The Historic Diary Of Granny Bowers Of The Fraserburg Road Part 1

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE DIARY OF GRANNY BOWERS -

A MUSKOKA HISTORY LESSON THAT HAS NEARLY BEEN FORGOTTEN

WHAT HARDSHIPS DID MUSKOKA RESIDENTS FACE - WAY BACK WHEN

     A preamble to today’s post.

     By Ted Currie

     When I was a kid, a city refugee, newly transplanted in the Town of Bracebridge, where my father worked in the lumber industry, we often took scenic drives around the region to see and experience what we had been missing in all the years we lived in the city. One of my dad’s regular stops was at the fascinating and historic St. Peter’s Anglican Church on Fraserburg Road. The tiny log church was open to visitors, and we would enter the building, and content ourselves for a few moments, sitting in the few number of pews that filled the tiny but significant church on the hill. What was strange to me then, was that the only time “Christ” or “Jesus Christ,” was uttered in the Currie family residence, was when Ed nearly electrocuted himself trying to fix a small appliance, or when my mother found out she only had one cigarette left and the corner store was closed. Here then were both my parents, who certainly were not at that point, church-goers or even potential church-goers, sitting looking up at the alter as if they for those moments, actually wanted to participate in an actual church service. I was probably at that church fifty or more times over the next decade, and then I kept attending the site for photographs for our Muskoka Publication newspapers; especially popular were the ones taken with the full autumn colors wreathing the tiny log structure. I just new the basic history of the church but nothing about the benefactor who, in death, helped in its creation. Granny Bowers. The church, by the way, was recently re-located to the Bracebridge Agricultural Fairgrounds, off Highway II, at the Fraserburg Road overpass. It was deemed necessary for its future heritage conservation, to be better placed amongst other vintage buildings at the park property. Granny Bowers would probably be disappointed by the move, although she was most concerned that her life and faith would leave a mark on the world as it was then, and even though the building was moved for its own welfare, I think she might have been concessionary in this regard, to its lasting memorial purpose. She had lived a hard life beyond what most of us can possibly understand in the Muskoka of today. She lived for many years alone and counted so much on the kindness of her neighbors, especially the kindly fathers from the Society of St. John the Evangelist, who would come to visit her on their mission work along the Fraserburg Road. Yet it is not an important relic of Muskoka’s social / cultural heritage because it is a sad, truly sad story of survival against the odds. It’s a brief biography that clearly depicts what it was like for many citizens, through the generations, trying to eke out a living in a region known for its limited Human Resources. Sometimes I get annoyed with those who write about the poverty in Muskoka, as it prevails in the present tense, as if this is a manifestation of the modern era; without full appreciation that poverty was a fact of life from the very first settlers who attempted to carve out farmsteads from the thick regional woods, based not just on free land grants, but on the promises of  prosperity being made by government land agents, who most definitely exaggerated the potentials of the natural resources, right down to the availability of wild game and abundant fish harvesting. Granny Bowers and her family believed, in a later settlement period, that this region was as close to the “milk and honey” character, as they could hope to ind anywhere in the province.  They weren’t the first or the last to over-estimate the good qualities of their new home neighborhood. 

     WHO WAS GRANNY BOWERS? OF WHAT IMPORTANCE WAS SHE TO THE SOCIAL /CULTURAL HISTORY OF MUSKOKA?  WHY DOES SHE DESERVE PRAISE FOR HER COURAGE, WHICH WAS, AFTERALL, ONLY A PARALLEL TO MANY OTHER RURAL FAMILIES THAT HAD TO SUFFER THROUGH YEARS OF HARSH PRIVATION AND CASUALTY, THE RESULT OF INADEQUATE LIVING ARRANGEMENTS. GRANNY BOWERS WAS A SURVIVOR OF UNYIELDING GOOD FAITH, AND A LOT OF SCHOLARLY FOLKS THOUGHT THE SAME. THEY HAVE SHOWN RESPECT FOR HER CAPABILITIES TO SURVIVE CATASTROPHE, COMPOUNDING HARDSHIP TO HER FAMILY, AND THE CEASELESS FETTERING OF POVERTY,  IT'S A STORY I WANT TO SHARE WITH YOU, FROM A BOOK PUBLISHED IN THE NINETEEN FORTIES, BY THE SOCIETY OF SAINT JOHN THE EVANGELIST, IN BRACEBRIDGE. IT IS A STORY ABOUT PERSONAL HARDSHIP IN THE MUSKOKA WILDS, AND FAITH IN GOD. IT IS ALSO THE HISTORY OF A LITTLE LOG CHURCH ON THE FRASERBURG ROAD, THAT GRANNY BOWERS HAD A HAND IN ESTABLISHING. THE BOOKLET IS VERY RARE AND MY COPY IS STARTING TO FAIL. IT'S A STORY I DON'T WANT LOST IN THE SEA OF NEW LOCAL HISTORIES, BECAUSE IT IS AN IMPORTANT SOCIAL AND MORAL HISTORY, AND A REFLECTION OF JUST HOW DIFFICULT IT WAS TO SETTLE IN SUCH ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES, WHERE THERE WAS MORE FOREST THAN OPEN GROUND FOR GROWING CROPS. HERE IS A START TO THE STORY OF GRANNY BOWERS. THE BOOK WAS PURCHASED AT A CHARITY AUCTION IN GRAVENHURST A FEW YEARS AGO.

     THE INTRODUCTION HAS BEEN PROVIDED BY THE SSJE, PUBLISHERS OF THE BOOK, AND THE FATHERS WHO CONDUCTED THE SERVICES AT ST. PETER'S ANGLICAN CHURCH, ON THE FRASERBURG ROAD. IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE LITTLE LOG BUILDING, MAKE IT A POINT TO VISIT SOME TIME SOON. I'LL GET YOU STARTED ON THE GUIDED TOUR, BY FIRST VISITING THE BIOGRAPHY OF GRANNY BOWERS.

1942 BRACEBRIDGE

BY FATHER ROLAND PALMER, SSJE.

     "One day, soon after we came to Bracebridge, one of the Fathers was walking out to Purbrook, a Mission, about twelve miles away. It was snowing hard. Presently a team of horses and sleigh caught up with him. A pleasant voice called out ' Want a ride, Father?' He looked up to see Mrs. CPreriddiford, who drove the mail from Fraserburg to Bracebridge and back three times a week. With her was Mrs. Leslie Leeder, a neighbor. The Father replied that he would like a ride, but wondered where he could sit. With all their coats the two good women seemed to fill the only seat. The back of the sleigh was full of mail bags, lengths of stove-pipe, bags of flour and cans of coal oil for people along the road. The kind women pushed over and made room, so that. by putting a timid arm around one of them the Father could stay aboard.

     "We talked of many things as we jogged along, everything from cakes to cancer operations. Every now and then Mrs. Criddiford would blow and blast on her whistle and a youngster would run out from a farmhouse to claim the groceries that she had bought for the family in town. Presently we drew in from the road to a tiny one roomed shack. It was almost dark. The door opened and in the faint light we saw a dear little old lady with apple cheeks and a little round straw hat on her head. 'I haven't got anything for you, Granny, but I just wanted to be sure you were all right.' We drove on. That old lady is Church of England,' said Mrs. Criddiford.

     Father Palmer continues, "It did not take us long to get to know Granny Bowers. She had recently moved to the tiny shack after being burnt out of her home near Falkenburg (north of Bracebridge). She was a churchwoman and missed the services she had attended so regularly at Falkenburg. We began taking her the Holy Communion from time to time. You would arrive with the Blessed Sacrament, which she liked to receive at an early hour, fasting. She had no clock, so sometimes you would knock on the door and she would reply, 'Bless Me! Is it eight o'clock already? You'll have to sit on the step, my boy, until I get my clothes on.' She would dress and open the door. The one room contained a bed, two chairs, a table, a stove and an old cupboard. She spread her only cloth and took her seat at the North end. The Priest laid out the Communion things. Granny followed the service in her big Prayer Book. She read it all aloud - Absolution, Consecration, and Blessing. It meant a lot to her.

     "She depended on water from the roof or from the bottom of the gravel pit. A neighbor boy brought her a pail of drinking water each day. She had a neat little garden where she raised her potatoes and other vegetables. When her son was very ill she begged the fathers to go and annoint him. She had read about it in St. James Epistle. She often said, 'I wish there was a little church I could go to.' At that time no one else in the neighborhood was friendly toward us. 'I have an idea,' said Granny. 'That some day there will be a church on that there rock.' Only once did she get to go to Church. We took her to Vankoughnet for the Confirmation. She was most impressed at 'All those young things giving themselves to God.' She saw the Bishop's staff and asked, 'What was that there pole he carried?' One day dear Mrs. Criddiford, who is the mainstay of the United Church in Fraserburg, came to tell us that Granny was very ill. Father Serson hurried out with the reserved Sacrament. Granny's daughter, herself an old woman, who had come to care for her, said, 'I'm sorry, Mother cannot take the Sacrament. She don't know nobody.' But Granny could. As Father Serson gave her the Sacrement and a few minutes later she died. She knew we would come and she had waited for her viaticum, her food for the journey.

     "Only a few weeks had gone by after her death when quite suddenly the district opened up to us. Mr. Herbert Shire, offered his house for services. Soon a church had to be built. On Granny's rock a lovely little log building was erected and called St. Peter's. It cost very little, for it was made out of an old log stable that the men took down and moved. A generation of children had grown up in that little Church. Many of them are in the King's forces (Second World War) today. There is a very faithful congregation and a fine band of communicants. We believe that as soon as Granny saw her Savior she began to talk about 'That there rock. There should be a church on it.' And we think the Master said, 'Well, if the good soul wants it so badly, give it to her.'

     "We had often heard Granny tell of her experiences. Last winter (1941), her favorite grandchild came to live near St. Peter's. She produced an exercise book in which was written down Granny Bower's own account of her life." (Reverend Roland Palmer)

    Granny Bowers' biography in her own words, begins with the paragraph, "I was sitting here in my little cottage in peace and quietness, and I thought to pass the time, I would write my little story. My thoughts go back to my early life and I wondered if you would like to hear of my hardships, I had to endure in the early pioneering days of Muskoka."

    She writes, "Young people today do not believe these things and so I feel it's not much use telling them. But old folks like myself love to talk over old times together and I sometimes long to be someone of my own age for a really good talk. I am eighty-three years of age. I have six children living, about thirty grandchildren and twenty-five great grand children. I will tell you first about my father. He lived in England when he was young with his parents and one brother, and his father worked in the coal mines. When father was seventeen years old his parents put him to learn the lawyer business. He was three years at that when his boss was shot while fighting a duel and was killed. He went home then and remained there till he was twenty-one.

    The journal continues, "About this time his father died and the property was divided. My father took his portion in money and soon after crossed over to the state of Maine where he completed a course of learning in the doctor's business. Not long after this the Napoleonic War broke out. Father was called upon to offer his services and was with Lord Nelson when he died. In the year 1815 was the Battle of Waterloo and Father also was doctor there. It was not long then till England sent out a band of explorers to explore the North West and father went with them also. He was about forty years of age then and about that time he was married to my mother, a farmer's daughter. They lived there out West till the lower Canadian Rebellion broke out then moved to Quebec, where they stopped a short time. By this time they had twelve children.

     "From Quebec they went to Alliston and drawed farms. The remainder of their children were born there, having twenty in all, eight sons and twelve daughters, of which I was the next to the youngest. The four eldest boys soon were settled on farms of their own. Then father died in 1879 being 83 years old and mother managed the farm till her death eight years later. When she died the place went to the three youngest sons. As was stated in my father's will that any who left the farm, would forfeit any claim to the estate, so when one of the boys left, there was just two to share it. Father gave two sons property in Nebraska near Elkhorn City and one of the remaining boys went to them, leaving one on the homestead. He was married to a fine good woman and had seven sons and four daughters who were reared in plenty. The sons received good trades and two of the girls became high school teachers. Several of the boys went west and settled on good farms and were very thrifty."

