When Pure and Truthful Nostalgia Outweighs The Cumbersome Attitude Of Present Realities and Urban Destruction Of What Was Once A Favourite Hideaway

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

WHAT HAS BEEN EXPERIENCED IN CHILDHOOD OF COURSE IMPRINTS ADULTHOOD, AND OF THIS I AM THE POSTER BOY FOR CONTEMPORARY GOOD OLD DAYS

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

BY TED CURRIE

     Outside of an old story teller’s tales of yore, and this might surprise some readers considering my staunch loyalty to the past, I have not ventured to take either of my sons on a magical mystery tour of my old hometown, Burlington, Ontario. I really can’t explain why, other than to suggest that my other hometowns of Bracebridge, 1966 to 1988, and Gravenhurst, 1988 to the 2022 (coming soon), have been fine for recollective tall tales and sordid other stories. But Burlington has, at the same time, always been a keen past tense, that I have never really let go of, and for less than obvious reasons. I never really considered Burlington home, for one thing. I can’t really explain it, other than to suggest I was born to live in a small town, and in the early 1960’s it was starting to bloom outward as a soon to be city-of-note, with a great many assets for investors to exploit. I have always believed somewhat in pre-destiny, even as a child, and that may have had something to do with having survived a near drowning incident in my favorite neighborhood creek, and then pulling through a several week illness that I was told later, by my mother, that may have been life threatening, which made it so profound thusly, when I had my so called “angel dream,” on the very evening that my fever mysteriously broke, and my near constant cough ceased, and normal life resumed for a seven year old rambunctious kid. But there was always something surreal about my relationship with that most accommodating city, that by the way, was very fair to our family all-told, but something nagged at me, the old soul that I was even in childhood, that made me believe I was a very temporary resident.

     I loved my relationship with the Harris Crescent, Torrance Avenue hillside, that looked down on the Ramble Creek ravine, where us kids used to play from morning until at least sunset even on winter days, and this was my home place, where I felt most comfortable and accepted as an ever wandering kid looking for recreations. I didn’t want anything else. I appreciated Lions Club Park, only a block away, and I had just begun visiting the Brant Street business corridor only a few months before we moved to the Mountain Gardens area of town, which I did not care for, simply because it lacked Ramble Creek, my closest non human ally. I didn’t mind the hike to Lakeshore Public School through the hydro line of towers, and I enjoyed a few cross neighborhood junkets to visit my chums, like Bobby Crews, Ronny LaRose, Ray and Holly Green and of course Dick and Henry Boosevelt, my hockey team mates. But truth be known, and memory serves, I was a lover of small and neighborly, and I’m not a lot different today. I adore Gravenhurst for what it doesn’t have, and I know that is changing rapidly as forest are axed and new subdivisions erected in months, not years. I can’t stop progress in terms of urban sprawl, because I’ve burned out trying to keep a small town sensibly proportioned. But between the Main Street, where our shop is located, and here at Birch Hollow, small and sensibly proportioned, is still intact, and it suits me fine. Just like the Burlington of old, that allowed me my pocket of urban wilds, and a living arrangement that was less populated, with fewer sky scrapers, and condo jungles that increase density in the city ideal. I am a diving breed of local, I suppose, who can live happily without the apparent joy of citydom, and all its inherent problems. I suppose with my boys, I worry that I could not return to Burlington and, at the same time, have my stories make much sense; because they are, and have always been about small town living in the centre of an ever expanding city. I just blocked out the city aspect, and lived the life I wanted. Even Lakeshore Public School had a minor enrollment back in the early 1960’s which was about the same student population as Bracebridge Public School when we arrived here some years later. I am probably scared myself, about returning, thinking then that it must all have been a dream; how else could I explain, even intimately to myself, why so much has grown inward as well as outward, compromising the wonderful ravine area and tumbling beautiful creek, that gave me so much stir of imagination; that it could only mean a shattering awakening to how old I am, and how unconnected I’ve been to the real world, when it comes to the expectation that this special place should have been preserved a living diorama of the way it was for wee Teddy Currie back in 1962; when I would build an ten foot wide raft to sail along a six foot wide creek, to Lake Ontario a block away. Unrealistic. Sure I was, and I can blame that on childhood. But this part of childhood is sacred, and I have been able to paint this picture for both boys. I just don’t want that to be prejudiced at this time. I suppose, when I have left this mortal coil, they might wish to see where good old dad used to play and dream and built unrealistically big rafts that never quite made it down stream in one piece. This will be their choice to visit, but it will not be my final request that they do so, to send me off to my eternal reward. What a strange fellow I am, wouldn’t you say?

WHAT DID YOU LEARN FROM LIVING IN YOUR OLD NEIGHBORHOOD - URBAN OR RURAL? HOW MIGHT IT HAVE INFLUENCED COLLECTING INTERESTS?

I WAS FASCINATED BY EVERYTHING THAT WAS GOING ON, AT HOME, AND ON OUR NOSTALGIC JUNKETS TO NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR

     I had a red tin and assorted metal, peddle car, circa 1958, that may have been in the design of a fire engine. I don't have any photographs to back-up that claim, and no one left in my family who could say for sure, it was "Teddy's ride!" I loved that little car, although I do remember getting my feet, ankles and shins cut up pretty good, when I'd accidentally hit the sidewalk curb, and send my body hurtling down and forward into the inner workings. If one of my shoes popped off, there was a good chance of getting something pinched down there. Of course, this came before my rather large tricycle, so it's likely my parents made the trade-up with someone else in the neighborhood with kids. I got a lot of second hand stuff back in those days, but what the hell. At least I had things. I know that when we moved to the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington, in about 1964, I didn't have possession of what I think was the "Fire Chief's" vehicle in miniature.

      I was a very mobile chap in those days, and whether it was in this tin peddle car, on my tricycle, or on foot, I saw it all. I was the kind of nosey kid who was always watching your property, and your comings and goings, never failing to show up, when a delivery truck pulled-up out front. I was curious. I wanted to know everything about every one, and I hated the thought of something major happening, while I was at school, watching television, or sound asleep. For example, I was absolutely fascinated by the corner homestead, on Harris Crescent and Torrance Avenue, owned then by Mrs. White; because it was so mysteriously appointed, with lots of vegetation around, including apple and cherry trees, and the fact rumour had it, she used to eat children for dinner. You see, there were several large sheds on her property, if memory serves, and because we couldn't see inside, it was naturally assumed by over-active imagination, it was where she fattened up her prey, tied-up and struggling inside. You know, the danger we assumed was always lurking, of being on or near her property, should have been enough to keep us away out of fear. It did the exact opposite. We were drawn to the old house and these buildings, as a moth dashes itself into a light. We were always getting caught by Anne Nagy, trying to get over her fence from the side yard of the apartment. By the way, Mrs. White was a charming elderly woman, who wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a child, but you know how these situations get blown out of proportion. She didn't want us on the property, for fear we might get hurt; not because she didn't want us to see how she was fattening her young prisoners in those sheds. Mrs. Bell, an elderly woman who lived on the other side of the Nagy apartment, just above the ravine of Ramble Creek, was far more visible around her property, and spent a lot of time screaming directives out, about staying off her lawn "or else!" Mr. Creighton, owner of the apartments, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's, was also a fellow who took exception to our trespassing, which was pretty much constant. I never worried too much about these happenstance warnings, and took more interest in the very next project, even if it meant trespassing once again, in order to make it all come together.  

     Remember the bells of the "Goodie Man," coming up the street, on a hot summer day? I will never forget that dazzling little truck, painted brightly with character depictions, (that well, with the fog of age), I don't quite remember, clanging up Torrance Avenue, and heading for both ends of the cul-de-sac of Harris Crescent, where there were profitable pockets of hot kids in need of refreshment. In our section of Harris Crescent, there were three significant apartment blocks (and some multi-family units), including the Nagy Apartments, where we lived, and two others I believe, owned by the Creighton family. Dave Creighton, as I remember, was a former National Hockey League player, but we didn't see him around much, as it was his father in those days, who managed the buildings. Or at least, this is how I remember the setting of Harris Crescent back in the late 1950's, and very early 60's. What is crystal clear, is the vision of that ice cream truck, rounding the corner of Torrance, and Lakeshore, with its bells ringing, while trundling-up the hillside, to Harris Crescent. I do remember another ice cream truck, possibly later on, that played children's songs like "Pop Goes the Weasel," and "Farmer in Dell." It would usually hit our balliwick at about two o'clock. I was never afforded an allowance in those days, so it meant I had to hustle around the building to find my mother, if she wasn't working that day, and beg a dime for a pre-packaged ice cream cone, with chocolate and nuts preferably. It must have been profitable for the operator of the truck, because there was always a crowd on July and August afternoons, when he showed up full of good cheer and playful anecdotes. I've often wondered if any doting parent, ever snapped a photograph of this stunningly nostalgic scene, of kids gathered around the vendor's truck, that was so brightly adorned with tantalizing colors (to make us spend) and curious other images, possibly of clowns or something similar. I expect that I was able to buy a treat once or twice for every five trips he made to that Burlington neighborhood.

