This is a love story about Tom, Arlene and involving a guy named Red along with a hunk of granite.
Once upon a time in Gohere Bay, a lovely princess was held captive by her uncaring father on a rocky island in a fishing camp, filled with old men who smelled of fish bait, whiskey, tobacco and lake water...
That's the way Arlene saw her two week stay at the Camp. Two weeks away from the trappings of her father's financial success in the fishing industry. He was successful, respected and well-liked by most in the business. This trip was essentially another business trip with a little recreation thrown in. Arlene had little use for fishing. What teen girl really wants to sit in a boat for hours, eat greasy fried fish on a rocky shoreline and get back in the boat for the afternoon? After dinner, Arlene would chat up Willard's teenage sons to take her out water-skiing behind one of the camp fishing boats, but until then, she was a princess stuck in a wooden castle with one of the biggest moats in north america.
One evening, after dinner, as she made her way to the docks, wearing a tank suit and sneakers, she ran into Tom. Tall and gangly, he was not necessarily Prince Charming, but compared to the rest of the campers, he seemed to fit the bill. She learned he liked to ski as well as fish.
So Prince Charming and the Lovely Princess began to spend their evenings together, waterskiing, exploring the island and, yes, even fishing. But our Princess Arlene still spent lonely days in her log castle or walking the shores, waiting for Prince Tom to return from the sea (lake). In her boredom, she began chipping away at a large boulder outside her lonely cabin. Eventually, the initials appeared A + T. She thought nothing of it. After dinner Tom and Arlene, prince and princess, continued to spend time together. Willard's sons noticed it, the guests noticed it, even the guides noticed it. Which is what prompted Red to take the next step.
It was Friday evening and the guests piled on the pontoon barge with lawnchairs and buckets of minnows for an evening of crappie fishing along the weedbeds at the end of Gohere Bay. The guides had the weekend free for change-over and several of them would head off early to visit family or the taverns in town. This week, not one guide left early. They were all sitting on the dock looking busy when the barge returned. The men worked to stifle chuckles while the guests unloaded the barge and headed to cabins, some lingering on the dock for a final few casts. Finally, they heard the scream they all knew was coming. The Princess had returned to her tower to find the boulder sitting in the middle of her bed. Red had somehow carried the huge slab of granite into the cabin and placed it on the bed whose springs now sagged nearly to the floor.
The guides burst out laughing while the guests and crew ran to see what the matter was. They all came out shaking their heads. Red had 'disappeared' for the evening and it took three of the guides to get the rock out of the bed so they could roll it out the cabin door and, eventually, to a spot near the dock.
Some say the boulder is still there and that the carved initials can be faintly seen, though weathered by the elements of Gohere Bay.
As for Tom and Arlene...they're known to be seen every once in a while at Paradise Island.
C
27.10.10
...but is it real?
Someone asked me recently whether the camp is a 'Real Place'. Well, if you look at a map of northwestern Ontario, just south of the booming metropolis of Nestor Falls, is a place called Gohere Bay. At the mouth of Gohere Bay, a section of the larger Sabaskong Bay, on Lake of the Woods, is an island that is marked with a 'T' on maps. The 'T' stands for tourist camp. So, yes, the Camp is real.
It has been known by various names over the years and has had many owners. I spent several years there as a child and a few more during my high school years. It's a fine place, perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the glacial lake.
I suppose the next question would be the truthfulness of the stories. Most of the stories I share here have some basis in true stories, though many of the details have been lost to time, exaggeration, hyperbole and forgetfulness. Tom and Arlene are real people as are Mary and Willard. Paradise Island is also a real place, though its exact location takes some digging on some really old maps where it appears as "Par-a-dise Island". Red, Skarr, Joe, Brad, Raj, Sonny, Dale, Bob and others you have yet to meet, have all gathered around the guide's table and shared meals, fish stories and tall tales mixed with a few off-color jokes. Dennis Nona, Eyner and Christine, Erling and Cheryl, right down down to Ruth and Scott.
All people who share a little piece of life on Gohere Bay.
It has been known by various names over the years and has had many owners. I spent several years there as a child and a few more during my high school years. It's a fine place, perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the glacial lake.
I suppose the next question would be the truthfulness of the stories. Most of the stories I share here have some basis in true stories, though many of the details have been lost to time, exaggeration, hyperbole and forgetfulness. Tom and Arlene are real people as are Mary and Willard. Paradise Island is also a real place, though its exact location takes some digging on some really old maps where it appears as "Par-a-dise Island". Red, Skarr, Joe, Brad, Raj, Sonny, Dale, Bob and others you have yet to meet, have all gathered around the guide's table and shared meals, fish stories and tall tales mixed with a few off-color jokes. Dennis Nona, Eyner and Christine, Erling and Cheryl, right down down to Ruth and Scott.