    

THE JOURNAL OF GRANNY BOWERS - A LIFE OF HARDSHIP - A LIFE OF FAITH

A MUSKOKA HISTORY GEM, FEW KNOW ABOUT TODAY

     ON ONE OF THE FIRST LOCAL SIGHTSEEING VENTURES,  SHORTLY AFTER OUR FAMILY MOVED TO BRACEBRIDGE, BACK IN THE WINTER OF 1966, MY FATHER ED, DROVE US A SHORT DISTANCE OUT THE FRASERBURG ROAD, FOR A STOP AT ST. PETER'S ANGLICAN CHURCH. IT'S UNMISTAKABLE, BECAUSE OF ITS LOG CONSTRUCTION, AND THE FACT THE STRUCTURE IS PERCHED ON A ROCK KNOLL SITUATED SO BEAUTIFULLY AMONGST THE EVERGREENS. I IMAGINE IT IS ONE OF THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED SITES IN THE WHOLE REGION. MY DAD TOOK PHOTOGRAPHS OF MY MOTHER AND I, ON THE STEPS UP TO THE TINY CHURCH, WITH OUR OLD BROWNIE CAMERA......THE BOX WITH FILM THAT TRAVELLED THOUSANDS OF MILES ON OUR VACATIONS.....AND THANKS TO MY FATHER'S LACK OF KNOWLEDGE ABOUT SUCH THINGS AS COMPOSITION, AND PROPER HANDLING OF THE CAMERA, THERE WAS ALWAYS A TELL-TALE SILHOUETTE OF A THUMB IN THE CORNER OF ALMOST EVERY IMAGE.

     THE STORY OF GRANNY BOWERS IS TIED INTO THIS LITTLE LOG CHURCH, AND IT WAS BUILT FOLLOWING HER DEATH, FROM TIMBERS SCAVENGED FROM AN OLD FARM SHED. TO HER LAST BREATH, SHE HAD HOPED FOR A CHURCH UP ON THE HILL, ACROSS FROM HER HUMBLE ABODE. YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO YESTERDAY'S BLOG TO CATCH-UP ON THE JOURNAL ENTRIES BY GRANNY BOWERS AND FATHER ROLAND PALMER OF THE SOCIETY OF ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST, THE PUBLISHER OF THE SMALL BOOKLET IN 1942. WE RESUME THE STORY:

     "I can remember when I was a young girl long years ago. I was one of a happy family who lived on a farm in Alliston. I was healthy and strong. I could enjoy life. I remember when I used to get up at five in the morning to watch the sun rise and in the cool of the evening I liked to go to the little river and fish. It was more for a pastime as I never cared for fish to eat. After father died, mother took his place in doctoring and nursing the people. She freely gave her help to all suffering humanity and was always ready to go whenever called. She used to drive to Toronto about three times in the winter to buy her summer's provisions. She would take loads of pork, butter and fowls all the way to sell. Pork at that time was $4.50 a hundred weight for the best. It took one day to go from our home in Alliston to Holland Landing, stop there and return home the next day. My brothers hauled their wheat to Bradford in winter along with the other farmers. That was the nearest market. They would take about three loads a week and about forty bushel a load. The trip from Alliston to Bradford was a distance of about 36 miles so they had to rest the horses every other day.

     She writes, "I used to help my brothers clean the wheat for market. We had a good farm and grew a great quantity of grain. The people in those times had big tin horns to call the men to dinner. When the women would blow the horn the men would hear at the far end of the farm about a mile away. I would take great pride in being the first one to blow my horn, which was usually 11:30 and was generally thought to be the smartest girl but am not much use now at the age of 83. The people in those times used to plan to have land cleared, and cut down acres of trees and underbrush. In the fall of the year at home, they would cut down about twelve or fourteen acres at a time and all with the axe. Wood was of no value then when the country was just opening up, so they piled it in the fallows and burnt it. They generally left about one acre of standing timber on each farm for wood and the rest was all cleared.

     "The farmers each year cleared land for the next year. In September and October they piled all the underbrush in winrows and left the gib trees to be felled in the winter. The next spring about the 24th of May or 1st of June when the brush was dry, they went with a torch on the windside of the winrows and lit up the brush heaps. In about half an hour the whole thing would be in flames as high as the tree tops. Then when the fire cooled down the men came with the oxen and piled up the logs, and in the evening they burnt them. These they would burn two or three days before they cooled down, then the remains were branded up again and continued in this way till all was burnt and the earth was nice, soft clay loam. Then about the 15th of September they planted their fall wheat, with grass seed. Next year they cut the grain and the following year had a good crop of high timothy hay. They had fires all over the country then as all the farmers were doing the same. We had a log barn to store our hay and grain until the last summer, I was at home when they put up a good frame barn and that year both were well filled.

     "Two years after father died when I was little more than sixteen years of age, I was married. Then my misfortunes commenced. We had five sons and three daughters and had to work very hard to support them. My husband could drink all the money he and I both earned. He wanted children but would not provide for them. This made it very hard for me after being used to plenty. When we were a year and ten months married, our first child was born. About that time pioneers were settling in Muskoka, and my husband went to see the country too, thinking he would make a home for us there. He liked the country fine and so came home to get us. His brother drove us out there with his horses. It was the 21st of January when we started. We went from Alliston to Price's Corners the first day. From there to Michael Bowers near Severn Bridge, about noon the next day, and to Gravenhurst that day and stopped there for the night. We lived in with some other settlers till our shanty was put up. The virgin forest stood at that time untouched by the hand of man. Huntsville was a trading post and there was no railway accommodation north of Barrie. We were not long hewing out a site for our home and we soon settled. That spring my second child arrived and that summer and fall my husband got work helping to cut a road through five miles of bush. The job lasted three or four months, the men were very glad to get the work then as they needed the money to hep them along, but they didn't get much. It was ninety cents a day and board themselves.

     She records that, "As there was no more work when that job was done, we decided to go back to Alliston as the best thing to do, so we started next morning. We walked to Gravenhurst the first day, about 20 miles, and carried the two children and two small bundles and stopped at a hotel for the night. The next morning there were cadge teams returning from a trip up north so we had a ride with them as far as Orillia, about three miles. There were two teams, one to a market sleigh, the other a jumper sleigh. The man who drove the jumper was drunk and not able to manage his horses so he offered my man a free ride if he would drive the team. The other man was boss of the two teams and he charged me $1.50 for myself and the children to ride with him. We got to a half way roadhouse near the Kashe (River). When we arrived here they had to stop and feed the teams. The men also refreshed themselves with a few glasses of beer. My man was feeling pretty good and was not able to manage the horses; as a consequence the horses left the jumper and men sprawling in the snow. The boss left the jumper by the side of the road and assisted the men to get on the horses's backs, and they came along behind us. But the horses were very poor and they had no saddles, and the men were shouting that they wanted a drawing knife to cut the hubbles off the horse's backs.

     We arrived at the next town near night and put up at a hotel. In the morning the children and myself went in the stage to Barrie. My husband said he would walk and arrive there about 3 p.m. He told us where to stay at a hotel till he came along, and he paid the stage driver $1.50 for our fare. It happened the hotel keeper had left and another (stranger to me) was keeping it. Well, I went into the bar room and told the keeper, if a man called inquiring for a woman and two children that he was able to tell him I was waiting in the sitting room. But as it happened there was another man in the bar room when my man arrived, and when he asked for us, the man knew nothing about us. My man then went to another hotel to enquire but could get no word, so he walked the streets till night and gave up looking. He thought I had got a good chance of a ride and went on, so he engaged a room for himself in a hotel and went to bed. I didn't know what could have happened. I thought he must have been drinking again. I had no money and could not get a bed anywhere, so waited in the sitting room till midnight. I began to think we would soon be turned out when they locked up for the night. We were both tired and hungry as we had not had anything to eat, and to think my man was sleeping peacefully in the hotel across the corner. One of my neighbors was at the hotel and was passing the sitting room door when he saw me. He said my man was alright as he had seen him, so he went across the street and found him for me, and he came over so we went to his hotel for the night. We had a bite to eat and a good rest as we were very tired. In the morning we had another lunch in our room and left Barrie carrying the children to Thornton which took all day. We were short of money so had to walk. We went in to get warm and got permission to stay all night but the mistress was very cross and ugly so we travelled on, and didn't stop till we arrived at Cookstown and it took us till bed time."

     I will rejoin the journal penned by Granny Bowers, in tomorrow's blog. Please join me for the conclusion of this compelling pioneering tale. It gets much more interesting. She was a tough lady, with strong convictions and enduring faith in God's goodwill.

Wayland Drew Was A Literary Mentor At A Time When I Needed The Confidence To Put Name To Poetry

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

AFTER ALL THIS TIME, AND ALL THE INTERESTING AND ACCOMPLISHED FOLKS I’VE MET, I WILL NEVER FORGET THE ENCOURAGEMENT TO WRITE THAT CAME FROM AUTHOR WAYLAND DREW

     Preamble to today’s post:

 By Ted Currie

     In a letter I received, many years ago, from well known Canadian Writer, John Robert Colombo, regarding a paranormal based series of articles, of which he was collaborating with me on, for publication in The Muskoka Sun, he commented about one of the sample editorial pieces I had sent him earlier, suggesting that my writing was very similar to what he knew of his acquaintance, Wayland “Buster” Drew. I can remember staring at that letter for ten minutes, dumbfounded by this unbelievable credit to me, which, by the way, I don’t believe I deserved. Robert did not know that I had been a friend of Wayland’s for quite a few years by that point, and that I considered him one of my most important mentors in the writing profession. He also didn’t know that Wayland had only recently passed away in Bracebridge after a lengthy illness. I still have that note tucked away in my most intimate file of correspondence, because it was about the highest honor I could expect as a writer, because Wayland wasn’t just an ordinary journeyman wordsmith. This hugely accomplished gentleman was never condescending in conversation when it involved an oversight of someone else’s literary efforts, and he was always encouraging when it came to the advice he gave his students. While I was never taught by Wayland, I did have a professional relationship with him, via our mutual interests in the establishment of the Bracebridge Historical Society, and the eventual opening of Woodchester Villa and Museum. I became an editor with the local press, under the banner of Muskoka Publications, and Wayland taught at Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. We communed regularly in the early development of the museum project, and I was only too thrilled to be his recording secretary for even a short period, as the executive was soon expanded as more needs arose in society administration.

     When I sit down to write something or other for this site, I very seldom ever do so without thinking about Wayland and his own passion to embrace creativity, and to pursue any number of writing projects that appealed to his future mindedness. I wasn’t his groupie, or a self professed Wayland Drew clone. I was a colleague and he treated me with the full respect of a colleague. I never felt I deserved his attention when it came to writing, but he would offer praise anyway, giving the fledgling writer the kind of positive encouragement, that honestly, kept me from tossing my typewriter into the weekly trash. On many occasions, I did entertain this idea, but the damn thing was too heavy for the refuse collectors, and as it had been a gift from my parents years earlier, I would just snap the carriage back with a substantial clack, and agree to never touch the keyboard again. Wayland didn’t discourage re-evaluation, but never would have suggested a prolonged hiatus from what I so obviously enjoyed. Of course I pay homage to this talented author, because so many times in my past, it’s what kept me coming back to either the old typewriter, or this electronic keyboard, to carry on what I had begun when he was watching over my shoulder to see if I had what it takes to make writing a lasting thing.

     It’s true, I did not dedicate  “The Birch Hollow Antique Press,” during its launch, to his casual mentorship, way back when my publishing credits were thin at best, but suffice to say, that if it had not been for the influences of this gentleman, in my early forays with ink and paper, I know I wouldn’t have re-instated even that first typewriter, back to work, when it was last abandoned as the vehicle of “a lost cause,” and certainly an apparent “fool’s errand,” of which I could not continue to justify as anything more than an occasional recreation. He seemed to know when I was feeling overwhelmed by my own cruel appraisal - of being seriously short of talent for the aspirations I possessed. He didn’t have to say much at all, to convince me that the test of the profession, was how criticism was handled and overcome for more positive results. He didn’t offer praise lightly. But when he did, well, it was as if he was able to reach into the soul and yank it back in place to, as they say, fight another day. He was a mentor, enough said.   

What I learned from author-historian Wayland Drew

I believe it was the winter of 1978. The first meeting of the soon-to-be Bracebridge Historical Society, was unofficially held at the home of well known Canadian author Wayland Drew. It was a meeting between a citizen, this writer, who was interested in preserving an historic building in the Town of Bracebridge, (an octagonal home constructed in the 1880’s by former woolen mill owner Henry Bird)……and the second party, at the informal meeting, Mr. Drew, was in my mind, a writer-historian of considerable national reputation, (eg. the landmark text entitled, “Superior, The Haunted Shore.”) That’s correct. I’m so very proud to write that Wayland and I made up the first full planning meeting of the soon to be elected historical society. As an aspiring writer, I was in awe that he would give me a private audience to discuss the possibility of forming a local historical society, to implement a conservation strategy to save Woodchester Villa (the Bird House). I had been attempting to drum up support for a citizen-driven initiative to create a community museum, and Wayland must have thought I had at least a spark of credibility to follow through on the project. He called me over to his house for a discussion about all the possibilities of saving this particular Victorian era home. We worked well together and our plans merged to give rise to a new historical preservation group, and eventually, with a huge commitment of citizen involvement, a newly restored town museum would open on that pinnacle of land above the cataract of Bracebridge Falls. My first position was “Recording Secretary,” which I conducted poorly, but rebounded some years later as President and then site manager. Much of the credit goes to Wayland for negotiating so well for the Historical Society generally, and always being its ambassador.

