The Oaken Snuggery Part 25

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY. - PART 25

BY TED CURRIE

     “There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament, who had kept two vigils (at the parish church in England), and began to excite some talk in the village, when fortunately for the public comfort, he died shortly after his third watching; very probably from a cold that he had taken, as the night was tempestuous. It was reported about the village, however, that he had seen his own phantom pass by him into the church (on St. Mark’s Eve). This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally strange, and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly confined to Wales. It is respecting what are called corpse candles, little wandering fires, of a pale bluish light that move about like tapers in the open air, and are supposed to designate the way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanylar, late at night, hovering up and down, along the bank of Istwith, and was watched by the neighbors until they were tired, and went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely country lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt on the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the stream at the very place where the light had been first seen, but was dissuaded on account of the height of the flood. She walked to and fro along the bank, just where the candle had moved, waiting for the subsiding of the water. She at length endeavored to cross, buy the poor girl was drowned in the attempt. There was something mournful in this little anecdote of rural superstition, that seemed to affect all the listeners.” (Washington Irving, “Bracebridge Hall,” 1822)

     Before breakfast this morning, a cool start to what otherwise appears a sparkling spring day in late April, I sat in a corner chair in the Oaken Snuggery’s main room, staring at the watercolor painting of the old farmhouse, circa the 1930’s to 40’s, unsigned, but said to have been painted by a neighbor at the time, in the now ghost hamlet of Rose Hill. The brownish hue of paint and paper makes the image, with its visible damaged paper, look much older and more storied than its relatively minor heritage displayed itself to the artist’s eye. It was a plain, period style, utility farmhouse with drive shed and was set nicely onto the hilly well treed landscape. It wasn’t grandiose by any stretch, and although it appeared as if more suited to the 1850’s, it was in contrast, constructed early in the 1900’s after the death of Queen Victoria. It was to be a family home and it met the requirements adequately, until the originating family decided to sell it off a few years ago, as part of an estate settlement. The Bosevelt’s couldn’t believe their good fortune, as they had been looking for some time for a perfect location to establish a Bed and Breakfast operation, as part of their retirement interests, to be minor inn-keepers on a budget. A great many improvements and upgrades were initiated, and most completed by time The Oaken Snuggery was opened, just over a year ago, and some of the first visitors after the renovations were former family members who had deep roots in the acreage here, and of course many of the curious neighbors feeling quite upbeat about the new attraction in the community still shy of qualifying even as a hamlet. All had agreed, heartily in fact, that the Bosevelts had done a superb job keeping the old farmstead in operation after all these years, when most critics had assumed the plan was a money-pit, considering how much it was going to cost to upgrade the house to Bed and Breakfast standards; including of course added rooms to increase capacity especially during the all important summer months when there were many more guests looking for short-term accommodation. Just as many had thought the most sensible course of action, was to haul down the existing buildings on the property and start fresh with a new foundation and a modern structure that would easily meet all the fire code regulations. Admittedly this was one of the big problems and expenses for the Bosevelt’s who admit to having been quite naive about what all these fundamental improvements were going to cost, long before re-furnishing the house to satisfy patrons was given much thought, or any allocation of funds. They handled one issue at a time, and tried as much as possible to avoid having a confluence of crisis situations to sort out, and thus, it can be said they handled the whole project sensibly and efficiently from the moment they began tearing down some interior walls, and removing the old wood siding on the outside, including having all the windows and doors replaced, all of course, in keeping with the original integrity of the 1900’s farmhouse. It would be cliched to say that it had all been a labour of love, but when I talk with the Bosevelt’s about the Bed and Breakfast operation, it’s obvious they feel all the work, expense and aggravation of restoring the house was worth the due diligence they employed, and the guests seem pleased by the results, departing with many kind remarks about the comfort and historic ambience of the old but largely new farmhouse.