All people who share a little piece of life on Gohere Bay.
24.10.10
A Word About Mary
Many of the stories featured here deal with Willard, the larger-than-life character who was the front man for the Camp at Gohere Bay for the better part of forty years. But the question I hear from Ruth, the current resident I correspond with, is "What about Mary? Why do the men get all the recognition and the stories? Where is Mary's story?" And better questions may never have been asked. Willard was a brand, a marketing man with a plan. Put a name out there, big and bold, with a face behind it, then set a standard and live up to it. He was tough and, some would say mean, but consistent. But you all know the old saying, 'Behind every successful man is a woman with a big stick to keep him going'. Well, maybe not exactly those words.
Mary was born to a wealthy family in small-town America. Her grandfather was a quarry man who ran with the likes of "Bet-a-Million" Gates and spent his share of money. Then the Great Depression hit on the heels of Prohibition. Properties were lost, demand for building materials dried up and the family fell on hard times. Mary spent her teen years working at the local drug store where she was courted, wooed and hit on by many of the small town's men. Her stunning figure, soft features and thirst for adventure were irresistable. She flew in airplanes on barnstorming tours, rode motorcycles with wealthy businessmen and rarely backed down from a challenge. Her mother's skill as a seamstress kept Mary in fresh and stylish clothing as she met society head on.
Finally the irresistable force met the immovable object, Willard, at a church carnival. Willard was driven and Mary was the perfect foil for his brash demeanor. Together they had no idea what they could not do. Willard had difficulty finding work so he made his own. Whether cleaning beer coils or peddling Christmas trees, he found a way to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, usually with the help of Mary's management skills.
Nowhere were her skills more evident than in Gohere Bay. For a woman to manage a camp in the 1940's when women didn't even visit such camps was quite a story. She worked hard and held the rugged men to high standards. She expected manners but was tolerant of the occasional joke. She could dress to the nines but was always ready to tag along in khakis and flannel.
Writing about Mary is a challenge because of the variety of who she was and what she did. Among her awards were a Palmer Method award for handwriting, a Field and Stream award for a northern pike she landed, a small-mouth bass mount that hung in the lodge building for years and commendations from various church groups. She played cards everywhere she went, Europe, Mexico, the Arctic, on trains and on planes. I have a photo of her standing with an eight foot marlin that she landed after a two hour fight.
She was strict and competitive. I learned most of what I know of cards from her and some of my proudest moments come from beating her at gin or rummy on lazy afternoons or late nights. She never cut the kids any slack, she said "a victory where someone lets you win is no victory". I know I earned everything I got from her, every card game I won, every time I bested her with rod and reel, the incessant clicking of her perfectly manicured nails on the card table or the side of the boat, was a challenge.
I suppose there's more to say, and you'll see it in the stories that pop up here, but until then know that the women are not forgotten, be it Nona Chabot, who tried to keep up the dream of her husband Dennis, or Christine Peterson, who survived the accident that took her husband and two children, or Ruth who manages the camp on bum knees or my darling who ambled down to the water with a teapot...
C
Mary was born to a wealthy family in small-town America. Her grandfather was a quarry man who ran with the likes of "Bet-a-Million" Gates and spent his share of money. Then the Great Depression hit on the heels of Prohibition. Properties were lost, demand for building materials dried up and the family fell on hard times. Mary spent her teen years working at the local drug store where she was courted, wooed and hit on by many of the small town's men. Her stunning figure, soft features and thirst for adventure were irresistable. She flew in airplanes on barnstorming tours, rode motorcycles with wealthy businessmen and rarely backed down from a challenge. Her mother's skill as a seamstress kept Mary in fresh and stylish clothing as she met society head on.
Finally the irresistable force met the immovable object, Willard, at a church carnival. Willard was driven and Mary was the perfect foil for his brash demeanor. Together they had no idea what they could not do. Willard had difficulty finding work so he made his own. Whether cleaning beer coils or peddling Christmas trees, he found a way to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, usually with the help of Mary's management skills.
Nowhere were her skills more evident than in Gohere Bay. For a woman to manage a camp in the 1940's when women didn't even visit such camps was quite a story. She worked hard and held the rugged men to high standards. She expected manners but was tolerant of the occasional joke. She could dress to the nines but was always ready to tag along in khakis and flannel.
Writing about Mary is a challenge because of the variety of who she was and what she did. Among her awards were a Palmer Method award for handwriting, a Field and Stream award for a northern pike she landed, a small-mouth bass mount that hung in the lodge building for years and commendations from various church groups. She played cards everywhere she went, Europe, Mexico, the Arctic, on trains and on planes. I have a photo of her standing with an eight foot marlin that she landed after a two hour fight.