    We Curries didn't have a lot of money to spend on ice cream treats, unless it was from the grocery store, when pints were on sale. I guess the problem with our memories of the "Goodie Truck," or as well called him, "The Goodie Man," was that we may have come to associate him with our own misfortunes; watching the other better-off kids getting treats and then eating them in front of us. I did hate that. Gosh, I've been repressing my feelings about the Goodie Man since the early sixties, and never knew it! It divided the "haves" and the "have nots," which I suppose, is the reason I wouldn't want to write a book about ice cream trucks, and all their associated nostalgia. I'm still mad after all these years, that I was poor kid. I think, honestly, it was my first introduction to what social order was all about; and I was different from the others, other than my shoes full of holes, on those afternoons, when I was too broke to participate in this summer tradition. Ah well, it's not like I was denied a hundred percent of the time. Ray Green always had the ready cash, and I suppose it's why I didn't hate myself, for those occasions, when I hit the ice cream out of his hand onto the sidewalk. If I couldn't have it, the treat that is, he couldn't either. Although there was one time, when he did retrieve it, and ate around the chunks of embedded gravel and grass cuttings. This is why Gravenhurst councillors stay away from me, while eating popsicles. I have a reputation you see, going all the way back to childhood. It also explains somewhat, why my best buddy Ray and I were always wrestling over some found object, even the remainders of the ice cream cone, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk. (I have to footnote this little story, to credit the generous parents in our neighborhood, who often showed up at the truck, to buy treats for the whole gang, including those standing back watching the others lining up. God bless those kindly souls for helping out a kid down on his luck.)

     Ray got even with me, when, while wrestling in our apartment, some years later, he fell onto my new Eagle table top hockey game, I had just got for Christmas, breaking the masonite surface, so the rods wouldn't slide easily ever after. He laughed and I cried. It had been reversed for long and long, when I used to topple his ice cream cone, simply because he didn't buy me one.

     I also fondly remember the old Tinker, who used to show up occasionally, on his bike propelled wagon, to repair household utensils, pots and pans, that had developed holes from day to day use. By definition, the "Tinker" was a tin smith. I was compelled to come out on the street, to see him working on some damaged item, a resident had handed to him for on-site repair. Add to this the occasional "Sheeny Man," visit, which was quite entertaining. My mother used to tell lots of stories about the "Sheeny Man," who used to visit their house in Toronto, (also known as the rag man) when she was growing up, and how her mother used to check out what he was selling; often buying something small, just to help the peddler justify his travels, neighborhood after neighborhood.  I guess, by definition, he was a mobile "junk" seller, with a wide array of household pieces hanging off his wagon or bike-pulled cart. Then there was the knife and scissor sharpener, who had the most elaborate bike and cart combination, and I used to like watching the sparks coming off one of his sharpening tasks, for one of our neighbors. My mother even took advantage of his services, for our butcher and steak knives, if that is, we had some extra cash. I don't think his sharpening service was very expensive. He had a grinding wheel he could propel by crank, and I loved to see the spray of sparks flying off into the daylight. Boy would that have looked neat at night.

     Amongst the other visitors to our Harris Crescent neighborhood, were the breadman, milkman, postman, and the delivery men who worked the trucks for Eatons and Simpsons. I particularly remember their hats, which I have owned and re-sold over the years. I always daydreamed about what those trucks, visiting at that moment, were bringing for me; like the song from the movie "The Music Man," and the scene, about the Wells Fargo delivery. (the young fellow, waiting for "something special," was Ronnie Howard) I remember the drivers always looking so sharp with uniforms and caps; just like the postmen, who hauled around those huge black mail bags, strung over the neck, and the keys they had hooked on to their belts, that jingled when they walked. We had a community mail box, at the apartment, I seem to remember, that required one of these keys. There's was something fantastic, in terms of possibility, when the mailman rounded the corner of Harris Crescent, heading our way. Especially around Christmas, when he was loaded down with parcels. I'd watch him on his travels, and try to look into his pouch, to see perchance, if there was something with my name attached; or what other addresses were written onto parcels, just in case, it was Ray Green getting some mail order toy. I saw one once, addressed to me, from my grandmother, that I knew immediately I wanted to send right back where it came from, as having no particular value; just another wool sweater that would irritate my skin. I knew what those parcels looked like; as she always purchased them from Eatons and sent the box used for such things, which I could detect from a considerable distance away. I wanted toys not sweaters. I digress.

     I also have rather found recollections of the television and radio repairmen (and that amazing multi-level case they used to unfold in our livingroom), and I am sorry to say there were no women in the mix, except to open the doors when they came to fix what was broken. Of course it was all male dominated in those days, and it did have an impact on our psyches. I know if I had run across a female doing the milk, bread or repair runs, I would have remembered it as an event in neighborhood history. It didn't happen. In some places, in the early 1960's, I'm sure there were female drivers and delivery personnel, including for the post office, but it wasn't prevalent in Burlington, at least, in that era before the big changes to come. My father was for all intents and purposes, a male chauvinist, but he benefitted from the fact my mother could always land a job in the banking industry; but if she had come home and told us she was going to be walking the beat of the postman, I think my dad would have flipped-out, and said something silly like, "what will the neighbors think." As if that mattered. It did to him, because he always seemed particularly sensitive to the word on the street, if it was about our family. I found this out by the happenstance of making news, later in life, as a journalist with the same first name as my dear old dad. Let's just say there were a few points of opposition, especially when he was complimented or chastised for articles I had published. His lumber customers thought he was moonlighting as a reporter. My mother eventually broke free of his chauvinistic ways, when we moved north to Bracebridge, with the near revolutionary thinking, spawned by the coming of the 1970's, setting down a new awareness about gender equality. My father had a dinosaur's way of thinking about these things, but he gradually came around to this liberation reality.

     The characteristics of my old neighborhood, just like the ones you recall from your own upbringing, did effect our future outlooks and interests to some degree. I admit being more influenced than some, because I was born a collector of things. I desired what neat stuff other people had, so I suppose, like the ice cream cones I desired (but didn't get), jealousy did enter into the equation of what made up the young Teddy Currie. I studied the welcome intrusions onto our street, and you bet, I was up close and personal to all the repairmen who showed up, to do a wide variety of restorations; whether to fix the horizontal hold on the television, new tubes for the radio, or install a new phone for one of our apartment mates. I knew the hard leather slap, on the hall floors, of the breadman, and the sound of his fibre basket when he set it down to sort product for customers, which included cookies; if I didn't see the truck pull up to the apartment, I surely knew his footfall. The tinkle of glass against a metal carrier, belonged to the milkman passing through the three hallways of the Nagy apartments, and the postman's jiggling keys gave him away every time. As I've mentioned before, I always had the distinct feeling, that what I was experiencing of these visiting folks, and a lot of the characteristics of our own neighborhood, were already nostalgic before they had any right to be; but I didn't know what this meant, other than to feel I was on the cusp of great change happening around me, tipping me off, that what I enjoyed would soon be gone forever. Outdated, and not needed any longer. Thus, the seed was implanted, that for whatever reason, made it very clear in the imaginative part of my immature brain, by the almost eerie pull of sentimentality, that I should pay close attention to it all, before it was gone for good. It's as if I knew that the future would dismantle all this amazing carnival of welcome intrusion, and we would rely on oldtimers ever after, to tell us what it was like to get milk delivered in bottles, lodged in a specially designed carrier brought full of product to your doorstep. Remember the milk boxes on the side of homes, with a little door, for the milkman's convenience? Gosh, here I am, doing this very thing, waxing nostalgic about the good old days, and wondering whether this was the whole pre-destined situation; that somehow God figured out, that I would be a decent spokesperson, some time in the future, to write about history with heartfelt passion. All I know, is that I had a forewarning about what was going to be important in my life, in later years, and by golly, it has come to be very providential to me now. As I've written about many times, this is a feeling I've had all my life. It doesn't mean I've ever accepted it as ordinary, and it does have its burdens. I have an acute awareness of the passing of time, and all the etching it leaves, that may one day disappear altogether, if I don't make mention of it for posterity. I like to think it's a shared posterity, because I'm not really doing it for myself alone. It has always seemed so important, to make sure these situations, in all their humanity, are preserved in some way or another; which folks, brings me to the heart and soul of the exposed collector, and why we try to preserve the past by hanging onto pieces, that remind us of the times we most enjoyed. Expensive proposition? You bet! It's why I invest far more writing about the past, because it is infinitely less expensive, than if I was to buy-up all the nostalgia I feel in love with, much as a wide-eyed kid full of envy; especially of those who got the treats when I didn't.

     "They say that you can't go back - But hey, I never left!" ("Mobilia" magazine, October 1996). My point precisely! I'm here but I'm also still there!