     The painting has an imbedded melancholy and aura of seriousness, as it relates to the history of old farms in this part of the province, having always been a struggle to achieve a prosperous economy, with the short growing season, the thin soil over rock, and the long and heavy winters that imposed greatly on the families to compromise standards, and be particularly frugal with all resources available to them. It’s not the kind of image that I would use on a greeting card, for one thing, and it was not the illustration the Bosevelt’s chose to advertise their Bed and Breakfast in the media. It wasn’t the kind of bright and cheerfully appointed art piece, that made one feel compelled to know more about it, and then, wish to visit and stay for a holiday weekend. In more ways than one the painting looks as if the house and the property is haunted. I can’t really explain why I feel this way, but obviously the Bosevelts thought somewhat the same, or it would have been used in their media presentations, and on the corner of their stationary. Instead they have a number of color photographs framed and mounted on the wall in the Great Room, several showing the stages of the restoration, which is quite interesting for guests, who I’ve seen standing up close to the images, to see the details of the work it took to re-establish the farmhouse as a going concern in the contemporary hospitality business. The painting in a rather obscure location, isn’t given much profile in the room and with lighting, such that it is probably considered by visitors as a wall decoration more than an historic artifact of the original farm house and the family who dwelled here for well more than a century before changing ownership. But at this present time, when the Bosevelts are having a little problem with a number of uninvited paranormal entities, hanging around the Snuggery, and in some cases disturbing the peace and quiet of the lodgers here, I suppose making a big deal about an old time depiction of the former farmhouse, appearing rather mysterious and potentially haunted, isn’t the best plan for marketing a Bed and Breakfast. It’s why I was asked to visit and stay at the inn for the month of April, to research the earthbound spirits that may, for some reason or another, have a petition to make against the Bosevelts, for altering their “old haunt,” in a fashion they are vehemently in opposition. I am working here mostly as a reporter / writer, and mildly so as an amateur ghost sleuth, which I have been pursuing as a pastime for about forty years. For the provision of a few meals and a roof over my head, for the month of April, it was my belief from the onset, that I could not only identify the unsettled, with-grievances ghosts, find a resolution to end the impasse, the haunting, and if unable to dispatch them to the great beyond, at least offer my hosts a solution on how to handle the occupied homestead more peacefully than what had occurred as startling circumstances in the past year. In short, I’d write them a story about the haunting, and as a compromise if that’s the best I can offer, a small published booklet to inform future guests to The Oaken Snuggery, that the cast of spirits holding court includes these interesting characters from a bygone era of this rural Muskoka property. It wouldn’t be the first Bed and Breakfast or country inn to attempt a business relationship with those entities that chose to haunt the main premises. At the Snuggery, the ghosts of two young sisters, we believe, are even haunting the property as well as the farmhouse, making it quite romantic and nostalgic for the writer, but still a tad unsettling for the proprietors who would rather have two fewer lodgers day to day, than they presently house. They’re not really in favor of the ghost-hugging idea, which admittedly was a half bail-out on my part, early in this project, when it became apparent the ghost-kind were far more savvy than I was a spiritual detective, and that a conclusion down the road was most likely going to involve compromise more than the staging of an exorcism to end the occupation of the Oaken Snuggery.

     Looking at the painting once more, while sipping the last dregs from the cup, I do feel there is a way of changing the spiritual reality around here, and making the presentation of this old watercolor of the original farmhouse more appealing to the incoming guests. To me the art work needed a better presentation than to be obscured by location, and denied proper illumination, either by the light coming through the large windows in the same room in which in hangs, or by the electric lighting that now seems to cast more of a shadow than brightness, adding to the sombre mood of the antique image. I felt the same about the spirits hanging around here, including the two girls somehow connected to this property’s heritage, although as of yet undetermined. It was all a matter of illumination but it wasn’t only about lighting. It was a matter of how acceptance of the image, and yes, the ghosts, could be enhanced by some other illuminating detail, and this would fall upon the writer / historian to change perceptions. Oh, please excuse me. Mrs. Bosevelt has just now set down a yellow ceramic bowl of freshly made bran muffins and a block of real butter, and I’m starving. I will soon return to this journal, as well, into the perspective needed, to carry on this project to a pleasing outcome. Maybe that’s possible, maybe it’s not. It depends on the disposition of a couple of prank-playing waifs who seem to be enjoying the mayhem they’re causing at The Oaken Snuggery. Time will tell, I suppose, who wins this battle of wits, between the mortal and immortal of Rose Hill, Ontario.

