Tom Thomson Banjo?

Fred Schulz Collection Of Postcards

COULD IT BE A BANJO ONCE PLAYED BY TOM THOMSON?

STORY ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE GREAT NORTH ARROW

ANTIQUE HUNTING, AND NEVER SAYING "NEVER" - AS ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE

THE FOLLOWING WAS AN EXCLUSIVE COLUMN I WROTE LAST YEAR FOR "THE GREAT NORTH ARROW," AND THE FIRST TIME WE ACTUALLY MADE IT PUBLIC, THAT ANDREW MAY……JUST POSSIBLY……YOU NEVER KNOW…..OWN TOM THOMSON'S TENOR BANJO. THE COLUMN WAS WRITTEN TO ACCOMPANY TWO OTHER "THOMSON" RELATED FEATURE STORIES, THAT HAD RUN IN THE PAPER PRIOR TO THIS DEVIATION FROM HISTORY TO THE ANTIQUE DOMAIN. I'LL GIVE YOU A LITTLE PREAMBLE TO THE SITUATION, THAT LED US TO QUESTION A SKETCH OF A "GIBSON GIRL" ON THE INSIDE OF THE BANJO SKIN……TIEING IT TO THE FACT TOM HAD A TENOR BANJO IN HIS EARLY DAYS, BUT ITS WHEREABOUTS ARE UNKNOWN. THIS IS ACCORDING TO THE BOOK "TOM THOMSON; SILENCE AND THE STORM," BY DAVID SILCOX AND HAROLD TOWN. IT'S A PASSAGE I REMEMBERED READING, WHILE WORKING ON MY OWN FEATURE COLUMN SERIES, ON THE MYSTERY SURROUNDING THE ARTIST'S DEATH, WHILE CANOEING IN ALGONQUIN PARK, BACK IN JULY OF 1917.

AS I'VE STRESSED A NUMBER OF TIMES IN THIS MOST RECENT BLOG PROFILE, OF ANTIQUE DEALING, AND HISTORICAL HUNTING AND GATHERING, OUR WHOLE FAMILY CAN TURN ON A DIME, TO GRAB UP SOMETHING THAT IS IMPORTANT TO THE OTHER. ANDREW AND ROBERT ARE ROUTINELY FINDING ART WORK, OLD STEAMER TRUNKS (I REFINISH), AND MANY OLD BOOKS FOR ME. SUZANNE AND I ARE ALWAYS COMING HOME FROM A LITTLE WEEKEND ROAD TRIP, WITH SELECTIONS OF VINTAGE VINYL, MUSIC RELATED BOOKS, OLD STEREO SYSTEMS, RECORD PLAYERS, RADIOS, BEATER (BROKEN) GUITARS (FOR REPAIR), AND ANYTHING ELSE THEY MIGHT BE ABLE TO BENEFIT FROM, IN THEIR MAIN STREET GRAVENHURST MUSIC SHOP. SO WHEN WE WERE AT AN ANTIQUE MALL, QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO NOW, I FOUND THIS NEAT OLD BANJO THAT LOOKED LIKE IT NEEDED A LOT OF CONSERVATION AND UPGRADES TO BRING IT BACK TO PLAY-ABILITY. AS ANDREW WAS REALLY JUST STARTING IN THE GUITAR AND BANJO RESTORATION BUSINESS, THIS WAS A GOOD LEARNING PIECE. THE BONUS WAS, IT HAD SOME ART WORK, PENNED ONTO THE INSIDE OF THE TORN BANJO SKIN. I THOUGHT ABOUT THOMSON IMMEDIATELY, BECAUSE THE SKETCH OF THE GIBSON GIRL, WHICH WAS A VERY COMMON ART PROFICIENCY TEST, IN THE EARLY 1900'S, WAS VERY SIMILAR TO A PORTRAIT PUBLISHED IN THE BOOK BY SILCOX AND TOWN……CLOSE ENOUGH, THAT I BROUGHT IT TO ANDEW'S ATTENTION…..FIRST AS A NEAT VINTAGE INSTRUMENT AND SECONDLY ONE THAT MIGHT HAVE A LITTLE EXTRA PROVENANCE. I ALSO KNEW THAT SOMEWHERE IN THE SILCOX BOOK, THERE WAS A REFERENCE TO A FORMER TENOR BANJO THE ARTIST HAD USED TO PLAY. WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT CAN GO ON IN A PERSON'S HEAD, ESPECIALLY FOLKS SMITTEN…..AND FOR US, WE WERE ALL FANS OF THE LANDSCAPE PAINTINGS, BY THIS EXCEPTIONAL CANADIAN ARTIST. EVEN THE SLIGHTEST POSSIBILITY OF IT BEING A THOMSON SKETCH, MADE THE HUNDRED DOLLAR ASKING PRICE SEEM INSIGNIFICANT. SO ANDREW MADE THE PURCHASE, AND WE HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING IT EVER SINCE, WITH NO CONCLUSIVE WORD YET, THAT IT IS, OR ISN'T. BUT AS YOU WILL READ, THERE'S EVIDENCE THE SKETCH CLOSELY PARALLELS SEVERAL OF THOMSON'S INK PORTRAIT, WITH SIMILAR COMPETENCE, AS REPORTED BY SEVERAL AUTHORITIES. IT PAYS TO BE EVER WATCHFUL WHILE OUT HUNTING ANTIQUES AND SUCH.

HERE IS THE ORIGINAL FEATURE COLUMN PUBLISHED LAST YEAR IN THE GREAT NORTH ARROW. HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!

IS IT REALLY TOM THOMSON'S TENOR BANJO? ARTIST DIED IN JULY 1917 IN ALGONQUIN PARK

BY TED CURRIE

Here is an exclusive feature article for this wonderful and exciting regional Ontario publication. That's right! You are seeing and reading this story for the first time here, on the pages of the Great North Arrow. A Canadian first! A national story of epic proportion. Or something like that, but it is, one way or another, a scoop involving a Canadian art legend!

While few of Thomson's biographers would claim, the artist was as proficient with a musical instrument, as with a paint brush, it is known that he liked to play stringed instruments, and was keen to take advantage of any opportunity to play. Just as most Thomson admirers would love to own an original art panel, most of us would be quite satisfied to own one of his paint brushes. I'd be quite contented with a few brush hairs. So what about owning a tenor banjo that may have belonged, and been actively played by the artist. It's just my opinion, but that would be a Canadian collector's dream instrument.

Let me explain. Just more than a half decade ago, we worked with our two boys, Andrew and Robert, both recent graduates of high school, to set up a vintage music shop here in Gravenhurst. At the time they had already earned a name for themselves as musicians, belonging to several bands, and both lads had a sincere desire to run a retail shop, and set up a corresponding music academy. It was a lengthy and frustrating period, operating on a shoe-string budget, the shop and studio being operated initially, out of our small house here at Birch Hollow. Being able to benefit from mom and pop's own antique business, which they had been involved in for most of their young lives, they were well prepared to scrounge shops and sales for their future inventory. They had studied us for years, buying old books, art, quilts, and blankets. They just applied their knowledge of the "buy and sell," to music related collectibles. It worked like a charm. Soon we came home after yard-sale-Saturdays with a van load of guitars, records, music related posters, and then of course, an array of old chairs, cupboards, folk art, quilts and tea-cups. Crazy. Absolutely. We had fun. Boy did we have a ball!

They knew how to scrounge old beater guitars, and Andrew has become well known for his repairs. Robert is the crackerjack salesman, and old vinyl specialist. By hustling yard sale to flea market, estate sale to auction, they have been able to amass a huge collection of vintage records, as well as having built up a large inventory of rejuvenated music and sound equipment for sale and rent. On top of this they have a large student base to help fund their shop, when retail sales plummet in the off-season.

What does this have to do with an old tenor banjo? The one with a sketch on the skin! The "Gibson Girl" ink drawing that may have been Thomson's handiwork! The sketch the experts believe has the competence of a Tom Thomson drawing. But with no signature, well, it's an interesting tenor banjo with a good story attached. And here it is!

We are a family of Thomson enthusiasts. As I have been actively involved, for more than a decade, in research concerning his mysterious death, on Algonquin's Canoe Lake, (July 1917), my obsession with the artist's life, work and murder (which most researchers now believe of his death), has led our entire family on many pilgrimages to the park, to paddle the routes taken by the artist in this beautiful locale. It has been a part of recreational and professional activities for so long, that it has all become a regular consideration, and a collecting mission. For antique and collectible scroungers, (pickers) like our family, we will latch onto anything Thomsonesque out there on the hustings, whether it is a book, magazine, or art print. Most of our present collection involves out-of-print publications that we use for easy reference, when writing feature articles. On one such outing, in Barrie, I came upon a curious, in poor condition, tenor banjo, stuck in the murky corner of an antique-mall booth. What I thought, initially would make a good restoration project for son Andrew, became more intriguing because of a sketch on the inside of the banjo skin. Not on the front, or face-side of the instrument. But rather, awkwardly positioned on the inside, and in rough condition, there she was…..Ms. Gibson.

