CHARLIE SMITH

Charlie Smith paddling the Museum's pointer boat.

Writer, poet, storyteller, municipal politician, farmer, hunter, father, grandfather, rabble rouser
Born in 1948 in Blind River, Ontario

From Spooky Sudbury: True Tales of the Eerie & Unexplained by Mark Leslie and Jenny Jelen

"Charlie Smith lives in a haunted farmhouse in Massey...[and] was born in Blind River in 1948 and, the son of an ex-marine father, moved with his family regularly during his childhood.  As a result, he attended seven different public schools, a challeng in enough circumstance for a child. But, as an additional hardship, Smith was also diagnosed with dyslexia. Professionals told Smith's mother that he would never learn to read or write.

He became a renowned writer, poet, and storyteller who has captivated audiences, for years. He certainly showed them!"

From Amazon.com: "A cross between Robert Service's tall tales, Grey Owl's attention to nature, Ian Tyson's cowboy poetry, and Fred Eaglesmith's acerbic wit, Charlie's poetry is as authentic as the land he farms northeast of Massey Ontario.

Charlie Smith Reads follows Charlie's two successful YSP collections of poetry: The Beast that God Has Kissed: Songs from the Birch Lake Road (2000), and Through Three Long Miles of Night: More Songs from the Birch Lake Road (2003), as well as his YSP collection of 17 storiesTag Alder Tales (2005). The resonant lyric/narrative voice so evident in the earlier volumes manifests itself richly in this audio CD of his best poems."

Charlie wrote this poem for the Massey Area Museum:
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SUMMONINGby Charlie Smith

Was the log jam slippery when you went on?
What did it feel like to know you were gone?
Did they pray when they found you and sing you a song
A sad chantey for a young logger

Look here, we have; peavey, cant hook and axe
Corks for your shoes – (that should lure you back),
If not, maybe gesture, we'll gather the tack
You are welcome here at our museum

Come out of the river and see what we wrought
All of the good things your money has bought
Collected up here so the youth could be taught
Tools, toys, furniture, fancies

Trade for the furs, plows for the fields
Scythes, sickles, cradles to harvest the yield
And the doctor's grim things to make sure you healed
Of course it's too late for your helping

Wander around in our pristine new halls
See all your history hung up on our walls
Isn't that better than trapped in the falls
That still bears your name on the river

Aren't you sort of attached to the things that are here
All of the knick-knacks your mother held dear
Come on in, son, you have nothing to fear
We will cherish you at the museum.

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