     I conclude today’s offering with another passage from Washington Irving, writing about rural superstitions. “I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into various evening circles; they were often commenced in jest, and listened to with smiles; but I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if the conversation continued for any length of time, completely and solemnly interested in it. There is, I believe, a degree of superstition lurking in every mind; and I doubt if any one can thoroughly examine all his secret notions and impulses without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, in fact, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals acting independently of our reason. It is often found existing in lofty natures, especially those that are poetical and aspiring. A great and extraordinary poet of our day, whose life and writings evince a mind subject to powerful exaltation, is said to believe in omens and secret intimations. Caesar, it is well known, was greatly under the influence of such belief, and Napoleon had his good and evil days, and his presiding star. As for the Parson, I have no doubt that he is strongly inclined to superstition.” Is it so wrong then to believe in the existence, on particularly haunted occasions like this, ghosts, hobgoblins and bandy legged wee beasties? I think not!

The Oaken Snuggery Part 24

Photo by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 24

BY TED CURRIE

     I often, these days, wake up suddenly from what I believe was a deep sleep, feeling as one might, having just experienced something startling, or at the very least, unsettling. It has been happening to me for many years, and it’s one reason that I make every mortal attempt to refrain from anything more than a cat-nap during the daytime, just in case I invite one of these minor nightmares into my psyche. I don’t like them at night either, but I can go back to sleep fairly soon afterwards, Suzanne re-assuring me that boogeymen aren’t living under the bed, and there are no ghosts hovering over the bedstead waiting to fill my head with malevolent thoughts.

     One such dream that inspired immediate panic, upon waking, occurred at a house we owned on Golden Beach Road, when the boys were very young. It was the house where Suzanne met the wee ghost child we named “Herbie,” who had appeared to her both times, on the other side of our kitchen counter which divided the open concept main room of the bungalow. The account of this was published quite a few years ago in Barbara Smith’s “Ghost Stories of Ontario.” We had many strange episodes at the house, including what the doctor referred to as son Andrew’s three-nights-out-of-seven “night terrors,” which we found out later, may have been caused by “Herbie” looking through the bedroom window. Andrew explained to us that Peter Pan was looking in the window, and wanted him to go off to Neverland as he had watched in the movie we used to watch with Mary Martin as “Pan.” He stuck with the story and we decided to move his bed into another room across the hall, to partner with his younger brother Robert. The night terrors ceased immediately.

     The dream I was alluding to, previously, occurred one summer evening, at around 7 p.m. I had been reading the boys a story in bed, shortly after dinner, just to calm them down a bit before we let them watch a movie. As was typical of their father, I fell asleep reading the book to them, and they took off to play. I would only do this when Suzanne was in the vicinity, so no harm was done taking a wee nap. I don’t believe that I had been asleep for any more than fifteen minutes, according to the clock at bedside, when I heard a most horrific crash of metal somewhere beyond the front yard that our window faced. Across the road was a lowland bordering Lake Muskoka. It sounded as if there had been a traffic accident, and when I couldn’t find either of our lads, my heart was pounding out of my chest. I sprang to my feet at the side of the bed, and raced to the window to see what had just happened. Playing in the driveway were Andrew and Robert, with our dog Alf in the middle, and Suzanne standing just off to the right, or their left as it was at that moment. After feeling great relief, I asked Suzanne what had caused the crashing noise outside, and she looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I haven’t heard a crash and I’ve been standing here for the past ten minutes.” What I did know from my dream, is that a child was hit by a car while riding a bike. Once I composed myself, I was able to recall the brief and violent nightmare, and it did involve a fatality, just not at that moment in time. In conversation around the neighborhood after this, we did find out that a youngster had been killed by a motorist, while riding his bike, at around the place where I thought the crash had occurred just by the distancing of the impact sound. It was a disturbing and vivid dream but now I think it was an historic re-enactment of the psychic kind, as inspired by Herbie, who may have been the victim of that long ago accident. Was Herbie just trying to find his family and instead found us occupying his residence? I will never forget that dream, and Andrew has never forgotten about the nights Peter Pan used to look in his window; Suzanne never forgetting the little boy with blond hair who used to visit her while she worked in the kitchen. 

