November 30, 1916 Pulling Strings

November 30, 1916

It was another gray day today. The temperature got into the high forties and the snow that came last week all melted away. Nothing is left now. I went to the grocer on Yonge St. to pick up some potatoes, beans and some tinned meat. It’s the second time I’ve been there since I’ve been back. The first time shopping was no problem because the clerks thought I was someone passing through. But they never forget a face – I felt that this morning. I knew they were looking at me trying to figure out who I was and what were my circumstances. Mostly it’s women that shop there, or the servants from the estates. I didn’t fit either, so their curiosity was piqued, and I could feel the eyes on me. There’s another grocer along Bloor – I’ll go there next time.

Dr MacCallum came to visit in the afternoon. He brought a copy of Canadian Magazine, and with a self-satisfied smile, he remarked, “You have to see it to believe it, Tom. Have a look after page 176!” I opened it up, and to my surprise, the painting I had exhibited at the C.N.E was there.

“Tom, I pulled a few strings to have your painting published.” I mumbled something of gratitude. I appreciate what Dr. MacCallum has done for me, it’s difficult right now, but I didn’t like that feeling of obligation that I am sure he was expecting of me. Dr. MacCallum had recently become the President of the Arts & Letters Club and I am sure I was the first and easiest target for his newfound patronage of the arts. I had obliged myself less, by giving up my spot in the Studio and moving into the Shack. Lawren paid for material for the repairs, but I helped out making them.

“Tom, where is the sketch?” Dr MacCallum was referring to the sketch I made the canvas from. I pulled it out from one of the piles. I painted it in Park late August last summer – the leaves were showing a hint of colour, I remember. It was hot, it was the Harvest Moon, for anyone outside of the Park. I have memories of the Harvest Moon, when I was growing up in Owen Sound and when I went for work on the Harvest Excursion out West in Winnipeg. Dr. MacCallum pulled out his billfold and gave me $17. I gave him the sketch. He took it without saying thanks because he knew I disliked doing these transactions with my art. But I needed the money. I showed him what I was planning to paint. I hadn’t decided the overall scene yet, but I had a good idea of what I was going to bring in from my sketches. I had the four sketches laid out, showing the logs, the hill, the boats and the figures of men I was going to paint. I didn’t need a sketch of the skies, because the skies in the Park were forever burned into my mind’s eye.

 

November 29, 1916 Unbearable Gray

November 29, 1916

I’ve been back for two weeks now. It’s been a haze for me and I’m just getting out of it now. The city is an unbearable colour of gray. The fall colours, if there were any to begin with, are now are gone. It’s gray upon gray upon soot-black.

It’s now time to work on my canvases. Painting a canvas is different than a sketch. A sketch is spontaneous – you never know what you are going to paint when you are out there, it starts from the outside, but a canvas begins in your head. When preparing a canvas I get the butterflies in my stomach, like getting ready for a stage performance.

In the morning, I helped Jim MacDonald move some of his heavier stuff from the top to the studio Jackson and I had on the ground floor. He’s in ill health, and going up the stairs makes him winded and dizzy so he decided to move down. I know he’s having a tough time of it up in Thornhill. To help with the costs, Lismer and his family moved in with them, but they’ve gone on to Halifax. Jim’s wife Joan, doesn’t like it in Thornhill and wants to move back to be closer to church.

In the afternoon, I stretched some  canvases and looked through my sketches trying to decide what to paint. I have some good ones from the log run down the Petawawa in late September. The colours were turning in the hills, making a nice balance with the logs in the water. I may try some ideas from Seurat – instead of mixing the colours on the palette, I’ll keep them separate when I paint and let the mind mix them into the right colours.

I wrote letters to my brothers George and Fraser.

 

November 28, 1916 Letter to Father

Tuesday, Nov 28, 1916

c/o Studio Building, 25 Severn Toronto

Dear Father,

I made it back to Toronto a couple of weeks ago. Sorry I did not write you sooner but the business of getting settled back here in the City kept me from writing any letters. A letter from George was here for me when I arrived. I haven’t had a chance to write back to him yet. He wants me to come visit him in New Haven, CT. I’m not sure if I can, if I do, it will be after Christmas.

I had a good run fire-ranging in the eastern section of the Park. Mostly around Achray. I made it to Pembroke and Bonnechere and Paugh Lake close to Barry’s Bay. I got some mason jars in Barry’s bay and while we were laid over I made blueberry preserves. The season was good this year and they were plentiful. I shipped them down to Toronto and I will bring a jar up with me.

