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| Photos by Suzanne Currie |
The Early Autumn Storms of October Always Conjure-Up Tales of Ghosts, Hobgoblins, and Bandy Legged Wee Beasties Welcome Here at Birch Hollow
By Ted Currie
A Preamble to Our Halloween Series of Posts
In the past month, which is usually a much slower and less stressful time of the rolling year, we have experienced an unanticipated boom; when all we had hoped for was the kind of modest roar that comes with a profitable season in the retail sense, on the cusp of the long winter to come.
What has happened most frequently over the past two months, is the direct result of us being one of the very few antique and collectable venues in the region, and a spin-off of this very strange and explosive real estate market. We have heard from numerous visitors about the headache they have bought into, acquiring homes and cottages that contain the possessions of those who have sold these properties. The sellers have agreed to short closings I suppose, but made it clear that in order to accommodate this, some hard to re-locate materials would be left to the discretion of the new owners. We’ve turned down a half dozen pianos and one pump organ, and many, many dining room sets and cupboards, simply because we don’t have room for furnishings; until we sell about fifty or so big items ourselves. We have been called into cottage-closings, where the existing buildings are going to be bulldozed, and that would also include the smashing-up of some really interesting cottage decor pieces. We’ve entertained a few of these, and some larger acquisitions, that as I have mentioned before, can have quite a moving experience on us, clearing out attics and basements, and toting home unspecified heirloom pieces that don’t really want to leave the premises. Haunted inanimate objects you say? Yes! And as I’ve written about frequently, there are passed-down, multi generational collectables, that were the pride of previous owners, who, from the other side, are willing to animate the articles to get their point across. Clocks that begin chiming for no reason, or start to tick-tock years after their winding mechanisms were jammed by overzealous fiddlers, and pioneer era pine cradles (we have a half dozen) that will rock occasionally in the wee hours of the night, as they had been thusly navigated to sooth a newborn in a cold log cabin. So in doing our job as antique dealers, handling the heirloom pieces in all shapes and sizes, the step beyond the tasks of the undertaker, we try our best to be respectful to all these so-called special pieces, that often have significant provenance attached. It’s around this haunting time of year, I think, that we give this matter most consideration, simply because we rather like charmed articles, whether Victorian era dolls, or family portraits, painted or photographic, and when they fuss-up and hang crooked on our walls, we just let them know we are kindred spirits in philosophy, and understand their separation anxiety from kith and kin.
This homestead is full of resident inspirations, and it serves this writer well all the live long year. But it is at Halloween that I most appreciate the spookiness that comes with the territory of being considered a crusty old antiques dealer, who may or may not also be a body snatcher working the local graveyard scene. I have always appreciated the connotations of hunting and gathering what has come to the marketplace that is our daily haunt, following the demise of a previous owner. It can be a little macabre at times, and yes, we have had many mourning memorabilia, from wreaths to death-photographs, showing the deceased in a variety of strange poses, including sitting in a rocking chair to greet grieving family members. We might actually have come to own the same rocking chair, and yes, that can be a little weird especially if we can prove this image belonged to this particular household chair. It happened more than you might think, that the deceased were positioned as if “living” instead of being positioned on a bed or in a coffin for a memorial service. We actually own one of these “death” beds that was used by the former minister of the Alhambra Church in Toronto. The bed was in the manse and for those without the financial resources, the bed and room were dedicated to these low budget viewings. We had to own this bed when it came up at an estate sale locally. It’s not haunted at all. Drat.
This short Halloween series was inspired by life here at Birch Hollow; a most intriguing place that is never boring or predictable beyond the function of a warm, and rain-proof dwelling place. It is what warms the cockles of my heart you might say, and I very much enjoy writing from this small office that looks out over the wetland we call The Bog, that is a pretty haunted place as well at this time of the year.
In my vast archives of old and dear tales of the paranormal, Birch Hollow has always been a most endearing and accommodating modern-day homestead. It is full of historical items, and a large collection of the this-and-thats of antiquity, from rare books dating back to the 1600’s, to the traditional art work of other centuries, to more contemporary pieces that tease the imagination of curious voyeurs who come for a visit. We have many storied pieces that come with an interesting provenance, and quite a few other relics that belonged to our parents and grandparents that constantly evoke warm memories of once upon a time, when we were young. We have had many paranormal encounters here, but all of them have been fully appreciated and friendly, in the same sense that Casper the ghost only ever participated in mild, calorie reduced hauntings. My old book-hunter colleague, David Brown used to sleep in our downstairs archives, where we had a comfortable couch, and after I wrote his biography, shortly after his death, I asked my teacher-friend, if he was pleased with the content of the book soon to be sent to press? After a short while, and following my filing away the hard copy pages in a brief case, headed the next day to the printer, I felt the huge hand of my buddy on my left shoulder; with a distinctive pat, as he used to do every time we met, here at Birch Hollow, or at our former shop on the Main Street of Bracebridge. I understood what Dave was expressing from the great beyond. “Send it to press Ted,” or as we used to say in the newspaper business, at the end of a busy press day, “Put it to bed.” That meant the prepared flats were going to be transported to the printing plant in preparation for the next day’s edition.