This editorial segment is not a biographical study of my writer-associate, Wayland Drew, or a re-telling of the work of the Bracebridge Historical Society. There is a story about Wayland I have often repeated in environmental presentations ever since, about the importance of listening and learning from expertise. And while we might all believe we’re the best experts we’ve ever met, I was to learn up close and personal how little I knew about the bigger picture of conservation. This is a story that’s of great importance to this on-line inventory of blog editorials because it is at the root of every entry in one way or another.

Several years into the museum’s operation, a situation arose with the town about the necessity of removing numerous large trees lining the old laneway at the front of Woodchester. If memory serves, the problem was that if any emergency vehicle had required access to the building, via this riverside route, the narrow artery would not allow safe, unobstructed passage particularly for the larger fire-fighting equipment. It probably was the case as well that the large border trees would cause great difficulty for snow removal, important for emergency vehicle access as well. The town public works department had recommended the removal of those trees that limited the width of the driveway, and the recommendation did not sit well with Wayland and several others. At the time Wayland was no longer a director of the Historical Society, but was part of a delegation that attended to object to the cutting.

I sat as a voting director.

As I recall now, Wayland made a sensible, balanced, gentle argument to spare the trees by making accommodations with a rear parking area, offering adequate clearance for the larger emergency vehicles. I don’t remember all the details of that lengthy afternoon meeting, except that I acted as the part of “ass” very well. I shot down Wayland without mercy, suggesting that emergency services access to all corners of the site greatly outweighed the scenic splendor of a few large evergreens to be expended. He wasn’t against making provisions for emergency services in numerous other ways, including carving out some of the embankment, all alternatives being well thought out and workable I might add. He was adamant the trees, having been there for a good part of a century, and being an important part of the Woodchester and Muskoka ambience, deserved to be spared the teeth of the industrial strength chainsaw.

I have no idea now what really generated my opposition to alternatives that would spare the trees. I know it was largely a case of ignorance on my part, and a general immaturity, that I would ever have challenged someone who made such a sensible, researched, community minded presentation. I can still recall the shocked look on his face when I cast forward a resounding reprimand for even thinking about any compromise that would limit entrance to the property; and that afterall, “they’re just trees…..they’ll grow back.” I had shown great disrespect to a person who I had always admired in both historical preservation and conservation of the environment. I voted against the conservation of those trees but the good news is my position wasn’t on the winning side. I believe a compromise was reached and although some trees may have been removed, (I don’t remember exactly the reduced cull), Wayland’s argument made sense to the group at large. Although Wayland never said a word about my indifference to the matter of Woodchester’s natural heritage, he didn’t have to say anything at all. It was an awkwardness in our conservations from that point on but always the result of the unfortunate weight of my own conscience. I should have been wise enough to realize that if Wayland Drew had thought it important enough to interrupt his busy day to discuss several trees in peril, it must be a landmark situation deserving the most clear thinking appraisal in response.

A short time before Wayland passed away, after a lengthy illness, we found ourselves both sitting comfortably in the cool shade of a perfect summer day, during a writer’s gathering held ironically at Woodchester Villa. It was a modest, unplanned homecoming to Woodchester, dealing with writing this time, not history, with nary a chainsaw rattle within ear-shot. I took a turn at the podium to read one of my short stories and following the presentation, Wayland left his seat to congratulate me on the subject of my recitation, a fellow writer, (and student from Bracebridge High School) named Paul Rimstead, well known Toronto Sun columnist who had died a short while earlier. It seemed Wayland and I agreed upon the great talent of the “Rimmer,” and that the world would be disadvantaged without his daily barbs and insights.

At the time Wayland knew his life was being seriously shortened, and as it turned out this was the last time I would talk to this amazing, talented gentleman. I can remember wanting so badly to offer a sincere, belated apology for the great tree-debate of once but foolish pride got in the path of an honest, heartfelt regret. I let him walk away without clearing my conscience about a ill-conceived, childish stubbornness that very nearly cost this beautiful tree-lined property even more of its historic, natural charm.

I have attempted many times since Wayland’s death to make amends with the issue, as if expended ink can make up for what I didn’t accomplish in person. Wayland’s passionate appeal for environmental conservation did however, over so many decades of re-consideration, generate within this writer the first and enduring interest to get involved, and speak out about the reckless destruction of forests, the infilling of wetlands, and the damning realities of urban sprawl across the entire Muskoka hinterland.

I wish I had listened more patiently to the sage advisories of the good Mr. Drew. He wasn’t wrong, and his concerns were just as valid then as today. I seldom if ever visit a Muskoka woodland for a hike, that I don’t tribute the experience and enjoyment, in some way, to the inspiration I received from a true friend of Muskoka. My only wish, as a writer, is that I could one day be as effective and enlightened an author, as the man who challenged me to take up the pen in the first place.

Thank you Wayland Drew. The experiences you shared have not been forgotten, the lessons you taught have not diminished; your passion to protect the environment, is the passion now carried forth by your students.

A GOOD BOOK? THE WORK OF A GOOD WRITER! IT'S WHAT MAKES IT TRULY COLLECTABLE, SIGNED OR NOT

CRAGGANMORE? "DRAGONSLAYER," THE BOOK -

     EVERY GENERATION HAS ITS HEROES. FOLKS WE BELIEVE TO BE MODELS OF CIVILITY, AND BEACONS OF INSPIRATION. EVERY PERSON, HAS, OVER A LIFE-TIME, LONG OR SHORT, FOUND SOMEONE TO LOOK UP TO, OUT OF RESPECT. I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE, TO HAVE ASKED OUT LOUD, AFTER A MENTOR'S DEATH, "WELL THEN, WHAT'S LIFE ALL ABOUT ANYWAY?" IS IT JUST ABOUT UNSPECIFIED GAINS AND LOSSES, SHORT FRIENDSHIPS AND INTIMATE RELATIONS, BUT MOSTLY A SUCCESSION OF FAREWELLS? AT TIMES, FOR ME RECENTLY, THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT MORE FAREWELLS THAN FOND GREETINGS. I SUPPOSED I'VE REACHED THAT PLATEAU IN LIFE, ON THE BRINK OF BEING CONSIDERED A SENIOR CITIZEN, WHEN THESE DEPARTURES ARE EXPECTED BE MORE FREQUENT; AT LEAST ACCORDING TO NATIONAL STATISTICS. AND WHILE I RESPECT, THAT NOT EVERY MENTOR WHO HAS EVER LIVED, DESERVES A STATUE IN THE PARK, FOR PIGEONS TO PERCH ON, OR A BRASS PLAQUE FASTENED TO A PARK BENCH, I GET FRUSTRATED THAT THE CONTRIBUTIONS MADE BY PAST CITIZENS, ARE SO QUICKLY AND EASILY FORGOTTEN. SOMETIMES SO FAST, IN FACT, YOU ASSESS OF YOUR OWN LIFE, THAT IT HAS ALL BEEN AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY. HAVE YOU EVER ASKED, IN THOUGHT IF NOT ALOUD, "WHO WILL REMEMBER ME?" "WHAT WILL THEY REMEMBER OF ME?" "HAVE I ACCOMPLISHED ANYTHING AT ALL, TO JUSTIFY MY EXISTENCE?" SOME OF US SEEK THESE ANSWERS MORE FREQUENTLY THAN OTHERS, AND WE DON'T LIKE THE ANSWERS. ESPECIALLY, WHEN SOME OF OUR MOST NOTABLE CITIZENS, CAN BE FORGOTTEN IN A HEARTBEAT, A FEW MINUTES AFTER THE HEARSE CARRIES THEIR MORTAL REMAINS, IN THE PROCESSION DOWN THE MAIN STREET, OF WHAT HAD BEEN THEIR HOMETOWN FOR DECADES. I'M TOLD IT IS HUMAN NATURE TO SURRENDER HEROS TO THE VERY NEXT MENTOR IN LINE; A SORT OF WAITING LIST, OF HEROES YET TO COME. I SPEND A LOT OF MY WRITING TIME, AS YOU KNOW ALL TOO WELL, CONTINUING TO HONOR AND RESPECT THOSE MENTORS WHO I BELIEVE DESERVE MORE RECOGNITION FOR WHAT THEY DID ACCOMPLISH, TO IMPROVE OUR HOMETOWNS AND OUR COUNTRY; TO IMPROVE OUR OWN LIVES.

    IT'S NOT NECESSARY TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT EVERY LOCAL HERO, AND EACH KIND CITIZEN, WHO HAS MADE OUR COMMUNITIES WONDERFUL PLACES TO CALL HOME. TRUTH IS, ALL CITIZENS MAKE A CONTRIBUTION, AND LIKE THE MORAL OF THE STORY, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE," THE WORLD WOULD INDEED, BE A DIFFERENT PLACE, WITHOUT OUR LIFE-LONG CONTRIBUTIONS. WE JUST CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD MEAN; UNLESS WE TAKE THE MOVIE AS A TEMPLATE. LIKE GEORGE BAILEY, OF BEDFORD FALLS; AND HOW THE COMMONPLACES WOULD HAVE CHANGED WITHOUT HIS CONTRIBUTION. WHAT WOULD MY HOMETOWN, OR YOUR HOMETOWN BE LIKE, IF WE HAD NEVER EXISTED? HAVE WE ALL MADE SUCH AN IMPRINT, WITH OUR WORK AND BENEVOLENCE, THAT THE VERY CHARACTER OF THE TOWNS WOULD BE ADVERSELY AFFECTED, IF WE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN? WELL, FOR SOME PEOPLE, WHO HAVE CONTRIBUTED MORE THAN OTHERS, YES INDEED; THOSE OLD HOMETOWNS WOULD BE VERY MUCH DEFICIENT IN THOSE AREAS. IT'S JUST HARD FOR US TO IMAGINE THAT PARTICULAR EVENTUALITY. WE DEAL WITH REAL LIFE SCENARIOS. BEDFORD FALLS AND GEORGE BAILEY WERE THE HANDIWORK OF A WRITER AND HOLLYWOOD MAGIC.

     I REMEMBER TALKING TO A COUPLE OF PROMINENT BRACEBRIDGE CITIZENS, A WHILE BACK, AND BEING STUNNED TO FIND OUT THEY HAD NEVER HEARD OF WAYLAND DREW. YET THEY HAD BEEN ACTIVE IN THE COMMUNITY, AT THE TIME, WAYLAND AND GWEN DREW, WERE WORKING EVERY WEEKEND, AND SPARE MOMENT, (WITH A LARGE COMPANY OF LOCAL CITIZENS) AS HISTORICAL SOCIETY VOLUNTEERS, IN ORDER TO GIVE BRACEBRIDGE ITS FIRST-EVER COMMUNITY MUSEUM. I BRING UP HIS NAME OFTEN, IN CONVERSATION, ABOUT MATTERS OF LOCAL HISTORY, AS MY OWN PERSONAL SURVEY, JUST TO SEE HOW MANY REMEMBER THIS TALENTED WRITER WHO HAD BEEN LIVING IN OUR MIDST. I CAN UNDERSTAND NEWER CITIZENS TO THE COMMUNITY BEING UNFAMILIAR WITH THE NAME. I CAN'T BE SO ACCOMMODATING, TO THOSE WHO LIVED IN THE COMMUNITY, DURING THOSE YEARS, WHO APPARENTLY MISSED SEVERAL DECADES OF HIS CONTRIBUTIONS. I WANT TO SAY, "SO WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING" AND "DIDN'T YOU EVER READ A NEWSPAPER IN THOSE YEARS?" OF COURSE THIS ISN'T FAIR OR NICE OF ME, TO INTRUDE WITH THIS QUESTIONING, SO MOST OF THE TIME, I JUST SWALLOW THE ANSWER I'M GIVEN, AND FEEL BAD THAT SUCH AN IMPORTANT NAME IN OUR PAST IS LOSING ITS RECOGNITION.

