, at the old Muskoka wharf, used to hang in Sloan's Restaurant, here on Muskoka Road; the must-visit place for vacationers, for decades, to buy the best tasting blueberry pies in the whole wide world. Even before we moved south to Gravenhurst, from Bracebridge, we would take regular Sunday drives to Gull Lake Park, and then make a stop at Sloan's for a plate of french fries and a milkshake; but mostly, to sit beneath the amazing original watercolors, Johnston had painted at his studio on Hughson Street, a few blocks south of the restaurant. I am so pleased in this regard, that my old writing colleague, and publisher, Hugh Clairmont conned his buddy, Frank Johnston, to create pen sketches of each of his new columnists, for the newly launched twice-monthly feature publication, known as "Muskoka Today." I just found the sketch he did for my column, the other night, quite by accident, and I asked Suzanne, my technical nerd, if she could "blow up my head," on her glowing tablet that seems to be glued to her hand, for use on my Thursday blog. Last night, if you tuned in instead of watching Letterman, you'll know I used a smaller version of the portrait, tucked into a press review of Ross Brewitt's book, from a few years back, that he had used for his media kits, he toted around to book signing events. So what do you think of this big, beautiful, artist rendered head? Keeping in mind I was younger, still had more than a fringe of hair, and a lot fewer wrinkles, furrowed on my brow from my constant disagreements with local town council. Other than that, it looks like I'd be able to walk right off the flickering white page, of this online site, and sit down on your sofa with you. Of course, I'd just be a head bouncing along, but what the hell. I could still eat popcorn if you fed it to me.

     I've been thinking a lot, over the past few weeks, about what I considered the good old days of local journalism. I'm now on the proverbial hair's breadth of sixty years of age, which is quite a surprise for two reasons. I thought I was turning fifty-six, so I feel cheated out of four good years. Secondly, I didn't think I'd make it to thirty let alone sixty, and this would have been agreed upon by four ex-girlfriends, who thought my wild lifestyle was burning the candle, so to speak, at both ends and through the middle. My mother issued me with a thousand warnings, from infancy, that I would perish before my time, if for example, I didn't wear a hat when it was cold, brush my teeth twelve times a day, didn't eat apples daily, and drink gallons of milk. I would also surely die if I didn't change my socks and underwear daily, and continued to listen to rock 'n roll, that apparently was going to rot my soul from the inside out. My mother was fiercely superstitious, so if she saw me step on a crack on the sidewalk, she accused me of wishing her dead. I tried not to violate her in this way, and live past thirty, by adopting at least half of her beliefs, because they made perfect sense. I've been eating fresh vegetables and fruit for years, and to make everyone happy around me, I swore-off swinging on chandeliers, the result of too much booze. Merle hated that I drank, with the press corp, and Suzanne was thrilled about it either, leaving me many times in the tavern with my drunken cronies, so for peace in the family, I stopped. Then, I gained a huge amount of weight, from drinking fruit juices and diet cola. Hey, point is, I've made it this far, defying Nick the Greek's odds, which placed me at 100 to 1 longshot, that I would ever achieve elder statesman status. For those who placed money on the safe side of this bet, by golly, it looks like I'm going to hit sixty with jingle bells on; versus what some believed, would instead, involve me, in the spiritual sense, pushing up daisies in some potter's field. I'll be writing this blog until I die, or so I say! The image of me, sketched by Frank Johnston, puts me in the same sort of enchanted frame, I suppose, as the main character of the classic movie, "Dorion Gray," such that I will never age beyond my portrait's true exhibition, straight from the artist's hand, which I have with considerable affection, entitled, "Old Teddy's still in the prime of his life; ready for the next century's wine, women and song!"

     I think Suzanne wishes I hadn't found this portrait by Johnston, that I had stored away in a mountain of archive letters and documents, in a dusty alcove at Birch Hollow. She knows I had a lot of fun back then, working with some great characters in the Muskoka media, and wonders if this glimpse of youth will influence me to get all crazy again, and try to rejoin the press corp, or the French Foreign Legion, if that still exists. Ah, heck, that's all behind me, as I become a responsible adult, and come closer to senior citizen status, and all the discounts maturity warrants. I do however, still live vicariously through this image of a former columnist, who was hanging around with hockey stars, leading sports writers, high flying business types, community movers and shakers, and rising political stars, who, well, used to buy me drinks. A lot of drinks. As if I could be bought! For food, yes! I was a sell-out for a good burger. Yup, I guess Frank was being generous to me, by smoothing quite a few of the wrinkles, that came along, the result of unspecified hard living, and harder reporting, on those stories I thought were big and dangerous, but great for career enhancement. Instead, I look at my portrait as being the face of innocence, about what trials and tribulations lurked in the bushes ahead. Suzanne reminded me about what Charles Dickens wrote, about his characterization of "Ebeneezer Scrooge," in his book, "A Christmas Carol," being the wretched face of "covetous old sinner." I argued back that I am in no way "covetous." I can live with the "sinner," reference. Hey, it's just nice to have such a youthful, vibrant-looking reminder, of what a talented artist saw in me, wild-eyed as I was, in those early days as a starving artist; a writer with a lot of unexplored opportunities laying ahead, a few dead soldiers (empty bottles) still taking up space in the cupboard; as compared to the jaded old bastard, I see today, when I look in the mirror, to see if I have aged since Frank popularized me for readers. Which by the way, was back in the mid 1990's.

     I have very few early records of my columns, and feature articles, dating back to my first column in the Bracebridge Examiner, on antiques and collectables, published in 1978, especially, because I got into a wicked-mood a few years back, (the "I hate" being a writer jag, which happens on the occasion of every fourth-north-moon) and began recycling the mountain of back copies, I had been keeping for unspecified posterity. Suzanne wanted me to clip out the articles I wanted, instead of keeping the newspapers intact; which I had originally thought was good idea, until my shed filled to the rafters, and the mice were building palaces out of the shredded newsprint from a thousand back copies. I have only had one other column-head, from a former issue of Muskoka Today, and Suzanne accidentally threw it out with a lot of my other alleged paper junk, which included many personal notes, and phone numbers I really, really needed. It might not seem a big deal, to find this portrait, (not to mention how it probably illustrates me as an ego-maniac to re-run it here) stashed away in a pile Suzanne hadn't previously raided, in the cause of good housekeeping, but to me, it will bring back memories of what artist Frank Johnston meant to this little town; and to all of us art and history loving citizens, who he made very happy, for so many years. Our family dined at Sloan's Restaurant for three reasons back in those halcyon days. We loved Frank Johnston's art work for one. Secondly, it's where we would meet up with Civil War historian, Tom Brooks, and thirdly, well, it was always great to connect with resident diner, Hugh Clairmont, holding court in the restaurant's fine dining room, known as the "Inner Sanctum."  The food? Of course. But there was a culture to consider, and these folks inspired it for me; and it's how I learned my history lessons about our new hometown.

     Suzanne tolerates me looking at myself in this vain fashion, but only for so long. I think I've crested in this regard, so take one last look, at the young Ted Currie, who despite the magic of a great artist, can't really defy aging by wishful thinking.