Land for the Establishment of the Ufford Methodist Church and Cemetery Grounds Were Donated by Suzanne's Great Great Uncle John Lily Shea

Birch Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

      It is an undeniably peaceful sojourn, undisturbed, to quietly, and I dare say, thoughtfully stand on the little rise of land, amongst the scenic rolling hills of the Ufford farmland, in this hauntingly beautiful portion of historic Watt Township, in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. It is, in terms of family provenance, the hallowed ground of a pioneer cemetery, that once fell within the comfortably cool shade of the former Methodist Church, that once stood on this spot where Suzanne and I now stand. Silently admiring the vast acreage that once made up some of her family's property holdings, dating from as far back as the 1860's, when there were only a few log shanties visible against the surrounding vastness of forest that was yet to be cleared for those eventual farmsteads; that would create land for crops, and clear hillsides for livestock. What hardships were in store for those courageous settlers, many having come to Canada from the industrial calamity known of the cities in Europe, where forests were thin, and life for the destitute, had been more doggedly urban than pleasantly rural. Hardships being of a city character, where poverty often proved fatal, and where opportunities for self improvement were practically non-existent. But the adventure crossing the ocean, as dangerous as that proved to be, was comparatively minor, when the stakes were clearly understood, what it would take for this poorly conditioned humanity, to survive against what was often a brutally cruel environment to reclaim, even in modest proportion, from the hardy embrace of Canadian forest.

     John Lily Shea, Suzanne's great great uncle, was one of those pioneer forces to reckon with, as was the Shea family in entirety, often recognized in the history books, as part of the "Three Mile Lake Wolves,"... for their hardy enthusiasm at work and recreation, who generously donated this small hillside acreage, in the late 1800's, from his personal land holdings, so the community could have a place to worship. The Methodist Church would one day become the United Church; and to some folks, it seemed a shame the small but charming little building was prematurely torn down, due to a dwindling of its congregation. Standing here, at this moment, a chilled July wind is sweeping down over these misty rolling hills, wavering the tall field grasses, and permeating the most alluring aroma of wide open spaces, sweet grasses, and scents common in old woodlands, that still ring the pastures; the wildflowers of the day bobbing and weaving in this natural quilting of a pleasing present tense....yet mixed with the comforting gentleness of a calmer version of the heritage that was witnessed here. The realities of severe summer storms that pounded over this lakeland in years past, destroying acres of crops and damaging the modest abodes that stood on these hillside, affording a view of Three Mile Lake, and the shallow meadows with snaking fences defining homesteads that kept livestock from harm's way. There is that haunting wash of wind rushing through the border evergreens, singing softly in the weave of grasses, blustering down and through those thriving home gardens, and whispering hollow, within the full dark canopy of hardwoods, that will provide a most generous art work in the harvest season, when the leaves turn color.

     It isn't known as it should be, beyond what is the textbook history we recall slightly from our school days, that these same hill and valley acres, were occupied by a hugely vulnerable population of generally ill prepared homesteaders; who had not been properly informed by land agents upon arrival in Canada, that their chances of survival, let alone being able to prosper as pioneer farmers, would be stacked in favor of the environment. In Muskoka, they were to find, and experience, an inhospitable environment. A thin layer of soil only inches upon rock, making it difficult to grow a hardy crop of just about anything. The growing season was short as well, and early and late frosts were striking realities of agricultural hardship. It was why many homestead men had to leave their kin alone in these rustic and inadequate shanties, for employment in lumber camps around the region, so they could make money to bring home in the spring, to help purchase seeds for a new hope-infused planting and additional livestock. It is also true that the federal and provincial governments knew that Muskoka was a high risk for homesteader failure, because of the physical and environmental deficiencies; and the formidable obstacles of thick bush to clear, stumps to remove from fields being prepared for cultivation, rocks to clear, ponds and creeks to bridge in order to improve accessibility. It was believed by government authorities, and land agents, that if the Muskoka settlers could survive those first few brutal winters, and the four seasons of hot, cold, drought, deluge,  and windstorm, building those bridges, and habitations, then the experiment of settlement would be considered a success. Why was this important? Well, there was a lot of lesser quality agricultural land to the north and west, in Ontario, and the success in Muskoka, would be the signal that it was then, and thusly appropriate to open up new acreages, for an even larger emigration of hale and hardy pioneers to swing their axes, and make their furrows in whatever quality of thin soil coated over the Canadian shield.