She was strict and competitive. I learned most of what I know of cards from her and some of my proudest moments come from beating her at gin or rummy on lazy afternoons or late nights. She never cut the kids any slack, she said "a victory where someone lets you win is no victory". I know I earned everything I got from her, every card game I won, every time I bested her with rod and reel, the incessant clicking of her perfectly manicured nails on the card table or the side of the boat, was a challenge.
I suppose there's more to say, and you'll see it in the stories that pop up here, but until then know that the women are not forgotten, be it Nona Chabot, who tried to keep up the dream of her husband Dennis, or Christine Peterson, who survived the accident that took her husband and two children, or Ruth who manages the camp on bum knees or my darling who ambled down to the water with a teapot...
C
21.10.10
Senses of Place
Physical senses have been linked to memory recall and emotional responses. In this space, I have written about the intensity of memories linked to smell and sound. How the glug-glug sound of water brings to mind boats peacefully bobbing at their moorings or the rustle of leaves sets off memories of breezy afternoons on Gohere Bay. Similarly, smells such as pipe tobacco or the scent of fresh water in a living lake, trigger thoughts of brisk mornings on the docks or still evenings casting the weedbeds of Lake of the Woods.
There are two distinct scents that, for me, are stronger than others. One is the scent of the kitchen at my aunt Patricia's house. It is a distinct smell that I often detect wandering neighborhoods and city streets where people cook with their windows open. I noticed, even when I was young, that this smell was not about place, but about life. At first I thought the mix of cigarette smoke, coffee, cooking and 'something else' had something to do with the small house where she lived. Then she moved and friends moved into her old house. I visited expecting the same comforting smells, but was disappointed. Then I visited her new house and was immediately cognizant of that special smell. Finally, she visited Gohere Bay one year, and after a day in cabin 8, that same comfortable essence filled the old building with a new feel. When she left, I visited the cabin every day for a week until the scent finally reverted back to the standard mix of cedar, wool and moth balls.
The other scent, is that of Mary. She, too, carried a scent to her kitchen and, to a lesser extent, her living space. Yesterday I was in a hallway, 700 miles from Gohere Bay, in the hallway of a 70 year old hospital building, when I encountered her scent recreated as if for me from a collection of cleaning products and 70 year old dust released from new construction. I stood in the hallway for a time, longer than I needed to, long enough to be late for a meeting; smelling, feeling, absorbing the essence of another time and another place. Reliving the lessons of Gohere Bay.
There are two distinct scents that, for me, are stronger than others. One is the scent of the kitchen at my aunt Patricia's house. It is a distinct smell that I often detect wandering neighborhoods and city streets where people cook with their windows open. I noticed, even when I was young, that this smell was not about place, but about life. At first I thought the mix of cigarette smoke, coffee, cooking and 'something else' had something to do with the small house where she lived. Then she moved and friends moved into her old house. I visited expecting the same comforting smells, but was disappointed. Then I visited her new house and was immediately cognizant of that special smell. Finally, she visited Gohere Bay one year, and after a day in cabin 8, that same comfortable essence filled the old building with a new feel. When she left, I visited the cabin every day for a week until the scent finally reverted back to the standard mix of cedar, wool and moth balls.
The other scent, is that of Mary. She, too, carried a scent to her kitchen and, to a lesser extent, her living space. Yesterday I was in a hallway, 700 miles from Gohere Bay, in the hallway of a 70 year old hospital building, when I encountered her scent recreated as if for me from a collection of cleaning products and 70 year old dust released from new construction. I stood in the hallway for a time, longer than I needed to, long enough to be late for a meeting; smelling, feeling, absorbing the essence of another time and another place. Reliving the lessons of Gohere Bay.
18.10.10
Latin Classes at the Camp
Willard's three sons all attended Catholic schools through elementary and high school. The two oldest graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee. Wintering in Illinois while running the camp made for many challenges and among them was education. Camp typically began opening in May so Willard would head north sometime in April as the ice was going out. He would round up the crew and start the business of readying the Camp for guests. Mary would stay behind a few weeks to close up the home down south, often finding renters to occupy the home during the summer months for a few extra dollars income.
Leaving in early May meant the school year was not finished. Mary made the rounds of teachers to collect assignments, tests and projects. Each year was a series of intense discussions with teachers and principals as to the importance of education and how the children should be allowed to complete the school year and when would they be returning in the fall because the school could not guarantee holding their spots until October like they did last year...
The Catholic church being what it is, prepaid tuition went a long way to securing spots in the following year's classes. Assignments were mailed to the school as they were completed and as long as the work was acceptable and the boys didn't fall behind, life went on.