     WAYLAND DREW WASN'T THE BEST WRITER IN CANADA. HE WASN'T THE MOST PROLIFIC EITHER. HE DIDN'T MAKE ANY CLAIM, TO MY KNOWLEDGE, THAT HE WAS EITHER, THE BEST OF THE WRITER-KIND, OR ABLE TO COMPOSE MORE COPY PER WEEK, THAN ANY OTHER AUTHOR. IN FACT, IT WAS HARD TO GET ANYTHING OUT OF WAYLAND, THAT WOULD BE EVEN MODESTLY PROMOTIONAL OF HIS OWN CAREER. I CAN'T EVEN GIVE ONE EXAMPLE, WHERE HE SOUNDED IN ANY WAY BOASTFUL ABOUT HIS ACCOMPLISHMENTS. YET, HIS LITERARY WORK, HAD MANY INFLUENCES, AND AMONGST HIS PEERS, HE WAS CONSIDERED AN OUTSTANDING WRITER, AND BRILLIANT TEACHER. MODESTY MAY HAVE BEEN WAYLAND'S DOWNFALL, AT LEAST WHEN WE LOOK AT THE WAY HIS NAME HAS FADED IN PROMINENCE, WITH THE ADVANCE OF TIME. WE ALL THINK ABOUT IMMORTALITY. WE WANT TO BELIEVE WE'LL BE REMEMBERED FOR A WEE BIT, AT LEAST. SO, I SUPPOSE I DO FEEL COMPELLED, BECAUSE OF PERSONAL BELIEFS, THAT WE NEED TO KEEP THESE NAMES IN THE CONTEMPORARY DOMAIN, BASED ON THEIR RELEVANCE TO OUR COMMUNITY HERITAGE GENERALLY. WAYLAND WROTE A LOT OF HIS PUBLISHED MATERIAL WHILE RESIDING IN THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. WHAT THAT MEANS TO ME, IS THAT HE WAS INSPIRED BY THE PLACE HE LIVED, BECAUSE WRITERS AND ARTISTS ARE FUNNY THIS WAY.....WE COUNT ON BEING MOTIVATED BY OUR SURROUNDINGS. I SUPPOSE YOU'RE THINKING I'M GOING TO LAUNCH A CAMPAIGN TO NAME A PARKETTE IN HIS HONOR, OR TO NAME AN INLET OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, AS "WAYLAND DREW BAY." I KNEW HIM WELL ENOUGH, TO APPRECIATE, THAT THIS WOULD NOT HAVE PLEASED HIM. WHAT WOULD HAVE MADE HIM FEEL A SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT, IN RETROSPECT, WOULD BE IF SOMEONE SOUGHT OUT HIS BOOKS TO READ, AND WHO WOULD THINK ENOUGH OF THEM, TO SUGGEST "HIS WORK" AS GOOD BOOKS TO OTHERS, AND SO FORTH, ONCE AGAIN. HE WAS A MODEST, GENTLE MAN, WHO SEEMED MOST CONTENT, WITH A PADDLE, CANOE, AND A PAINTED AUTUMN LAKE STRETCHING TO THE HORIZON'S TALL PINES. IT'S WHAT I REMEMBER OF HIM, AND THE STORIES HE TOLD AFTER RETURNING, ESPECIALLY THOSE PENNED INTO THE TEXT OF "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," NOW AN INGRAINED PART OF OUR CANADIAN CHRONICLE. SO IF I SEEM TO BE USING HIS NAME, AND THE NAMES OF OTHER MENTORS I HAVE KNOWN, TOO FREQUENTLY, I OFFER NO APOLOGY, AS THESE ARE IDENTITIES THAT NEED TO SURVIVE THE RIGORS OF TIME, AND THE OVERLAP OF NEWFOUND COMMUNITY HEROES AND MENTORS.

    

     "THE TOWER WAS SQUARE AND THICK. IT SQUATTED DEFIANTLY ON ITS HILLTOP, ITS NARROW WINDOWS AND ARROW-SLOTS FACING NORTH AND SOUTH, EAST AND WEST, LIKE ELONGATED AND BLINDED EYES. ONCE THE KEEP OF A PROUD FORTRESS, IT WAS SURROUNDED NOW BY RUBBLE AND BY RUINS, AND IN ITSELF WAS CRUMBLING INEXORABLY. CENTURIES OF RAIN AND FROST HAD NIBBLED ITS MASONRY. PARTS OF ITS ROOF HAD COLLAPSED. ITS SILLS AND TIMBERS WERE SOFT WITH ROT.

      "A WINDLESS BUSH SURROUNDED THE TOWER, AND FILLED THE VAST BOWL OF LAND AROUND ITS KNOLL. THE LAST SUNLIGHT LAY ON THE BROKEN ROOF, BUT THE VALLEY BELOW WAS BLANKETED BY HEAVY DUSK, AND THE QUICKSILVER RIVER HAD DARKENED AND VANISHED BEHIND ITS SCREEN OF TREES.

      "THE SUN SET RELUCTANTLY. IT TOUCHED THE HORIZON, BULGED, BEGAN TO MOVE BENEATH. IT WAS THE EVE OF THE SPRING EQUINOX; THE FOLLOWING DAY WOULD BE GIVEN HALF TO LIGHT AND HALF TO DARKNESS.

      "MOTIONLESS, CLINGING UPSIDE DOWN ON THE COARSE BARK OF AN OAK, A SMALL BROWN BAT WATCHED THE SETTING OF MANY SUNS. ALL WERE IN THE COMPOSITE EYE OF A FAT BEETLE, TWO INCHES AWAY. THE BEETLE WAS SMUG AND DROWSEY, WATCHING THE SUN; IT DID NOT KNOW IT WAS ABOUT TO DIE. IT HAD BEEN CARELESS. SO STILL HAD THE BAT BEEN, SO PERFECTLY DID THE BAT'S COLOR BLEND WITH THE BROWN AND MOSSY HUE OF THE BARK, THAT THE BEETLE HAD NOT SEEN IT.

     "BOTH HUNG MOTIONLESS, INSECT AND PREDATOR. THEN, AS THE SUN SHRANK FINALLY TO A MERE BEAD, THE BAT'S LEFT WING UNFOLDED WITH ONLY THE SLIGHTEST SILKEN WHISPER, MOVED OVER THE DROWSING BEETLE, ENFOLDED IT. THE INSECT SCREAMED, A SOUND HEARD ONLY BY THE BAT. IT STRUGGLED BRIEFLY UNDER THE MEMBRANE, BEFORE IT WAS CRUSHED AGAINST THE BARK. WHEN THE BAT'S KEEN MANDIBLES CLOSED UPON IT, IT WAS STILL TWITCHING, ALTHOUGH IT WAS QUITE DEAD. THE BAT WAS RAVENOUS. IT HAD EATEN NOTHING FOR TWO DAYS AND TWO NIGHTS. DURING THE DAYS IT HAD SLEPT EXHAUSTED, BUT DURING THE NIGHTS IT HAD TRAVELLED, LAUNCHED ON A LONG FLIGHT ACROSS THE DARKENED LAND.

     "IT DID NOT KNOW WHY IT HAD LEFT HOME. NOR HAD IT ANY REASON TO RECALL WHAT IT HAD SEEN ON ITS LONG FLIGHT. BUT SOME THINGS IT DID RECALL. THE TINY DOTS OF SUN IN THE EYE OF THE UNFORTUNATE BEETLE, FOR EXAMPLE, HAD RECALLED OTHER DOTS - THE FIRES OF LONELY VILLAGES AND ENCAMPMENTS FLICKERING IN THE VAST DARKNESS OF THE UNDULATING LAND. SOME HAD BEEN LARGER THAN OTHERS, VILLAGES AFLAME. AND THE BEETLE'S DYING SCREAM HAD RECALLED OTHER SOUNDS, AS WELL, THE SCREAMS OF TORN ANIMALS, AND MEN'S CRIES FOR HELP FROM THE BORDERS OF RANDOM FIELDS, AND SOMETIMES THE SHRIEKS OF WOMEN. AND THE MANGLED CORPSE HAD RECALLED OTHER CORPSES, BOTH FRESH AND BLACKENED, LITTERING THE BATTLEFIELDS OVER WHICH THE BAT'S SILENT AND INQUISITIVE WINGS HAD BORNE IT. LOOKING DOWN NOW THROUGH THE DEEPENING DUSK AT A SILVER BAND OF RIVER, THE BAT RECALLED OTHER RIVERS, SOME WITH WEIRD SHAPES MOVING ON AND IN THEM; SOME QUITE EMPTY. THE EDGE OF ITS HUNGER BLUNTED, THE BAT UTTERED CRIES, THE PLAINTIVE CRIES OF A CREATURE SEARCHING FOR ANOTHER OF ITS KIND."

     I OWN A SOFTCOVER FIRST EDITION, OF THE JUNE 1981 RELEASE OF THE BOOK, "DRAGONSLAYER," A BOOK BASED ON A MOVIE SCRIPT, WRITTEN BY FORMER MUSKOKA AUTHOR, WAYLAND "BUSTER" DREW. THE BOOK WAS BASED ON THE SCREENPLAY WRITTEN BY HAL BARWOOD AND MATTHEW ROBBINS, AND WAS PUBLISHED BY BALLANTINE BOOKS. WAYLAND WROTE MANY BOOKS, SEVERAL FROM SCREENPLAYS INCLUDING "CORVETTE SUMMER," WHICH I BELIEVE WAS A RON HOWARD FILM, AND THEN "WILLOW," A GEORGE LUCAS FILM. HE OF COURSE WROTE THE WELL RESPECTED BOOKS, "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," WITH PHOTOGRAPHER BRUCE LITTELJOHN; AND "A SEA WITHIN: THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE," TWO EXCEPTIONAL PIECES OF CANADIANA.     WAYLAND TAUGHT NATIVE STUDIES, AMONGST OTHER ENGLISH COURSES, AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL. I WORKED WITH WAYLAND IN THE LATE 1970'S, TO FORM THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND THE EVENTUAL FOUNDING OF WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM. AND WHENEVER I COULD, I WOULD IMPOSE UPON HIM, TO TALK ABOUT WRITING AND SOME OF HIS ACHIEVEMENTS. I SURPRISED HIM ONCE, BY TELLING HIM THAT OF ALL THE BOOKS HE HAD WRITTEN, IT WAS "BROWN'S WEIR," THAT I FELT WAS HIS BEST OVERALL COMPOSITION. THE CANADIAN EAST COAST FISHERY STORY, OF A FISHER FAMILY, PROFILING IN AMAZING, WARM DETAIL, THE HISTORIC / TRADITIONAL USE OF "WEIR" NETTING (NETS MOUNTED ON POSTS, PLACED IN A CIRCLE IN THE WATER). HE HAD CO-WRITTEN THE BOOK WITH WIFE GWEN, AND I REMEMBER HER SMILING BACK, WHEN I MET HER IN BRACEBRIDGE, SHORTLY AFTER WAYLAND'S FUNERAL, AFTER I COMMENTED THE BOOK WAS MY FAVORITE. SHE AGREED. BUT UPON RE-READING THE OPENING PASSAGES OF "DRAGONSLAYER," I'VE GOT TO ADMIT, HE WAS ONE HELL OF A WORDSMITH, WITH ANY EDITORIAL PROJECT HE UNDERTOOK.

     IN A NOTE, FROM JOHN ROBERT COLOMBO, ONE DAY, QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO, HE CRITIQUED ONE OF MY GHOST STORY COLUMNS, FROM THE MUSKOKA SUN, AS BEING VERY SIMILAR TO THE WORK OF WAYLAND DREW. HE HAD NO IDEA, WAYLAND WAS ALSO ONE OF MY FRIENDS IN LOCAL HISTORY, AND A WELCOME CRITIC OF MY OWN WRITING. I REMEMBER PAUSING, WITH NOTE IN HAND, THINKING AT THAT MOMENT, THERE COULD BE NO GREATER COMPLIMENT FOR A STRUGGLING, STARVING WRITER, THAN TO BE PARALLELED TO THE WORK OF SUCH A TALENTED CANADIAN AUTHOR. I FEEL THE SAME TODAY, AND IT WAS A HIGHLIGHT OF MY WRITING YEARS. ACTUALLY, I WOULD HAVE BEEN THRILLED TO BE CONSIDERED EVEN HALF AS COMPETENT. THE SAD THING ABOUT IT ALL, WAS THAT VERY FEW PEOPLE IN BRACEBRIDGE, AT THE TIME WAYAND LIVED IN THE COMMUNITY, KNEW JUST HOW ACCOMPLISHED HE WAS AS AN AUTHOR. HE WAS A LOW KEYED INDIVIDUAL AND CERTAINLY DIDN'T HAVE A SWAGGER BECAUSE OF HIS PAST CREDITS. BUT WE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN HIM BETTER.