Irvin Ace Bailey and Roger Crozier Gave A Young Sports Writer A Lot To Research

 

Photo by Suzanne Currie

I’VE WRITTEN A LOT ABOUT HOCKEY BECAUSE IT WAS WHAT I KNEW MOST ABOUT OTHER THAN SPENDING WAY TOO MUCH TIME IN THE HOT STOVE LEAGUE

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

BY TED CURRIE

     When I saw the nearly six foot tiger, on the advertising sign, I knew the beast belong to the Esso brand back in the 1960’s and 70’s was coming home from this particular antique venue. It just so happens that Suzann’e family operated the Windermere Marina back during the same time period, as the “put a tiger in your tank” promotion from Esso gas, and they were the authorized dealer at the time, for all Esso related products and obviously gas. What it really means is the Suzanne brought a few choice Esso “tiger” promotional materials into our marriage, (but I was okay with Esso because they had brought us Hockey Night in Canada), including the Esso sanctioned charge machine, a boat key fob, a plush tiger tail they used to give out to customers, an Esso stenciled glass with a tiger image, and two plush tiger mascots. We sold the tiger head-bobber on eBay about a decade ago. So with all the add ons sitting at home, and son Andrew needing a Christmas present, we put the huge in-station promotional board, of tiger and palm tree, with companion chalk board for weekly specials, the assorted collectables from the marina years also went with the central piece. Which by the way, was in excellent condition, and worth well more than the asking price. A great find for folks who have been sitting on the other stuff since the 1970’s, waiting, I suppose, for an opportunity like this to pop up, and Andrew was nostalgically impressed. Suzanne’s relationship with the family business, in Windermere, which included the “Skipper” snack bar, on the upper level of the waterfront business, also gave her access to many hundreds of records from the juke box, that she was given by Mr. Arney of Bala, who owned the machines, and often gave her the 45’s that had done their service on the rental machines. She offered them many years later to both Robert and Andrew, who were just starting out with music appreciation, before they hit their teens, and the rest is music history, as it has become their profession. So from the nostalgia aspect of the Windermere Marina we are back in the “Put a Tiger in Your Tank” collecting game, and sure enough, records are still a mainstay of our Gravenhurst antique and music shop. And its going to be their future no doubt.

     Esso and hockey for me, and my hockey adoring parents, was part of our viewing culture way back, when we lived at 129 Alice Street. It was excellent marketing for Esso and pretty good for the National Hockey League as well. Do you remember, and you must be my age to recall this, when Maple Leaf games at the Gardens could only be broadcast halfway to two thirds through the first period, in order not to interfere with actual game night ticket sales; in other words, ownership wanted fans at the game, more than watching in the comfort of their own homes. I don’t know how many years it lasted, but it sure was a pain to have the game finally hit the screen, and find out the Leafs had enjoyed a great opening period, scoring two to four big goals that we sure would like to have seen in actuality. But we couldn’t afford to go to the games,  and our broken old car wouldn’t have made it the ten miles to Gravenhurst let alone downtown Toronto.

     My first long-running sports column I wrote for the Bracebridge Herald-Gazette, was called “From the Bleachers,” and it gave me the forum to comment on all kinds of recreational highs and lows, and most often, to opine on the outstanding careers of Bracebridge hockey stars such was Irvin “Ace” Bailey, and Roger Crozier. I was also able to find out quite a bit of history on the well known Carson brothers, Billy and Frank, who both played well in the early years of the National Hockey League, and they had lived for some time in Bracebridge, where the Carson family owned a small farm and considerable land in Monck Township, I believe. Frank was not born in Bracebridge, but Billy was, and he played at the same time as Ace Bailey, both being members of the fledgling Toronto Maple Leafs. It wasn’t hard for me to fall into this hockey culture, since I had been playing minor hockey since the age of seven, originally in Burlington where we lived in the late 1950’s and early 60’s. I was thrilled to write about the accomplishments of both Bailey and Crozier, who of course was an all star with the Detroit Red Wings, winning the Calder Trophy as Rookie of the Year and the Conn Smythe Trophy as the Most Valuable Player of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, circa 1966. The editorial below was written well after “From the Bleachers” had been relegated to the paper’s archives, but much of the content was gathered during those years, as I spent hour upon hour, scanning through the back copies of the newspaper, all the way back to the late 1920’s, when Bailey was enjoying his heyday for the Smythe franchise. It is still one of my most enjoyed recreations, being able to write with some authority about those great players of the past, who gave our town international recognition. I was also so pleased to have worked alongside Roger during the period he sponsored the Crozier Foundation, and made me curator of the inaugural Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame; which is still operating at the Bracebridge arena. During that period I had the great honor of handling, and setting out exhibits representing a number of original, game-used gear from the estates of both Roger and Ace, including period trophies, art, and photographs from Maple Leaf Gardens. So here now are a few memories of a period of my writing life that I really do miss today. 

IN RECOGNITION OF HOCKEY CANADA'S CENTENNIAL, 1914-2014 - BRACEBRIDGE SHOULD PROMOTE ITS HOCKEY HERITAGE; RIGHT ON THE MAIN STREET

HERITAGE AS A BUSINESS RESOURCE? IF WE POSSESS LEGENDARY ACCOMPLISHMENT AS OUR CHRONICLE, WHY THE HECK AREN'T WE BRAGGING?

     "IRVIN 'ACE' BAILEY BECAME ONE OF NORTH AMERICA'S GREATEST PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY PLAYERS, WHOSE ACHIEVEMENTS INCLUDED WINNING THE CUP FOR HIGHEST SCORER IN THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE, BUT HIS STELLAR HOCKEY CAREER WAS ENDED BY INJURIES, INFLICTED UPON HIM IN 1934 BY EDDIE SHORE IN A GAME AT BOSTON."

     IN A LIFE MAGAZINE ARTICLE, WRITTEN BY MARSHALL SMITH, IN THE FEBRUARY ISSUE, OF 1951, THE TRAGIC INCIDENT WAS RECOLLECTED, WITH SOME CHAGRIN BY A SMATTERING OF HOCKEY HISTORIANS, DISPUTING A NUMBER OF THE FACTS CONTAINED IN THE STORY. MANY IN BRACEBRIDGE WOULDN'T CONCUR, AT THIS TIME, UPON HEARING STORIES THEY FELT WERE OUTRAGEOUS, THAT MR. BAILEY WOULD EVER RESORT TO SUCH AN EXTENT, AS TAKING A GUN TO BOSTON, IN ORDER TO SHOOT THE PERPETRATOR OF HIS SON'S INJURY.

     "THE MOMENT BEFORE A MAN GETS HIS BRAINS KNOCKED OUT - OR ALMOST KNOCKED OUT, IS ONE NOT EASILY FORGOTTEN. CONN SMYTHE, PRESIDENT AND MANAGING DIRECTOR OF THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS, REMEMBERS IT AS VIVIDLY AS IF IT HAPPENED TO HIM. FROM HIS BENCH IN BOSTON GARDEN, HE SAW HIS MAPLE LEAFS AND THE RIVAL BOSTON BRUINS SCRAMBLING FOR THE PUCK. HE SAW HOCKEY'S GREAT 'BAD MAN,' BOSTON'S EDDIE SHORE, COME CHARGING DOWN ON ACE BAILEY LIKE A LOCOMOTIVE IN A PEARL WHITE MOVIE. SMYTHE TIGHTENED UP. THERE WAS A CRASH. ACE BAILEY CATAPULTED INTO THE AIR AND CAME DOWN ON HIS HEAD. HE LAY BLEEDING, MOTIONLESS, EXCEPT FOR A CONVULSIVE TWITCHING OF THE MUSCLES."

     SMITH NOTES THAT, "AFTER THE FIRST STUNNED SILENCE, ONE OF SMYTHE'S OTHER BOYS, BIG RED HORNER, SKATED UP TO SHORE, 'PUT YOUR HANDS UP; I'M GOING TO HIT YOU,' HE SAID, AND THEN HE SWUNG. THE BLOW KNOCKED SHORE BACKWARDS IN A HALF FLIP. HE TOO CAME DOWN ON HIS HEAD. HE LAY STILL IN ANOTHER WIDENING POOL OF BLOOD. BEDLAM BROKE LOOSE IN THE GARDEN. AS THE UNCONSCIOUS PLAYERS WERE CARRIED FROM THE ICE, SMYTHE WENT RIGHT WITH THEM. SO WHEN A LOUD-MOUTHED FAN BLOCKED THE WAY, SMYTHE SWUNG ON HIM, PUTTING EVERY ONE OF HIS 132 POUNDS BEHIND THE BLOW. THE FAN'S GLASSES WERE SHATTERED AND MORE BLOOD FLOWED. THERE NEVER WAS A NIGHT LIKE IT IN BIGTIME HOCKEY.