We’ve had numerous other historical types reside in our house during visits to the region, and one American chum, Charlie Wilson, a former newspaper reporter south of the border, regaled me for hours on end about our mutual interest in the Civil War. Charlie was one of my best friends in history, and I learned a lot from the scholar, who never really thought of himself as an accomplished antiquarian. When I heard that Charlie had passed away long before he could attain the great gift of retirement, as he had planned, it was with no shame on my part that I talked directly to him, on the so called “other side,” and warned him that I would still need to consult with him long into the future; if of course, I planned to stay in this profession; needing his advice on a regular basis, because I had so much trust in his judgements and overviews. Hugh Macmillan, one of Canada’s storied national and provincial archivists, of the freelance ilk, was another trusted friend in the history business, and he spent some time here, also regaling the novice historian with his incredible tales of acquisitions involving some of the most important files in Canada’s past. When he passed away, and the calls ceased, (as you would expect of such a dire situation as death) I felt totally abandoned at a time when I was just starting to figure the whole history thing out. It’s a lot more complicated and demanding than it seems from the outside looking in. I missed all of their regular phone calls, which were frequent and always memorable. Dave Brown insisted I hand over the phone one evening, demanding to talk to Suzanne. This wasn’t particularly unusual because we were all pretty close back then, but what was strange, was that he told her he was going to die in the very near future; and that she should be the one to tell me, not him. I never talked to Dave again, but I did get closer to him when I commenced his biography, and I suppose, he helped somewhat from his heavenly roost, keeping me from either revealing too much or too little, such that the book wouldn’t be successful when put up for sale. I only have several of my own copies left. It did well, and we were both pretty happy about its success.
I often sit here at the groaning board, being our old pioneer harvest table, watching out over The Bog on stormy October nights, watching the wind tossing about, the maples and oaks of the southern-most woodland bordering the hollow of the wetland directly across from Birch Hollow. I must confess to allowing all the history, all the curiosities, the antiquities, the old art and new, and so many titles composed by so many talented artists, from Robbie Burns, Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, C.S. Lewis, and my favorite, Kenneth Grahame, of Wind in the Willows fame. I do feel the subtle but delicious hauntings that have long companioned our family, here at Birch Hollow, never once frightening the inmates, but always arriving as a pointed sensory perception, when we are at our most questioning, and voyeuristic, looking out as the landscape is pushed and shoved by the chill winds, washing heavily up from the lake, having come from the expanse of Georgian Bay. The candle and lamp lights flicker in the drafts of the older house, and it’s as if each of these antiquarians of which I was so fondly familiar, were sitting in the chairs around this same pine table, keeping up the traditions that we began so many years ago; when I had no embarrassment admitting I was the keen student, and they were my mentors in all things historical and archival. Even these many years since their respective passings, I still have the occasion, on these lonely vigils, with one hand typically warming on a coffee mug, the other hand resting on the table, with fingers outstretched on the keyboard of my ancient Underwood manual, ready at any moment to imprint an observation about why the October windstorms, above all others, seems so qualified to conjure up these cherished hauntings, that without a single word spoken between the partners, seen and unseen, generate such creative enterprise, and untold ambitions, to remember the good old days when we shared the best interests of what I know of Canadiana, and yes, a little Americana from my chum, Charlie Wilson.
I will remain late into the evening, holding fort here at this table, best known for its accommodation of Birch Hollow dinners, and before the vigil is over for the night, I will have consumed much hot beverage, considerable Mozart and Bach, and studied thoroughly all the curiosities situated within my line of vision, and take one casual glance over the typewritten page that still remains in the typewriter carriage, and trust that in the morning, when my rest has been restored, that my socializing with the guest spirits will have helped create something worthwhile, that I might happily share with you, via the Birch Hollow Antique Press.
The stories that are upcoming for the balance of this most interesting and alluring month of October, from here in South Muskoka, were written and inspired by all the spirited enthusiasm that flourishes here at Birch Hollow, often from sources unknown but suspected; I will always be grateful of our communing traditions and the sharing of stories that will hopefully never end; even if I become one of the spirits sitting around the table.
Beginning on Friday in our pre Halloween feature with a clear Muskoka theme we will introduce you to the work of a Gravenhurst artist who has for the first time in regional history depicted a creature of our long lost folk lore for contemporary celebration. It will be courtesy the sketches of our artist friend Sarah Cole.
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