     "WHAT SOLACE? THE BLEAK COMFORT THAT THE WORLD WAS NOT AS MAN PERCEIVED IT TO BE, BUT THAT IT WAS STILL, AFTER THE LONG AND LONELY DECADES OF INQUIRY, AN UTTER MYSTERY." (WAYLAND DREW; DRAGONSLAYER)

Gowan Gillmor, Sensitive To Rural Muskoka Dwellers As Well As Sharing Their Privations

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

GOWAN GILLMOR - HE HAD GREAT SENSITIVITY TO THE RURAL DWELLERS OF THE REGION - AND SHARED THEIR PRIVATIONS

By Ted Currie

     I can almost hear the soft settling of his snowshoes pushing forward across the lowland, as today’s mid-autumn dusting paints The Bog white against the remaining colored leaves of the hardwoods, yet to fall to the spongy ground of the water-logged forest floor. It entertains the voyeur-writer, to imagine the slow, plodding movements, passing from light to shadow in these Muskoka woodlands, as the tall Irishman pushed onward to his chosen destination, which could easily have been a ten to twenty mile snowshoe if inclement weather had prevailed. He had ministering to perform, or to tend the ill in a “sick house,” as it was his personal conviction, that someone had to help those who could not help themselves. And this put the man they called “The Tramp,” in constant danger of injecting the air of the infected house, and becoming ill himself. He never thought about his own vulnerabilities. And if he should have encountered someone on his march through the snowy woods, who he believed needed a warmer coat, hat, or mitts, he would gladly, and at great personal risk, have removed the clothing and offered these items as a necessary gift; even though the greater risk was to the older man, himself, who might well have frozen to death as a result of his act of generosity. It would often be the case that new coats and mitts had just recently been purchased by members of his Rosseau congregation, but that didn’t matter when a greater need arose, than only his personal comfort. I have a feeling that even the creatures of the forest were friendly toward the traveling missionary, reverent of his kindly way of treating all of God’s beautiful acres. 

     I'VE BEEN SHIVERING, A LITTLE THIS PAST FEW MOMENTS, I SUPPOSE THE RESULT OF MY THINKING ABOUT GOWAN GILLMOR’S MANY WINTER-TIME HIKES THROUGH THESE SAME MUSKOKA WOODS.  WHILE WRITING THE LAST PORTIONS OF TODAY'S FEATURE POST,  I HAVE HAD TO STOP AND SHIVER AWAY IN SILENCE, FEELING EVEN IN THE WARMTH OF THE ROOM, THE CREEP OF COLD HE WAS SO CAPABLE OF ENDURING. LODGED HERE AT OUR HARVEST TABLE, OVERLOOKING THE SEMI SNOW-COVERED GARDEN,  HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, IT HAS BEEN THE PERFECT RESPITE TO REMINISCE ABOUT MY HERO OF LOCAL HISTORY. THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY INTIMATE WALDEN POND, AND GOWAN GILLMOR HAS BEEN, IN SPIRIT AT LEAST, A FREQUENT GUEST.  THE PAPER JACKET OF HIS BIOGRAPHY IS GETTING PRETTY WORN, AND THE SPINE A LITTLE RAGGED, JUST AS HIS COAT AND PANTS WOULD BE, WHEN HIS FRIENDS IN ROSSEAU WOULD FUNDRAISE TO GET HIM A NEW WARDROBE. WHICH OF COURSE HE WOULD WIND-UP GIVING AWAY TO SOMEONE WHO HAD A GREATER NEED. THIS BOOK IS A FAITHFUL COMPANION TO ME, AT TIMES WHEN I HAVE CONCERNS ABOUT THE LATEST BAD NEWS OF A BADLY STRESSED YEAR, AND WHEN THE POOL OF OPTIMISM SEEMS PARTICULARLY SHALLOW. HIS FAITH IN HUMANITY NEVER FALTERED NO MATTER WHAT HE WITNESSED, AND WHAT HE EXPERIENCED OF HUMAN GREED AND CRIMINALITY. HE ROSE ABOUT IT ALL, AND UNDERSTOOD HOW KINDNESS BESTOWED  RESTORED FAITH EVEN IN THOSE MOST SKEPTICAL AND UNHAPPY WITH THEIR LOT IN LIFE. I CAN’T HELP BUT BE UPLIFTED BY THIS WONDERFUL STORY ROOTED IN MUSKOKA AND ROSSEAU. 

  

     "A MAN OF THE PAST BUT NOT YET SO LONG PAST THAT SOME OF US STILL WELL REMEMBER HIM IN THE FLESH IN HIS LATER LIFE," WROTE BIOGRAPHER E. NEWTON-WHITE. "FOR HE WAS ONE OF THOSE WHO TOOK THEIR PART IN THAT EPIC MOVEMENT OF DEVELOPMENT; WHEN THE GREAT TRANS-CANADIAN RAILWAYS WERE LAYING THEIR STEEL THROUGH NORTHERN ONTARIO, ON THEIR LONG DRIVE TO THE FAR PACIFIC; AND SPURS FROM THESE WERE PUSHING NORTHWARD. THESE WERE THE TIMES WHEN THE LOCATING ENGINEERS, THE LAND SURVEYORS, AND THE MINERAL PROSPECTORS WERE TRAMPING COUNTLESS MILES OF HITHERTO UNTRODDEN WILDERNESS; AND WHEN THE FIRST SETTLERS OF THE SCATTERED ARABLE LANDS, WERE GOING IN TO THEIR LONELY LOCATIONS IN THE NORTHERN BUSH. IT WAS A SEVERAL DECADE PERIOD OF MANY, MANY CHANGES. THESE WERE THE TIMES WHEN THOSE WHO MOVED AMONG THE EVER-DRIFTING, EVER CHANGING HUMAN CROWD OF TRANSIENT PIONEERS, KNEW MOSTLY EVERYONE, AND WERE KNOWN BY MOSTLY ALL; ESPECIALLY WHEN LANGUAGE WAS NO BARRIER. THEY MET AND RE-MET IN BRIEF ENCOUNTERS, ON LONELY TRAILS, ON THE PORTAGES, IN WOOD-CAMPS, IN TAR-PAPER HOTELS, HALF-WAYS (HOUSES), BOARDING CARS, SETTLERS' CABINS, THE CABOOSES OF WORK-TRAINS; SOMETIMES THE NEAREST LOCK-UP! THEY MET IN THE COURSE OF ALL THE VARIED ERRANDS, JOURNEYINGS AND HALTS OF MEN ON THE MOVE IN A NEW LAND; JOB TO JOB, INSPECTION TO INSPECTION; HOPE TO HOPE, THE OCCASIONAL BINGE. THEY MET SEEKING SHELTER FROM STORM, COLD AND WET; LONG WAITINGS FOR STAGE OR STEAMBOAT, OR THE 'MIXED' IN SESSIONS OF STORY-TELLING, IN EARNEST DISCUSSIONS OF GREAT ISSUES AND TRIVIAL, IN THE CLASSLESS COMPANIONSHIP OF THE BOTTLE, AT BLIND PIGS, THE CARD GAMES AND THE BROTHELS. AND FOR SOME, THE GATHERINGS OF THE FAITHFUL AT RELIGIOUS SERVICES, HELD IN ALL MANNER OF IMPROVISED CHURCHES BY PRIEST AND PREACHER; IN BOX-CARS, WAITING ROOMS, BARS, COOK-TENTS; WHEREVER TWO OR THREE COULD BE GATHERED TOGETHER IN THE SUPREME NAME. THAT WAS THE FRONTIER OF THOSE DAYS. NOT A TRACE OF IT REMAINS' IN ITS PLACE, AS THE THINGS THEN BEGUN ABUILDING."

     GOWAN GILLMOR FOUND THIS, THEN, THE LAND OF OPPORTUNITY, AND APPLIED HIS HUMANITARIAN WAY OF LIFE, FOR THOSE THAT NEEDED FRIENDSHIP AND SPIRITUAL RENEWAL MOST OF ALL!

     "I STARTED OUT FROM TEN MILE LAKE ON FOOT, AND HAD BEFORE ME SEVERAL MILES OF UNBROKEN, LONELY ROAD; CROSSED HERE AND THERE BY WOLF TRACKS. THIS TIME, TO MY JOY, THERE WAS A FRESH SNOWSHOE TRACK AHEAD OF ME. (AND THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AN UNBROKEN TRAIL AND ONE USED EVEN BUT ONCE, IS EXTREME). I KNEW AT ONCE THAT THE SNOWSHOER WAS A GOOD MAN, BY THE LENGTH OF HIS STRIDE, WHICH NEVER SHORTENED, AND THE STRAIGHTNESS OF HIS TRAIL NEVER WAVERED. AND SURE ENOUGH I FOUND AFTERWARD THAT HE WAS MY OLD FRIEND, COMING HOME FROM A LUMBER CAMP," WROTE GOWAN GILLMOR IN HIS JOURNAL, PUBLISHED IN THE BOOK, "GILLMORE OF ALGOMA - ARCHDEACON AND TRAMP," BY E. NEWTON-WHITE," IN CANADA'S CENTENNIAL YEAR, 1967.

     THERE WAS ALWAYS A QUESTION WHY GOWAN WOULD REFUSE OFFERS OF A HORSE RIDE OR DRIVE IN HIS MISSION WORK; AND SEVERAL WERE THE SUGGESTED REASONS. ONE WAS THE MATTER OF FODDER; USING MONEY WHICH COULD HAVE BEEN USED FOR PEOPLE; ANOTHER, QUITE VALID, WAS THE LACK OF STABLING AT MANY OF THE PLACES HE VISITED," WRITES E. NEWTON-WHITE, IN THE ALGOMA DIOCESE PUBLICATION, FOR THE ANGLICAN CHURCH OF CANADA. "HE SAID THAT HE WOULD HAVE TO GO HOME EVERY NIGHT THEN; BUT THERE WAS ALWAYS A CORNER WHERE THE 'OULD TRAMP,' COULD LIE DOWN. AND MANY VARIED EXPERIENCES DID HE HAVE DOING THIS LAST. HOME FOR HIM WAS WHERE HE FOUND IT. ANOTHER REASON WAS THAT ON MANY OF THE TRAILS HE USED, HE COULD NOT HAVE RIDDEN BECAUSE OF THE WINDFALLS AND OVERHANGING BRUSH. ANOTHER SUGGESTION WAS THAT HE HAD A DISLIKE FOR HORSES ARISING FROM THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF COTTIE'S DEATH; BUT THIS ONE CAN BE RULED OUT COMPLETELY.

     "MORE LIKELY THAN ANY REASON WAS ONE WHICH MIGHT BE INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO MANY MODERN PEOPLE, AND SOME PARSONS! HE LOVED WALKING. 'SHURE IT KAPES ME FIT'; AND THERE WAS NO DOUBT ABOUT THAT - IT DID. BUT THERE WAS ANOTHER REASON, USUALLY UNADMITTED. WHEN HE WALKED, HE WAS FREE TO THINK HIS THOUGHTS; AND THEY WERE DEEP AND GLAD. BY DAY, HE WOULD WATCH THE BIRDS AND ANIMALS, AND STOP AND TALK TO THEM. BY NIGHT WATCH THE STARS, AND TALK TO THEM TOO! BUT ALWAYS HE COMMUNED WITH GOD, ON WHO MAY TELL WHAT SUBJECTS, AND ALWAYS FOR HIS FELLOW MEN, WE ARE SURE. ANENT HORSE-BACK RIDING; A LONG TRIP ON GLARE ICE ON LAKE MUSKOKA BEHIND A FAST HORSE AND CUTTER, REMINDED GOWAN OF HIS BOYHOOD. 'ONCE UPON A TIME, IN IRELAND, WE USED TO GET THE LOAN OF A PONY AT WEEK ENDS; HIS USUAL PACE WAS A CANTER. THE SOUND OF HIS HOOVES ON THE HARD ROAD WAS LIKE 'SATURDAY, SATURDAY,' AND THAT IS WHAT THE BOYS CALLED HIM. I RECALL THE HEXAMETER LINE 'QUADRU-PENDANTE PUTREM SONITU UNGULA CAMP,' JUST LIKE A HORSE CANTERING."