Until one year in high school when the two older boys fell behind in their Latin studies. As Mary went about collecting school work, it was revealed the boys were quite in arrears and their teacher felt there was no way they could catch up. He was refusing to give the assignments and was firm in his belief the boys should attend summer school to complete the course work. Mary had exhausted all her usual appeals and was about to begin making arrangements for the boys to stay behind with relatives for the summer.
Willard was concerned with the expense of replacing two able-bodied guides and made one last attempt. He met with the young priest who taught the Latin class and suggested private tutoring at the Camp. The priest finally agreed on the condition that he personally oversee the lessons. There was always an extra space somewhere in camp so Willard agreed. He left with a list of assignments for the boys to complete.
As the family went about the chores of readying camp for the season by day, the evenings were filled with school work around the plank table in the main room of the Camp's largest cabin, known as the 'Chalet'. The boys worked into the night next to a roaring fire while Willard read and Mary worked on her reservation book, correspondance or played solitaire. Normally these were quiet evenings spent looking out at the mouth of Gohere Bay, dreaming of adventures to be played out over the summer. This year it was all Latin. The routine continued until June when Willard met the train in International Falls and collected the priest/Latin teacher who had left for the northwoods as soon as the last students were out of the school for the summer.
Once the chores of the day were complete and dinner cleared, dishes done, they all gathered in the chalet around the plank table. The fire roared to chase away the evening chill that still set in despite the warmth of the summer days. Father paced around the table as the boys collected their work in two neat piles, he collected the piles into one large stack of loose-leaf paper, the pages filled with hours of nervous translations, conjugations and writing exercises in the best ink scrawl the two teen boys could muster. He thumbed through the papers, making odd faces, wincing on occasion, tsk-ing at times. Finally he walked to the fireplace, turned to face the boys and dropped the entire stack into the flames. The boys nearly dove from their seats as they watched hours of work go up in smoke. Their jaws hung slack and their eyes moistened.
"That," began the young priest, "is the work you should have been doing all year." He began quizzing the boys about verbs and translations, syntax and grammar. Then he began a discussion in Latin. The boys were able to generally follow and add to the discussion. After about thirty minutes he announced, "That concludes your final exam. You have passed. Now I need to be off to bed, I expect my boat and guide will be ready at 5:30. I didn't come hear to waste all my time on your Latin lessons."
Willard loved to tell that story, especially the crest-fallen look on the boys' faces as they watched two months worth of work go into the fire. Willard would always get a serious look on his face just before he burst into his toothy grin.
The boys took turns guiding for the priest throughout his stay and they became friendly. Another of the life lessons learned on Gohere Bay.
Leaving in early May meant the school year was not finished. Mary made the rounds of teachers to collect assignments, tests and projects. Each year was a series of intense discussions with teachers and principals as to the importance of education and how the children should be allowed to complete the school year and when would they be returning in the fall because the school could not guarantee holding their spots until October like they did last year...
The Catholic church being what it is, prepaid tuition went a long way to securing spots in the following year's classes. Assignments were mailed to the school as they were completed and as long as the work was acceptable and the boys didn't fall behind, life went on.
Until one year in high school when the two older boys fell behind in their Latin studies. As Mary went about collecting school work, it was revealed the boys were quite in arrears and their teacher felt there was no way they could catch up. He was refusing to give the assignments and was firm in his belief the boys should attend summer school to complete the course work. Mary had exhausted all her usual appeals and was about to begin making arrangements for the boys to stay behind with relatives for the summer.
Willard was concerned with the expense of replacing two able-bodied guides and made one last attempt. He met with the young priest who taught the Latin class and suggested private tutoring at the Camp. The priest finally agreed on the condition that he personally oversee the lessons. There was always an extra space somewhere in camp so Willard agreed. He left with a list of assignments for the boys to complete.
As the family went about the chores of readying camp for the season by day, the evenings were filled with school work around the plank table in the main room of the Camp's largest cabin, known as the 'Chalet'. The boys worked into the night next to a roaring fire while Willard read and Mary worked on her reservation book, correspondance or played solitaire. Normally these were quiet evenings spent looking out at the mouth of Gohere Bay, dreaming of adventures to be played out over the summer. This year it was all Latin. The routine continued until June when Willard met the train in International Falls and collected the priest/Latin teacher who had left for the northwoods as soon as the last students were out of the school for the summer.
