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| Photos by Suzanne Currie |
A Home in the Semi Wild “Urban” Muskoka Woods at Christmas
A Preamble to Today’s Post
The Christmas tome published below was written back in December 2016 as part of my annual tradition to pay homage to the festive season and to all the fine folks I’ve known from then to now who have made living in Muskoka such a longterm joy….not to mention, an ongoing adventure each and every day.
I have had a distinct advantage over most people who call Muskoka home, and even those who can boast that their families have been in this district since pioneer times. I appreciate the connection but none the less, not so many of these Muskokans have delved into the regions history as Suzanne and I have for quite a few decades. First of all, it was my interest as a fledgling historian back in the late 1970’s. I had a recently inked degree in Canadian history, and a genuine interest to return to Bracebridge and the clime of South Muskoka, to put it to work. I did that in the first year back home, by initiating the Bracebridge Historical Society, and commencing organizational work to conserve what was known locally as “the Bird House,” which is official known as “Woodchester Villa and Museum,” situated on the hill overlooking the former woolen mill operated by estate founder Henry Bird. The octagonal home is a treasure and with a lot of help from Bracebridge citizens and organizations, and the town council itself, the museum came to fruition in the early 1980’s. Suzanne and I would eventually operate the museum as operating managers, and although short-lived because of financial issues and a lack of government assistance, we had an incredibly interesting association that we both will never forget. The museum has been revamped in recent years and used now as a cultural centre. Point is, we lived and breathed history, not just of the 1880’s house, but of local and regional history, because that’s what we needed to know to properly curate the museum and conduct special events and school tours. Ever since, we’ve both been heavily immersed in local history and it’s compelled us to consume a huge amount of written accounts of the district’s early years, leading into the early 1900’s, and of course, our more contemporary history leading up to the present. We are pleasantly imbedded in this Muskoka history, and it is at this festive time of the rolling year, that we always find reason to talk about our days managing Woodchester Villa, which, when dolled-up for the Christmas season, was a truly magnificent heritage building in the wider provincial sense of historic sites. It would take us about a week to decorate the site, with only a few other volunteers to haul in freshly cut evergreen boughs, and boxes of hard to find vintage decorations; and specially made popcorn strings for the tree in the parlor, and bags of oranges, cloves, and cinnamon, to make Victorian era pomanders which made the house smell incredible. Then there was the old apple press that gave us enough juice to create a few gallons of apple cider to simmer aromatically on the night of the open house; which usually was about a week from Christmas. It was a haunted house for sure, and we have many stories about Woodchester and the spirits that dwelled there, or at least during our tenure. Yet the hauntings weren’t particularly unsettling. Intrusive, yes. But nothing that would have had us flee the building in fright. It always seemed to me that these roaming spirits were more interested in the seasonal fare we were restoring to the estate, almost as if they approved of the additions to the already established decor that had been recreated by the first museum volunteers back in the late 1970’s to suit the late Victorian furnishings and household adornments.
I often used to settle into Henry Bird Sr.’s office, on the main floor of the house, that afforded a nicely framed view of his woolen mill buildings. He could have watched his employees taking unscheduled breaks outside the building, and he could certainly appreciate the comings and goings at the complex of warehouse buildings, including the arrival of deliveries, and the outgoing carts of finished product; famous Bird’s blankets. I won’t deny feeling a little bit like Ebeneezer Scrooge in that little office, and it was in the spirit of Dickens Christmases that the volunteers had established with added decoration upon his desk and library shelves. I loved it there, and it suited Christmas particularly well.
Of all the periods and future-changing events of international history, I could have obsessed about as a rookie historian, and researched ceaselessly over a lifetime, I have instead satisfied myself for all these years, with the magnification of the early settlement decades in local history. Roughly being the years 1859 to 1870.
I know there are contemporaries of mine, who find this preoccupation with the pioneer period of Muskoka, a grand waste of time. It's all been done, they argue, and the most exciting periods of our history involve the hotel building era of the tourism industry; including the arrival of the Navigation Company investment, to open up the potential of the wider Muskoka Lakes. I don't disagree with them, but I just don't find the tourism industry all that interesting, and I would argue it has written about to excess, quelling my appetite early-on, to know more about either steamships or Muskoka's hotels, from the so-called golden era. It's enough for me to understand the period, and seeing as I'm very seldom ever asked to explain the period myself, and if I was, I'd simply direct them to the thorough collection of books and articles already written on the subject, and archived in the Muskoka collections of local libraries. The pioneer period to me, is the dawn of our local social/ cultural folk heritage, and this aspect has been grossly under-studied and very much under-profiled. This shortfall in study has been a wide-open door for a fellow like me, who has a desire to know more about our folk heritage.
I want to know the human side of this period, not just the milestone events, and the number of acres cleared in a given year; or what their crop output was as a modestly significant farming community. I want to know what it was like to sit in front of the groaning board feeling the warmth of the fireplace, and drink in all the pioneer atmosphere. It's where I really want to start this Christmas in Muskoka series, because I feel we don't know or care as we should, how it all began for our region of Ontario, in the late 1850's, when this was one vast hilly land of forest, rock, water and bog. The hardship associated with settling here was nothing shy of monstrous, and many poorly prepared settlers, having just emigrated from Europe, either gave up the quest and returned to their homelands, perished due to starvation and illness, or survived in those porous log shanties where snow drifted through the cracks onto the bedsteads, and froze the water in the basins by sunrise. The cozy interiors where firelight bounced off the open ceilings and the green timbers cracked and snapped in the heat, as they settled down into the frame of the cabin. I want to hear, as these settlers did, the groaning old wind sculpting the snow across farm pastures and washing through the tall stand of white pines of the ridge, reading a book by the light of the oil lamp on the harvest table. The musty aroma comes from the wet clothing drying on a rack near the fire, mixed with the pleasant scent of a stew made-up mostly of turnip and potatoes. To me you see, it was the ultimate Muskoka experience. The immersion in the wilds of this beautiful region, without the luxuries to the point of extravagance, the tourists would have a few years down the proverbial and actual "newly cleared road".
Here is a story from my archives about the pioneer period in our region, and what it took to survive the hardships, looking ahead to the potential of a prosperous harvest one day soon.
CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY
The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)
A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.
At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.
I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.
I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.
One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.
On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.
It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.
It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.
I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.
Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.
The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.
I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.
When I write in this column series, that I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like, well, it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.
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