     THE AUTHOR RECORDS THAT, "GOWAN ONCE TOLD HIS FRIENDS, OF HAVING TO SPEND A LARGE SUME OF MONEY (FOR HIM) ON A PAIR OF HIGH BOOTS OF STOUT LEATHER, BECAUSE 'THE FARM DOGS DON'T SEEM TO KNOW AN ARCHDEACON'S LEGS FROM ANY OTHER LEGS,' WHICH BRINGS A MEMORY THAT HIS PRESENCE SEEMED TO WORRY SOME DOGS. AT A FARM HE WAS VISITING, THE DOG, USUALLY FRIENDLY TO STRANGERS, PERSISTED IN STANDING ON HIS HIND LEGS AT THE WINDOW, TRYING TO LOCATE HIM IN THE HOUSE, WHINING AND BARKING. STILL MORE ABOUT PAROCHIAL VISITING; THE MEMORIES ARE, THAT WHERE THERE WAS A PIANO HE DID NOT KNOCK AT THE DOOR BUT WALKED IN, SAT DOWN, AND PLAYED HYMNS TO ANNOUNCE HIS ARRIVAL. AT SOME HOMES HE WOULD GIVE A RECITAL OF MANY HYMN TUNES, EACH PLAYED ONCE, BUT ALWAYS ENDING WITH 'ETERNAL FATHER.' THIS ONE HE WOULD PLAY OVER AGAIN, VERY SOFTLY, AS THOUGH TO HIMSELF; HIS LISTENERS WOULD WONDER WHERE HIS THOUGHTS WERE THEN. AS FORTUNATE ONES MAY TESTIFY, SOME OF THESE LITTLE RITUALS HE KEPT UP LONG AFTER ROSSEAU DAYS. AT ONE HOME, THAT OF THE DOCTOR PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED (A COTTAGER ON LAKE ROSSEAU), WHERE HE MIGHT TURN UP AT ANY OLD TIME, HE MIGHT ANNOUNCE HIS ARRIVAL BY CALLING, 'HERE IS THAT WRETCHED OLD TRAMP AGAIN,' (PROBABLY IN AN IRISH VERSION OF A HOUSEWIFE'S TONES) IF SHE HAD THE CHANCE, THE DOCTOR'S GOOD LADY WOULD SEE THAT HIS CLOTHES WERE WASHED AND MENDED.

     "BUT SOMETIMES GOWAN HIMSELF WAS VISITED. THERE WAS THE TIME WHEN HE HAD PROMISED TO 'CHAIR' A SCHOOL CONCERT ABOUT EIGHT MILES AWAY. IT WAS A BITTER COLD NIGHT, AND HE WAS ALL READY TO START WALKING, WHEN A DRUNK STUMBLED INTO THE PARSONAGE AND POLITELY WAVED TOWARD THE PIANO, AND SAID, 'PLAY SHUMTHIN!' GOWAN OBLIGED AND THE DRUNK-ONE SAT DOWN ON THE SOFA AND IMMEDIATELY FELL FAST ASLEEP. NOW GOWAN COULD NOT PUT HIM OUT TO FREEZE, COULD NOT LEAVE HIM ALONE IN THE HOUSE, COULD NOT GO FOR HELP. HE HAD TO STAY WITH HIM, KEEP HIM WARM, AND MAKE HIM BREAKFAST IN THE MORNING. OF THE CONCERT THERE IS NO RECORD. TRULY, THE APPEAL OF GOWAN GILLMOR'S PERSONALITY TO CHILDREN, WAS ABSOLUTE. HIS LOVE FOR THEM WAS SUCH THAT, THE RECIPIENTS OF THAT LOVE HAVE ALWAYS REMEMBERED IT. THE LETTERS WE HAVE HAD FROM THOSE WHO WERE YOUNG WHEN HE WAS ACTIVE, PROVE THIS. A CHILD OF THAT TIME REMEMBERS HIM AS 'VERY TALL AND STRAIGHT, WITH PIERCING BLACK EYES, AND A MOST FRIENDLY SMILE.' THIS CHILD ANECDOTE OF GOWAN'S EARLY DAYS IN ROSSEAU, IS IN PART, CONTRIBUTED BY THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER HERSELF. SHE WAS THEN A SHY LITTLE THING WHO NEVER SAW STRANGERS, LIVING WITH HER PARENTS AND A BROTHER AND A SISTER. THEIR HOME WAS TWO MILES OUT, AND SHE COULD NOT GO TO THE VILLAGE CHRISTMAS TREE."

     E. NEWTON-WHITE NOTES IN GILLMOR'S BIOGRAPHY, THAT, "THE OLD LADY REMEMBERS HOW MR. GILLMOR BROUGHT 'FOR LITTLE ME,' A LOVELY DOLL, ALL BEAUTIFULLY DRESSED IN HANDMADE AND EMBROIDERED GARMENTS.' SHE REMEMBERS CLEARLY EVERY DETAIL OF THAT DOLL AS SHE SAW IT THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE DOOR. EVEN GOWAN COULD NOT COAX THE LITTLE MITE TO COME FOR IT, BUT HE FINALLY PERSUADED HER TO PUT HER ARM AROUND THE DOOR, WHILE HE PUT THE DOLL IN HER HAND. THEN SHE FLED WITH HER TREASURE. FOR ANOTHER STORY WE HAVE NO DATE OR PLACE, BUT AN EX-ROSSEAU LADY TELLS IT. GOWAN HAD HEARD OF A YOUNG BOY OF A NON-ANGLICAN FAMILY, LYING QUITE ILL. HE WENT TO THE HOME AND WAS MET BY A STRANGER NURSE. HE TOLD HER THAT HE HAD SOME MEDICINE FOR THE BOY, AND MIGHT HE SEE HIM. THE NURSE WAXED INDIGNANT AT ONCE; IN OTHER WORDS, WENT UP IN THE AIR. INDEED, LOUDLY, SHE WOULD NOT ALLOW ANY MEDICINE OTHER THAN THAT THE DOCTOR PRESCRIBED. SAID GOWAN, QUIETLY SMILING, 'OH, THIS WON'T HURT HIM. IT'S JUST A JACKKNIFE'. 'AN D'YE KNOW, I THINK IT DID MORE GOOD THAN THE DOCTOR'S STUFF. I DO; I DO INDADE'."

A PARTING OF THE WAYS; AND A SAD ONE IT WAS - NEW RESPONSIBILITIES FOR GOWAN GILLMOR

     "In 1907 came the definite parting from Rosseau and its people. Gowan, writing his own notice of appreciation, (as was evident), in the Missionary News, said, 'They would not permit him (himself) to leave without some expression of regard - indeed they seemed rather loath to part with him, for he had warmed himself into their hearts - an address was signed and presented, together with a purse, far from empty, and a good leather suit-case on which are the letters 'G.G.' One suspects a few quiet and embarrassing tears being shed on that occasion." One member (of the congregation) said, "Our memories of the Archdeacon will remain precious as long as life shall last.' Another said, 'He is one of the great in my memory.' Another said, 'We know now the secret of the love he inspired in us. It was his kindly, selfless life; and because in all those long years of service, as he walked through the new land, he walked with God.' Some of us would give much to have such things said of us." E. Newton-White writes, "He (Gowan) had been stationed at Rosseau for over fifteen years, during which time he had tramped in his ministrations, over practically the whole of Parry Sound and Muskoka districts. Now the whole Diocese of Algoma was to be his field; and to this diary he said this; 'I am now on the move once more, and I pray the Saviour will give me strength and power to the work well. I can have no more rest until I lie quietly in my grave.' His prayer was answered.

     "A Rosseau lady remembers another lady, who used to write for the Old Toronto GLobe's Homemaker Page, over the name 'Gowanne.' This writer had lived in Muskoka and had been baptized and prepared for Confirmation by the Archdeacon. The Rosseau lady wonders now, might this have been actual or a pen name? A whimsical remark, Gowan was known to have made to the parents of these namesakes. 'How are you going to explain to the young fellow, when he is old enough, how he came to be named after a poor old Tramp!"

      "If Gowan knew all the constellations he also knew all the plants and flowers of the north country. His eye for beauty was very keen, and he could cleverly adapt these things in all their range to his sermons, in the most vivid terms. Survivors of the children of those days can well remember the way in which natural phenonmena, and wildlife, would creep into his discourse. An Alberta lady, once of Gravenhurst, has treasured memories of him in her childhood. Especially she recalls, a Sunday School Christmas Concert, which he opened with a most fascinating account of his approach to the town at dusk, that evening, and seeing the Evening Star, rise over Gull Lake, 'with fairies accompanying it.' He held us spellbound. Another Muskoka story, as told by a Gravenhurst businessman, noted that "On one of his regular trips, Gowan had to pass an empty house, said to be haunted. One day, curiosity got the better of him, and he went inside to look around. He moved very quietly, and listened. Hearing a mysterious noise upstairs, he went cautiously, all ready to come down in a hurry. There was nothing. Then he found the sound was coming  from the attic. Taking some time to gain courage, he finally climbed the attic ladder - 'and there, sitting up and staring at me, was a groundhog. Yes, a groundhog! And d'ye know he was almost as scared as I was?' The grumpy-looking groundhog provided the peg, upon which many an apposite tale could be hung to fit an occasion. The groundhog being, as Gowan would say, the most curiosity-stricken person of all our Little People; he had only to stand close to the hole, in which one had vanished, at his approach, and it would appear again. First the tip of its nose, then its eyes, then its ears and finally its shoulders. Then they would talk; Gowan would ask questions or make the statement, and the wood-chuck would reply in perfectly good Connaughtese brogue. The uses of such discussions were inexhaustible. It is almost certain that the haunted house episode was expanded, into such dialogue many times, at appropriate junctures; but if so, they are lost to posterity."

     E. Newton-White tells the story of a near fatal encounter in a most vulnerable circumstance. "In the northern bush, on a cold winter's night, Gowan was traveling on snowshoes, and found that he could not reach his destination before very late. He decided to light a fire and sleep in the snow. Before his fire was going, he heard the distant howl of a wolf, then another and another. Before long the cries were coming from all directions, and closing in! Soon they were forming a fairly close circle around him. Their eyes and fangs and sinister movements in the darkness, would be described with telling effect. Then a large wolf, evidently the leader (and Irish it would appear), slipped to the front, eyed Gillmor very closely, sniffed, then wheeled suddenly to the others, 'Och! That's only ould Gillmor! Let's go, b'ye,' and they vanished. Once, in a child audience, the suspense over, a bright one asked, could he not have climbed a tree? But that would not have helped; the wolf-pack kept a trained beaver for just such emergencies.

     "Another story example concerned a corpse; and was not quite as macabre as that sounds. Gowan was visiting a lonely settlement in the bush; a place unknown to him. He had been walking all day, and was tired. At dusk he came to a dark and gloomy looking house, where he asked for shelter for the night. The man who came to the door looked worried at his request; and called to his wife. The two had a whispered discussion, and then, the man said glumly, 'All right, you can stay. But you won't like your room.' When Gowan went to his room later, he found it bitterly cold. Lowering his voice, he would say solemnly, 'An' what d'ye think was in that room? A dead body!' At this he would pause, while his listeners would gasp and ask him whatever did he do? 'Why, blew out my light and went to sleep, of course.' Then, with another pause to let it all sink in, he would add in a relieved voice, 'It was just a dead mouse, y'know!' Years after telling this yarn, to a somewhat impressionable person, she reminded him of it. But the Archdeacon looked genuinely horrified. 'Oh,' said he. 'I ought not to have told you that one'."

     His biographer concludes his story with the following observations. "A better term than 'passed' for him and for us, would be that 'he tramped.' Just as he once told his parishioners that he would be 'tramping' from Rosseau out into the wide Diocese, so now he tramped from Algoma into the Greater Life." "He died (at 78 years of age) on the first of September, 1928, and was buried from the Pro-Cathedral of the Diocese, at the Alter of which he had made his Priestly vows forty-three years earlier. Never could the incomparable burial service of the Anglican Rite have shown greater beauty; never could the simple ritual have carried greater meaning."

 

Gowan Gillmor Was My Iconic Hero Of Muskoka Who Always Put The Needs Of Others Ahead Of HIs Own

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

KNOWING WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO FEEL LONELY AND ISOLATED; GOWAN GILLMOR UNDERSTOOD THE DESOLATION RURAL RESIDENTS EXPERIENCED

     PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST:

     By Ted Currie

     As my time for reflection about the worth of a lifetime’s obsession, comes to fruition, now in a retiring frame of mind, I feel I must offer this explanation, which may be more of an apology instead. In all the years working through the research material of Muskoka history, and apprenticing with some well known antiquarians to afford myself a better understanding of the region, I have by happenstance, and even deliberate immersion, found myself being heavily influenced by certain realities of our historical record here; and as well by the many colorful characters who were, maybe without knowing it, become the history-makers. Each researchers tackling the general history of our communities, including hamlets, villages and towns, as well as the wider district, have their own favorites in this area, and have been heavily influenced by their respective accomplishments. This is to be understood. Our immersion is a deep one, and we really can’t remain truly unbiased, about who we believe were the most significant history makers. I, for one, do not find myself gravitating to anyone of a particular political stripe, or a business or industrial interest, no matter how important the enterprise to the development of the local economy dating back to pioneer times. Alas, you can count on me to find the most unsung of heroes to assess my own historical accolades, because I feel that the humanity they demonstrated, and the kindness by which they treated the citizenry of this pioneer region, helped rekindle the homestead spirit here; at times when it was most tested by the ruggedness of the land, the sicknesses and death that devastated homestead, the fear and isolation settlers found in the wilds, and the poverty that was often overwhelming for thousands of struggling, hardy, good folks, who needed uplifting and the spiritual energy of individuals such as Gowan Gillmor, Archdeacon of Algoma.

