Cemeteries Are Not Haunted by The Deceased But By The Living - Serendipity on the Other Hand, is Very Much a Going Concern on This Hallowed Ground

Birch. Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

     First of all, to set the record straight before we once again look at what is haunted, and what isn't, I should clarify that I am not a ghost hunter. I am not a ghost buster. I am not a ghost voyeur, and I would never ever pay to go on a ghost walk with an author of such persuasion, who gets paid to sell folks on the idea a spirit will pop-out and do a little soft shoe performance, before turning back into a vapor and existing stage left. I generally only ever report on what I've experienced first hand, and what are notes in the history books about what our citizens have witnessed in decades past, that may or may not qualify as a paranormal anything. But I do subscribe to the theory that the mortal spirit crosses over to the so called "other side," after death, and that from this ethereal retreat, they can communicate in a variety of ways with those they have left behind; meaning us mortals fulfilling our destinies. I do follow the work of Medium John Edward, and his "Crossing Over" collection of books on psychic phenomenon, where those who have crossed do actively communicate with the living, through any number of signs and situations, some of course coming through Edward himself for those people being read. And no, I have not been "read" myself, and frankly I have no reason to seek this out, because honestly, and I mean this, I've been getting messages presumably from the great beyond since I was a kid. I don't believe for a minute that I'm particularly psychic and I don't really want to be a conduit for other people's messages from the other side. I've got enough voices in my head already, not to invite any more. I would most definitely love to speak with John Edward because I have some meaty questions about stuff like visible ghosts, and does he believe in them; and if those who have crossed over can manifest in some visible fashion to get their messages out to the land of the living. I've tried to contact him with my psychic energy but it's obvious I might have to land-line, or snail-mail him, as my spiritual conduit leaks like a sieve.

     As I wrote about earlier in this series of posts, just over a year ago I was introduced to several books by genealogist Henry Z. Jones, author of "Psychic Roots," volume one and two, profiling how his work on his own family history, and the overlap with others he discovered amidst in-depth and on-site research in Germany and United States, that serendipity was rearing up regularly that was seriously but helpfully influencing where he looked for information, whether in municipal registries or in cemeteries all over God's half acre you might say. He became so interested in the serendipity influence, meaning he was getting leads and basically heaven-sent dreamscapes, regarding his elusive kin, that he not only benefitted this way on the record, but asked others in genealogical pursuits if they had experienced similar out-of-the blue assistance that could not be easily dismissed or explained. He put it out there, asking for others to validate his experiences, by stating their own curious dances with serendipity, and there were so many responses to the positive, that he had enough copy for a second volume. Most from people who testified to the strange coincidences that put them, without knowing where their ancestors were buried, right at the foot of the actual tombstones; not having a clue what made them take a right turn down a row, versus a left, or taking a little stumble on uneven ground, and looking to one side or another, and catching a glance of the family name the subject of the search. Fascinating stuff, and so much of it paralleling what Suzanne and I have been benefitting from for decades; Suzanne being a full fledged family historian and attesting to many curious serendipitous situations with her research material, that suddenly reveal something that bridge an information gap that had previously proven a dead end to ongoing research. As both Henry Jones' books make clear reference, the ethereal aspects of serendipity are acts of spiritual generosity, that have helped thousands of family historians find long lost, and even unknown kin, by intervening in the strangest, but non-ghost way. So, here's my question. If you don't believe in ghosts, would you take help from a serendipitous circumstance that was clearly "weird" and unexpected, if it gives you the information you were looking for to fill out the family tree. Sort of like the mother of the young lad who thought he was a chicken. And when a family friend suggested she should take the boy to see a therapist about his fixation, she replied, "I would but we need the eggs." I think many of us, who are sensitive to such things as life after death, and being open to the possibilities of getting messages from the other side, have experienced such fleeting contact and do appreciate that we don't need to see a ghost, to be able to wax in the paranormal realm, one spirit to another.