     I have long been fascinated with the pioneer period in Muskoka, because of this so called land experiment, where so many ill prepared emigrants found out too late, that they had been sold a stake in the colony that wasn't good for much; at the time, it was too late and expensive to abandon their gambled futures. They were left in many cases, with no more than a large treed, and rock strewn acreage to live upon, and the high jeopardy opportunity to farm to the best of their capability; but as far as prosperity in this new land, it would take a lot longer than a decade of brutally hard work, to make this thin soil produce enough of a harvest to eke out even basic survival. If it hadn't been for their toughness, and willingness to learn survival skills quickly, in the actuality of brutally early winters, and short springs, the names on the gravestones, in these most often bypassed pioneer cemeteries, would not correspond to the families duly noted in the history books. Like Suzanne's family, being of the Sheas and the Veitches, from those earliest pioneer days, their names are amongst those etched on these weather-worn markers in familiar clusters....showing that they were amongst those who were determined to turn adversity into advantage, and make their homestead acreages thrive as family compounds, no matter what the human cost of the struggle.

     The wind at this moment, blustering down across this historic scene, is deliciously haunting in its most profound harmony, that is as symphonic as it is spiritual; this being our own respectful tribute, Suzanne and I have come to rekindle family history, at the foot of these moss covered pioneer headstones. The very monuments raised for settlers we have often read about; coming, on our own terms of immersion, to understand their pioneering determination to make good on the promise to kith and kin in the old country,.... that they would be able to make good on the promise to live contently and prosperously in this adventure of homesteading.

    I can imagine the unsettling rattle, and the slapping whip of wind, on an afternoon just like this one now, the harshly drifting air currents, brushing hard against the logs of the pioneer shanty,....ripping through the openings between the logs, knocking about the pots and pans hanging from the walls, and wavering the firelight coming from within the hearth,.... as an iron kettle sings with steam in the dankness of the modest shelter, holding tight to the hillside as the tall plants of the border garden vigorously caress the exterior logs,..... and silhouette in the sudden brightness of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover of an approaching thunder storm. It is a lonely place today, but there is something remarkably inspirational about the panorama witnessed from this old churchyard, and although it is a faint infusion of historical rhetoric, the voyeur can hear the old horse drawn carts, and scuffling of the plows behind the teams in the field beyond; and the shallow, distant voices, and cajoling of once, the citizenry, long since passed, still echoing in this enhanced summer breeze, as the influence of a photographic negative that as yet, possesses its rare stake in the past. It is the chronicle we understand as folk historians, that the past is never really lost if one believes in ghosts. For us, these are acutely compelling scenes of what we know of former homestead acreages, tucked so quaintly within the what is recalled of the pioneer village of Ufford; as it was, and still is, to the sentimental observer, in this most scenic, windswept township, in Muskoka Lakes.  

     Suzanne and I ponder all the sumptuous folklore and folk tales that were inspired by these pioneer encampments, in this once isolated locale in the early settlement years in the District of Muskoka. We have some information about those social / cultural enrichments that we would like to share in future posts, because we believe it is a failure of local history, to not include all the curious embellishments and superstitions, normal and paranormal, that flourished in these homestead settings in the stories told and retold for generations in these same pockets of habitation we see today being caressed by the fall and rise of the tall grasses that waver across the landscape as a sort of chronicle poetry about old meeting new, and the resolve of the ages to keep these important tales of "once upon a time," honored, as this cemetery here, in the old churchyard, the band of border trees, dignify the long deceased buried in these few plots; who were the story spinners of their day, the folklorists who added color to the black and whites of history as it is often left unfulfilled. Please join us for some homestead chronicles in our upcoming posts.