Once the chores of the day were complete and dinner cleared, dishes done, they all gathered in the chalet around the plank table. The fire roared to chase away the evening chill that still set in despite the warmth of the summer days. Father paced around the table as the boys collected their work in two neat piles, he collected the piles into one large stack of loose-leaf paper, the pages filled with hours of nervous translations, conjugations and writing exercises in the best ink scrawl the two teen boys could muster. He thumbed through the papers, making odd faces, wincing on occasion, tsk-ing at times. Finally he walked to the fireplace, turned to face the boys and dropped the entire stack into the flames. The boys nearly dove from their seats as they watched hours of work go up in smoke. Their jaws hung slack and their eyes moistened.
"That," began the young priest, "is the work you should have been doing all year." He began quizzing the boys about verbs and translations, syntax and grammar. Then he began a discussion in Latin. The boys were able to generally follow and add to the discussion. After about thirty minutes he announced, "That concludes your final exam. You have passed. Now I need to be off to bed, I expect my boat and guide will be ready at 5:30. I didn't come hear to waste all my time on your Latin lessons."
Willard loved to tell that story, especially the crest-fallen look on the boys' faces as they watched two months worth of work go into the fire. Willard would always get a serious look on his face just before he burst into his toothy grin.
The boys took turns guiding for the priest throughout his stay and they became friendly. Another of the life lessons learned on Gohere Bay.
15.10.10
Spread the Word
As I watch my visit counter, located at the bottom of the page, climb slowly upward, I am at once happy and sad. I appreciate the fact that this blog has been visited more than 325 times, but the reason I'm here is to get the word out about one of the great places on Earth. So if you have a friend or acquaintance that might enjoy learning about Gohere Bay or the people who have made a living in the 90 year history of this place or might just enjoy a little diversion and smile, forward the link. Let's get to 400.
C
C
8.10.10
Around the Table
Things change over time. I've spent quite a bit of time on this theme, and maybe this is the entire point of this blog. When the Camp was built, as soon as solid shelter was complete, the next necessity for a camp of this size was an ice house. Ice was a natural resource of sorts, renewable every winter. It allowed storage of perishable foodstuff through the summer months when the sun shone on Gohere Bay, reflecting off the sparkling waters to drive temperatures soaring in heavily wooded areas.
Ice harvesting was the work of winter when the lake froze solid. Heavy boring bits drilled patterns in the thick ice a ways off shore. Long saws tore through the ice to connect the dots and create blocks that floated free. After several blocks were floating, large tongs were clamped in the blocks and they were lifted out to a waiting sled. Once at the ice house, they were skidded into place and covered with sawdust to absorb moisture and minimize melt.
Some cabins were built with lofts above where ice was stored. This provided the byproduct of a cool dwelling in the summer months.
While refrigeration became commonplace in the rest of the world, ice houses were still common in Gohere Bay well into the 1940's. Finally, the new generator was in place and electricity would keep the freezers running enough to prevent thaw.
Thus began a re-puropsing of buildings at the Camp. The icehouse near the dock became the store and office, the office/store was remodelled to the owner's cabin with the motor house/toolshed being converted into sleeping quarter and eventually an indoor bathroom.
The space between the icehouse and the lodge building had been filled in as a kitchen to service the main dining room. The design was simple and followed Canadian Design Prinicpals. Start at the highest immovable rock and build everything else up to that level. There was a leftover space between the walls of the icehouse and the wall of the lodge building that was long and narrow. A window was placed at the far end and a team of guides fashioned a table and benches of planks. As the space was tight, the benches didn't move and once on the bench, those seated merely slid down toward the window. The log walls provided a firm, if quirky, backrest and developed a smooth finish from the constant buffing of wool, denim, oilcloth and cotton.
The Guide's table quickly became the hub of the Camp. In the morning plans and wagers were made at dinner time stories were told, all over meals prepared by the cook of the day. Nobody ever counted, but Willard often spoke of the number of languages in play at any one time. Fights at the guide's table were rare, there just wasn't any room, besides, how angry can two men stay when sharing meals of fresh fish, moose, rhubarb or meatloaf.
I think the one thing I may miss the most would be the Guide's table. I miss the quirkiness, the languages like the husky, clipped tone of Welsh, the intensity of French, the gutteral German or the sing-song lilt of Swedish and Norwegian. The last time I sat at the table late at night, gazing out the four panes of glass, I marvelled at the quiet, there in the stillness of 10:00 pm dusk, watching the mirror-like water reflect the string of yellow light bulbs, hung between the store and the manager's cabin, I knew the Camp would never be the same as it was at that moment. Then I figured, it never had been the same as that moment either.
Ice harvesting was the work of winter when the lake froze solid. Heavy boring bits drilled patterns in the thick ice a ways off shore. Long saws tore through the ice to connect the dots and create blocks that floated free. After several blocks were floating, large tongs were clamped in the blocks and they were lifted out to a waiting sled. Once at the ice house, they were skidded into place and covered with sawdust to absorb moisture and minimize melt.