     Suzanne, my unfaltering research assistant, and wife of course, phoned me earlier this evening, to let me know she had found out some interesting information about this area of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes dating back to the period of the Free Land Grants for emigrant farmers.  And she was able to identify some of the settlement families that had chosen this upper region of what is still considered South Muskoka, although the most northerly portion. She was also able to find an unrelated historical account, written as a matter of some irony by her uncle, Bert Shea, in his well known chronicle of family times in the hamlet of Ufford, in Watt Township, not far as the crow flies, from the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, where I am temporarily residing at The Oaken Snuggery Bed and Breakfast. She read me a portion of an story detailing a near tragic event that occurred in a pioneer built meeting hall, in the neighborhood of Three Mile Lake, and Ufford, when the wood floor collapsed under the weight of the congregation gathered for a weekly church service. The building wasn’t a church but it was all the community had at the time, and all denominations could attend if they wished. Although the collapse of the floor was serious enough, except for the fact there wasn’t a basement, and the fall was only a few feet downward, the most dangerous element of the accident, was that a wood stove was fully engaged, and when the floor gave way, so went the stove and the fire within. Fortunately the fire was contained by quickly thinking members of that congregation, and the injured were rescued from the hollow where the floor had been minutes earlier.

     As these meetings for settlers were often held in pioneer shelters, and could create quite a crowded environment, it happened numerous times that a pine floor broke through under the weight, and it was always a possibility candles, oil lanterns, and the stove itself might have toppled into the hole with members of the congregation. With what information I’ve already given Suzanne over the past two weeks, she believes this is exactly what happened with the first log shanty that was built on the Snuggery property. With the first homestead building, it is presumed that the fire from the toppled stove ignited the woodwork of the broken floor boards, and the interior trimmings before consuming the whole log building. It is doubtful anyone was killed, or even badly injured, because there is no word of any such tragedy, that would have been written about by numerous area historians, based on their sleuthing through back files of old newspapers, like the Northern Advocate. There is also a reference to another shelter fire in the early 1870’s, that nearly claimed the lives of an entire family, caused by a lightning strike during a heavy spring thunderstorm. Losing wood shelters, when the settlers used wood stoves and fireplaces to prepare food, and heat the interior in the winter months, as well as illuminating the rooms with candles and oil lanterns, made structure fires rather common, and in the case of this homestead grant property, it appears that the first two dwelling places constructed were destroyed shortly after being established here in the vast wilderness of Muskoka.

     She also believes the pioneer cemetery isn’t one at all, as there is no evidence to support there being anyone from the original families having died in this part of the Township, in evidence gathered from ancestral records she only recently consulted to get a better profile of who lived on this rural acreage. We had originally thought it might be the case a Diphtheria or Influenza outbreak might have taken numerous members of a family, as it did frequently in other areas of the District, as referenced in numerous other family and community histories dating back fifty years. It was not uncommon to lose from two to five family members in twenty four hours, due to these epidemics, and as was common, in those early days, the undertaker would send laborers to collect the bodies from affected homesteads, take them to either a recognized cemetery, or a piece of property off a main roadway, considered public property, to bury the dead before sunrise. With the danger of disease spreading from the bodies, mourners and the curious were discouraged, explaining the burials at midnight and later. If this had happened, even as far back as the 1860’s, there would have to be some written record of the deaths, and census information gathered by the government for provincial and national statistics. The fact that no regional histories have made any mention of such a deadly outbreak in Rose Hill, indicates pretty clearly that the cemetery in question is vacant, if it ever was a cemetery. It is possible that it was land set aside for such eventualities, by one of the family that resided here since 1868, but outside of a pet dog or other, it wasn’t occupied by human remains. The only way to prove this of course, was to have the small flat site, on the top of the hill above the pond, investigated by someone knowledgable in these matters regarding abandoned and unidentified cemeteries, which do exist in this region and are being discovered every few years by home and cottage builders accidentally uncovering occupied plots. In the case of the logging industry, there are many spring drive workers who, after being either crushed, drowned or both, were most often buried in the general area they perished. I have known of cases where loggers killed in the drive, were buried only a few meters, from where the lunch and dinner camps were established, and always in an area where the ground wasn’t frozen, and was easy to get down to an acceptable depth to conceal the deceased. I have come upon quite a few of these river-bank graves in my earlier days of hiking through the region, and following area watercourses where the logs used to tumbled down the cataracts and rapids on the way to some distant mill. The short answer here, and long overdue, is that the alleged cemetery on The Snuggery property may have been established but never actually used, which probably meant that a churchyard cemetery was established nearby before there was any need for the homestead allocation.

