Muskoka Stormfront

MUSKOKA AS WALDEN

DULL DAY WITH RAIN AND SNOW, AND THE PROMISE OF MUCH MORE THIS EVENING

IT IS HARDLY THE SCENE AUTHOR JOSEPH CONRAD DEPICTED IN HIS BOOK "TYPHOON," YET THE WAY THE WEATHER FORECASTERS HAVE BEEN GOING AT IT THIS MORNING, ONE MIGHT EXPECT THE ENVIRONS TO SOON CONVULSE INTO A RAGE OF VIOLENT FOUL WEATHER. IT HAS BEEN THE TRADITION OF THIS WINTER, SO FAR……ONE OF SHARP CHANGES IN CLIMATE BUT VERY LITTLE CONSISTENCY. IT WILL BE RAINING ONE MORNING, AND WE'LL EXPERIENCE A "FLASH FREEZE" BY LATE AFTERNOON. WE CAN BE IN THE MIDST OF A SNOWSTORM ONE DAY, AND EXPERIENCE THE KIND OF TEMPERATURE INCREASE, THAT MELTS MOST OF WHAT HAD JUST FALLEN THE DAY BEFORE. IT HAS BEEN BLAMED ON MANY THINGS…..FROM GLOBAL WARMING TO THE EFFECTS OF WARM AND COLD CURRENTS IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN. OLDTIMERS AROUND HERE HAVE BEEN PREDICTING THE WEATHER FROM THE SIGNS THEY BEGAN SEEING IN THE LATE SUMMER; SUGGESTING IN CASUAL CONVERSATION…. THAT WHILE A LONG HAUL OF INCLEMENT WEATHER SHOULD BE EXPECTED, IT WASN'T GOING TO BE A SEVERE WINTER SEASON, AS WE'VE KNOWN THEM IN THE PAST. THE SNOW SQUALLS AND RAIN HAVE A LOT TO DO WITH THE WARMER GREAT LAKES, AND LACK OF ICE ON GEORGIAN BAY……ALLOWING THE SHIFTING WEATHER PATTERNS TO PICK UP MOISTURE AND THEN DEPOSIT IT ON US…..AND EVERY PLACE ON THE WAY EAST.

I'VE BEEN WRITING THESE LANDSCAPE PIECES FOR MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS, FROM THIS EXACT SPOT AT BIRCH HOLLOW. IT'S AT THIS TIME OF THE ROLLING YEAR THAT I'M PRETTY MUCH CONSUMED BY WRITING AND BANKING EDITORIAL PIECES, FOR USE IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER SEASONS. THAT'S WHEN THE ANTIQUE-DEALER EMERGES FROM THE WRITER'S BODY, AND ATTEMPTS TO MAKE MONEY TO…….WELL, AS MY WIFE SAYS……ENJOY THE SOJOURN OF BEING A WRITER. I WON'T ARGUE WITH HER THAT WRITING, REGIONALLY, AND NOW ONLINE, IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL, BUT STILL UNFORTUNATE IF YOU HAPPEN TO NEED THE REVENUE TO BUY FOOD. SO FLIPPING IN THE SPRING, TO THE ANTIQUE HUNTER'S CAP, OFFSETS EVERYTHING ELSE. LATELY I'VE BEEN WRITING MUCH MORE ABOUT ANTIQUE COLLECTING AND SELLING, WHICH IS A BIG CHANGE FOR ME PROFESSIONALLY. WHILE I'VE HAD ANTIQUE COLUMNS PUBLISHED IN NUMEROUS MAGAZINES AND NEWSPAPERS SINCE THE LATE 1970'S, I'VE NEVER ATTEMPTED A BIOGRAPHY AS SUCH, TO DOCUMENT OVER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS IN THE PROFESSION, IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER. I'VE BEEN PREPARING THIS MATERIAL FOR MY GRAVENHURST BLOG, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY CLICKING ONTO http://gravenhurstmuskoka.blogspot.com/