Am sorry also I didn’t make it to Owen Sound on my way. The connections are bad from the Park and I needed to get back with my sketches. I was thinking about going to Collingwood/Meaford and taking a stage across but it was too expensive and walking not possible because I had too much with me. I’ll be up at Christmas, most likely a few days before and will stay for New Year’s. I plan to stay for a few days in town but also at Tom and Elizabeth’s in Annan. Please say hello to them. If you see the Rosses or Rutherfords, please give my regards to them too.

My plan is to paint here for the winter. I made quite a few good sketches this past summer and fall and had a quite a load coming back to Toronto. The past week I’ve been getting the place together so I can start on the canvases. Dr MacCallum is letting me stay here in the shack behind for a cheap rate. Not quite like the Chat. Laurier, but with a good fire going you’d be hard pressed to find the difference.

Please give my love to Mother and Auntie and tell them I will be up at Christmas. I’m looking forward to a fine time.

I am your affectionate son,

Tom

 

November 27, 1917 New Book, New Journal Entry

November 27, 1916

New book, first journal entry.

I picked up the book up at the art shop where I get supplies. I like the cover. I was going to use it for sketching, but when I opened it and saw it had lined paper, I got the idea of writing a journal. I bought the book anyway.

I’m not much for writing so I can’t promise that I’ll be making this a regular item. I’ll try my best. I enjoying writing letters, but I never write about what I truly think because I don’t know who’s going to read them.  My letters have been read by others, especially at Mowat Lodge, where it’s a recreational pastime for the nosey women.  I’m sure Annie Fraser has read all of my letters. But I am going to take care that this journal is private so I can record my thoughts. Sketches and paintings are good for expression, but there are secrets and hidden feelings within that will never be revealed unless I write about them. That’s the reason for the journal.

I’m settled in the shack now. I’ve been back the better part of two weeks.  After my time was done in Achray and Basin Depot, I went to Canoe Lake, South River (Tom Wattie) and back to Canoe Lake. Coming to Toronto, I stopped over in Huntsville at the Trainors. The connection to Owen Sound is poor so I didn’t visit my mother and father. I came straight back to Toronto. I’ll see them at Christmas.

I brought with me over a hundred sketches. I sent about sixty, early in the summer, before I went fire-ranging. I still had a few at Mowat Lodge – that’s why I went back. Though I sent a shipment down earlier I still had a good two dozen at the Lodge. When I returned, I set the sketches out to dry a bit more. They might seem dry but they stick together if they’re bundled for a long time. I had to tie them together for the train and I took them apart as soon as I got here. Only two were badly wrecked. I can probably fix them but I doubt I will be selling them so it’s not worth the trouble.

I have to start working on canvases. Dr MacCallum came by and had a look at what I had done over the season. He suggested a couple for canvases. I haven’t decided which ones to paint yet, but I am pleased with the sketches I made near Grand Lake and on the Petawawa. Dr MacCallum said he sold seven of my sketches over the summer and put the money in my account. I should have enough to tide me over the winter.

Gloomy here in Toronto. I’ll be glad to leave again in the spring, early in the spring, I hope. I plan to keep to myself as I don’t like what’s going on in the City for the War effort. There’s a new folks in the Studio Building. Jim MacDonald and Bill Beatty are still there. So is Curtis Williamson. There’s some ladies too, Dr. MacCallum told me, but I haven’t met them yet.  As my mail is addressed to the Studio Building, I’ll be dropping by most days, so I’m sure to bump into them.

I can’t promise how much and when I will write. I can paint like a storm but writing’s another thing. I can take inspiration from the boys at the Front who are writing endless streams of letters back home.  I’ve seen how the girls and wives hang onto these letters, slipping them into their purses and pockets for safekeeping, I’ve seen letters where there are sketches and pictures, but it’s the pencil-written words of  “I love you, Mum or Sweetheart” that have the most power. Maybe this journal will have that power too, but I’m not sure to whom. Maybe it’s just for me and I will just keep it that way.

First major snowstorm. Almost a foot of heavy snow. A tree came down took the electrical and telephone lines out for all of Rosedale. Winter’s justice for the rich. I only have the one bulb, so it didn’t make much difference to me. I’ve kept my lantern

Tomorrow is stretching canvas.

November 25, 1916 Song from an Unknown Logger

November 25, 1916

I learned this song from a logger I met on the Mississippi log drive. You can sign it to most melodies.

It’s fifteen a month and found
Bring your own tea
The shanty’s set high and sound,
Blankets is free.

Toad moss burns good in a pipe,
New bunks ain’t sour,
The salt pork don’t come too ripe;
We got clean flour.