I called to Andrew to have a look, to see if it could be repaired back to playing condition. Some old stringed instruments, we find, even for a good price, are beyond repair. This one seemed to show promise. I didn't tell him then, that the drawing made me think of Tom Thomson, and that I was pretty sure he once owned a tenor banjo. I would have to research this at home later. But there was no way we were going to leave this little gem behind.

In the important Thomson biography, "Silence and the Storm," written by art historian David Silcox, and well known Canadian artist, Harold Town, there is a passage that deals with the painter's musical prowess, and there it is! A brief mention of a tenor banjo Thomson used to play. Information suggests it has never been found in the year's since his death. It is the ink sketch of a "Gibson Girl," (a learn-to-sketch model familiar to training/ aspiring artists of Thomson's period), that we believed would prove that the art was the creation of the late, great Tom Thomson. We sent an image of the sketch, to a number of Thomson authorities, in Canada, and on each occasion, the verdict was what we wanted to hear. Yet not quite! You see, it was deemed to be the quality and competence of a Thomson work, but without a signature or any other identifying mark, or etching on the wooden parts of the banjo, it could not be clearly verified one way or another. In some ways, all we were looking for, was the expert advise that it may well be the handiwork of a great Canadian artist. My son had no real idea of having a big payday, off an instrument he has become quite attached. As he is as much interested in Tom Thomson, as I have become, he is pleased as punch to own this modest instrument with untold provenance attached. And when someone asks to see it, he's such a ham, that you get a concert at the same time.

I love the antique business for this very reason. You just never know, when you're out there kicking around sales and flea markets, antique shops and malls, when the holy grail might present itself. Andrew has this wonderful turn of the century banjo in his private collection, whipped-out for special occasions, or just played when the mood strikes. Until proven otherwise, which we could honestly endure by the way, we will continue to believe it was once played by the legendary landscape artist, who may or may not have been murdered, on that fateful day in July, 1917, on a traverse of beautiful Canoe Lake.

We have included a graphic of the tenor banjo and the sketch for your inspection. If you know something we don't about it, or Thomson, feel free to email me.

Ada Kinton And The Painted Lakeland

Photo By Fred Schulz

ADA FLORENCE KINTON PAINTED THE WOODLANDS OF PIONEER MUSKOKA

At the moment, I’m staring out my office window, at a warm Spring morning, with a small amount of rain spiraling with the wind, occasionally hitting the pane of glass creating a sort of crystal mosaic. The artist looking for inspiration, as this writer seeks out the words, wouldn’t find too much inspiration from nature today, unless it either soon begins a heavier rainfalll or the sun suddenly breaks through the cloud cover. As a matter of some irony, writer / artist Ada Florence Kinton, the biography I’m currently composing, would have found something remarkable, attractive and memorable about this same framed landscape, of a storm-clad Muskoka woodland. Despite what I find dull and uneventful now. She found beauty in nature every day, and it’s what she so poignantly depicted on her paint boards, and wrote in her daily journal, while residing here almost 130 years ago.

Born and raised in the urban landscape of Victorian England, Ada Kinton arrived in the Canadian wilds with some trepidation, as most visitors and immigrants felt on seeing the vast forests of the dominion. Having spent most of her life in the thick of city existence, and drawing art from the old world standards of architecture and romantic pasture, seeing the thick forest stands of the Ontario hinterland was admittedly frightening at first. Greatly exhausted by the grueling steamship passage across the Atlantic, and long train ordeal from Quebec to Toronto, the traveler must have been absolutely astonished by the boundless snowscape yet to come. Imagine the sleigh passage north through Muskoka in the 1880's, much of it in the evening hours, illuminated by small oil lamps, gyrating from rough travel over perilous frozen trails, the snorting team rising sluggishly up and over rocky hillsides, racing down the ice-shimmering trails into the valley, across half-frozen boglands, the steam of the horses’ breathing making a ghostly passage across the eerie moonglow. She found it a lonely, somewhat threatening passage, as she should have, yet her diary entries make it a work of art....as it is easy to visualize what she had experienced.

After her mother and father’s deaths in England, Ada Kinton was encouraged to visit with her brothers Ed and Mackie, who had emigrated to Canada much earlier, and who were by the 1880's, very much a part of the new economy of pioneer Huntsville, in North Muskoka. In 1907, shortly after her death in Huntsville, after a lengthy illness, her sister Sara Randleson, published Ada’s journal, entitled "Just One Blue Bonnet," containing some of the observations the young artist made, upon taking up painting forays into the woodlands, then so beautifully wreathing the pioneer hamlet. She adored exploring the hinterland, removing herself often, from the warm homestead hearth, for long treks into the largely unexplored forests, not yet fully exploited by the vigorous tree harvest, at the time, which would eventually strip most of the countryside of its natural resources. Ada wrote the following passage after one such spring outing:

"Out painting a fallen hemlock all afternoon, till it commenced to rain and forced me to return. The rain turned to snow, and all the earth is white again. More geese flying north. - signs of warm weather coming....wish it would hurry up. After lunch the air seemed milder and the snow had ceased, so that about four (p.m.) I made an attempt to complete my fallen hemlock but got cramped with cold, so meandered a bit in the pathless tangle of fallen trees and splintered boughs, damp leaves, and sprouting ferns and curious little four-leaved vegetation which is just appearing above the earth, with a few violet leaves - the only signs of spring yet."

On the third of February 1883, while residing temporarily in Huntsville, Ada made the following entry into her journal: "Made an apron for myself - felt proud. Miss the rumbling of carts and carriages in the road. Can’t seem to get used to the silence of the snow. Seems a long way from England. (Feb. 16^th) Concert. Mrs Kinton sang ‘Take Back The Heart.’ Very much struck with the ease and natural grace of some performers. Everyone kept time to the music, either with their hands or their feet, and the interest and excitement was very great. Thaw on! Heard the sound of the rain again. It sounded nice. Masses of loosened snow slip from the roof and fall with a soft crash and thud. Cold wind and glare ice, thawed surface of snow frozen over again. Makes walking difficult. Village very picturesque and quaint in the moonlight, like a lot of miniature toy wooden cottages chucked down anyhow on the uneven ground, covered over with nice snow and just a light here and there to make it look pretty; and then all around a dark bordering of great hills fringed with forest; and through the village, the river coiling and under the wooden bridge to the lake, all steely ice except in the middle, where the current is rapid and strong, a dark inky blue bit of stream shows itself in a fitful, broken sort of way. Wonder where all the water lilies have hid themselves. Been feeding on huckleberry pie, and crabapple jelly and cream, and hot biscuits, and hot home-made currant buns, and tea and toast.....feel dreadfully ashamed of myself."

Already a competent writer, artist and teacher at this point of her young life, having begun both disciplines at home in England, her attention to the detail of the pioneer community of North Muskoka is of critical importance. Even in the 1880's she was aware of how the destruction of the woodlands would impact habitat, and as future journal entries will reveal, Ada was very much in touch with the creatures that would visit her while on sketching adventures, from curious chipmunks, to birds flitting from overhead branch to branch, almost as if they were interested in her depictions of their forest home. As well, what her art panels and descriptions reveal, is a passionate interest in the flora and fauna of the fledgling region, and these are of particular importance to historians, trying to piece together the community’s growth at this time of settlement investment. As many artists lamented, she had a sense of urgency, to paint the forested landscape before the crack of the axe, and rumble of log laden sleighs pushed down these same paths of her paradise.

Ada Kinton Pioneer Canadian Artist

Photo By Fred Schulz

Ada Florence Kinton

The Artist’s Ontario sketches of 1883

“Wrote to Amy (in England). Wonder what is to become of me or what I am going to do in the future. Amy suggests Paris, to paint in the Louvre. Possibly it might be Toronto. Probably London. Hope so! Want to be up and doing.!” But it was the Village of Huntsville that became the most influential stop for the young artist. The place she wanted to spend the final moments of her storied life.

One hundred and twenty-eight years ago. This was the spring Ada Florence Kinton began her sketching trips, deep into the woodlands surrounding the pioneer village of Huntsville, in the northern climes of the District of Muskoka. Knowing the logging interests would soon pulverize the hauntingly beautiful forests, she wanted to capture the tranquil, life-full scenes before they were lost forever. She could see the destruction of the clear-cut already banding around the small settlement. The clack of the axe and thud of the felled giants resonated through many parts of Ontario at this time in history.

The young artist, recently transplanted from England, after the death of her father, was unsure what she would do with her life. Ada had been a well respected art instructor, at English schools, but she held some fascination with the work of the Salvation Army. In the year 1883 she spent time with her brothers, Mackie and Ed, both businessmen in the small Muskoka community.

