To recapitulate, my first diary was begun at the end of 1963 when I received the little green, plastic- bound tome from my sister for a Christmas gift while I was at St. Andrew's College. The last time I ever wrote another journal or diary entry was on February 6, 1994:
I resigned from LACAC (Local Architectural Conservation Authority Committee) last week. I regret getting out of the organization in one way (because I enjoyed being involved with it), but I think that I had fulfilled all that I had been asked to do, and that I had set out to do; viz., establish a constitution, create a policy and procedure manual, and generally computerize the records. At this stage of LACAC's development, it is quite possible that the two municipalities (Almonte and Ramsay) will go their separate ways, if not in fact, then at least in spirit. It provided me with a springboard for the decision.
The other thing that is preoccupying me is the book which I am writing about Mississippi Lodge No. 147. Generally, I am reviewing the historical minutes (about 160 years), which is tedious in some respects, but I am attempting to extract the fodder for some good stories and some interesting historical observations. As far as I know, it is the first attempt at such a recount by anyone. While I do not have some of the depth of personal knowledge that some of the older members of the Lodge have, I do at least have the interest in pursuing the enquiry, and blending some of my local historical knowledge with some of my intuition about what was going on behind the scenes. February 6, 1994.
With that statement, my days of keeping a journal ended. There follows nothing but a large collection of blank paper in my leather covered three-ring binder, a somewhat odd appearance, looking as though someone had dropped dead in the middle of a speech or some studious undertaking. On the contrary, I had become absorbed in the matter of writing, and I was using my examination of the Masonic minutes of meetings as my playground. I had begun the Masonic book in the early part of 1994, and it continued until the summer of 1997, when I was able to have the book published by the General Store Publishing Company in Burnstown near Calabogie.
For many years before I began this book, I had cultivated the wish to produce a book such as the one I am now writing, though I had never felt comfortable with the exact style to be adopted. Whether through inexperience or shyness or lack of wisdom, or a bit of all of that, I could somehow never bring myself to see the utility of writing a book about my personal experiences. Yet, after completing the Masonic Lodge history, I had clearly been bitten by the desire to write. Writing for me is much like my piano playing in that I have not a great deal of theoretical training. Yet notwithstanding this somewhat untutored approach to the art, I can at least say that I speak from the heart in either medium. This confession is not by way of apology, but rather by way of explanation. At one point, before in fact I had even begun work on the Lodge history, I had played with the idea of writing an historical account of the life of one of our local citizens, John H. Kerry, who is among the longest-standing businessmen in Town. But John, true to his modest nature, turned me down flatly. Nonetheless, I can still see that, through John's eyes, there would have been a great story to tell, and it would undoubtedly have captured a considerable breadth and depth of the history of our Town.
I resigned from LACAC (Local Architectural Conservation Authority Committee) last week. I regret getting out of the organization in one way (because I enjoyed being involved with it), but I think that I had fulfilled all that I had been asked to do, and that I had set out to do; viz., establish a constitution, create a policy and procedure manual, and generally computerize the records. At this stage of LACAC's development, it is quite possible that the two municipalities (Almonte and Ramsay) will go their separate ways, if not in fact, then at least in spirit. It provided me with a springboard for the decision.
The other thing that is preoccupying me is the book which I am writing about Mississippi Lodge No. 147. Generally, I am reviewing the historical minutes (about 160 years), which is tedious in some respects, but I am attempting to extract the fodder for some good stories and some interesting historical observations. As far as I know, it is the first attempt at such a recount by anyone. While I do not have some of the depth of personal knowledge that some of the older members of the Lodge have, I do at least have the interest in pursuing the enquiry, and blending some of my local historical knowledge with some of my intuition about what was going on behind the scenes. February 6, 1994.
With that statement, my days of keeping a journal ended. There follows nothing but a large collection of blank paper in my leather covered three-ring binder, a somewhat odd appearance, looking as though someone had dropped dead in the middle of a speech or some studious undertaking. On the contrary, I had become absorbed in the matter of writing, and I was using my examination of the Masonic minutes of meetings as my playground. I had begun the Masonic book in the early part of 1994, and it continued until the summer of 1997, when I was able to have the book published by the General Store Publishing Company in Burnstown near Calabogie.
For many years before I began this book, I had cultivated the wish to produce a book such as the one I am now writing, though I had never felt comfortable with the exact style to be adopted. Whether through inexperience or shyness or lack of wisdom, or a bit of all of that, I could somehow never bring myself to see the utility of writing a book about my personal experiences. Yet, after completing the Masonic Lodge history, I had clearly been bitten by the desire to write. Writing for me is much like my piano playing in that I have not a great deal of theoretical training. Yet notwithstanding this somewhat untutored approach to the art, I can at least say that I speak from the heart in either medium. This confession is not by way of apology, but rather by way of explanation. At one point, before in fact I had even begun work on the Lodge history, I had played with the idea of writing an historical account of the life of one of our local citizens, John H. Kerry, who is among the longest-standing businessmen in Town. But John, true to his modest nature, turned me down flatly. Nonetheless, I can still see that, through John's eyes, there would have been a great story to tell, and it would undoubtedly have captured a considerable breadth and depth of the history of our Town.
As it is, I have no present ideas about what, if anything, I shall write in the future. The diaries, like my stint on LACAC, have fulfilled their purpose. To attempt to revitalize the corpse of their being would be useless. In fact, I have piled them on top of one another in relative chronological order, and packed them in the back corner of the closest in my study, and I frankly doubt that I shall ever open any one of them again. To me, they are now as tedious and the Lodge minutes were after I had finished that history. But it is equally apparent to me that writing has for me become a hobby, and I do not intend to abandon it as a relaxing and entertaining undertaking.
This book has been about taking the time to stop to examine what has gone on in the past. The significance of the diaries cannot be underestimated. For example, since I stopped writing them in 1994, it is as though nothing has happened in my life except what I have written (the Lodge history) and the obvious associations I have with those who are dearest to me at this moment. But frankly, I have little recollection about those favoured anecdotal tales that no doubt have transpired, but which I now have the greatest difficulty recollecting. Such is the value of the written word, no matter how poorly it may be related. It is always a record, a spark that reminds us things long forgotten. But diaries, like everything else, must end. And at that point, even a book of some one hundred pages or more, becomes little more than a tiny window onto the past, reminding us of our own insignificance in the scheme of things. A lifetime reduced to but a scrap of paper!
This book has been about taking the time to stop to examine what has gone on in the past. The significance of the diaries cannot be underestimated. For example, since I stopped writing them in 1994, it is as though nothing has happened in my life except what I have written (the Lodge history) and the obvious associations I have with those who are dearest to me at this moment. But frankly, I have little recollection about those favoured anecdotal tales that no doubt have transpired, but which I now have the greatest difficulty recollecting. Such is the value of the written word, no matter how poorly it may be related. It is always a record, a spark that reminds us things long forgotten. But diaries, like everything else, must end. And at that point, even a book of some one hundred pages or more, becomes little more than a tiny window onto the past, reminding us of our own insignificance in the scheme of things. A lifetime reduced to but a scrap of paper!
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