     A few years ago now, Suzanne and I decided to embark on a little heritage survey of our own making, that we would share with others via a prepared text with photographs. Graveyards. Cemeteries. Public, Church and Private. Some even set at the side of the travelled road where a homestead once stood, and death came calling. And it had a lot to do with death and final resting places, but not anything paranormal. Unless, like the serendipity of which I have already referred, something led us to discover an important lead in our own family research; or as is common with me, a few morsels of information from these memorials markers, to add details to any community history I happened to be working on at the time. I am no stranger to cemetery walks, but never once have I attended one of our beautiful final-resting-places, to hold vigil in order to catch a wayward ghost trying to exist the property. I have heard these stories from others, but for them, I should note, there encounters were not expected, and they really didn't suspect that the human form they saw trying to step over the border fence wasn't really human at all; and the apparitions would vanish eventually into the atmosphere of nightfall. They were unsettled but not frightened, because the scenes that unfolded were not macabre, horror-filled or threatening. The image of a woman in a long white gown trying to clear the wire of a fallen fence at the rear of a small graveyard, was a more peaceful and historic image than a Hollywood spine chiller.

     When we travelled around for those four months, visiting at least two cemeteries a day, just to pay homage to the folks who had contributed to building the Muskoka we celebrate today, there was never one visit, that we weren't introduced to some element of what Henry Jones was writing about in his Psychic Roots books. But these weren't our family members reaching out, but rather, they were grave sites of citizens and good friends that we had known well in their lives, crossing over in so many ways with our own, and indeed our family members dating back decades. The strangest one was when, in the St. Thomas Anglican Church Cemetery, in Bracebridge, I was walking by myself along the well travelled laneway around the site, pondering quietly to myself where Fred and Mary Bamford's memorial stone was located. I had found it about ten years previous when Suzanne and I had reason to visit one Sunday. I was in almost the same circumstance, and distance from the gravestone, when I started thinking about Bamford's Store up on Bracebridge's Toronto Street when I was a kid, circa the late 1960's and early 70's. Fred and Mary owned Woodley Motor Park and general store, and our family lived in the Weber Apartments, on Alice Street, directly behind. I played almost every day in what we called Bamford's Woods, and my mother Merle used to work part time as a clerk in the tiny-wee store. I used to marvel at Fred and the wildlife of his little parkette, and many times I watched in awe as he held numerous birds at once on his arm, with seed in his open palm, and a squirrel or chipmunk at the same time on his shoulder, or even on his head. I was reminded of this while I was walking down this cemetery lane, still unable to find the name Bamford etched on any of the stones. Then I watched as this huge and beautifully attired Blue Jay came fluttering just over my head, landing on a tombstone about two rows to the west of where I was standing. I was curious about the Jay and went to get a closer look. There it was. Roosting on Fred and Mary's grave marker. I thought, well, this is ironic to what I remember of Fred in real time, real life. And maybe you can guess this, of my second visit, to the same cemetery, once again, looking for my old friends' stone. And there was a similarly large and stunningly appointed Blue Jay perched in almost the same place as I remembered of my previous visit. I had to get a closer look to make sure it wasn't a ceramic ornament someone had since attached to the stone. It was real, and it stared me down, as if it was indeed giving me a message from the other side. "Hello Teddy." Short and sweet, and that was Fred's way of keeping conversations uncomplicated but sincere.

     A year ago, and just as strange as ever around here, we got an out-of-the-blue message from a member of the Bamford family in the United States, who had read a post I had written about Fred and Mary many years back; and as circumstance had it, and this time, a family member was bed-ridden and some reminiscences had been bandied about with those at bedside, and my story they had known about previously, became the topic of discussion. They wondered if I had any more stories about Fred and Mary, and well, I just happened to have a book I had written about my childhood on Alice Street, and a few other ditties I wrote out by hand; and I mailed it to them as a wee show of the affection I had for these two fine folks who were important to our own family. I was carrying the wrapped book down to the car, so that Suzanne could take it to the post office for shipping, when, half way down the driveway, another beautiful Blue Jay fluttered overhead, and settled on an overhanging maple bow just above my head. Serendipity at its finest, and in respect to the situation, I once again gave a heartfelt "good morning Mr. Bamford," as I had offered so many times when we both lived on that scenic piece of urban open space in my old hometown. I like fiction but I am not a fiction writer. This happened, and what's a voyeur writer to do but bring it home, and make of it what is relevant to the time and circumstances. Look up Henry Z. Jones books online, and you can get copies by searching the old book dealers belonging to the "Advance Book Exchange," or "ABE". You will never disbelieve in serendipity as a family history research aid again.
More on graveyard visits in upcoming posts.