The Coming of The Lovelys To The Village of Ufford, Watt Township and Meeting Their New Neighbour, William Shea

 

THE COMING OF THE LOVELYS TO THE VILLAGE OF UFFORD, WATT TOWNSHIP

HOMESTEADERS HELPING EACH OTHER IN THE ISOLATION OF THE MUSKOKA WILDERNESS

     The story Suzanne’s uncle, Bert Shea, recorded in his history of the Village of Ufford, and the Shea family of Watt Township, in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, is one of my most recalled folk tales. Even before I became related to the Shea family, by marrying Suzanne, kin of both Sheas and Veitches in this area of Muskoka, I was using this story for feature material in The Herald-Gazette and Muskoka Sun where I was a staff writer. When we hitched up, boy oh boy, did I ever inherit a wealth of family history relevant to pioneer settlement in Muskoka. I love my wife, but I do very much love the fact that an outsider from the big city, was able to imbed in local history so profoundly and be happily married at the same time. Let me explain.

     The story of the Shea family and neighbor settler Pat Lovely, is an exceptionally poignant editorial piece, because it illustrates clearly how adversity, and religious differences, were put aside in the wilds of a sparsely occupied frontier, as every homesteader was known to need compassionate assistance to make a go of clearing the land, and establishing a small initial farm. What is not adequately documented, is that many settlers failed at this employment, and there are hundreds if not thousands of unmarked graves where they were laid to rest without benefit of either a proper funeral or the grace of a bit of hallowed ground in which to reside in death. In those early years there was a great deal of suffering, and there was limited medical assistance, and because of the isolation, many died before they could be reached, and transported. There was a case where an elderly woman, left on the homestead alone, had injured her eye while cutting firewood, and had lived in agony for more than a week with a shard of wood protruding from her eye socket. By time even the neighbors came around, to see if she was okay, she had only a short time to live, the result of internal bleeding and infection. Many died of drowning in a region known for its many swamps, creeks, rivers, waterfalls, and lakes, and often times, the deceased was either never found, or buried, as in the case of the spring logging drives, at the side of the very rapids that took the lumberman’s life. It was a hard and dangerous life being an early homesteader to this region. The Shea family arrived in Watt Township in January of 1863, four years before Confederation, and at a time, when there were only narrow pathways through the heavy forests, up rocky hillsides, and down precarious hillsides, to simple log bridges over cataracts that some of the old-timers could claim, in its undertow, could strip log of its bark in ten minutes of being submerged. So when it comes to survival and family values in the pioneer chronicle, it is entirely uplifting to recall the story of how the Shea family reacted to the “Coming of the Lovelys” to the adjacent homestead in this spartan settlement so far away from their native Ireland; where Catholics and Protestants, the “Green” and the “Orange,” weren’t quite so civil to one another, as happened on that evening in Watt Township, where a handshake set about a future co-operation in a most sincere show of neighborliness and compassion. And when Suzanne and I, today, see, and feel the new realities, of the city moving northward into our region, we at first wish that it could be in that same spirit of co-operation and welcome. It’s a reality we hope will become a positive attribute for the future of our region; but just like the Lovelys weren’t sure what they were going to be met with, at that first meeting with the Sheas, the effort has to be made to be inclusive in this new age of development and urban expansion that is profoundly changing the landscape as we have never experienced in such a short period of time; and that goes back to those years of the early 1860’s when progress meant a new log cabin, a corduroy road through the bush, two logs with linking boards over waterways, and small prosperous gardens growing on newly cleared land. I hope you enjoy this story as told by Bert Shea about another time, and another circumstance, but equally, a credit to the spirit of cooperation that existed and flourished between the two families from that point.

 

"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrating to Canada, and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to the County of York, where he traded twelve pairs of men's handmade boots for the one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railroad Station, who from there, having heard the call of free grant land in Muskoka, with his young wife and family of small children, joined in the great move northward; their destination Watt Township and the Three Mile Lake settlement of Ufford," penned Bert Shea, about the coming of this hopeful, enterprising young family.

"Journeying by rail as far as the Iron ran, then on foot, carrying their belongings, stopping somewhere within the boundary of Muskoka for a night's lodging. And in conversing with others, someone inquired where his destination lay, to which Pat answered, Watt Township. 'Ah,' says his friend, 'I would advise you to stay away from there: in that Three Mile Lake settlement, they are a bunch of savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place in known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. And Ufford is the centre of it. On your way in you will come over Bogart's Hill and before you is the place known as the Devil's Den, and the next big hill you look down is Smalley's Hill, and that is the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. They will poison your cattle, they will burn you out. You will never get along; you are Irish Roman Catholic and they are all Orangemen."

"A blast like this to a man on his way to a new home, among strangers, a law-abiding citizen and a young family, was a terrible dampener to his inspirations. Pat stood silent and motionless for a short time in deep thought. Then turning around facing the direction of his journey, in a low voice and Irish accent say he, 'I'm going anyway.' Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skidded across the sky, borne on the northwest wind. Darkness creeping down as he travelled over Bogart's Hill and through the Devil's Den. And over Smalley's Hill into the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves, to the centre of the valley. And wending in the darkness up the brush trail to his little shanty on the hillside of Lot 15, Con.4, the naked limbs clashed in the wind overhead, low whirling blasts swirled the dead leaves around, the little shanty door creaked, as he swung it open to admit the good wife and children. In the dim light of the little lantern, he started a fire on the hearth, that brought light and cheer. This was their home."