     "SMYTHE, PROTESTING VEHEMENTLY, WAS HAULED OFF TO THE POLICE STATION. ACE BAILEY WAS RUSHED TO AUDOBON HOSPITAL, WHERE AN EMERGENCY OPERATION WAS PERFORMED ON HIS BROKEN SKULL. HE WAS GIVEN A 50-50 CHANCE TO LIVE. EDDIE SHORE, WITH SEVEN STITCHES IN HIS SCALP, WAS HUSTLED OFF TO BERMUDA, TO WAIT UNTIL THINGS COOLED DOWN. IT WAS JUST AS WELL THAT HE WAS. A MAN WITH A HARD LOOK IN HIS EYE BLEW INTO TOWN FROM BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AND BEGAN MAKING INQUIRIES. 'I'M ACE BAILEY'S FATHER (CHARLIE),' THE MAN SAID, CALMLY PULLING A SIX-SHOOTER OUT OF HIS POCKET. 'WHERE CAN I FIND SHORE?"

     THIS VERSION OF EVENTS WAS REFUTED LOCALLY, BUT IT IS VALIDATED IN HOCKEY HISTORY, IN FRANK SELKE'S BIOGRAPHY, INDICATING THAT A POLICE FRIEND OF HIS, IN BOSTON, WAS ASKED TO INTERVENE. SELKE HAD APPARENTLY HEARD FROM A UNNAMED SOURCE, THAT BAILEY'S FATHER HAD LEFT BRACEBRIDGE WITH A WEAPON. CHARLIE BAILEY WAS THEN INTERCEPTED BY THE OFF-DUTY POLICE OFFICE, AN ACQUAINTANCE OF SELKE, BEFORE HE COULD ACT ON HIS MISSION, TO SHOOT THE MAN WHO HAD NEARLY KILLED HIS SON. WHAT AN AMAZING HOCKEY STORY WITH A DEEP ROOT IN BRACEBRIDGE.  

     EARLIER THIS FALL SEASON, I PROMISED READERS A SHORT SERIES OF BLOGS, HIGHLIGHTING BRACEBRIDGE'S MAJOR CONTRIBUTION TO THE EARLY YEARS OF PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY ON THIS CONTINENT, AND AS WELL, IN THIS COUNTRY. I DO APPRECIATE THAT THERE ARE QUITE A FEW READERS UNINTERESTED IN HOCKEY, AND SPORTS GENERALLY, BUT THIS STORY WILL BE IMPORTANT FOR A NUMBER OF OTHER REASONS, SIGNIFICANT TO CONTEMPORARY VIEWS OF THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. IT APPLIES TO OTHER MUSKOKA COMMUNITIES AS WELL, WHO DON'T TAKE FULL ADVANTAGE OF THEIR HISTORY, AS AN ECONOMIC PROMOTION.

     NEARLY A YEAR AGO, THE "MAKE BRACEBRIDGE GREAT AGAIN," CAMPAIGN BEGAN, AS AN ONLINE INITIATIVE, TO FORCE BRACEBRIDGE TOWN COUNCIL, TO RECKON WITH THE STALEMATE THE MUNICIPALITY HAS BEEN STRUGGLING WITH, IN TERMS OF, FOR EXAMPLE, RECREATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES, AND ECONOMIC ENHANCEMENT. I'M ASSUMING PART OF THE COMPLAINT FROM THE YOUNGER GENERATIONS, MOVING THIS INITIATIVE FORWARD, HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE EMPTY STORE FRONTS ALONG THE MANITOBA STREET BUSINESS CORRIDOR. WHILE I DIDN'T AGREE WITH THIS INITIATIVE, AS FAR AS THE "GREAT AGAIN" ASPECT, (BECAUSE BRACEBRIDGE WAS NEVER GREAT, BUT IT WAS A GOOD HOMETOWN IN THE PAST AND REMAINS SO, IN THE PRESENT), I DID FEEL THIS MAY HAVE PROVIDED AN OPENING FOR A PESKY HISTORIAN LIKE ME, TO REMIND THESE FOLKS, AND THE TOWN'S ADMINISTRATION, THAT ONE POWERFUL STRIDE FORWARD, OUT OF STATUS QUO, WOULD BE TO FINALLY, AND TOTALLY EMBRACE THE HISTORY THEY HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO POSSESS, AND BRAG ABOUT, IN A PROFOUNDLY PROMOTIONAL SENSE. NO, DON'T WORRY, I'M NOT GOING TO YAP-ON ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE'S UNDER UTILIZED PROMOTION, OF THEIR CONNECTION TO WASHINGTON IRVING, ONE OF THE WORLD'S MOST REVERED AUTHORS. WHAT A SHAME NO ONE IN THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY WILL TAKE THE INITIATIVE TO HARVEST THIS ASPECT OF LOCAL HISTORY, BUT IT'S NOT FOR MY LACK OF TRYING. I GET QUITE BEFUDDLED WHEN THERE ARE COMPLAINTS MAKING THE PRESS, ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE ECONOMIC SHORTFALLS, YET THOSE WHO HAVE A VESTED INTEREST IN MAKING IMPROVEMENTS, CAN'T MUSTER THE INTEREST TO RESEARCH, AND PROMOTE WHAT IS FREE AND OF INTERNATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE. IT'S NOT THAT I HAVEN'T OFFERED TO HELP OUT. INSTEAD OF A STATUE OF WASHINGTON IRVING, THERE IS A MOVE TO CREATE A HUGE BRONZE OF SANTA CLAUS, PRESUMABLY IN REFERENCE TO THE TOWN'S LONG AND SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP WITH SANTA'S VILLAGE. I'M NOT AGAINST A STATUE OF SANTA. BUT A PUBLIC, BOLD AND BEAUTIFUL RECOGNITION OF WASHINGTON IRVING SHOULD COME FIRST. IT WAS AFTERALL, AS FAR BACK AS 1864 WHEN BRACEBRIDGE WAS GIVEN THIS AMAZING LITERARY PROVENANCE.

     HOW DOES THIS SPIEL GET AROUND TO HOCKEY HISTORY? IT'S PRETTY MUCH THE SAME DEAL, AS WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE ONLY WAY IT'S DIFFERENT, IS BECAUSE I WAS ABLE TO ACQUIRE FUNDS FROM THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, TO CREATE THE BRACEBRIDGE SPORTS HALL OF FAME DISPLAY CASES, AT THE COMMUNITY CENTRE. WHEN I WAS ASKED BY ROGER CROZIER, FORMER N.H.L. ALL STAR, A NATIVE SON, IF I WOULD AGREE TO BE THE PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR FOR THE MUSKOKA BRANCH OF THE NEWLY CREATED CROZIER FOUNDATION FOR YOUTH, AT THE SAME TIME, HE ASKED WHAT I THOUGHT WOULD BE A SUITABLE GIFT TO THE TOWN, TO INAUGURATE HIS CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION. IT ROLLED OFF MY TONGUE WITH EASE. "A BRAND NEW SHOWCASE FOR THE ARENA LOBBY." WHILE HE DIDN'T LIVE TO SEE IT OPENED, AND FULL OF THE RELICS OF BRACEBRIDGE'S SPORTS HEROES, IT WAS BUILT FROM MONEY THAT HE HAD HELPED RAISE FOR THE START-UP OF THE FOUNDATION. AND ONE WHOLE GLASS CABINET, OF THE WALL OF EXHIBITION CASES, WAS DEVOTED TO THE MAN WHO BECAME AN N.H.L. LEGEND, AND TRAGIC FIGURE AT THE SAME TIME; IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY.

     DURING MY TWELVE YEARS, WORKING AS THE HALL OF FAME CURATOR, I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO HANDLE THESE AMAZING N.H.L. ARTIFACTS, INCLUDING THE PAUL WHITEMAN TROPHY, WHICH WAS ONLY EVER GIVEN TO ONE PLAYER, AND THAT WAS TO "ACE" BAILEY. WHITEMAN, AN INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED BAND LEADER, WAS A BIG FAN OF ACE BAILEY, AND HAD THE TROPHY MADE FOR HIM. I WAS IN AWE EVERY TIME I HAD TO RE-FASHION AND CLEAN THE SHOWCASE, AND DUST OFF THE ARTIFACTS, WHICH INCLUDED BAILEY'S SKATES. THE HOCKEY MEMORABILIA WAS LOANED TO THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES, AFTER HE RETIRED FROM COACHING HOCKEY AT THE UNIVERSITY LEVEL IN TORONTO. UNFORTUNATELY, THE SMALL DISPLAY SPACE, AFFORDED THE RELICS, DID NOT ADEQUATELY SHOWCASE BAILEY'S CAREER, AS THEY DID, IN A BRAND NEW, BRIGHT SHOWCASE, FINANCED BY THE CROZIER FOUNDATION. WHAT SURPRISES ME TODAY, IS THAT SO MANY FOLKS IN BRACEBRIDGE HAVEN'T GOT A CLUE WHO ACE BAILEY WAS, AND THOSE WHO HAVE HEARD THE NAME, DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE TOWN. I SURPRISED A BUSINESSMAN RECENTLY, WITH THIS BIT OF HOCKEY HISTORY, RAISED IN CASUAL CONVERSATION, AND HE COULDN'T BELIEVE, AS A HOCKEY LOVER HIMSELF, THIS BIT OF LOCAL HERITAGE HAD EVADED HIM. THERE'S A SIMPLE EXPLANATION. IT ISN'T CONSIDERED A BIG DEAL IN THE CONTEMPORARY SENSE. THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY HASN'T SERIOUSLY EMBRACED THE IDEA, THAT OUR HISTORICAL MILESTONES ARE WORTH PUTTING OUT THERE, AS AN ECONOMIC INVESTMENT IN THE FUTURE. WHY NOT BRAG ABOUT OUR STORIED PAST? THE BIOGRAPHY OF IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY IS OUTSTANDING. IT IS RIPE FOR EXPLOITATION. PERFECT TO PROUDLY HANG OFF A SIGN BOARD, OR MAKE VISIBLE VIA A HUGE PAINTED MURAL, THAT ACE BAILEY, ONE OF THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE'S BEST KNOWN PLAYERS, WAS FROM BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO.