Some cabins were built with lofts above where ice was stored. This provided the byproduct of a cool dwelling in the summer months.
While refrigeration became commonplace in the rest of the world, ice houses were still common in Gohere Bay well into the 1940's. Finally, the new generator was in place and electricity would keep the freezers running enough to prevent thaw.
Thus began a re-puropsing of buildings at the Camp. The icehouse near the dock became the store and office, the office/store was remodelled to the owner's cabin with the motor house/toolshed being converted into sleeping quarter and eventually an indoor bathroom.
The space between the icehouse and the lodge building had been filled in as a kitchen to service the main dining room. The design was simple and followed Canadian Design Prinicpals. Start at the highest immovable rock and build everything else up to that level. There was a leftover space between the walls of the icehouse and the wall of the lodge building that was long and narrow. A window was placed at the far end and a team of guides fashioned a table and benches of planks. As the space was tight, the benches didn't move and once on the bench, those seated merely slid down toward the window. The log walls provided a firm, if quirky, backrest and developed a smooth finish from the constant buffing of wool, denim, oilcloth and cotton.
The Guide's table quickly became the hub of the Camp. In the morning plans and wagers were made at dinner time stories were told, all over meals prepared by the cook of the day. Nobody ever counted, but Willard often spoke of the number of languages in play at any one time. Fights at the guide's table were rare, there just wasn't any room, besides, how angry can two men stay when sharing meals of fresh fish, moose, rhubarb or meatloaf.
I think the one thing I may miss the most would be the Guide's table. I miss the quirkiness, the languages like the husky, clipped tone of Welsh, the intensity of French, the gutteral German or the sing-song lilt of Swedish and Norwegian. The last time I sat at the table late at night, gazing out the four panes of glass, I marvelled at the quiet, there in the stillness of 10:00 pm dusk, watching the mirror-like water reflect the string of yellow light bulbs, hung between the store and the manager's cabin, I knew the Camp would never be the same as it was at that moment. Then I figured, it never had been the same as that moment either.
6.10.10
Anniversary Thoughts
Today, I celebrate 20 years of marriage. Annie and I were married on a lovely, warm fall day. 80 degrees and blustery. The next day it snowed.
Fearlessly, we headed to Gohere Bay, Cyclone Pointe and other settings on the Lake of the Woods. Arriving late in the afternoon, there was not enough daylight to connect the water lines and the floor heater (which was carried in my father's pickup truck, necessitating me being cramped with the luggage in the cab) would not light. So I bulit a fire, we played some 'killer solitaire' by gaslight and we headed off to bed.
I woke to an empty spot in the bed next to me. Many thoughts crossed my mind..."It's only been three days, she wouldn't leave me already...where would she go...I didn't hear the boat start..."
I was jarred back to reality by the 'thock' of the screen door slamming. Then she was standing in the doorway, down ski coat over her pajamas and sneakers with the tea kettle in her hand.
"I wanted some tea," was all she said. What a girl, she had wandered down to the shore to get water for her morning tea.
I have been on a thread about change and what better time to look back. I have what I would consider a very real view of the world. I know what happens to man-made things when nature gets hold of them. In a way, it's one of the things I appreciate most. I remember visiting abandoned cabins decomposing along shorelines or on hills buildings sturdily built to survive storms and snows.
To think of it another way, we, as people, are constantly growing and changing. Hair gets lighter and darker, tan lines come and go, we experience things and those experiences change us, often in ways we don't even realize. Yet it is that growth that, in time, makes us more than our physical attributes. More attractive in ways than younger, physically gifted folks who lack the conviction and wisdom of experience and age.
I sometimes imagine the camp covered in moss, resting peacefully, working days behind it where people tried to carve a static living in a place nature and design never intended. The place is meant to be transitory and untamed. Perhaps that's why everything is such a struggle. Some places weren't meant for all the conveniences of modern society. Those who manage to last year after year understand the challenges of nature, constantly renewing itself. Things we consider permanent only leave scars behind years later. I remember a bunkhouse on the top of the island at the Camp. When I returned years later, it was a junkpile, walls collapsed and floor heaped with garbage. Now it doesn't even show on the aerial photographs.
Everything that is now old, was once new. Every tradition was once an idea that somebody nursed, scared and nervous, before they brought it out to daylight. And, sure enough, somebody was there to give a hundred reasons it wouldn't work or was wrong or would never last. Today, the Camp could never be built, and maybe it shouldn't have been. But since 1922 or 1929 or 1932, whenever it began, it has brought people together who would never have met otherwise. Similarly, Annie and I have done a lot of crazy things together and built a few connections of our own.