WRITING ABOUT THE SCENE, AS WITNESSED FROM THIS PORTAL, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, HAS ALWAYS BEEN A LITTLE POST-WRITING TREAT. A SORT OF WRITING RESPITE…..WHILE STILL WRITING. I WRITE ABOUT WHAT I SEE AT THE TIME, OR WHAT I'VE JUST RECENTLY WITNESSED DURING A WALK OVER TO THE BOG, OR DOWN THROUGH THE WOODLANDS. THESE ARE NOT PULITZER PIECES, AND THEY'RE NOT FULL OF SPARKLING REVELATIONS, AND RARE INSIGHTS, THAT STRIKE UP THE PROVERBIAL BAND, TO INSPIRE READERS TO TAKE UP AUTHORDOM ALL OF A SUDDEN. YET FOR ALL MY YEARS INVESTED IN WRITING, THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN, FOR ME, WHAT "FROZEN POND SHINNY" IS TO A PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY PLAYER. PRESSURE IS OFF. IT'S A LARK. JUST FOR FUN STUFF, THAT ISN'T INTENDED TO SET THE WORLD ABLAZE, OR REFORM EVERYTHING THAT NEEDS TO BE REFORMED. HERE, IN THIS ILLUMINATION OF AN OLD FARM OIL LAMP, I CAN TREAT MYSELF TO A LITTLE MORE FREEDOM, AND THINK ABOUT THE GRANDEUR OF NATURE, THE JOY OF EXPECTATION, THINKING ABOUT THE SPRING BUDS THAT WILL COME ONE DAY, RESTORING IN THE GARDEN OUTSIDE MY WINDOW, AND LET MY THOUGHTS PLAY SHINNY SO TO SPEAK, WITHOUT WORRY OF DEVIATION FROM THE NORM……SITUATIONS THAT IN A FORMAL PUBLICATION, READERS MIGHT SAY….."HE'S GONE MAD, THAT CURRIE." MY PLEASURE HERE IS TO BE AS FAR FROM NORMAL PROTOCOL AS POSSIBLE, AND TO WRITE AS I FEEL, NOT AS I FEEL OBLIGATED TO MEET A PUBLISHER'S AGENDA.

Suzanne will come down to visit occasionally, and ask if I'd like a cup of tea or plate of cookies, which I gladly accept, as it will corrupt me in a most contenting way. I don't believe for a moment that I will start writing gibberish just because of a peanut butter or oatmeal cookie, or a sweet cup of hot tea. It's true that I don't listen to music during these little writing sessions, because I most definitely found the melancholy of music I retreated with, to calm the savage beast within….., was seriously influencing what was appearing in my text. If I listened to particularly joyful music, I'd gravitate to being overly optimistic, when potentially, I had begun with considerable pessimism. I wasn't complicated in this regard. I went with the mood of the prevailing music. It was more important to be influenced by my passive surroundings, the inspirations of the work place I designed, with my assorted art pieces and small sculptures, and of course the wee beasties that live here…….the cats that love to sit with me in my office, watching the squirrels jumping from bough to bough in the yard. I so much prefer to be inspired these days, by the sound of the wind rushing over the lowland, across the lane, and hear the sound of rain and snow slapping against the window pane…..the whip and snap of the raspberry canes and branches of shrubs against the house, when the wind stirs from lakeside. I so enjoy the glad chirping of the birds in the bare lilac branches, and even the distant sound of a train at the crossing several blocks to the east. There is the cadence of a nearby clock that annoys me at first, but it becomes much less distinct and timely, the more I immerse in these simple pleasures of hearth and home.

In my last year working as a reporter, for the local press, I used to get up at 4 a.m. to write the council stories for the next day's newspaper production. I detested it more than any other job I'd ever done as a writer. I would work for at least three hours, and then drive to Bracebridge, to deliver Suzanne to the high school, where she taught, and then drop in my computer disc full of news copy. For the short time I did this, I absolutely required the hiatus of these more relaxing sessions, without any kind of deadline, or serious expectation on my part, to inform readers of current political events and assorted breaking news. It was back in about 1990 that these breaks from news writing became my steam-whistle moments, when I could compose as I wished, not as the publisher demanded. It has been an important outlet ever since. When I occasionally mentor a young aspiring writer, I tell them immediately, writing isn't just for profit, or to gain a big audience. It's nice, and a reward for hard work and creative enterprise, but not the end-all to why we feel the need to write…..something, anything. Each time a girlfriend broke up with me, or I drifted away from the relationship for a variety of commitment reasons, writing was the perfect outlet. If I was upset, angry, apprehensive, or frightened about some eventuality, I turned to the typewriter for temporary relief. I wouldn't still be turning to writing as a means of calming the nerves, if it didn't work for me. I've got a lot of typed pages that will never see the light of day, and I've made this clear to my family, should I spontaneously combust one day, and leave this written quagmire to their discretion. I will one day, after they have a chance to read them, burn them in the ceremonial fire pit, where they belong. They did their service and there is no advantage to me or anyone else, that these razor sharp opinions be released for public consumption.

When I look out this window, this afternoon, upon the melancholy of a grey, rainy, mist-covered Muskoka moor, I find myself very distant from the reality of those days of once, spent here, in this same chair, hammering out news copy for a buck. I have no desire to re-enter this dark abyss of writing, and will gladly suffer the pleasant indignity of being a poor writer……but one who celebrates the craft……not simply endures the task, as a means to an end.