     WHY IS IT NECESSARY, WITH SUCH A NATIONALLY SIGNIFICANT PROVENANCE, THAT WE CAN ONLY FIND THIS OUT BY GOING OVER TO THE ARENA, AND STARING INTO A SHOWCASE? OR GOING INTO THE BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC LIBRARY, AND ASKING THE CLERK IF YOU CAN SEE ANYTHING REGARDING THE SPORTS HISTORY OF THE TOWN; AND THEN BE HANDED A COPY OF GEORGE BOYER'S BOOK, "EARLY DAYS IN MUSKOKA," PUBLISHED BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS, IN 1970. BY THE WAY, THESE OUT-OF-PRINT MUSKOKA FIRST EDITIONS, ARE UNDER LOCK AND KEY, WHICH MEANS ONE WOULD HAVE TO READ THE SECTION IN THE LIBARY, BECAUSE THEY AREN'T FOR LOAN. SO GENERALLY SPEAKING (OR WRITING), TOURISTS TO TOWN AREN'T LIKELY TO MAKE THIS FORAY, PART OF THEIR VISITING EXPERIENCE. SEEING AS I JUST PURCHASED A COPY OF GEORGE'S BOOK LAST WEEK, FROM A HUNTSVILLE ANTIQUE SHOP, I'LL SHARE SOME OF GEORGE'S INSIGHTS, ABOUT HOCKEY HISTORY IN BRACEBRIDGE WITH YOU. A GREAT STORY THAT NEEDS TO BE EXPLOITED, NOT JUST TUCKED INTO AN ARCHIVES COLLECTION, OR VISIBLE ONLY, IN A POCKET OF DISPLAY CASE, AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA. BY THE WAY, HOW DO YOU KNOW PARRY SOUND WAS THE HOME OF BOBBY ORR? WELL, THAT WOULD BE THE RESULT OF THE MUNICIPALITY PROUDLY PROMOTING THE KINSHIP. WE COULD LEARN FROM PARRY SOUND, HOW TO CELEBRATE THOSE WHO HAVE REPRESENTED OUR MUSKOKA MUNICIPALITIES SO WELL, ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCENE.

AN OVERVIEW OF IRVIN "ACE" BAILEY, IN THE WORDS OF BRACEBRIDGE HISTORIAN, GEORGE BOYER

     I stopped my car one afternoon, on the shoulder of Santa's Village Road, in January a few years ago, because I saw a game of shinny being played on a small stretch of ice coating the Muskoka River. What a wonderful image of Canadian hockey heritage, in a community, that had lots of outdoor rinks cleared, some on the river just like I was seeing this particular afternoon. It was snowing a little, but it was still bright in the closing hours of daylight. I got thinking about some of the great hockey games played on the open air rinks, at around the time Irvin 'Ace' Bailey was honing his skills that would earn him a place in the National Hockey League. Bracebridge had a lot of hockey teams, and hundreds of players, including a women's team that was well known as one of the toughest teams in the region. What a great history to relive and bring back to public focus, in this 100th year of Hockey Canada.

     To begin with, imagine if it was possible, and financially feasible, to employ an artist, or many artists, to paint a series of heritage panels, depicting hockey, as it was being played on the river and ponds, in the the period of the early 1900's in Bracebridge; and how dazzling and nostalgic, having these finished panels exhibited at this time of year, while celebrating Christmas and winter here in South Muskoka. Bracebridge Town Council might consider sponsorship, of a regional art contest, that would make this portrayal, a national initiative for the conservation of hockey history, from a region known for its contribution of allstar players (in commemoration of the centennial of Hockey Canada); artists who could depict heritage hockey games, on open rinks, from around the turn of the 1900's, when Irvin "Ace" Bailey was a player on the team "Bailey's Aces." Possibly, given this wishful thinking on my part, you can try to visualize what the scenes, described by George Boyer, would look like in art-work, to be shown off to the townsfolk, and visitors to Bracebridge. Here it is, for gosh sakes, the 100th anniversary of Hockey Canada. What a great way to participate in the heritage recognition. So who will paint these images? If I could, I most certainly would! Open it to artists to interpret these colorful scenes of old time hockey.

     "The river has been an advantage to the youthful hockey enthusiasts of Bracebridge, providing a good sheet of ice for considerable time each winter. Of course the brand of hockey was of the shinny type, but the boys learned to skate and carry the puck, and when Mr. John Dunn provided a covered rink, there were some players ready for organized competition. The first rink was not conducive to good hockey, as it was small and the rows of posts prevented any attempt at combined play. When Mr. Dunn's second rink was erected about forty years ago (1930), teams were entered in the Ontario Hockey Association and there were many fine games."

     Mr. Boyer writes that, "A wise move was made in forming a town league, with several teams, and these created a lot of interest and developed players who afterwards made a name for themselves in hockey circles. The Gravenhurst team provided the biggest opposition, and some fine contests resulted. We were usually grouped with Gravenhurst, Midland, and Penetang, and as interest increased, the Bracebridge team would run special trains to these points. It took a lot of cash to finance the teams in those days. One of the town groups in the early days, comprised the 'Merchants,' the 'Old Tannery,' and the 'Printers.' These were some spirited contests but the Printers won out. The Gazette supplied Allie Stephenson, Alf McIssac, Jack Richea, and the Herald, the Bastedo boys, Charlie Bailey, Harold Eby and the writer (George Boyer). We also played a Printers' team from Huntsville, and won quite handily. Other town leagues were made up of the Beavers, the Uptown, the Flat, the Clerks, the Delivery Boys, and others, and these games served to develop players for the Ontario Hockey Association games, some of who became famous."

     George Boyer adds, "A product of these games, who attained international fame, was Irvin "Ace" Bailey. Irvin learned to skate on the river and when he tried out of the Ontario Hockey Association, was first played in the nets, and made a success of it; but he was a fast skater and a good shot, and he was tried out on the forward line, at right wing, playing junior hockey. From Bracebridge Irvin went to Peterborough, and soon found himself with a professional team in the National Hockey League; the Toronto St. Patricks. (soon to become the Maple Leafs) He was with the (Toronto) Maple Leafs when, in 1931-32, they won the Stanley Cup. He led the League in scoring and it was the pleasure of the writer to see the game ,in which Ace clinched the scoring honors for the season. He was against the New York Americans and the goal which assured him undisputed lead, was tallied when he took the puck from his own territory, and eluded the entire opposition to draw out the goalie and score. Irvin was one of hockey's greats, and when his career was suddenly cut short by an injury sustained in a game with Boston, there was universal regret. However, Bailey has retained his interest, and is the coach of the Senior Varsity team, (in Toronto), and is always interested in the players of his home town."

     In a wrap-up of local hockey history, Mr. Boyer writes the following summation: "Another Bracebridge player, who entered the professional ranks was Clarence (Dutchy) Jamieson, who played for years with Cleveland, and afterwards became a well known referee. Earl (Squirrellie) Walker also played for a short time with Cleveland, and for about thirty years with the home team. The hockey-loving people of Bracebridge, owe a great debt of gratitude to Earl for his fine performance, from year to year, and for the interest he has taken in the teams, since he gave up active participation in the game, about ten years ago. We might mention the Jocques, five of them, who excelled in hockey and lacrosse; the Coopers, the McLeods, the Bastedos, Bill Kinsey, Horace Parlett, the Dunns, Russ Salmon, Pat Ryan, Lyle Cowan, Russell Best, Roy McDonald, Archie McKay, Mel Robinson, all of whom, with many others, gave of their time and talent, to uphold the old town in hockey. Bracebridge has only won one championship in competitive hockey but has several times reached the semi-finals in the O.H.A. (this was only up to 1970)."