Fearlessly, we headed to Gohere Bay, Cyclone Pointe and other settings on the Lake of the Woods. Arriving late in the afternoon, there was not enough daylight to connect the water lines and the floor heater (which was carried in my father's pickup truck, necessitating me being cramped with the luggage in the cab) would not light. So I bulit a fire, we played some 'killer solitaire' by gaslight and we headed off to bed.
I woke to an empty spot in the bed next to me. Many thoughts crossed my mind..."It's only been three days, she wouldn't leave me already...where would she go...I didn't hear the boat start..."
I was jarred back to reality by the 'thock' of the screen door slamming. Then she was standing in the doorway, down ski coat over her pajamas and sneakers with the tea kettle in her hand.
"I wanted some tea," was all she said. What a girl, she had wandered down to the shore to get water for her morning tea.
I have been on a thread about change and what better time to look back. I have what I would consider a very real view of the world. I know what happens to man-made things when nature gets hold of them. In a way, it's one of the things I appreciate most. I remember visiting abandoned cabins decomposing along shorelines or on hills buildings sturdily built to survive storms and snows.
To think of it another way, we, as people, are constantly growing and changing. Hair gets lighter and darker, tan lines come and go, we experience things and those experiences change us, often in ways we don't even realize. Yet it is that growth that, in time, makes us more than our physical attributes. More attractive in ways than younger, physically gifted folks who lack the conviction and wisdom of experience and age.
I sometimes imagine the camp covered in moss, resting peacefully, working days behind it where people tried to carve a static living in a place nature and design never intended. The place is meant to be transitory and untamed. Perhaps that's why everything is such a struggle. Some places weren't meant for all the conveniences of modern society. Those who manage to last year after year understand the challenges of nature, constantly renewing itself. Things we consider permanent only leave scars behind years later. I remember a bunkhouse on the top of the island at the Camp. When I returned years later, it was a junkpile, walls collapsed and floor heaped with garbage. Now it doesn't even show on the aerial photographs.
Everything that is now old, was once new. Every tradition was once an idea that somebody nursed, scared and nervous, before they brought it out to daylight. And, sure enough, somebody was there to give a hundred reasons it wouldn't work or was wrong or would never last. Today, the Camp could never be built, and maybe it shouldn't have been. But since 1922 or 1929 or 1932, whenever it began, it has brought people together who would never have met otherwise. Similarly, Annie and I have done a lot of crazy things together and built a few connections of our own.
3.10.10
Perspective, Time and the Reality of Now
I received a response to my latest post that alluded to the dangers of going home. Friends wrote to relate a discussion over breakfast about the "reality of now" versus the pleasant memories of a time gone by. The man spoke of visiting the farmhouse where his grandmother lived while he was growing up. He had memories of sights and sounds and smells of the large bustling kitchen but returning as a grown man was disappointed at the cramped room that was so different when seen from the perspective of a grown man. Similarly, he returned to grandpa's cabin after years away and was again disappointed at the change and his happy memories were dashed by the "reality of now".
For another, it was going back to Gramma's old house where "lovely red brick walls were covered in ugly vinyl siding, gorgeous old stained glass windows were replaced with energy efficient ones and big beautiful exterior wooden doors had also been replaced. The door bell had a little twist handle that one would use to ring it. This was now gone as well". While she took solace that all this was done in an effort to keep the old place alive and well, it "didn't do a damn thing for the keeping of my memories. I cried and cried"
I have experienced similar things of course. The world looks different from six feet in the air than it did when I was a kid. Most things in life change as our perspective changes, though the changes are more subtle with things we experience everyday such as businesses or Main Street. When we visit someplace where we haven't the luxury of the slow evolution over time, the shock is more palpable. My most shocking experience was a hot chocolate cup. Sitting in my grandparents house, with the blue kitchen counter, listening to WJOL news at lunchtime, I drank from a mug with an elf and a television set. When Granddad died, I took the mug from the cabinet to my own house. What I had grown up believing was a standard, and very grown up, sized coffee mug is little more than demi-tasse. The effect of thirty years of seperation.
I have been accused of sentimentality on this blog and in my historic fiction writing in general. I have a keen sense of time and place and details as well as an appreciation. But I am also acutely aware of change and evolution proceeding around us always. As Richard Bach wrote in his book, Illusions, "...if stagnation is perfection, then Heaven is a swamp". He also uses the ocean as a metaphor for beauty in change. The ocean is beautiful and one could argue it is perfect, yet it is constantly changing. Always changing, always beautiful, always perfect, just like the waters of Gohere Bay.