Earlier this morning, I happened to be in Huntsville, on business, and stopped by for a few moments, to see the modest cemetery plot where Ada rests. After many years of dedication to Salvation Army mission work, and an accomplished period of her life as an artist and journalist, for “The War Cry,” she came home to Huntsville, still a young woman, and passed away watching out from the front porch, over the same bustling little town she had sketched almost 20 years earlier. Despite her illness and the pain she endured, Ada found solace and comfort here, just as she had experienced in the spring of 1883. Sketching the colorful, vibrant, enchanted woodlands.

The sunlight brings a cheerfulness to this solemn place, and I think she would have very much enjoyed the early buds of a robust May, and the evidence of soon-to-bloom lilacs. Ada Kinton discovered beauty in places, most of her contemporaries in art, found uninteresting, without any striking contrast of natural colors. She found inspiration watching the smallest life forms, crinkling the dry leaves along a forest path, or in the way a bird found a small puddle the perfect place to bathe. Most of all, she enjoyed watching the people, going about their business and recreation, taking an interest in their village interactions, the fetes, and social recognition of special occasions.

In 1883, Ada Kinton spent four months residing at her brother’s home. After a period of adjustment to rural life, simplified from her days spent in West London, England, she began to explore this area of north Muskoka. An artist of considerable competence and acclaim, she soon found inspiration in the picturesque qualities of the lakeland, increasing her appetite to paint more frequently. Following her father’s sudden death, and the move to Canada, she had found little reason to sketch or paint. The written descriptions of Muskoka, in this pioneer period, afford historians a glimpse of what the forests were like before the cut of the woodsman’s axe. She invites the journal-reader to join the hike along the thin, only partially visible paths, through some of the heaviest forest in the region.

In the text of the book, “Just One Blue Bonnet,” circa 1907, the artist offers these interesting observations. The entries, for the purpose of this column, begin on February 20th, 1883.

“Commenced to stump (stumping is a kind of drawing) Mr. Hooie’s premises. Hope I shall finish it. Snowing slightly all day. All the landscape is pure and clean.’ February 28th. “Up before seven. Early morning very nice. Snow sparkling like crushed diamonds for acre upon acre. Walked across two next fields, on top crust of the snow, to fetch some beech from the underbrush; but after going through the surface and floundering around for awhile, in an ungraceful fashion, thought it best to return. March 2. “Bit of dry earth in sight under the window. Troop of Canadian sparrows attracted by the sight. Not much like English sparrows - smaller, rounder, prettier, plump, black and white and brown in a sort of check pattern, with a spot of deep crimson on the head just above the beak. Male birds have pink breasts. Walk along Fairy Lake locks, past Beaver Meadow. Brush scenery entrancingly lovely. Forest primeval, giant trees, bearded with moss and in garments green. Now hoary, frosty bark, lichen covered, red willow, cerulean, and azure, sapphire sky.”

March 7th. “Fresh March wind, north-west. Newly fallen powdering of snow, swirling and coiling and eddying over the old snow, round and round, or resting in billowy drifts. Double play of surface lights, and constant movement. March 9th. Mrs Kinton and I took a walk into the bush along the North Road. Impossible to walk upright and steadily. Great quantity of spruce, cedar, balsam and hemlock - pine rarer - tamarack all clear green. Perky, strictly symmetrical little Christmas trees along the way - fallen trunks, branches covered soft and thick with moss, fungus, lichens on the underneath sides, on the top snow in solid circular or oblong blocks. Might be of marble, the purest marble delicately chiselled and carved - called ‘night caps’ when on stumps. Snags and half fallen trees grotesque and fantastic, gnarled and jagged trunk and boughs - limbs hanging creaking and broken by the wind, or lopped down by the wood cutter and lying on the snow in pathetic, helpless attitudes; tiny twigs and yellow and golden brown chips scattered all around.

“Red willow, smooth twigs, recent year’s growth, crimson red, brown, in the agreeable, dainty, tender, light brown beech, almost like a fairy tree beside the dusky, solemn, silent, towering evergreens, murmuring, creaking, and the summer leaves of the birch dried up and curled, fluttering and graceful, thin as poppy leaves, crisp and with crinkled edges, satiny light on the surfaces. Wonder one does not read of it. Met several sleighs drawn by oxen, with broad backs and self-satisfied air, rough, long-haired and tawny hide, and big rolling eyes. Sleighs, mere boards on runners, close above the snow.”

At times, reading through this journal, I will swear to hearing the wind wheezing through the evergreens, see so clearly the intricacies of the nature she studied, feel the warm breeze of May against my face. Hear the scratch of pencil against paper, as actuality of the scene, becomes a reality of art. Squirrels leap from branch to branch, and the chickadees chatter in the scruffy branches of a nameless bush. The leaves crunching beneath her feet, as she wanders along the path toward home again, looking back for one last memorable glance, on a most beautiful, inspiring place.

Ada Kinton Found Nature Full Of Inspiration

Photo by Fred Schulz

ADA FLORENCE KINTON BORN IN BATTERSEA ENGLAND

BUT ADORED MUSKOKA-

This has not been a typical Muskoka winter. At this moment there is a wonderful stream of sunlight coming through my office window, currently being enjoyed by two old cats, sitting on the sill, purring in that gentle, calming harmony. It feels good on my arthritic knuckles, and I apologize for taking this hiatus from typing, to let the warm rays sooth these gnarled hands. While we expect snowfall every other day, here in the lakeland, this year, as last winter, has prevailed with a milder version of Canadian winter. While others across the continent have had brutal weather, ours has been quite kind. So far, of course. Knock wood, things can change.

There has been a wonderful amount of sunshine across our region, and despite some very cold days and wood-snapping temperatures overnight, for anyone who suffers the ill-effects of light deprivation, these past few months have been more cheerfully bright than usual. Today it’s sparkling out over the birch hollow, the diamond light of ice and sun, creates a stark contrast of light and shadow. I think this would be the kind of morning artist Ada Florence Kinton would find compelling and inspirational. She very much enjoyed sunny winter days likes this, wandering along the well trodden paths through the woodlands, to sketch and make notes about the surroundings.

This was in the 1880's, while staying with her family in Huntsville, a picturesque community in North Muskoka.

"Her first experience of picking primroses was a delight to be recorded and unforgotten; and not seldom did it happen that flowers would awaken in her mind ‘thoughts too deep for tears’," This passage was written by Ada’s friend, Agnes Maule Machar, a well known Canadian writer, and was published in the biography, "Just One Blue Bonnet." The book is a compilation of Miss Kinton’s letters and journal entries, released in 1907, two years following her death in Huntsville. The book had been prepared by her sister Sara Randleson, as a lasting memorial to a life well spent.

"Her vivid imagination and playful fancy often prompted her to read into their (flowers) passive life, human feelings and emotions, resulting in graceful little parables which she wrote with as delicate a touch as that which characterizes her drawings, wrote Machar, who frequently corresponded with the artist. "This habit of mind would come out frequently in talk as, for instance, when on a country visit in June, she referred lovingly to a ‘conscientious little lilac,’ which had unfolded its first snowy bloom at an age when such an effort could hardly have been expected of it. That shrub is still distinguished by the epithet which she then bestowed. Of all the many exquisite blossoms which Florence loved and idealized through her large gift of sympathetic imagination, the nearest to her heart were the Passion flower and the pansy - the Passion-flower reminded her of a suffering Saviour, from whom she always drew her deepest inspiration; the pansy for the heart’s ease, which she found only in following him,"wrote Agnes Machar.

"Ada Florence Kinton was born in Battersea, England on April 1^st, 1859, to parents John Louis Kinton and Sarah Curtis Mackie. She would become the third of four surviving children born to the Kintons. John Kinton was an instructor of English literature, at the Westminster Wesleyan Training College. He once said of himself that, ‘Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach’." Florence’s mother died when the youngster was only ten years of age. "How great the sorrow and loss was to this sensitive girl needs not be told. Hence forward I was all the mother she had," wrote her sister Sara Randleson. "The days of childhood and youth sped away all too fast. Study at home, visits to relatives in the lovely Thames Valley, scenery of Maidenhead or on the chalk cliffs of Kent, girlish friendships, and letters from Canada, whither her two brothers emigrated, gave these years their character."

Mrs. Randleson noted that, "In the summer vacation of 1880, we two sisters crossed the Atlantic to visit our brothers in the charming backwoods village of Huntsville. The romance and excitement of this expedition into the new world can not be told. Florence was too taken up with absorbing new impressions to make any record of it, except by a number of pretty pencil sketches of pioneer life."