     I have long found the ministering efforts of Gowan Gillmor, to have been so overwhelmingly positive and life-enhancing, to those in greatest need, saving homestead families from succumbing to the often intolerable conditions pioneer life most often afforded,  that yes, indeed, I have found myself indebted by exposure to a man I never actually met. It is why I would like to share a few of these stories, about a lanky Irish fellow who was also known as “The Tramp.” And here’s why.

     I LEARNED A LOT ABOUT THE HISTORY OF MUSKOKA, BY VISITING THE RUINS OF PIONEER HOMESTEADS. LONG BEFORE I DECIDED TO TAKE UP THE CAUSE OF LOCAL HERITAGE CONSERVATION, ESPECIALLY THE WRITTEN WORD, I STUDIED UP CLOSE, THE REMAINS OF THE PIONEER PERIOD OF REGIONAL HISTORY. I VISITED PIONEER CEMETERIES THROUGHOUT THE DISTRICT, AND I WAS FASCINATED BY THE TYPES OF MARKERS, SIMPLE AND ELABORATE, AND THE INSCRIPTIONS. AT ONE TIME, I HAD A BINDER FULL OF INSIGHTFUL INSCRIPTIONS, ENGRAVED ON TOMBSTONES DATING BACK TO THE 1870'S. MANY STONES DATED FROM THE LATE 1800'S WERE IMPOSSIBLE TO READ, AND I DARE SAY, ACID RAID HAS CONTRIBUTED SOMEWHAT TO THE SLOW EROSION OF MONUMENT FACES. MUCH OF COURSE, HAS BEEN THE RESULT OF MOSS INFILTRATION, REQUIRING A GOOD AMOUNT OF GOUGING-AWAY TO READ EVEN A FEW LETTERS. THE ACTUAL HOMESTEADS, ARE INCREDIBLE PLACES TO VISIT, ALTHOUGH MOST ARE NOW BUILT-UPON WITH MODERN RESIDENCES. THEY WERE SAD PLACES. HAUNTING, LONELY PLACES, WHERE SETTLERS HAD ONCE, PLACED THEIR HOPE FOR A PROSPEROUS NEW LIFE, IN A NEW LAND. THERE WERE MANY STORIES OF SUCCESS AND HOMESTEADS THAT REMAINED IN FAMILY HANDS FROM THE 1860'S AND 70'S TO THE PRESENT. THE STORIES WEREN'T ALL SAD, AND I KNOW OF MANY FINE FARMS THAT GREW FROM THOSE HUMBLE CABINS, AND FIRST SEVERAL ACRES OF TILLED PASTURE. OF COURSE, THERE WERE MANY MORE TALES OF MISADVENTURE, AND HOMESTEAD FAILURE. TODAY, AS A CITIZENRY, IN OUR MUSKOKA TOWNSHIPS, WE SELDOM IF EVER GIVE THE WHOLE PERIOD A LOT OF THOUGHT. WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL WITH PIONEERS ANYWAY? WE CAN'T LIVE IN THE PAST? RIGHT? LOTS OF OUR FAMILY FRIENDS, HAVE MISUNDERSTOOD MY INTEREST IN THIS PART OF REGIONAL HISTORY. THEY'VE JUST STOPPED ASKING ME ABOUT IT, AND THAT'S FINE WITH ME. BUT THEY KNOW ME WELL ENOUGH, TO WATCH WHAT THEY'RE SAYING ABOUT LOCAL ECONOMICS, BECAUSE I CAN SLIP IN A FEW SHARP REMINDERS, ABOUT WHAT CAME FIRST; THE PIONEER PLOW, OR THE INDUSTRIALIST / BUSINESS CLASS?

     THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PIONEERING PERIOD, IS THAT THE RURAL CULTURE FOSTERED BACK THEN, IS STILL ENTIRELY RELEVANT TODAY. WHY WOULDN'T IT BE. IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND THE SOCIAL / CULTURAL / ECONOMIC REALITIES OF CONTEMPORARY MUSKOKA, YOU HAVE TO KNOW HOW IT ALL BEGAN. LOCAL POLITICIANS LIKE TO SPOUT OFF ABOUT THEIR VAST KNOWLEDGE OF THE REGION, YET IF YOU WERE TO ASK THEM ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT ITS FOUNDING YEARS, THEY'D QUICKLY CHANGE THE SUBJECT; AS IF IT DIDN'T MATTER AT ALL. MUSKOKA, AS A PRIME TOURIST REGION IN CANADA, DEPENDS ON THIS SAME RURAL CHARACTERISTIC, TO BACKDROP THE INDUSTRY. COTTAGERS AND MANY RESORTS ARE RURAL ENTITIES. WHAT OUR TOURIST GUESTS WANT TO SEE, IS THE NATURAL BEAUTY OF OUR LAKES AND COUNTRYSIDE; AND LOW AND BEHOLD, WHEN IT COMES RIGHT DOWN TO IT, EVEN OUR LARGER TOWNS, ARE STILL IN THE RURAL CLIME OF THINGS. THE RURAL ASPECTS OF OUR DISTRICT, ARE ALSO OUR MONEY MAKERS. WHAT WAS A HARD ENVIRONMENT TO TAME FOR THE HOMESTEADERS, BECAME THE STAGE FOR A LONG SERVING TOURISM INDUSTRY, THAT EVEN IN FIFTY TO A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW, WILL STILL POSSESS ITS RURAL CHARM. OF COURSE, THAT DEPENDS ON THE STRONG WILL OF OUR CITIZENRY, AND THE OFFICIALS THEY ELECT; TO MAKE SURE OUR RESOURCES ARE SAFE-GUARDED, AND ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT ACHIEVED THAT IS COMPATIBLE WITH THIS SAME RURAL CHARM. I WON'T BE AROUND TO PROTEST URBAN SPRAWL BY THIS TIME, SO HOPEFULLY, THERE WILL BE SOME YOUNG FOLKS WHO WILL TAKE UP THE CHALLENGE TO PROTECT MOTHER EARTH FROM THE EARTH MOVERS.

     APPROACHING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD, I THINK IT IS APPROPRIATE, TO OFFER A HEARTY TOAST, AND ROBUST THANKS, TO THE EMIGRANT HOMESTEADERS, AND ALL THE COURAGEOUS SETTLERS, WHO OPENED UP OUR REGION FOR THE REST OF THE WORLD. THEY DID THIS, AND THEY DESERVE CREDIT FOR GIVING US MUCH OF WHAT WE ENJOY OF A TOURIST ECONOMY TODAY.

     THERE WOULD ONLY BE A FEW PEOPLE, OUTSIDE OF THE VILLAGE OF ROSSEAU, AND OF COURSE LONG TIME ANGLICANS, TODAY, WHO WOULD APPRECIATE THE TITLE, "THE TRAMP." THEY WOULD REACT THE SAME, IF ASKED WHETHER THEY HAD EVER HEARD OF ARCHDEACON GOWAN GILLMOR.  "NEVER HEARD OF HIM!" GILMOR WAS "THE TRAMP." HE WAS CALLED THIS BECAUSE OF THE HUNDREDS OF MILES, HE TRAVELLED, BETWEEN PARISHIONERS AND CHURCHES, THROUGHOUT THE DIOCESE OF ALGOMA, INCLUDING THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, MUCH OF IT ON FOOT, OR ON SNOWSHOES. HE EVEN LEFT HIS MARK CUT INTO TREES, WHERE HE HAD ONCE PASSED. THE PROBLEM OF COURSE, IS THAT TIME HAS MARCHED ON, AND THE BOOK I CONSIDER ONE OF MY FAVORITES, IS CONSIDERED RARE. SO IT WOULD BE JUST AS RARE TO FIND SOMEONE IN MUSKOKA, OTHER THAN MYSELF AND THE READERS OF THIS BLOG, WHO HAVE A COPY ON THEIR BOOK SHELF; OR HAVE EVEN HELD ONE IN THEIR LIVES. WHAT AN INSPIRING STORY TO BE LOST IN THE HAZE OF TIME, BECAUSE IN SO MANY WAYS, IT'S JUST AS RELEVANT TODAY, AS IT WAS WHEN ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED, IN CANADA'S CENTENNIAL YEAR. HE DIDN'T INTEND TO BECOME A LEGEND. WELL, HE HAD NO SAY IN HOW THE GENERATIONS, FAMILIAR WITH HIS STORY, HAVE REVIEWED, AND COME TO FEEL ABOUT HIS BENEVOLENCE, ON BEHALF OF NOT JUST THE ANGLICAN PARISHIONERS OF OUR REGION, BUT ALL RESIDENTS IN HIS TIME, WHO HE CONSIDERED HIS FLOCK, REGARDLESS OF RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION.

     IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO KNOW, JUST HOW MANY THOUSANDS OF MILES, THROUGH BUSH, MARSH, OVER HILLS THE SIZE OF SMALL MOUNTAINS, CROSSING DANGEROUS RAPIDS, BY WELL PLACED FOOT AND THOUGHTFUL PRAYER, OVER HUNDREDS OF MILES HIKING ACROSS FROZEN WASTELAND, AND ICED-OVER LAKES; THAT IN THE FALL AND SPRING WERE DEADLY, RIDDLED WITH HOLES, AND A THINNING LAYER BENEATH HIS FOOTFALL. HE KNEW THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST, INCLUDING THE BIRDS, THAT SEEMED TO FOLLOW HIM THROUGH THE TREE-TOPS, AND HE UNDERSTOOD THE INTRICACIES OF NATURE, AND PARTICULARLY THE UNIVERSE, AS IT PRESENTED TO HIM, SLEEPING OUTDOORS, AS HE OFTEN DID, STARING UP BEFORE SLEEP, AT THE SPARKLING HEAVENS. THERE WERE TIMES GOWAN GILLMOR SQUARED OFF WITH IMMINENT DEATH, ONLY TO HAVE GOD DECIDE NOT TO TAKE HIM, SPARING HIM AT THE LAST POSSIBLE MOMENT, IN THAT VAPOR OF TIME, BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH; A HEAVEN-SENT MESSAGE, POSSIBLY, THAT HE WAS NEEDED HERE MORE. THE WOLVES AND BEARS, AND GRASP OF DEEP WATER CHURNING BELOW THIN ICE, WOULD BE DENIED ON MANY OCCASIONS, THE PRECIOUS SOUL OF A MAN, WHO NEVER PUT HIMSELF AHEAD OF ANYONE ELSE; AND WOULD MOST DEFINITELY HAVE GIVEN A HUNGRY PERSON THE LAST OF HIS PROVISIONS; THE FREEZING MORTAL HIS COAT ON A BITTER WINTER DAY.