Bert Shea records that, "It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of the wind or the night, moaning of the trees and the clashing of the gads. And above all, the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts or feelings that may have reigned in the heart and mind of Pat Lovely; prayers were said and all was left in the keeping of the Good Saint and the little family slept, as only they of clean conscience and weary from their travel. The morning broke. Pat and the good woman were astir, the children's voices were heard and little feet pattered about the shanty. Then suddenly from the cover of thick bush walked a tall black whiskered man. He walked directly to the cabin door. Pat met him at the step, and an Irishman whose face bore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to within arm's length of Pat, and stopped looking the Irishman in the eyes, extending his hand saying, 'I'm Bill Shea; I believe you are Pat Lovely.' 'It's Pat Lovely I am,' says he, as he slowly accepted the outstretched hand as a female voice from within the shanty proclaimed, 'May the Gods in mercy give us peace'."

The historian, Mr. Shea, writes, "What else was said, we do not know, but from that day on, the Lovely's and Sheas were the best of friends. This friendship extended from neighbors to neighbors, till Pat became the Irish seasoning in a mixed community. But as time went on, he became regarded by some in a very serious way. As one who possessed certain powers that were mysterious, which he could use in different ways. One most talked of, especially by the young people who declared to be true, that Pat had the power to put himself in a 45 gallon oak barrel with both ends closed, the only opening being the two inch bung out of which he would talk to them. (He could throw his voice). Pat was a good neighbor and had good neighbors, but sometimes neighborly good nature will wear threadbare. In this particular case, Wm. Kay had a very fine black boar that was hard to keep in his pen; a log enclosure and when free, took a particular liking to the flavor of Pat Lovely's potatoes. Pat continued to fix the fence and chase the boar out till at last his potato crop was going to be ruined. This, to an Irishman, was sufficient reason and justification for retaliatory actions; so he openly pronounced a curse on Kay's pigs for a duration of twenty years. The writer is not adding to or taking away, when he related that it was acknowledged by Wm. Kay that he had trouble raising pigs for some years. After the pronouncement of Pat's curse, and not until the elapse of the years of its duration did he enjoy the measure of satisfaction that eventually became his in later years. The following account is a true happening and known throughout the neighborhood. Though years have passed since its time, the writer has often heard the aged of the community relate this marvelous affair."

He writes, of the near tragic mishap, that "A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had gotten seriously cut and was bleeding to death. The bed was soaked with blood. All efforts to save the boy seemed to be a failure; he could not last much longer. The father walked out of the house, leaving the mother and the boy alone, as he stood there before the door, the thought came to him. He immediately called the younger son, a boy of perhaps nine years old, saying 'Go over and tell Pat to come over quick, your brother is bleeding to death.' The young man fleet as the wind, lost no time on the run and delivered the message. As the father of the bleeding boy stood on the door yard waiting to see Pat's sturdy body coming hurriedly over the fields. But not so; he appeared from the door of his own house. Before the door, he stood looking over to this troubled neighbor for a short time, in whose interval the mother of the bleeding boy rushed out the door to the father saying the blood has stopped. The writer heard the father, when an old man, declare the truth of the whole affair, saying, 'Pat didn't need to come over. He could stop the blood from where he was, and the boy got better. Pat, as others, gave his time and energy to the rolling back of the frontier, and bringing in an era of development to the community. He built the first frame house in the Three Mile Lake settlement. The writer would question, the thought; at that date it could be the first frame house in the township, as at that date there was a sawmill at Lot 8, Con. 4, to cut the lumber. This house was lath and plastered, the lath having been made by hand. The man who did the plastering and carpentry, his name has passed from the memory of the writer. And at this date there are some remaining to ask, but this home has since been remodeled and is in a state of good repair."

This is a good story of tolerance….. most of the time, except for the black boar incident. A story of the Green and the Orange living side by side in a new country, and actually getting along. Is it possible that Pat Lovely had such power of prayer, that he could stop a child's bleeding? It's a folk tale. It's just one of thousands, a majority of these remarkable stories having been lost over the centuries. It is thanks to family historians like Bert Shea, who have saved this important tale, for enjoyment by a modern, new century audience.

Thanks for joining me today, for this historical blog. There are so many wonderful regional and family histories, contained in the respective Muskoka Collections, of our district libraries. Go and have a look for yourself. Today when we travel frequently, looking for antiques and collectibles, in virtually every nook and cranny in this district, we appreciate the ghost towns and forgotten hamlets, the less travelled crossroads and country lanes, as being the habitations and former caraways that opened up this region to settlement. We are reverent of all the things that have come before us……we are but voyeurs upon the work of so many others. Knowing the history of this region, as antique hunters, has always given us a big advantage over our competitors, especially when dealing with long-time citizens, who wish to share their memories of important heirloom pieces they wish to sell……many items tied in to those earlier days on the Muskoka frontier. We love to talk history.