     He also notes, circa 1970 about Roger Crozier's advancement in the National Hockey League, writing that, "In the past few years, one of our fine young men, Roger Crozier, son of Mrs. Lloyd Crozier and the late Mr. Crozier, has become the pride and joy of his home town of Bracebridge, for his outstanding record in the National Hockey League, as goalie for the Detroit Red Wings. We take great pleasure in watching him in action by way of television." When this book was published, Roger would have been moving on, in professional play, joining the second expansion of the N.H.L., as part of the newly launched Buffalo Sabres. He would go on to play with the Washington Capitals where he would finish his professional career, later in the 1970's.

     While it isn't intended to reflect on George Boyer, for his sincere editorial about the pleasure of watching Roger play, it is unfortunate then, much later in time, that in the early 1990's, there was only one water-damaged photograph of Roger Crozier, at the Bracebridge Arena, and it was found in a box, kept in storage. And when I began a vigorous campaign to rectify this, there was an unsettling criticism from some quarters, which has stuck with me for all these years. As I usually do in these circumstances, I bulldozed my way through anyway, and found funding through Roger's foundation, to build a proper display case; to house, as a matter of irony, the photograph that had been dumped in a box and placed in storage. Of course it makes me mad. It should make the citizens of Bracebridge mad. But it didn't. It's why in the present tense, it is such a daunting task, to in this instance, of the Ace Bailey story, sell the town on promoting his biography by whatever means possible, in recognition of Bracebridge's stake, in the history of hockey in Canada. What an amazing resource, that receives little to no public reverence, even by the movers and shakers of the "make Bracebridge great again," agenda, apparently uninterested in re-capturing that particular era of "greatness." Well, here's a heck of a place to start. Irvin "Ace" Bailey. And there are others deserving promotion in modern day Bracebridge. It isn't enough, to just to have these references contained in the text of books. There are many ways to increase exposure, from wall murals, to a new era of heritage signing with photographs, to celebrate folks like Ace Bailey. It should be shared with the world.

My Idea Of A Pioneer Christmas Is With All The Fixings And Climate Control - But There Was A Time When Frostbite And Snow In The Log Cabin Was Natural

 

Photos of vintage New Years post cards by Suzanne Currie

IT GIVES ME A CHILL JUST TO THINK OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE TRYING TO GET COMFORTABLE IN A PIONEER LOG CABIN IN PREPARATION FOR A CHRISTMAS DINNER

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

BY TED CURRIE

     It is, in Muskoka terms, a green Christmas, because the snow on the ground just doesn’t measure up to local historic standards. I’ve known a few in my life here, living in South Muskoka. Our standards are pretty well established, for what makes a white Chrimstas, good enough for a horse-drawn cutter to slide easily along the old trails; for a toboggan to get to the bottom of a favorite hillside without sliding over rocks and soil; snow up to the late shins and early knees, good enough for snowshoes; and enough snow on the ground in order to make a snow angel imprint, and still have six or so inches as a body cushion in doing so. After a wee after-lunch walk in the Wild Wood across the cattail bog, I had no discernible snow residue on the tops of my shoes, and even Muffin the dog had no nasty climbs of snow on her paws. Most often, we would simply avoid entering the woodland here at Birch Hollow, at this Christmas time of the year, because the snow would be too deep and travel difficult to gain access to the interior. I don’t cross country ski anymore and I’ve never got the hang of snowshoes, and Muffin isn’t all that eager to be covered over by snow, breaking trail amongst the mixed forest, that today, looks as if it is a scene from early November. We don’t own a snowmobile, and I don’t dare climb aboard a toboggan, with all these neighborhood trees in the way, and yet, I can’t for the life of me, feel any great disadvantage to our family, having on occasion, this modestly appointed winter hiatus at this, the business time of the year. No blizzards to interrupt travel, and no general inconvenience keeping the driveway clear. We just have to push the slush to the side before the temperature drops.

     I’ve already adjusted the thermostat three times today, as being too hot, too cold, and then not hot enough all before Christmas dinner. I have had to manipulate my chair cushion and back pillow several times, to get it just right for my backside, and twice now I’ve been offered an array of Christmas treats, and yes, on a silver platter, and I’ve only just now announced to anyone who would listen, that I’m anxious about when dinner will be served. The turkey to be carved? The dressing to be caressed onto my plate to side with the mash potatoes and the brilliant gravy from a pioneer recipe. Suzanne, the boss around here when it comes to Christmas protocols, has told me, in no uncertain terms, that “there’s wine before it’s time.” Which means, for gosh sakes, be patient.

     I am pretty sure I would have failed miserably as a pioneer. I suppose that if I had been born into that potential, and had only known hardship and deprivation from the beginning, I most likely could have found a way of subsisting, and finding a modicum of comfort in the most rigid of chairs, and beds. I am a diehard romantic, so what I dream of as a pioneer Christmas, for example, isn’t quite what an actual pioneer, such as Suzanne’s own homesteading family, would have experienced in actuality; and living with the occasional spray of windblown snow, coming through the cracks between the logs of the shanty, might have frosted my good spirit a tad; and thus, even as an experiment, I like reading and writing about the pioneering period in this district, of which we do have deep roots, but never at the expense of climate control and creature comforts, like soft chairs and softer bedsteads. I like basking in the warm glow of my vintage oil lamps, but even if they fail, or run out of fuel, I’m enormously glad to have the back-up of electric heat, and lamps to switch on overhead. I am a child of a more convenient, efficient, and comfortable existence, and regrettably, I can only imagine what the pioneer sacrifices were like back in the 1860’s when the Shea and Veitch families began their humble homesteads in Watst Township of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. But I’ve got lots of family books and related Muskoka histories to make me feel like a pioneer, without the narrowest possibility of getting frostbite, or waking up from a long winter’s nap covered in snow that had blown in over night. Published below are a few stories from those books about the pioneer period in this region. What brave souls they were, to carve out these homesteads amidst the harshest of elements; which this year, in the modern version, we are served-up a green Christmas that now, right this minute, is being augmented by a thin mist and light rainfall. For snow lovers, relax. It’s coming, and coming soon.

FROST-BITE TO RECOVER FROM - ANOTHER HOME TO FIND

     "After a rest and a chat with the old gentleman Smallbones, John Lily with his dog and gun, bid the two goodnight, to disappear in the darkness 'neath the heavy forest, up the Indian Trail across the Portage, for a two and one-half mile trip to lot 20, con. 6, and on down Green Bay to lot 10, con. 6, and his home; and father, and mother, brother and sisters who were anxiously waiting his return. Needless to say, his coming was well announced by the barking of his big hound, that several times, had with muzzle held high, loudly disturbed the silence of Green Bay; as they drew near home to more tea, buckwheat pancakes, good pork, and a good night's rest for a tired body, but a happy mind."

     Bert Shea records, "That night in Smallbone's cabin, there was only one narrow bed. And the stranger occupied it, and the old gentleman sat up in his chair and kept a cheery fire burning all night. At breakfast they dined on rolled oats porridge without sugar or milk, the best he had and freely given. It was a part of his stores he had provided fro his winter's food, as he was old and unable to travel the long hard trail for supplies. And it is very doubtful if he had money to buy more. John Lily knew all of this, and that the old man would divide to the last morsel without complaining, so he scouted around. Housing quarters were also a problem. Families who had food did not always have any more than sufficient room for themselves. And Gill was in need of someone who could give treatment to his frost bitten parts, and provide the necessities for medical care. Undoubtedly he would be weeks in bed, if he survived. Dear reader, if you have not been in circumstances as these, or talked to those who have, to realize what it means, no doctor, no drug stores, no care other than neighbor families. We talk of the hardy pioneers and pass it on, but 'hardy' alone is not the proper description. Add resourcefulness, determination, self-reliance, endurance, trust worthiness, considerate co-operation, and in the full meaning of it all. It is not overdone. John Lily ran several families through his mind and weighed matters; he at length decided to call on the Sherwoods who lived on Lot 13, Con. 4. They had just built a new home with a fair amount of room. Nelson, a good manager, and provider, and Susan his wife, was one whose 'candle goeth not out'. This was a home where the stranger in need, was never turned from their door.

     With the request by John Lily, for a place for the young Englishman, consent was given. And with the help of a toboggan or wide runner sleigh, the young man was brought through the forest trail to the home of the Sherwoods, to be put in a warm bed of blankets and quilts, woven on a loom by the hand of the good woman of the house, Susan Sherwood, from wool taken from their own sheep. A bed fit for a king. The winter wore on and as it passed slowly away, the frost bitten feet and hands of the patient, showed favourable signs, responding to the pioneer treatment. And Kay, Sherwood's brother-in-law, in his off-handed way, firmly declared on one visit, 'you will be all right.' Nelson is a good doctor; it will be remembered that in these days, sickness and need was everybody's concern. During his (Gill's) period of sickness, many were the visits by the pioneers to his bedside, showing interest in the stranger. And the hospitality and kindness shown to him by his host and hostess, awakened in him a feeling of gratitude. Why should they all do this for him, a stranger, and give for this benefit without hope of remuneration. Giving from their resources and store. He truly was a stranger and they took him in. Pondering these things in his mind, he found a deep desire growing in his will, to stay among such people and to try to make his way."