According to her sister however, another profound event in her young life was about to occur. "The blow of her father’s death, (December 1882) was almost paralyzing. Florence’s health and life, even seemed to hang in the balance, and only the sustaining power of religion helped us endure the severe bereavement. Miss Leonard, an American lady, had lately been holding meetings for the promotion of holiness, which brought great comfort to our hearts. Our eldest brother, Edward, receiving the news by cable, came swiftly to us by sleigh and steamer, the tears freezing on his cheeks in the bitter winter cold. We decided that the home should be broken-up, and he shortly took Florence back with him to Muskoka. This change, while a solemn one, was to afford her a new beginning."

At 24 years of age, Miss Kinton wrote a card to her sister, while having a wretched cross-Atlantic voyage aboard the S.S. Sarmatian. "February 6, 1883. "You will be sorry to hear that we have had a very rough voyage. It is said to have been the stormiest that the Sarmatian has ever had. As soon as we got away from Liverpool, the fun commenced. We had eight lady passengers, and we were all sick in our berths before Thursday dinner-time. The captain told someone that we ‘were just in the nick of time to catch the whole storm.’ Then for about a week we had a real merry time. A storm at sea is certainly a fine sight, particularly to anyone who may be reclining in their cabin. On Sunday there were only three  gentle men to dinner. I won’t try to describe how the rest of us felt. Suffice to say we were knocked down, whacked and banged and battered about until we were just worn out, even after the feeling of deathly nausea had passed away. The universal cry was for rest - just one half hour of dry land."

The artist writes, "For a week I lived mainly on ice. I didn’t grow much fatter. It was greatly amusing to hear the sea coming over the deck and down the stairs and past the cabin door, hissing and seething, fizzing like champagne in a passion. Once the stewardess could not get to me unless she waded knee deep in water through the passage. And the doctor was taking a mustard plaster to a patient, and he fell and dislocated his knee, and a passenger slipped on deck, cut his head open and knocked himself insensible.

The next letter however, was composed on February 21, 1883, and was posted from the Town of Huntsville. It contained information about the train and sleigh journey west and north to Muskoka. It presented an unexpected, abrupt arrival at the cross-roads in her life, between mourning for her old life, homesickness, fear of failure, and yet the spark of challenge liberation presented. It would allow the artist to flourish, with a period of solitude yet inspiration, a deep well that would bring her back to Muskoka many times, following world-wide missions with the Salvation Army. It was the place she would choose for her final vigil, due to illness, simply enjoying the view from the porch of her brother’s Huntsville home. 

Ada Kinton Depicts Pioneer Huntsville

Gravenhurst - Photo By Fred Schulz

ADA FLORENCE KINTON DEPICTS HUNTSVILLE IN ART

A talented artist, a competent writer, and devotee of the Salvation Army’s international mission-work, Ada Florence Kinton had a wide choice of vocations when she left England, in 1883, aboard the steamship S.S. Sarmatian. She could have had a lengthy career as an art instructor, with private schools in England or Canada. Ada most certainly could have sold her paintings, or worked professionally in the publishing industry as an illustrator. But she felt her passion for art, was secondary to a heartfelt sense of mission to help others. And she did. From the streets of Toronto to international postings, the poor and destitute always had a friend in Ada Kinton.

After the death of her father, (her mother died when she was 10), a devastating turn in her life, Ada had accepted an invitation from her brothers, Ed and Mackie, to stay with them in the pioneer hamlet of Huntsville, Ontario, where both were well entrenched in the business community. After a dreadful storm-plagued voyage aboard the Sarmatian, and a long and exhausting passage west by rail, north by steamship, cart and sleigh, Ada wrote the following description in a letter, posted to her sister Sara Randleson, at this time still residing in England.

"I am happy to say we have safely arrived at last, after being on the journey, on the cars and in the sleigh, from Tuesday evening until Sunday morning. We have just been two days short of three weeks since we left home (England). I didn’t seem to mind the jolting of the train nearly as much as usual. I suppose it was the dreadful shaking-up we had in the Sarmation in the storm."

The weary traveller writes, "We landed at Halifax on Tuesday, and got straight into a Pullman. There was quite a happy little party of us from the ship, and no strangers; about a half dozen young men and Mrs. Hooper (my cabin-mate) and I. We had the train to ourselves. There was only the Pullman and the mails and the luggage, so it was very cosy and select, and we were quite like brothers and sisters together, after the rough time we had at sea, and we walked about and talked. We stopped at meal-time at different stations, and ate steadily for twenty minutes. At Montreal we changed our cars, and from there to Toronto we met with all sorts of disasters. Amongst other things we got snowed-up, and had to wait patiently till we could be dug-out. That was in fifteen hours. It was breakfast time when we started, and happily we had a dining car attached. Eddy (her brother) teased me so about eating sausages at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour. Then we met a freight train off the track and had to wait for that. Then we heard there was a bad collision ahead of us. That took a long time to clear the track. Two freight trains had run into and over one another."

"Next our tender broke, and we had to wait till we could get a fresh engine. Five hours. Then we got to Gravenhurst, and I had my first sleigh-ride. I suppose I shall never forget it. The horses frisked along like kittens and their long tails and manes waved about so prettily. And oh, the ‘tintinnabulation’ of the bells, and the snow and the forest and the quiet of midnight," wrote the artist-voyeur. "Twenty-six miles’ sleigh-ride from Bracebridge to Huntsville. Supper at a little hotel; everyone silent, mutually afraid to speak. Don’t want to show I’m and Englander. Sleigh again. Almost oppressed with the beauty of the winter forest. Scenery gaunt and fantastic in the twilight. Saw grim, weird forms; wondered if there are any Canadian ghosts. Nice to look up, up, up, by the trunks of the slender, towering trees, and see the pale grey-clouds lighted by the snow beneath. Strange, lovely sleigh-ride, packed tight between Ed and the driver, the stars winking at us; the silent trees, the bush, swamp; Lake  Vernon, Huntsville; home in the distance."

She pens the following about her emotional state, and the adjustment from busy London, to the hamlet scene in the Muskoka wilds of 1883. "Began to feel utterly done-up and began to cry, but had to quit it; could not manage it and struggle through the snow at the same time. Arrived at the gate panting and gasping. Heard my brother Mackie’s voice again. Kissed Kitty; too agitated to sleep; woke at last in my warm cosy wooden room. Struck with the amount of comfort in this little Canadian village in the midst of the bush."

"The four months’ visit to Huntsville (which her diary covers), was spent chiefly in making exquisitely pretty watercolor sketches of the village as it was then," wrote her sister, Sara Randleson, in the accompanying text of the biography, "Ada Florence Kinton, Just One Blue Bonnet." She adds, "These  (sketches) are carefully treasured by Florence’s friends, and will be very valuable if ever Huntsville becomes a city. Considerable attention was also given to baby worship - a new thing for her." Ada joyfully helped out with the children in the Kinton home.

As if painting with words, as she planned out the subjects for her sketch pad, Ada wrote the following brief description of the village scene, as witnessed from the Kinton homestead:

"Cold wind and glare ice, thawed surface of snow frozen over again. Makes walking difficult. Village is very picturesque and quaint in the moonlight, like a lot of miniature toy wooden cottages, chucked down anyhow on the uneven ground, covered over with nice snow and just a light here and there, to make it look pretty; and then all around a dark bordering of great hills fringed with forest; and through the village the river coiling, and under the wooden bridge to the lake, all steely ice except in the middle, where the current is rapid and strong; a dark inky blue bit of stream shows itself in a fitful broken sort of  way. Wonder where all the water lilies have hid themselves?"

Observant and a visionary of her time, she could assess the changes to the scene about to come, and she would take a great interest in the welfare of the forests and wildlife it supported. In future issues, we will travel with Ada Kinton, as she roams back into the woodlands to sketch.......as she notes, before the woodsman’s axe fells what’s left of it.

More on Ada Florence Kinton in the next blog. Please join me for Ada’s field studies in the Muskoka woodlands of 1883. 

Ada Kinton Saw The Nature Of Muskoka in Pioneer Times

The Gravenhurst Opera House in the Spring - Photo by Fred Schulz

NOTE: THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 2011 IN CURIOUS: THE TOURIST GUIDE

ADA KINTON WAS FASCINATED BY THE NATURAL SURROUNDINGS OF FRONTIER ONTARIO

The toughest day to day challenge for my mother, was to keep me indoors. I would have been outdoors through the night, if Merle hadn't been standing guard. My dad told me she truly slept with one eye open, suspecting I might try a daring, early morning escape. I loved exploring the small ravine, and greenbelt that embraced the sparkling length of Burlington's Ramble Creek, on its way to Lake Ontario. It was a glorious place for a wide-eyed kid, who never suffered from a lack of imagination.

I loved the seasons in that Burlington neighborhood, with its venerable chestnut trees on Torrance Avenue, and the pear and cherry trees on Harris Crescent, next to the market garden. But it was in that ravine, invigorated by explorations into all the magical places a watershed can afford, that reminds me now, of the treks into the woodlands by pioneer artist, Ada Florence Kinton, back in 1883.