     THIS WAS A MAN, WHO DEFIED DEATH, MORE TIMES THAN HE CARED TO REMEMBER; ESPECIALLY AT RISK ON THOSE HUNDREDS OF OCCASIONS, WHEN HE ENTERED A HOUSE WHERE THERE WAS AN EPIDEMIC, SUCH AS INFLUENZA OR SMALL-POX RAVAGING THE OCCUPANTS. AT TIMES, A WHOLE FAMILY WOULD BE STRICKEN WITH SERIOUS ILLNESS, THAT COULD, AND IN CASES DID CLAIM THEIR LIVES. BUT HE BELIEVED IT WAS HIS DUTY, TO NURSE THE RESIDENTS THROUGH THE DARKEST DAYS OF ILL-HEALTH. HE SAW SUFFERING, AND HE KNEW SUFFERING HIMSELF; ESPECIALLY WITH THE LOSS OF HIS CHILD, JOHN EDWARD, AND THE BREAK-UP OF HIS MARRIAGE, DUE TO HIS WIFE'S MENTAL BREAKDOWN. SHE LEFT ROSSEAU AND TOOK THEIR CHILDREN, AND MOVED WITH HER PARENTS TO WESTERN CANADA, LEAVING HIM TO CARRY ON WITH HIS WORK, ALONE, ON BEHALF OF THE ANGLICAN CHURCH. HIKING FROM THE VILLAGE OF ROSSEAU THROUGH THE WIDER DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA. HIS INSIGHTS ABOUT THE REGION WERE ENLIGHTENING AND REALISTIC, AND HE KNEW THE CHALLENGES TO MEET THE SPIRITUAL NEEDS OF HIS FLOCK, WERE HUGE AND BEYOND THE CAPACITY OF JUST A SMALL NUMBER OF MISSIONARIES, MINISTERS AND PRIESTS, WORKING IN THE FIELD. YET HE DID WHAT HE COULD. TO MANY IN OUR REGION, HE WAS HIMSELF, A GUIDING LIGHT, WELCOMED WITH HARDY HANDSHAKES, INTO THEIR HOMES TO SHARE WHAT EVER MODEST PROVISIONS THE HOUSEHOLDER HAD TO SPARE. HE BROUGHT WITH HIM WORDS OF HOPE. AND IT'S ALSO IMPOSSIBLE TO KNOW, JUST HOW MANY OF OUR EARLY SETTLERS, STAYED WORKING ON THEIR MODEST HOMESTEADS, BECAUSE OF HIS ADVISORIES AND WISDOM BESTOWED. HE PROJECTED STRENGTH YET COMPASSION, BUT NEVER TURNED AWAY FROM WHAT OTHERS FELT WAS AN IMPOSSIBLE CHALLENGE. IT'S WHAT THEY ADMIRED ABOUT HIM. HE DIDN'T EXPECT ANY RELIEF FROM HIS DUTIES, AND NEVER FELT WHAT HE WAS DOING WAS IN ANY WAY EXCEPTIONAL. BRINGING HOPE AND SUPPORT TO HIS PEOPLE GAVE HIM JOY. HE ONLY WISHED HE COULD HAVE DONE MORE TO HELP THEM COPE.

"TO FEED AND PROVIDE FOR THE LORD'S FAMILY"

     IN THE 1967 BIOGRAPHY, "GILLMOR OF ALGOMA - ARCHDEACON AND TRAMP," AUTHOR E. NEWTON WHITE, (PUBLISHED BY THE DIOCESE OF ALGOMA, ANGLICAN CHURCH OF CANADA) WRITES OF GOWAN GILLMOR, THAT "THE THREADS OF HIS HOME AND FAMILY FRAYED BEYOND REPAIR." HE RECORDS THAT "GOWAN WENT ON WITH THE FABRIC OF HIS PARISH MINISTRY - THE SERVICES, THE TRAMPINGS, THE VISITING, THE SICK NURSING, THE APPROACH TO CHILDREN. PERHAPS MORE THAN EVER NOW, THE CHILDREN. (HE HAD LOST HIS, WHEN HIS WIFE MOVED WEST). TEN YEARS AFTER GOING TO (VILLAGE OF) ROSSEAU, GOWAN WROTE THIS COMMENT ON THE LIFE HE HAD THERE; 'WE LIVE HERE SOME TWELVE MILES FROM A RAILWAY STATION. THIS MEANS THAT THROUGH THE WINTER WE ARE VERY MUCH ISOLATED FROM THE OUTSIDE CIVILIZED WORLD. NOT THAT WE OURSELVES ARE WITHOUT CIVILIZATION, AND WHAT WE DO POSSESS - AND IT IS CONSIDERABLE, WE ENDEAVOUR TO EXERCISE AS WELL AS WE CAN, DURING THE LONG LIVING SNOW SEASON.' HOW MUCH GOWAN APPRECIATED FRIEND AND FAMILY CIRCLE GATHERINGS, WITH MUSIC, READING, SINGING, DISCUSSIONS AND JUST PLAIN FRIENDLY TALKING, CAN BE GATHERED FROM HIS WRITINGS AND DIARY ENTRIES. ON A VISIT TO THE REVEREND A.J. COBB, AT SEGUIN FALLS, ALONG WITH MR. WILSON OF MAGNETAWAN, 'IT WAS JUST LIKE A SMALL-SCALE CLERICAL RETREAT.' SEVERAL YEARS LATER, ON ANOTHER VISIT TO THE SAME MR. COBB, HE PLAYED SOME VERY DIFFICULT AND BEAUTIFUL PIECES OF MUSIC FOR ME; AND THEN MRS. COBB ACCOMPANIED WHILE HE SANG SEVERAL GREAT SONGS, ONE OF THEM THE 'FINE OLD VICAR OF BRAY.' DID WE HEAR A VOICE; WHAT A WAY TO SPEND AN EVENING!' BUT THERE SPOKE A POOR UNDERPRIVILEGED MODERN."

     E. Newton-White writes, "We are told that Gowan's housekeeping methods were unique, and that his cooking was atrocious; one can well believe it from a few remembered visual evidences. Because of circumstances he was batching for a greater part of his ministry, and later on, a good deal of his batching was done in forlorn empty rectories, and parsonage shacks, while he supplied for a vacant parish anywhere, between the Head-of-the-Lake and Gravenhurst. At Rosseau, the ladies of the congregation would clean up the Rectory in his absence - where they might. Part of his study was a spider preserve; not because of a possible feminine abhorrence of spiders, but because they, the spiders, were his friends. Sometimes Gowan would remonstrate with the cleaner-uppers. 'Let the nice dirt be!' Once, finding a lady dusting the Altar, he said, 'Just leave that dust lie, it's holy dust!'

     "In his parochial duties, the parish of Rosseau provided Gowan with some very respectable walking mileages. The area was comparatively small as related to his previous charges, but he covered it intensively. On Sunday, he would preach at Rosseau in the morning; walk to Ullswater, via Rosseau Falls, and the mouth of the Skeleton River, 12 or 16 miles (and eating a lunch as he walked); then walk to Bentriverdale (now shrunken to Bent River), or North Cardwell or Windermere, for evening service; then home. With modern changes of road location, the actual distance in now hard to estimate; but made a full Sunday and meant three different sermons - he made no rehashes. When they could, and he would let them, the farmers would drive him from one point to the next, in their old buggies, and with sometimes tired horses. Farming was hard on man and beast in those days also."

     The biographer, E. Newton-White records, that "a one time old parishener, says that Gowan preached in a small frame school house near her home, for fifteen years, yet never allowed a collection to be taken up, or anything else given. The epidemic diseases did not spare Rosseau, and Gowan took up his self-appointed duties again. Small-pox broke out in Ullswater, and he closed up the Rosseau Rectory to take up residence there, to minister to the sick. When diptheria was rife in Rosseau, he had his parsonage quarantined and spent all his time among the stricken homes; only stopping when, as he said, 'there are no more throats to look down.' Years later, when preaching in New Liskeard, he told of an episode of that time. Late on very cold and stormy night, word came to him of a family eleven miles down the lake, where eleven children were all down with diptheria. Gowan went into the village, to get groceries and medicine, and some neighbours gathered. As he was pulling on his heavy outgoing clothes, someone said, 'Where are you going now? An' where would I be going but to get these things out.' And swinging his pack, to his back, he stepped out to face the wild storm. Arrived safely, he nursed the family until all were well. That was Gowan's story but we can be sure that he belittled the conditions. After the service, a lady introduced herself to him. She was one of the family, she said, but wanted to correct one of his statements. There were not eleven sick ones, but fifteen!

     "Gowan used to tell Rosseau people what he told many others in his long experience, that only he and Death had undisputed entry into the homes where contagion had taken hold; quarantines notwithstanding. Death kept very close vigil while his own presence lent help, hope and consolation. He did not tell them that he often disputed Death's sentry, and many a time was able to bar the door to him. Gowan's diary of those days sometimes noted extraneous matters as this; 'June 22nd, at Rosseau. Voted for Beattie for Provincial Parliament.' Or this, 'June 22nd. at Rosseau. Met Col' O'Brien.' But who was Beattie? Was this the O'Brien of Rebellion days? Did his Irish name gain him Gowan's vote? Seventy years from now, the names of many a politician, now local household words, will be equally in limbo. About voting, Gowan would have made one of his usual kind of observations; 'Voting,' he would say, 'was not nearly as much fun in Canada, as in Ireland. There you fought your way to the polling station, and then you fought your way home again!"

"THE WORD GOD TO GIVE ME SPEECH!"

     "Let us try to picture Gowan, once again, as he would have appeared at this time in his life, and as Rosseau knew him. We have said he was tall and upright - a big man. Although he always showed the effect of his R.I.C. training, he had in no sense the military bearing nor the voice; rather those of the Irish gentleman. His clothes were nondescript; with his clerical garb a sort of foundation, he wore whatever made for protection against the elements, and convenience, in his peculiar modes of travel - like the outdoor workers he moved among," wrote E. Newton-White, his biographer.

     "His distinguishing badge was his black cloth bag; no one else carried one like it. The prospectors, bushmen and their like carried canvas bags and packsacks; settlers and farmers used bean bags and grain bags. Gowan toted his black bag from the construction days onward, until his final activities in Sault Ste. Marie; and became a well known figure in consequence. Said a Canon friend once, 'I never had a look into that black bag,' (which sounds as though he would have liked to have done that) but I do know that it held his vestments, his Bible, Greek Testament and Prayer Book.' As he said himself, 'Tramps were never known to carry excess gear.' Nevertheless it was actually crammed to capacity, and that would have been with things for the needy, and for his 'fairies.' People who were children in the Rosseau days, say of Mr. Gillmor, things like this, 'I shall always remember him as I used to see him in my growing-up years. His jolly chuckle and cheerful smiling face, which wrinkled all over when he laughed, which was often. And the brogue in his voice when he spoke.' Gowan loved to hear the Irish manner of speech, sounding in the Canadian born. Once during a spell of intensely frosty weather, he was visiting a parishioner family, and told them that he had just been out to see a man, who told him to sit in the dark these nights because, 'the kyle-ile was froze!' The brogue, indeed, seemed always ready to take over in Gowan's speech, even as he read the Prayers and the Lessons - even in the Communion Service itself. His reading with its curious flow of runs and hesitations, always at the same places, made delightful music. As for his sermons, sometimes they were in the brogue entirely. Any mention of his sermons, and speeches, must try to convey his manner of long pauses - or rather, abrupt and lengthy stops, during which the listener could only wonder, as perhaps he had intended; 'What next?' That the method was effective is shown by a Priest, who says he can still remember Gowan's sermons; a fact he regards as remarkable, because he can say the same of no other preacher."

     E. Newton-White writes, "Then this at a Synod Meeting, many years after, at which Archbishop Thorneloe announced his impending retirement. In his own speech, Archdeacon Gillmor said, 'The first time I met his Grace, he was at sea! - on the Muskoka Lakes - At Rosseau; I boarded the ship, and he had two bags. When he saw me he put them both down. He came toward me with out-stretched hand. And d'ye know, I have felt the warmth of that handshake ever since'."

     The biographer records of his subject, "One to who we are most indebted for memories, and pictures of Rosseau, the unofficial archivist of the Parish; a devoted church-worker and member of one of the first settler families, says of his appearance, 'he peculiar walking gait as he set out on one of this trips. It was as if his head was in a hurry to reach the destination before his body. It was a gait which made for great mileage.' The same lady remembers that Protestant settlers from a distance, would sometimes take Gowan for a Roman Catholic priest; partly because of the large silver cross he always wore. They would address him as 'Father,' when that title was quite unknown among Anglicans, and he would be pleased. One lady remembers her brother always calling him, but respectfully, 'Father Kelly.' He enjoyed that too. The cross he wore was often the subject of questioning by some people in those days. When asked he would explain that his work took him among all sorts and conditions of men, and those who did not respect him as a man, would at least have regard to the Cross.

     "The lady of the Parish tells how she once noticed a freshly blazed tree in the bush, well back from the road, she was walking, and went in to see it. She found a Cross cut into the blaze, and above and below it was written, 'The Tramp - His Mark.' Seeing that no kind of axe was part of his equipment, someone else must have blazed the tree, and Gowan made use of it. At Sault Ste. Marie, at least one home of his good friends has a treasured birthday book, in which Gowan hand-entered, for Nov. 22nd, 'The Tramp - His Mark." I have often wandered the old foot trails of our region, always on the look-out for some thin, faded indentation in a tree trunk, that may have come from “The Tramp” himself.

     I would like to carry-on in my next post, documenting the final spirited days of Archdeacon Gowan Gillmor, and his special relationship with the Village of Rosseau, and Muskoka. Thank you for joining today's post.