     The Shea family historian, Bert Shea writes, "As the spring drew near and the daylight lengthened, the sun became warmer, it was good to be out, to sit on a block of wood by the door, and drink in the sunlight, listen to the songsters of the spring, hear the babbling of the rapids, as the water of Morley's, or now Sherwood's Creek, as it sang the song of freedom once again. He too (Mr. Gill), felt like singing; he thought of how he had been taught to sing the songs that were foremost in his mind, were songs he had learned at school and Sunday School. How precious were these reflections, and how precious they should be, to all who had been taught as he, by faithful teachers. And then his thoughts were drawn closer to him and his present surroundings. Here in this settlement were children, sons and daughters of pioneer families, who had no one to teach them to read, to write, to add, subtract or divide. During his stay in the community, he had noticed there were people who could sing. He had heard them sing shanty songs, and other songs he knew, and hymns of the church. Pondering these things, in his mind, he could hear a call. He could see a vacant place where a man such as he could fill. Scarcely able to hobble, he could sit on a bench or a block, and teach little children to read and to write, and further on, if the opportunity afforded.

     "But how could this be arranged, he pondered; where could he have a school room? Where could be continue to stay; he knew there could be no salary expected. But when there is a will, there is a way. Before him stood the old Morleys squatter's shanty, built of round hardwood, ash, hemlock and maple logs round and rough. A door, a small window to the south. Could he have this shanty for a school room. Some way he could get slates and pencils for the pupils. He could set their copy down, of letters, figures and sentences, and carry on till they could get a blackboard, and some readers. In this way, the foundation could be laid. To those thoughts he wondered how the people would respond, and if he could have the little building for a school. Filled with enthusiasm known only to them who have lived through the rigors of a Muskoka old-time winter, and feel the drawing of the spring's awakening, in the land of the ancient woods, his first thought was to discuss the question with his host and hostess, Nelson and Susan Sherwood. The Sherwoods, having three children of their own, were very much in favour of the plan, and in the expression of that day, the intimation was soon noised around the settlement. A meeting was called, or a get-together, on the question by all concerned, and it was agreed that if Sherwoods were good enough to give the use of the little log building, where the lilacs grew, and Mr. Gill would teach, they would be more than glad to send their children and trust them in his care. Needless to say, this was the topic of interest, the delight of the settlement. How favoured they were then to think of the families in the other parts of the township, and surrounding area, and plenty of children and no provisions for education. This arrangement for school in Ufford was long before the organization of the township, before any department assistance on record. The move was by the people and the stranger within their gates."

THE PREPARATION FOR THE FIRST SCHOOLHOUSE IN WATT TOWNSHIP

     "Preparation was made and arrangements were set about, to fit the little shanty for the school room; straight grain logs, probably basswood, were split, smoothed with the axe and jack plane the flat side for the seat or upper side, and in the round side, auger holes were bored, and (wood) pins were driven in for legs, to make the benches, for the pupils to sit on. These were arranged along the wall, a table for the teacher and a bench for him to sit on, and all was in readiness. And on a Monday morning, in May 1867, as the sun shone in spring time splendor, o'er forest and on the little clearings in the woods, as from the door of the humble cabins, stepped forth the little children of school age, on their way to school in Ufford by the forest paths. The wild flowers of spring decked the woods, the winged songsters sang, as little feet pattered along the way. The chatter of children's voices filled with excitement and expectation as they met the first schoolmaster in the Township of Watt, as he stepped by the help of a cane and made his way slowly down the path to the little shack, that had been one of the first to be called a home in Watt; and now to be the first school house in the township. And now on this beautiful morning of May, school-master and pupils together, entered and took their seats as they were called to order. At this time the Old Book was opened, a chapter read, followed by prayer and the first public school in Watt was being opened by a staunch Anglican, who taught pupils from Methodist, Presbyterian, Anglican, and Roman Catholic homes. The roll was called, but it has long since been lost. But recorded on the memory of Mary Oldham, who later joined the number, and as she sat in her arm chair, in her 82nd year, in her calm and gentle manner, passed on to me the record of the names of the children who attended the first school, on the bank of Sherwood's Creek beside the lilac bush. They were as follows; Annie Smalley, Mary Oldham, Annie Sherwood, Martha Wright, Elizabeth Bogart, Mollie Smalley, Tommy Sherwood, David Morley, Bill Polly, Harry Smalley, Billie Kay, Jim Bogart, John Kay, Jim Lovely, Mary Bogart."

     Mr. Shea adds, "After a time, it was decided unfair, for the teacher to board continuously at the Sherwood's home. There was no money to pay board. So those having children, going to school, decided that the teacher should change his boarding place every week, and board each week about, at the home of they who had children going to school. This arrangement laying the burden evenly on each interested family, when the school-master had sufficiently recovered to be able to walk the longer distances, to the several boarding places. This plan having been adapted worked so well, it was carried on for some time. But the community was growing. More settlers coming, younger children coming up. The little squatter's shanty soon would be too small, and since the machinery for the education of the young, was set in gear, it was not likely to stop. Mr. Gill, the teacher, made application to the Board of Education, in Toronto, and received the first Government grant for educational purposes, north of Bracebridge, late in the year, 1867; a new school building was erected on Lot 10, Con. 4, by Jacob Bogart. From good authority, it is said this was the first schoolhouse in Muskoka, if not north of Bracebridge. There was some controversy as to the purchase of the building. It was said to be too far from the centre of the community, it being a bigger building than the first one, on the bank of Sherwood's Creek. It was used for some time. But shortly after the organization of the township, a new school was built on the corner of Lot 16, Con. 4. It is a frame building. John Lily throughout the year, with satisfaction, watched the progress of education, among the young of the community. And it was his common question, whenever he saw a boy or girl of school age, who was not at school, to ask them, 'Do you go to school?' If the answer was no, he would reply, 'Well you ought to!"

Revisiting A Very Lonely Place Where Once The Crackling Hearth Heralded A Family Gathering To Celebrate Christmas

 

Photos of vintage Christmas post cards by Suzanne Currie

THE SPIRITS OF CHRISTMAS PAST

THE LANDSCAPE INFLUENCING US IN SO MANY WAYS, AND OF COURSE, ALWAYS AT CHRISTMAS WHEN WE AWAKEN TO THE JOYS OF THE HINTERLAND

A PREABLE TO TODAY’S POST

BY TED CURRIE

     “It has long been my contention that landscape has an especial influence on those who inhabit it - not merely in economic ways, as the wheat or cotton spring from the earth; not in geographic ways, as rivers and mountains become boundaries to be crossed, but in spiritual and psychic ways. The look and feel of land communicate not easily described messages to those who are sensitive enough to receive them. Perhaps because rivers in their courses offer poetic parallels to human life, people are inclined to attribute to them, influences that strongly affect their lives.” Carl Carmer, Forward from the book, “The Hudson River and its Painters,” 1972, Penguin Books.

     Truer words were never spoken, or in this case written, to explain why I have had such an intimate relationship, for all these years, with my surroundings. I am not a wilderness hiker, and certainly not one who feels comfortable living in isolation anywhere on the planet. Instead, I have always attached myself to some parcel of uncompromised green space, usually in a semi-urban situation. It abutting, or nearly abutting a place or residence of which I am quite comfortable and familiar. And over time, I find that these nearby wild places, some no more than twenty or so acres, such as The Bog here at Birch Hollow, become a more intimate writing companion, and slowly evolve in my own psyche, to become not only backdrops of stories, but to be the catalyst of many writing projects in waiting. They can be cheerful places, or cheerfully haunted as old Bamford’s Woods, that bordered Alice and Toronto Streets, when our family lived in Bracebridge back in the sixties and seventies. I have become so familiar with these precious and accessible haunts, that I can even find myself doing an inventory of the creature inhabitants, such that I know if any of the major critters have left for greener pastures, or new ones have suddenly arrived to take up residence; whether fox, raccoon, family of owls, or something a little larger like a moose (we had one of those this past spring), and deer, of which are most numerous this year. And it is that level of familiarity that pleases me most of all, because I am a daily visitor, and most of the time, on my return to this little office, overlooking The Bog, I could write a wee story or a long, long essay. I am easily and readily inspired by wild places. Well, semi wild places, not to far from home. Like Thoreau, at his Walden Pond cabin, so close to his family in the urban situation, that he could get fresh baking daily if necessary, from the actual homestead only a few miles away. That’s me. I offer no apology for being a home-body, who likes to take occasional strolls in the Wild Wood.