When our family moved to Muskoka, in 1966, I carried my enthusiasm for the outdoors deep into the forests and lowlands around our new Bracebridge abode. I couldn't find anything that paralleled the valley of Ramble Creek but I did have so much more acreage to roam freely, in this rural part of the province. The Ramble Creek oasis, a more than worthy childhood haven, was in reality, only a couple of city blocks from Brant Street, the main business corridor. Point is, I grew up with a particularly ravenous appetite for outdoor exploration, and both places of my youth, offered enough adventure to satisfy this curious wanderlust.

As I was preparing for this latest installment, of the biography of Ada Kinton, I couldn't help myself from falling dreamily, helplessly into those wonderful childhood days, learning about nature by immersion. It's what, of nature, inspired Miss Kinton to sketch and paint what she adored about the Ontario wilds. From the busy streets of Victorian England, the hustle and bustle of London, Ada found herself wandering the narrow cartways and forest paths of pioneer Huntsville, in the northern climes of Muskoka. Having recently lost her father to illness, she was brought to Huntsville, by her brothers, Ed and Mackie, both local businessmen. She was later to become a missionary, working with the Salvation Army. But in that emotionally stirring spring of 1883, she spent considerable time pondering the future, and as it was, asking in prayer, what God had in store for her. In the meantime she looked after her nieces and nephews at the Kinton residence. Already an accomplished artist and instructor, in England, she put her experience to work, sketching the flora and fauna of this largely untouched wilderness.

Enjoying this beautiful August season, in Ontario, we have to take a little trip back in years, and season, (are you feeling a little colder?) to revisit Miss Kinton's fascinating journal, the one published following her death, by her sister Sara Randleson. It is now late March in the year 1883.

"Ed (her brother) is better (following the influenza). The doctor comes jingling up the hill in a cutter. It is like a perambulator on light runners. The sleigh proper is a long low box, shallow and close to the ground, and rough; the cutter has a row of bells. The swing from England is very popular today, Boyo (her nephew) repeats. 'Ting giddy,' and Frank's little plump feet in the red socks work vigorously. Sun going down golden again. River all snow, except a dark serpentine twist in the middle. Curious to see the way fields and garden are herring boned all over with the dog tracks, according to the vagaries of the canine mind. Feel sick with neuralgia - went to bed supperless."

She revisits the journal on Good Friday. "Bad night all round. No service - unlike English Good Friday. No noisy bank holiday folks in front of the window to watch. Now 'rows" to the police station. No almond trees in bud or blossom, no women at the corners with baskets of violets and primroses to sell at two pence a bunch. No South Kensington Galleries, and no Art Library to go to and read Ruskin and Longfellow. No paps at Cornwall. Why are things so nice when they are gone? Made a discovery. Can make delicately pretty Easter eggs by etching with common ink. Going to try paint brush tomorrow. (Easter Day) Afternoon, went for a long walk to Vernon Lake. Large clearings leave good vistas of distant hills and the bush and the bay and the lake. Thaw commenced. Snow soft, and melted slightly on surface." Later in the day she pens, "Large party off to tea. Tea table loaded with good things. Big bake on Saturday. The choke-cherry-jelly cake and cookies look so rich and golden, with the blue glass service. My room is quite a picture all the afternoon, when the sun shines. The glare of the snow is so bright that red curtains are always drawn but the light is so radiant that the place looks like a blaze of fire, and the pink roses on the chintz quilt, are like lumps of glowing coals; and as a foil against the rosy wood, big bunches of myrtle-green hemlock and tamarack. The hemlock has a habit of pointing the topmost branch always northward. Saw a squirrel in the woods, and one or two birds tempted out by the mild warm air. No other signs of life yet. Went to church. Large congregation. The Bishop preached eloquent, thoughtful sermons."

Sketching as much with her words, as pencil on paper, she wrote of the weather, "Tuesday, still snow. Mother Earth seems to have freshened-up her ermine robe to last a little longer this spring. Cold looking clouds over the horizon. Couldn't rest last night, so sat up and repeated (verses) of Milton, and gazed out at the bush and the snow-lighted sky, and thought of Milton's stars, 'that in their glimmering orbs did glow,' until sleep came at last. (Next morning) Dreary outside. Spent the chief part of the day down at the office, with my brothers, very quietly. Saw a new phase of the village. The post office and store. Funeral procession of a young man from Fairy Lake passed the window; about 15 sleighs following - chief mourners with large scarfs of some white material tied around the right arm. Mourning suits mottled and varied, none of the intense pomp and gloom of a London funeral. One man had a plug hat, a rare occurrence here."

"Sketched a view of the river disappearing in the bush, and the steamer 'Northern,' still sleeping (iced in at wharf). Not satisfactory. Try to paint instead or chalk tomorrow. Delicious light and shade on the snow all day, as bright and radiant as the petals of a jonquil, all over everywhere. Past six and sun not gone down yet. Imitation rainbow reflection under the bridge. The big bluff edged with faint purple and fringed with russet trees; pale peacock green and rosy sky, shadows delicate, fawn colored, all melting together into a sweet glow. River gradually breaking through the ice."

I think it would have been enchanting, to accompany Ada Kinton on her walks through and around this quickly rising pioneer hamlet. I think she may have enjoyed some of the travels I took, as a young lad, seeking out some of life's beautiful and tranquil places, in the haunted woodlands I was able to wander. As she saw landscapes she wished to paint, I have witnessed scenes I wished only to describe in written sketches. These sojourns in the relative wilds of Ontario, served us both well, I suppose, as dream-filled, wide-eyed adventurers, who endured indoors on the promise of our precious time out-of-doors.

This series of year-long columns, is dedicated to the Gravenhurst Food Bank, operated by the Salvation Army, an organization Ada Kinton supported for most of her young life. She most certainly would have endorsed the food bank program. Please support the food bank program in your own community.

As Ada Kinton celebrated the beauty of the hinterland, please take the time this harvest season, to take in the sights, activities, and special events planned in our regions of this beautiful province.

Ada Kinton, Pioneer Muskoka Artist

Nothing quite compares to the old-fashioned scent of lilacs filling the air in May.  I have very fond remembrances of picking lilacs at my Grandparents farm at Cooper’s Falls and bringing them in the the old farmhouse to my Grandmother and Mother.   A beautiful fragrance that we remember from our childhood. - Photo By Fred Schulz

 

NOTE: An article from a past issue of Curious: The Tourist Guide

ADA FLORENCE KINTON - PIONEER ARTIST, MISSIONARY

There is a strangely alluring, well worn pathway, quaintly winding over the newly fallen leaves, meandering quite close to the final resting place of Ada Florence Kinton. Artist, writer, poet, philosopher, missionary. Some person(s) is obviously making the rounds of the cemetery regularly, visiting family plots or the grave-sites of friends and neighbors.

It isn't likely the case, the visitors are pausing at the tombstone belonging to Miss Kinton, in this small, quiet, secluded cemetery, not far from the bustling business centre of downtown Huntsville, Ontario.

A few folks here still remember the art work of Ada Kinton. A few more know about her stay in the community, in the late 1800's, and have heard about the book, "Just One Blue Bonnet," which was a small memorial text published by the artist's sister, Sara Randleson, shortly after Ada's death, at the turn of the 1900's. There have been others who have taken the time to learn about this talented, under-recognized artist, and there have been many responses sent to me this past year, asking for more information on this extraordinary woman.

But as far as this path being beaten down to visit her tombstone, as a pilgrimage of faith, she would feel, even in the spirit sense, that she wasn't worth the fuss. As she lived and worked modestly in her pursuit of art, she was a committed volunteer, a stalwart missionary, working tirelessly to help others help themselves. While this writer would like to think that now and again, some person would show up here, to remember her wonderful life, suffice that folks have been reading about this charitable, giving soul for the past year, here in the pages of Curious; The Tourist Guide. One family member has already paid compliments to the series, and we hope as well, that a donation or several, have been made to local food banks in her name, as this series has been dedicated to the Gravenhurst Salvation Army Food Bank. A donation this fall, to any food bank, would be greatly appreciated, and one that would be heartily appreciated by Miss Kinton, in her own spirit of giving and compassion toward the less fortunate. Thanks so much for joining this year-long series of columns, about a woman who inspired such goodwill and harmonious living. She was the epitome of peace on earth and goodwill toward man.

Ada Kinton died while convalescing at her brother's homestead in Huntsville, not long into the 1900's. She was still quite young but the rigors of missionary work, especially in Australia, and then the Northern United States, wore her small body into a progressive decline. Her sister noted that she was in great discomfort in those final years, although she was so much at peace, looking out from the verandah, onto the little town she had written about in her journal, so many years earlier, and had painted in snowclad winter finery during the first months of her stay in Canada in the 1880's.