You got bad hurt, you come in
We treat you fine.
We got white cloths in a tin
Some iodine.

You look like real good stayers
Born to do it;
The company’s good payers,
No worry to it.

From here Brule landing
The rampikes climb
We leave no pine top standing
Come break-up time.

November 10, 1916 Last Supper at Mowat Lodge

November 10, 1916

It’s my last evening at Mowat Lodge. Tomorrow, I plan to take the early morning train. I’ll stop in Huntsville, if the Trainors will have me, I’ll stay, or make my way back to Toronto.

Today I worked hard for Shannon. I helped him get things in order for winter. George Rowe and Lowrie Dickson helped out too. Sawing and stacking wood for the winter mostly. We moved the canoes into the storage shed and pulled one of the docks out of the water. We left the other dock – it was too far gone – the winter freeze-up will put it out of its misery.  We had to clear out the creosote from the chimneys. It builds up during the summer and you need to clear it out before the winter. It’s a dirty job but George was up to it.

Since it was my last night at the lodge, Annie made a nice supper for us all. Since I’m the only guest left at the lodge, I feel more like family. Shannon, Annie, their daughter Mildred, Shannon’s mother, Old Mrs. Fraser, and me. Shannon was feeling gracious, so he invited George Rowe and Lowrie Dickson, so it was the seven of us together in the kitchen. With three kerosene lights at full blaze and with the heat of the cook stove, it was cosy and bright – it was the cosiest and brightest place to be on Canoe Lake that evening and for a moment I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. But it would end tomorrow as I made my way toward the cold electric lights of the city and the grey film of smoke that smothered everything outside.

As is his usual manner, George kept us up to date with all of the rumours running along the rails. With so many grain cars going through the Park, grain was being siphoned off to feed the moonshine stills. Grain cars left on sidings overnight would mysteriously lose their cargo. The chief part of the mystery was how much grain could be spirited off into the bush without a trace.

The train derailments were happening with an alarming regularity. The rumours were that the saboteurs (along with the moonshiners, I reckoned) were hard at work disrupting a vital lifeline to the War. Early in the spring, 15 cars accordioned themselves into Joe Lake, almost taking with them a Pullman passenger full of troops. It took two days to pull the cars out and since the Hotel Algonquin was not yet open for the season, Shannon got the business of lodging for two nights. And Annie did what she does best – feed an army. George said the derailments were the insidious work of the Ottawa Road Master, of German descent. The railway sacked him after the Joe Lake incident. In my own mind, the saboteurs had easy work – they just had to sit back and watch the line fall into disrepair on its own. Later in the summer, there was another terrible accident. A double-header derailed and the engines fell on top of each other in a mud pond. Five people were killed – an engineer, a brakeman, and three firemen. There was a runaway train, eastbound from Rainy Lake. The engineer and brakemen gave chase with a handcar, and the stationmaster signalled ahead for the westbound trains to stop and pull off onto sidings. The runaway train eventually ran out of steam before it reached Canoe Lake.

The train comes through tomorrow at 8:15 in the morning. Shannon promised to bring me up to the station in the wagon. We stored the hearse earlier in the week and got out the sled runners for the wagon. When there’s decent snow on the ground, Shannon will get George or Lowrie to help him switch the wheels with the runners.

It’s getting late. I’m sitting by the fireplace in the dining room. My gear is packed and by the door. My sketches are tied up and bundled in burlap. Over a hundred I counted. I didn’t paint much when I was fire-ranging in the summer, but after I got fired, I painted two or three sketches each day for a month in the eastern end of the Park on the Petawawa with Ed Godin.

Time to call it a night. I plan to stop in Huntsville for a day or two and then make my way back to Toronto.

 

 

November 9, 1916 Letter to Winnie Trainor

Mowat Lodge                      Algonquin Park
~~~ Best Trout Fishing in Park ~~~
~~~ Only 8 hours by Train from Toronto. 6 hours from Ottawa ~~~
~~~ Telegram: Canoe Lake ~~~

Nov 9, 1916

Dear Winnie,

I’m here at the Frasers and plan to leave on the Sat. morning train back to Toronto. I can stop over to see you in Huntsville if your parents will have me. I’ll bring some cranberries that I got in Achray.

Sorry for not writing this summer. The fire-ranging in the dry weather took all our time. We fought a number of small fires, thankfully no big one like the one in Matheson.

I can come by the store around noon. If it is okay with your parents, I’ll stay on, but if not I can catch the next train to Toronto. I checked your cottage. Everything is ok. A skunk tried to get in underneath for the winter but Lowrie and I got him out and closed the hole back up.

Affectionately,

Tom