For another, it was going back to Gramma's old house where "lovely red brick walls were covered in ugly vinyl siding, gorgeous old stained glass windows were replaced with energy efficient ones and big beautiful exterior wooden doors had also been replaced. The door bell had a little twist handle that one would use to ring it. This was now gone as well". While she took solace that all this was done in an effort to keep the old place alive and well, it "didn't do a damn thing for the keeping of my memories. I cried and cried"
I have experienced similar things of course. The world looks different from six feet in the air than it did when I was a kid. Most things in life change as our perspective changes, though the changes are more subtle with things we experience everyday such as businesses or Main Street. When we visit someplace where we haven't the luxury of the slow evolution over time, the shock is more palpable. My most shocking experience was a hot chocolate cup. Sitting in my grandparents house, with the blue kitchen counter, listening to WJOL news at lunchtime, I drank from a mug with an elf and a television set. When Granddad died, I took the mug from the cabinet to my own house. What I had grown up believing was a standard, and very grown up, sized coffee mug is little more than demi-tasse. The effect of thirty years of seperation.
I have been accused of sentimentality on this blog and in my historic fiction writing in general. I have a keen sense of time and place and details as well as an appreciation. But I am also acutely aware of change and evolution proceeding around us always. As Richard Bach wrote in his book, Illusions, "...if stagnation is perfection, then Heaven is a swamp". He also uses the ocean as a metaphor for beauty in change. The ocean is beautiful and one could argue it is perfect, yet it is constantly changing. Always changing, always beautiful, always perfect, just like the waters of Gohere Bay.
1.10.10
Our Orchestra...
For years a sign hung next to the piano, painted on a piece of plywood in a variety of lettering style explaining "OUR ORCHESTRA IS not HERE SUNDAY, MONDAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, FRIDAY OR SATURDAY". This sign was originally commissioned for a tavern in Joliet, Il by the name of the Derby.
The Derby was owned by Char "the Irishman". He wasn't really Irish, but that doesn't affect this story. Char was a bit of a scavenger and trader by nature, having once traded some horses for a Stutz Bearcat which he then sold in a claiming race at the local fairgrounds because an automobile didn't seem practical at the moment. Char took odd jobs during the depression, and prohibition, to make ends meet such as driving the bread wagon, trading and recycling horses and whatever else a healthy man could do.
On one of his trips, an old tavern was being renovated, or perhaps razed, so poking around, he noticed the large backbar, complete with stage. He arranged to have the bar trimmings removed and transported to the Derby where they were installed with little modification. Customers were duely impressed with the gleaming hardwood, polished mirrors and etched glass light fixtures.
The Derby, however, was no place for musical entertainment, it was a neighborhood tavern where working men, police and firemen mingled with politicians and businessmen in an easy atmosphere to smoke cigars and share a drink. It began as a question and quickly progressed to a joke, what time did the band start? Regulars would make up show times for visitors passing through and spin yarns of the amazing talent that frequented the tiny tavern. But the idea of good-natured teasing depends which side of the joke you're on and some did not take kindly to waiting around for hours to hear a band that would never show.
Finally, an old buddy and painter presented Char with the sign to clarify the entertainment situation at the Derby. In lettering that gets progressively smaller the further one reads, much like a legal contract, the reality of entertainment at the Derby.
OUR ORCHESTRA IS not HERE - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday
The Derby was owned by Char "the Irishman". He wasn't really Irish, but that doesn't affect this story. Char was a bit of a scavenger and trader by nature, having once traded some horses for a Stutz Bearcat which he then sold in a claiming race at the local fairgrounds because an automobile didn't seem practical at the moment. Char took odd jobs during the depression, and prohibition, to make ends meet such as driving the bread wagon, trading and recycling horses and whatever else a healthy man could do.
On one of his trips, an old tavern was being renovated, or perhaps razed, so poking around, he noticed the large backbar, complete with stage. He arranged to have the bar trimmings removed and transported to the Derby where they were installed with little modification. Customers were duely impressed with the gleaming hardwood, polished mirrors and etched glass light fixtures.
The Derby, however, was no place for musical entertainment, it was a neighborhood tavern where working men, police and firemen mingled with politicians and businessmen in an easy atmosphere to smoke cigars and share a drink. It began as a question and quickly progressed to a joke, what time did the band start? Regulars would make up show times for visitors passing through and spin yarns of the amazing talent that frequented the tiny tavern. But the idea of good-natured teasing depends which side of the joke you're on and some did not take kindly to waiting around for hours to hear a band that would never show.
Finally, an old buddy and painter presented Char with the sign to clarify the entertainment situation at the Derby. In lettering that gets progressively smaller the further one reads, much like a legal contract, the reality of entertainment at the Derby.
OUR ORCHESTRA IS not HERE - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday
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