Ada Florence Kinton gave up a promising career in fine art, and as a talented art instructor, in England, and later in Canada, to join the efforts of the Salvation Army, to administer the word of God, and the kindnesses of good faith and compassion, to those who were most in need. She stood out in the bitter cold, on the streets of Toronto, to help those who could not find shelter, or sustenance. Hers was the voice of optimism and resolve, that God would provide. With her unmeasurable kindnesses and faith bestowed, she gave those without hope, the rare reason to smile. There are testimonials from people she did assist, who later came to tell her, so proudly, of their respective, newfound successes, and to tell her, face to face, what her intervention had meant to them. As well, there were many talented artists, who went on to earn names for themselves as painters, who bestowed thanks on Miss Kinton, who gave them the benefit of her expertise, and her unique capabilities to capture the scenes she witnessed. She inspired many to better themselves by hard work and sensitive lives. Her abilities both as an artist and writer, were captured in the pages of the Salvation Army's "War Cry," a publication she adored working with, during her final years in this mortal coil.

As many times as I beat down this modest, winding footpath, over this peaceful acreage in beautiful Muskoka, I never once arrive at the marker belonging to Ada Florence Kinton, that I don't somehow feel the aura of peaceful solitude, without nary a twig of mournful emotion. It is, as if, she is letting her biographer know, that her death more than a century ago, followed a fulfilled, accomplished life. One that she had celebrated despite the hardships. It was, in her mindset, no hardship whatsoever doing God's work. And it is of considerable comfort, to stand out here, facing the cold wind and colder rain of early November, to look upon the subtle glow I bestow her name, etched onto the modest stone face of the weather-worn marker, and enjoy the contentment, her good name and work have lived on into this new century. For the Christmas season this year, in our hometown, our family will be hosting the annual Christmas Concert, at the Gravenhurst Opera House, in support of the Salvation Army Food Bank, that helps so many in our community provide for their festive season. We will proudly announce, that the concert is dedicated to the memory of Ada Florence Kinton, friend of Muskoka, artist, and missionary.

Please consider making a donation to a food bank in your own community, to help those who find themselves in crisis. It would please Ada Kinton so much, to know her own kindnesses are still impacting the goodwill of folks more than a century later.

Enjoy a late autumn adventure in our beautiful province. It is a time of the rolling year, the Group of Seven Artists loved to venture forth, into the countryside, to depict the haunted landscapes, the misty lakelands, and the curious light and shadows that illuminated our townscapes and historic architecture. 

The Riders In The Night, Diphtheria in Muskoka

Cooper's Falls Cemetery - Photo By Fred Schulz

THE RIDERS IN THE NIGHT - BRING OUT THE DEAD - THE HOMESTEADER'S DEMISE

MEDICAL ASSISTANCE WAS DAYS AWAY - AND DEATH COULDN'T WAIT

     MAYBE I AM "OLD BEFORE MY TIME," AS SOME OF OUR FAMILY FRIENDS CLAIM. I CAN BUY THAT. HAVING SPENT SO MUCH OF MY TIME RESEARCHING THE PAST, I SUPPOSE IT'S POSSIBLE I HAVE ABSORBED QUITE A BIT OF HISTORY WITHOUT KNOWING IT! I'M NOT UNHAPPY ABOUT THIS. I REALLY FEEL I'VE LEARNED SOMETHING IMPORTANT, ABOUT THE PERILS OF DISCONNECTING FROM THE PAST……BECAUSE IT MISTAKENLY SEEMS IRRELEVANT. I FEEL DIFFERENTLY ABOUT THIS, AND I HAVE A GRAVE CONCERN THIS INCREASING IGNORANCE OF HISTORICAL PRECEDENTS, WILL SNAP BACK ON US ONE DAY, WHEN WE ARE MOST VULNERABLE. WE HAVE SEEN EXAMPLES OF THIS RECENTLY; AND THERE HAVE BEEN HUMBLING CIRCUMSTANCES, CREATED BY THE HAND OF NATURE, THAT HAVE MADE US ALL OF A SUDDEN, WONDER OUT LOUD, WHAT OUR PARENTS AND GRANDPARENTS WOULD HAVE DONE, DEALING WITH A SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCE OF HARDSHIP.

     THERE SEEM TO BE A LOT OF PEOPLE THESE DAYS, WHO HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PASSED-DOWN STORIES, ABOUT THE INHERENT HARDSHIPS OF RESPECTIVE ERAS IN OUR FAMILY'S PAST. THE JOY AND TRAGEDY AS EXPERIENCED BY OUR ANCESTORS. MORE THAN EVER, I BELIEVE, WE ARE OBSESSED WITH THE RIGORS OF THE PRESENT, AND DRAW VERY LITTLE FROM THE EXPERIENCES OF THE PAST. WHICH OF COURSE, ARE LIFE EXPERIENCES THAT SHOULD MAKE US MORE RESOURCEFUL AND PREPARED. EVEN FOR WHAT WE ONLY PERCEIVE TODAY, AS ANNOYING INCONVENIENCES. YET IF YOU GO BACK INTO YOUR FAMILY TREE, YOU WILL CONNECT WITH A BLOOD-LINE THAT HAD IT VERY MUCH WORSE, THAN EVEN THE MOST TROUBLESOME DAY YOU CAN IMAGINE TODAY. AS AN HISTORIAN, I FIND THIS DISASSOCIATION WITH THE PAST RATHER DISTURBING, BECAUSE IN THAT SAME FAMILY HISTORY, WITH CENTURIES OF EXPERIENCE, THERE ARE LESSONS ABOUT SURVIVAL, AND ADAPTABILITY TO DO SO, THAT WE SUDDENLY FEEL WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

     WE ARE NOW BECOMING ISOLATED FROM A MEANS OF COPING WITH HARDSHIP THAT WAS ONCE COMMONPLACE. AS IF WE KNOW IT ALL, IN THIS MODERN TECHNOLOGICAL ERA, IT'S AS IF WE HAVE EVERYTHING WORKED OUT IN ADVANCE. WE CAN HANDLE CRISIS. THERE IS NO STORM BIG ENOUGH. NO EARTHQUAKE VIOLENT ENOUGH. NO FAMINE. NO DROUGHT SERIOUS ENOUGH TO DESTROY CROPS. THERE IS THE FEELING THE PAST WILL NEVER RETURN. SO WHY WORRY ABOUT THE WAY OUR ANCESTORS LIVED THEIR DAILY LIVES. WELL, THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM FOR MODERN SOCIETY. THE RECENT HURRICANE THAT HIT THE EASTERN SEABOARD OF THE UNITED STATES, TOOK THOSE AFFECTED, BACK TO PIONEER DAYS IN A MATTER OF HOURS. IF THEY HAD FOLLOWED SOME PIONEERING ADVISE BEFORE THE STORM, MAYBE THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS HARDSHIP AND DEATH ASSOCIATED, WITH THIS VIOLENT BUT NATURAL TURN OF WEATHER.

     OUR PIONEER COMMUNITY DIDN'T HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF ANYTHING MORE THAN BASIC PROVISIONS, IN ORDER TO SURVIVE THE HARD LIFE IN THE WILDERNESS. THEY HAD LITTLE CHOICE BUT TO PREPARE FOR THE COMING WINTER, EVEN IF IT WAS THE EARLY SPRING. IT WOULD TAKE THE BETTER PART OF A YEAR, TO MAKE SURE THERE WAS A FULL SUPPLY OF FOOD AND WOOD IN TIME FOR THE TURN OF WEATHER IN OCTOBER. AS FOR PROFIT, IT WASN'T NEARLY AS IMPORTANT AS PREPARING FOR WINTER WITH THE RESOURCES AT HAND. ANY PROFIT WAS TURNED BACK INTO THE FARMSTEADS, TO MAKE A MORE COMFORTABLE LIFE FOR THOSE KNOWING FEW COMFORTS IN A SMALL, DRAFTY LOG CABIN CARVED FROM THE MUSKOKA BUSH.