     Muskoka has shaped me most definitely. I have surrendered to it without a fuss. It has given me so much to write about, for so long, that I could not separate myself from this generous but small allotment, and expect to continue writing. There was a time about twenty years back, that I had a great feeling of claustrophobia due to the summer humidity that summer. I told Suzanne that I simply couldn’t stand it indoors, any longer, and seeing as an air conditioner wasn’t in the budget that year, and a fan kept her awake at night, I opted to sleep on the front verandah, with an mosts amazing panorama of The Bog. I began sleeping on a cot on the verandah in early July, and I remained there off and on, almost until the snow began to fall. I would sit out there and write by pen for hours and hours, benefitting from what is known as “actuality.” I was visited there by all kinds of creatures, especially the deer wandering through our yard, and sundry other raccoons, rabbits, squirrels (first thing in the morning), and the occasional fox interested in any food I might have left open when I retired to bedlam. I filled a dozen note books that summer and autumn season, some of the material yet to be used on this site. It was as pure as it gets for the voyeur, with the exception that I wasn’t actually tenting in the woods. I was willing to learn from the outdoors experience, and I dare say I benefitted greatly. Now it does seem an impossibility to write anything at all, without reckoning with the influences of The Bog, and the flora and fauna of Birch Hollow itself. And at Christmas, yes indeed, this enchanting old forest is the perfect host for a stroll along the trodden paths, whether at first light, or in the milky light of the moon as it tributes the winter season in Muskoka. The story below was one of my favorite folk tales, taken from real exposure, but re-visited many times since 1977 when the incident occurred well distant from the urban area of Bracebridge. It was my own Christmas feast, in a sensory way, and I hope you can identify with the circumstances and influences of a forgotten homestead, in the midst of a pre-Christmas snow event; and the most pleasant haunting that did send an initial chill through my body. It became more remarkable than frightening. Merry Christmas.

THE SPIRITS OF CHRISTMAS PAST

AT BIRCH HOLLOW

BY TED CURRIE

      It was forty-four years ago this month, that I enjoyed the first Christmas season in the retail trade, and a fledgling antique dealer.

      I had just graduated university in Toronto, and had a degree in Canadian history to hang on my wall. With my parents as partners, we jointly opened "Old Mill Antiques" on the main floor of the former home and medical office of Bracebridge Doctor, Peter McGibbon, one of the founders of the Red Cross Hospital on the site of the present South Muskoka Memorial Hospital.

     We also lived in the Manitoba Street house, and I was welcome to use the attic as a writer's loft for those two years we ran the business. It wasn't the best plan in the first place, because, while my parents were no strangers to retail, they simply couldn't embrace the idea that old stuff can be quite valuable, if the buyer, which was in our case, me, did their hunting and gathering correctly with an idea of eventual profit. I was green and made a lot of mistakes in those first few years in the late 1970's. I don't know of a single antique dealer who has been unscathed by the disasters of inexperience.

     There was one afternoon, that early December, when I decided that with the low to non-existent flow of customers that day, it would be okay for me to slip away from some recreation on the cross country ski trail just off Beaumont Drive. I didn't have a lot of time but there were several shorter ski loops, and I figure an hour or so would be perfect for the frustration I was feeling. Everyone who opens a retail operation imagines it will be super successful right off the bat. Antique dealers especially so. We can be an arrogant lot for sure. Well, it wasn't happening for us and my parents were getting nervous because we had opened in November as a test run for the Christmas period. We just kept paying-out and taking very little in, and it was mildly discontenting to all the ambitious plans we had prepared for the next five years. Oops.

     I strapped my skis on, and headed out onto what I thought was the short trail at what was known as Kerr Park. It was a beautiful afternoon, clear and sunny and cool enough to invigorate but not so cold as to make it uncomfortable. A big wad of ice build-up in my beard is one of those instances of discomfort.

     It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when I began sliding off down the trail, which was, if fact, actually upward in topography, but quite easy to navigate on well-waxed skis and a hard-packed trail. I knew it would be getting dark soon enough but there was going to be moonlight should I go over my time, and have to ski back to the chalet after sunset.

     What I didn't know, once again, from inexperience, was that I had taken the longest trail, not the shortest. I'd only been out a couple of times so it was potential that I would do something like this, just like opening an antique shop when nobody in town had such an appetite.

     As it was a beautiful afternoon, and deliciously invigorating, I kept on winding down the sloping trail, through some amazingly beautiful stands of evergreen. It was quite breath-taking and I really didn't want to turn around. I assumed the loop back would present itself in kind, around the next turn, or just down the next straight-away. Unfortunately I was day-dreaming and because of the lovely conditions, I lost my sense of time and distance. It meant that I had gone several miles further than I should have, because outside of the moonlight I knew would illuminate the trail, I had no flashlight to utilize in the darkest forest alcoves.

     I soon came upon a long-since overgrown farmstead laneway, that led up a hillside to what appeared to be a Victorian era house slightly visible through the tree tops. As a history fiend, and an antique fanatic, there was no question about stopping for an inspection of the abandoned buildings on the property. There were no signs to thwart me, at this time, and as I was only a gawker and not a scavenger, I did take the liberty of hiking up the snow-laden trail. It was as if I had stepped back in time, the very second I started to slide through the powder snow, inching slowly up the slope, as the house became more transparent, the setting sun shining through the second floor windows. It was in pretty rough shape but that didn't matter to the historian and it entertained the antique hunter.

     When I got up to the homestead, I took my feet out of the clasps holding my boots to the skis, and I began walking around the house, obstructing by a pretty large debris field. Many passersby had up to this knob of Muskoka landscape, to inspect the remainder of what was once a pretty farm house, overlooking a lowland bog area, and the huge rock face on the opposite, or rather, south side of the acreage. Possibly it had been a homestead grant back in the 1870's. The farm house was quite a bit younger than this, possibly built in the 1890's. It was a charming piece of property but I imagine it offered poor agricultural land, unless they were raising cattle or sheep. Like many Muskoka homesteads, there was thin soil, lots of rock and trees, and rolling hills and deep, wet valleys criss-crossed with creeks and dotted with ponds and quagmires that could make a wagon disappear in its muck.

     I got inside the house and I immediately felt I wasn't alone. I was sure there was someone else in the building, but it could have been wildlife I suppose, moving about when my footsteps began to echo and creak through the debris-filled rooms. I did come to feel, as I spent more time in the house, that it was definitely of the haunted variety, and yet it didn't seem to mind my intrusion. Possibly I was considered a kindred spirit, as a history lover. And this was afterall, some very raw regional history, and I was now reliving some of it, with many questions swirling about in my mind, about who might have lived here once upon a time, and why had it been left to decay into the landscape? I wondered if a concerted effort had been made several years earlier, would this hinterland oasis have been spared this nasty and unflattering demise.

     I wandered everywhere in the house that I could safely access, and I even sat down on a leftover chair in the kitchen, to study some of the fine details of the large room where thousands of meals had been prepared, and many Christmas celebrations had originated, and been heartily enjoyed in the dining room which I also had reclined for a few moments of quiet contemplation.

     When I finally thought it wise to pull up stakes and head back out to my ride for the evening....the skis resting up against a venerable old pine in the front yard, I got a little nervous when I realized how late and subsequently dark it had become. The moonlight had not yet begun to flourish its milky while glow down onto the sparkling crust of snow, so it was quite precarious getting my skis on, and then navigating down the rest of the hillside, where the only trail was the one I made coming up.

     Wasn't the fact it was getting dark inside the house the trigger for a sensible, timely retreat? I'm pretty sure I was so comfortable sitting in the heart of this old homestead, in the company of the ghosts of Christmas past, the family I had never known, that I most likely nodded-off for a few moments, content to let the atmosphere play with my emotions. A deep daydream you might say.

     I remember getting to the bottom of the farm lane, and seeing the shadows of the park trail at the intersection with the property, and feeling I had a good chance of navigating quickly back to the chalet where I had parked my car. For some reason, usually because I am a sentimental dreamer, I turned back to look up the hillside toward the house, and I couldn't believe my eyes. There were lights in three of the six windows at the front of the building. At first I thought it had to be a reflection from the stars emerging from the blackness of deep space, or the moonlight dancing back on the panes, but it was overcast enough at that moment, to negate that from happening. It was as if someone in the house, had lit three candles, and placed them on the window sills of those rooms having a view down on the pastureland.

     Maybe there had been someone else in that house when I was inside, and they just chose to leave me alone. Otherwise, there was no explanation as to why these lights were flickering, as a candle or oil lamp would, under the circumstances of a drafty house, other than to suggest, it was the spirits that still occupied the site, reliving the good old days. Instead of being scared, and beating a hasty retreat, I confess to standing in the cold for some period of time, watching in amazement as these lights continued to waver through the night atmosphere, bringing life and enchantment back to what was most certainly, a warm and welcoming Muskoka homestead.

     It was when I turned back to the task at hand, of navigating back along the trail in which had brought me to this place, that I could have sworn I heard the sounds of Christmas music played on an old pump organ, and the thin vapor of crystal voices, as if the former residents were gathered in the parlor to welcome the festivities of the Christmas season. It was one of the most memorable hauntings I have ever experienced in forty years of adventures in the antique trade. It's one of the reasons I've stayed in both the history and antique business. I am a big fan of mystery and enchantments and this enterprise has never disappointed my interests in finding more haunted places to enjoy.