     ONE OF THE GREAT HARDSHIPS ENDURED, OF COURSE, WAS THE DISTANCE FROM MEDICAL ASSISTANCE. IT WAS BAD ENOUGH TO BE A CONSIDERABLE WALK OR WAGON RIDE TO THE NEAREST CHURCH, OR GENERAL STORE, BUT THE LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE IN ISOLATION, COST A LOT OF LIVES THAT COULD HAVE BEEN SPARED, HAD THEY BEEN RESIDENTS OF ONE OF THE LARGER SETTLEMENTS…..WHERE A DOCTOR OR TWO HAD SET UP PRACTICE. IN TERMS OF HEALTH, THE HOMESTEADERS WERE CONSTANTLY AT HIGH RISK, BECAUSE OF THE NATURE OF THEIR LIFESTYLE, SHORTAGE OF NUTRITIOUS FOOD, LACK OF MONEY TO PAY FOR A DIVERSE FOOD SUPPLY, AND THE PHYSICAL STRESSES OF THE HOMESTEAD. THERE IS A STORY TOLD BY SUZANNE'S UNCLE, BERT SHEA, IN HIS WELL KNOWN TALES OF PIONEER TIMES, IN THE THREE MILE LAKE AREA OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES, ABOUT AN ELDERLY WOMAN, LEFT ALONE AT HER CABIN, WHO WAS INJURED WHILE SPLITTING WOOD TO KEEP THE HOME FIRE BURNING. A SHARP FRAGMENT OF WOOD FLEW-UP WHEN THE AXE HIT THE LOG, AND HIT HER EYE, EDGE FIRST. THE WOOD SHARD IMBEDDED SO DEEPLY INTO HER EYE SOCKET, THAT SHE COULDN'T PULL IT OUT BY HERSELF. MEDICAL HELP WAS A LONG DISTANCE AWAY, AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO COME BY HER CABIN, SO SHE COULD ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. SHE LIVED WITH THAT WOOD SPLINTER IN HER EYE FOR SOME TIME AFTER, BUT THE INFECTION PROVED TOO MUCH FOR THE ELDER SETTLER, WHO EVENTUALLY SUCCUMBED. THERE ARE MANY SIMILAR STORIES ABOUT SICKNESSES THAT HAD TO BE TENDED BY THE SETTLERS THEMSELVES, AS DOCTORS OF COURSE, WERE NOT AS NUMEROUS AS THEY ARE TODAY.

THE SUDDEN ONSET OF A SICKNESS THAT COULD KILL OFF A HOUSEHOLD WITHIN HOURS

     DIPHTHERIA: "AN EPIDEMIC INFLAMMATORY DISEASE OF THE AIR-PASSAGES, AND ESPECIALLY OF THE THROAT, CHARACTERIZED BY THE FORMATION OF A FALSE MEMBRANE." BY ANY OTHER NAME, A KILLER DISEASE THAT SPREAD RAPIDLY UNDER THE RIGHT CONDITIONS.

     Suzanne's grandfather, John Shea, a former clerk in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, and farm owner in the hamlet of Ufford, on the shore of Three Mile Lake, took it upon himself, to erect a fence around a small previously unmarked multi-plot gravesite, belonging to a family, wiped out by an outbreak of diphtheria, sometime, we believe, in the late 1800's. The Dougherty family, of which "Dougherty Road" was named, in Ufford, (near Windermere), had contracted the deadly disease, at a time when it was ravaging the pioneer communities in this vicinity of Muskoka. From what we can find, of this tragic circumstance, upwards of five family members died within twenty-four hours, and had to be hastily buried in the late hours of the night to avoid spectators, who could also become infected by close proximity. A number of lilacs were planted by neighbors at the gravesite, some time after, and it was how John Shea knew where to find the plots, when he decided to create a fence to mark the family plot as a latent memorial. This came many years after their deaths. Suzanne and I have visited the site numerous times, and it was always the same lilacs, that led us to the spot. The fence has long since deteriorated. It is located only feet from the route of the present Dougherty Road, not far from the present Ufford Community Cemetery.

     "Diphtheria, in the old days, took its course - whole families were wiped out. Burials after midnight by law," wrote family historian, Bert Shea. "The ghastly sound of wagon wheels and horses feet, or the thump of the jumper and the rattle of the bullchair, as slowly the oxen drew the caskets in the dead of night to the place of burial. I will not write more of the terrible procedure, save to say that there are cemeteries in Watt, where there were none present at the midnight burial, save the dim oil lantern…..two figures, one at each side of the grave, shovels in hand, and the good man at the head, conscious of the risk he was taking with his own family, but who, in faith, stood with his parishioners to declare the words of the Master….'I am the resurrection and the life."

     He also notes that fumigations were ordered by doctors to prevent diphtheria outbreaks, including after infectious events had occurred. Diphtheria was an agonizing ailment marked by severe fever, coughing, choking, and sore throat. Having a whole house infected, must have sounded horrible, to the attending doctors, nurses, and preachers, if in fact, they were able to attend, related to proximity from established villages. One can imagine the fury of activity around these affected homesteads, and the worry in the surrounding neighborhood, with rampant fear that they would be the next victims of this most vicious illness, that killed children in front of their helpless parents…..the weakest succumbing first. Then the elderly and parents meeting the same fate, often in the same day. There were survivors. But it depended on the care the victims received.

     Imagine hearing what Mr. Shea reported, on those fateful nights, the eerie sounds of wagon wheels on the hard packed dirt roads, and the twinkle of lamplights on the sides, helping to guide the way through the woods and partly cleared pastures, to the afflicted household, where death was imminent, some family having already succumbed, and been hastily prepared for a quick funeral before sunrise. This was not the work of an author penning a horror story, or a movie script for profit. It was reality at its most unfortunate, and there were many heroes from this period, and one of them was known as the "Tramp," an Anglican missionary of considerable acclaim, and compassion, by the name of Gowan Gillmor. From his Ministry in the Village of Rosseau, and the Diocese of Algoma, he moved his residence to nearby Ullswater, at the time of a smallpocks outbreak, (and circulated similarly during the diphtheria epidemic) and was one of very few who would tend the sick and those near death, medically and spiritually, and of this, he became a Muskoka legend in his time and beyond.

     "Gillmor of Algoma, (written by E. Newton White), is the story of a missionary's life, his struggles, heartaches and joys in those early wilderness areas, along the base of the Canadian Shield, which one Bishop used to describe as 'a land of rock of ages and Christmas trees.' It is the story of a beloved priest who tramped over those rocks and probably even slept under some of those trees, here and there, carving upon them, 'The Tramp'."

     "During the years Gowan Gillmor was at North Bay, the scourge of diphtheria was sweeping the north country. It was then a lethal disease and caused terror in the backwoods communities," notes E. Newton White. "What his son in Canada did, is best pictured in Gowan's own tribute to a predecessor in the Parish of Rosseau; the Rev. A. W.H. Chowne - "when there was a terrible epidemic of diphtheria and scarlet fever, he himself nursed the child patients; with his own hands, he prepared the dead for burial, put them in their coffins, dug their graves, and committed them therein, - in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal Life."

     "The epidemic diseases did not spare Rosseau, and Gowan took up his self appointed duties again. Smallpox broke out in Ullswater, and he closed up the Rosseau Rectory, to take up residence there to minister to the sick. When diphtheria 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'." Additionally, according to White, there was also a case further north, when, on a bitterly cold winter night, with a storm brewing, he planned to attend a family suffering from diphtheria, more than ten miles away. He was to travel on foot, as he usually did. Before he left, he had secured groceries and medicine for the family. Eleven children were infected. According to Gillmor, "Arrived safely." He nursed the family until all were well.

     "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 entry, and many a time was able to bar the door to him," notes the author / historian.

     There were others throughout our district who defied the deadly disease, to help those in need. It is known that amongst the bravest, were those who tended the burials of the deceased, risking the possibility of carrying the contagion into their own homes. Often there were no doctors attending, and it was family that had to send for help to bury the deceased. This was life and survival on the frontier.

     "I have heard the voices of his loved ones in mourning, and the men of the river in silent groups, standing around, the slow tread of the horses and wheels of the carriages, as they bore him away to the quiet burying ground." From the book written by Bert Shea.

     Thanks so much for joining today's historical blog. It's always good to have you aboard.

Life Of Hardship In Muskoka

Photo by Fred Schulz

THE STORY OF GRANNY BOWERS SHOULD ATTRACT OUR ATTENTION

HARDSHIP AND POVERTY WERE THE TRIALS OF DAILY LIFE IN MUSKOKA

     LAST CHRISTMAS I CHASTIZED A LOCAL PUBLICATION FOR INSENSITIVE EDITORIAL COMMENTS, MADE ABOUT THE PREVELANCE (VIA STATISTICS) OF POVERTY IN MUSKOKA. WHETHER IT WAS A PROBLEM WITH WORDSMITHING AND EDITORIAL OVERSIGHT, IT SEEMED TO REPRESENT POVERTY AS A CUMBERSOME, DEPRESSING REALITY THAT WAS INTERFERRING WITH OUR "BRAND" PROMOTION, BEING PITCHED IN AND ABOUT MUSKOKA. HEAVEN FORBID THAT THE REALITY OF FAILING PERSONAL ECONOMIES SHOULD TARNISH OUR IMAGE HERE IN "GOD'S COUNTRY," AS A LUXURIOUS OASIS FOR ALL THOSE WHO CAN AFFORD TO COTTAGE OR LOUNGE AT A LAKESIDE RESORT. SO I GAVE THEM A LITTLE HISTORY LESSON. ONE THAT COULD HAVE BEEN EASILY GIVEN BY GRANNY BOWERS, FROM THE LITTLE 1942 BOOKLET, PUBLISHED BY THE SOCIETY OF ST. JOHNS THE EVANGELIST, IN BRACEBRIDGE.

     THE MUSKOKA WILDS WERE FULL OF DESPERATE STORIES OF THE POOR AND DESTITUTE, WHO ALTHOUGH PENNILESS AND HUNGRY, STILL WORKED AT CLEARING THEIR HOMESTEAD GRANT LANDS,  ATTEMPTING YEAR AFTER DISCOURAGING YEAR, TO GENERATE CROPS FROM THE THIN, ROOT AND ROCK STREWN SOIL. MANY OF THESE COURAGEOUS SOULS DIED TRYING TO CARVE OUT SUCCESSFUL FARMSTEADS, AND ARE STILL BURIED IN UNMARKED GRAVES ACROSS THE COUNTRYSIDE. THE SUFFERING WAS EXTREME, AND SO MANY OF THESE SETTLERS WERE RECRUITED BY UNSCRUPULUS EMIGRATION AND STEAMSHIP LINE AGENTS, WHO PAINTED THE FRONTIER OF CANADA, IN MUCH GRANDER TERMS THAN WERE WARRANTED. WARNINGS AND ADVISORIES WERE FEW, AND USUALLY BURIED WITHIN THE GLOWING REVIEWS, PUBLISHED IN SETTLERS' GUIDE BOOKS. THUS, SO MANY ILL PREPARED SETTLERS ARRIVED IN THE HARSH ENVIRONS OF CANADA, AND MUSKOKA IN PARTICULAR, THAT FAILURE WAS OFTEN IMMINENT. GRANNY BOWERS' STORY IS PART OF THIS UNFOLDING TRAGEDY, THAT IS MOST OFTEN OVERLOOKED, WHEN WE'RE CELEBRATING THE HERITAGE OF OLD BOATS, STEAMSHIPS, RESORTS, AND OUR COMMUNITIES. GRANNY BOWERS' STORY IS HONEST BUT DEPRESSING. SEEMS A LOT OF FOLKS DON'T LIKE BEING DEPRESSED BY WHAT THEY READ. AS AN HISTORIAN, I WANT TO KNOW THE TRUTH. NOT THE GLOSSY OVERVIEW, AND POPULAR, "FEEL GOOD" HISTORY, WE MOST OFTEN RECEIVE, IN OUR HERITAGE PUBLICATIONS TODAY.

     THE POWERFUL STORY IN THIS TINY, UNASSUMING LITTLE BOOK, IS PRECIOUS TO ME, AND IT IS WHY I DECIDED TO RE-PUBLISH THE MATERIAL IN THIS BLOG. IF YOU ARE JUST JOINING THIS FOUR PART SERIES, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CHAPTERS, BY GOING TO THE BLOG HISTORY. THE BOOKLET WAS PRINTED IN SMALL QUANTITY, AND THERE ARE VERY FEW LEFT FOR PUBLIC VIEWING.

IN GRANNY BOWERS' WORDS

   (MRS. BOWERS' AND HER HUSBAND, WITH CHILDREN, ARE IN THE COOKSTOWN VICINITY, WITHOUT MONEY OR LODGING, AT PRESENT IN THE TEXT)

     "We told the hotelkeeper there that we had no money but would like to stay all night; we told them of our hard times, and one man wanted to take up a collection for us. He started with ten cents. But my pride was hurt and I decided to move on. But a rich lady and gentleman came in and persuaded them to keep us all night. In the morning we had a bit to eat in our room and started again to Carlooke and arrived there about noon and went into a boarding house to warm ourselves and found they were old neighbours of ours. They used us good and we had a good dinner; all we could eat. And when we were refreshed we continued on to Alliston and stopped awhile at my sister Annes, where we left our little girl and then went on to my mothers. Once there I was settled for the winter. Then he went back to Allandale to cut wood. He worked here till the 20th of March with Squire Little and all he saved in that time, from Xmas to March was $1.00. The rest went for board, tobacco and drink. With the dollar he bought enough calico fro a dress for myself and the little girl.

     Granny Bowers writes, "Somewhere the middle of April, he sent me a letter with 15 cents. He said for me to try and get up to Angus and pay the 15 cents for fare on the train from there, down to where he was. I thought he must be pretty hard up if that was all he could spare me. And I was too independent to use it. I would have to walk twelve miles anyway to take the train. In about five days I made up my mind to go to him, about 25 miles, and I walked all the way. I started at 8 o'clock in the morning and arrived when the five o'clock train was coming in. He met me about a mile from his work. The man he was working for had paid him some wages to come and get me. He took the baby I had been carrying and carried it into camp. When we got in he kindled the fire and put the kettle on for tea. He went about three miles to Allandale for bread, butter and eggs and we had supper. But I was too tired to eat and wanted to lie down and rest; I was not well for a week. I was so sore from carrying the child. Then about a week later he went to Alliston and got the little girl that we had left with my sister Anne.

     "In the shanty was a heap of straw in the corner for a bed and an old quilt and old stove, and cracked stove pot. This was all we had to make a start with. I had to take my white undershirt to make a sheet. It made a good sized sheet too for skirts were made very full in those days. Then we had the quilt to put over us. We had to do with this till fall and we had all summer to get a few more things together. The woodcutting wasn't much of a job so we had to go in for haying and harvesting for Squire Little. We did four or five acres of wheat for him and eight acres of oats for another man. He cradled it with the grain cradler while I raked and binded. Then we pulled nine acres of peas for the Squire, the pea-vines were seven feet long and a very heavy crop. Then we did odd jobs such as digging vegetables and the like till fall set in. I got my share of the wages for all the work I did. In the fall we went to Barrie to do our shopping. I got some hay ticking for a bed and some flanellette for sheets and he got groceries and provisions. Then we were more comfortable. We stayed there that winter and bought some land from the squire, where we moved to a little shanty near-by in March. Then we stayed there all that summer while he put up a small house on his own property. Here in August, my third child was born.

     She reminisces that, "My husband and another man had been making shingles and a few days before my baby came, I packed twenty-one bunches. He got a man to haul them out to the station and should have got $1.25 a bunch for them. He did not get home till the next day and came in shivering with cold and could not give any account of the money but 37 cents. He had been drinking and it had either been lost or stolen. We were out of bread at the time and when the baby came ten days old, I carried him a mile to pick berries to earn the bread with the other two children toddling after. When another load of shingles was made, he had to take the money he got for them, to pay the man for hauling them out, so we had nothing that time. It happened when we were living there in Inisfil near Barrie in the year 1867. About that time my husband's father died and his mother wanted us to go to Mulmur and live near her, and so we went. His brother had a job chopping, so my husband helped him from March till May. It was about three miles from his mothers so my husband thought we might as well live in the shanty with his brother where they were chopping, and I went in for sugar making and when the work was done, we moved back near his mothers. We remained there all summer and winter and it was here my 4th child was born. My husband received five acres of the farm, as his portion of the estate, so he built himself a nice house on his own land. At that time his mother was bothering us a lot and we could not do as we liked on our own property and so after my fifth and sixth children arrived, we decided to go to Muskoka again."

     She penned in her journal, "In the spring of the year, 1873, when my youngest child was five months old, we moved and started in with the other pioneers. He sold his property in Mulmur and bought a good yoke of oxen, a good cow and ten hens for a start. The oxen carried us to Muskoka. When we arrived there, we found some other people had settled on the land we had when we first came out, so we had to find another homestead, and build another log house. We found a spot in the wilderness and cut logs and put up our house the first year in a temporary way. It was ready to live in on the 4th of November and it was a very bad winter, with four feet of snow. The place had a good beaver marsh and my husband cut a stack of beaver hay for the animals for the winter but they would not eat it as they had been used to better, so we had to sell the oxen and wagon for $40, and the cow for $18.00, so we just had the hens left. There was no work for men in the country then....only cutting cordwood at 40 cents a cord, and not very much of that unless you went three or four miles looking for a job. We made snow shoes that winter from basswood bark and a broad runner hand sleigh and started to make shingles. He went a mile and a half to get the timber. He had no saw like there is now, just common cross-cuts (old style)....no lance teeth. He used to get the tree down the first day, and two shingle cuts off and hauled home on the hand sleigh. He would cut away at the tree till it was all hauled home, and then he made a saw horse and riving block, and made shingles all winter in the house. He rived them and I shaved them, and our eight year old boy packed them; about thirty one or thirty two thousand that winter."

     We will re-join Mrs. Bowers' journal in tomorrow's blog, for the conclusion of her story of survival on the Muskoka frontier, during the pioneering era of our regional history.

     Thanks so much for joining me for today's blog. Please join me tomorrow, for the final part of Granny Bower's incredible story.