     With this latest bit of intel, I am finally beginning to put more of the puzzle pieces together, making a more interesting picture, especially as relates to the wee lasses who like to haunt this lovely rural property and old farmhouse, owned by the Bosevelt family. I believe, as far as my psychic intuition allows, that the sisters, Cynthia, age 12 and Francis, age 10, were not from either of the first two families to settle on this grant land, where this Bed and Breakfast currently operates. My intuition, having been influenced by quite a number of paranormal incidents, most recently, tells me that the girls were from a neighboring homestead, and were on this acreage frequently, to participate with their parents in the weekly church meetings held in two respective pioneer cabins for the convenience of local worship. They were in the first cabin when the floor gave out under the weight of the people congregated inside, but managed to escape unscathed when the ignited stove toppled into the hollow created by the broken floor boards. They were likely uninjured, and after climbing out of the building, stood back with others, to watch the log structure go up in flames. In the second incident, once again no fault could be assessed to them, the log shelter they were attending, on the same property several years later, was struck by lightning soon after their arrival for worship, causing the structure to catch fire. I don’t believe there were any deaths or injuries associated with this second calamity faced by the mixed congregation. Did anyone in that congregation think, or speak out, suggesting the fires and destruction of the shelters were the acts of God. But I have a profound and nagging suspicion, based on the two welded together crosses we found on the edge of the path, at The Snuggery, were attached because of a situation of prolonged intense heat. But it is the affair of mind and perception in this case, that suggests the crosses had been in the possession of the two girls, as it was most likely their earthbound spirits, that placed the fused icons where they would be discovered by a passerby heading in or out of the inn. Then, of course, the icon in my position, locked safely in my room, was mysteriously removed one evening, only to be found in the same location along the pathway, as it had been found on a casual walk-about. It was very much the case the girls were drawing our attention to the location where the events, the disastrous fires took place, and as I had witnessed a ghostly re-enactment just the other day, during a rainstorm, I know that the cabin struck by lightning was adjacent to a hardy stand of lilacs, and I confirmed with the Bosevelts, that there was indeed a former stand on the exact spot where I had envisioned them in my very real daydream. The girls were using the crosses to get our attention to some missing part of the story, that was slowly starting to come together, despite the fact there was so little tangible historical evidence. There were no death records, no cemetery headstones, no newspaper reports of community deaths or tragic accidents, and even several of the neighbors with deep roots in this neighborhood, have never heard of previous residents of The Snuggery property having died in influenza or diphtheria outbreaks, and certainly not deaths from house fires, at least as far as their family histories are retold and appreciated.

     Suzanne had a theory about it all, pondering if the sisters had stolen the crosses from a previous church gathering, possibly from some Catholic neighbors attending, having removed them or set them down for some reason, the girls playing a prank on a religion they likely didn’t fully understand. The protestants far outnumbered the Catholic emigrants in the early years of homesteading, and there was often conflict between them, especially with the rapid spread of the Orange Hall membership, and the fact there were many Irish protestants in the early waves of emigration to Ontario. Might the wee lasses have thought it a dangerous adventure to steal the crucifixes from Catholic children, as a possibility, promising to return them after, only to renege and leave the gathering with ill gotten icons? The theories abound and most likely they will never get past the theory stage, being unproven and open for speculation long into the future, if that is, anybody other than the poor Bosevelts even care. I have a feeling the hauntings here at The Snuggery won’t end until the waifs at the centre of the frequent paranormal episodes are satisfied their discontent, and unsettled affairs of life, have been addressed and resolved. It leaves me to think that much has to do with the the welded together crosses, and how they need to be re-connected to their rightful owners. Did others know that Cynthia and Francis had absconded with the crucifixes, and promised they would suffer hell-fire if the matter wasn’t quickly resolved? Did the sisters come to believe there was truth to the warning, considering that two places of worship, in short order, were both burned down by acts of God, Allegedly of course. The girls being punished for their sin of theft, and not just any theft. It’s all a wild content of speculation without even five percent fact which doesn’t amuse the historian, while the writer-me, would like to fast track this story to pacify the people who are kindly hosting my stay, and who, so far, have been given nothing of substance for their investment in my services.

     I must retire to bedlam before my head explodes with all these colliding thoughts and speculation, generated by two restless, anxious spirits with unresolved issues and no other place apparently to haunt.

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 24

BY TED CURRIE

     I often, these days, wake up suddenly from what I believe was a deep sleep, feeling as one might, having just experienced something startling, or at the very least, unsettling. It has been happening to me for many years, and it’s one reason that I make every mortal attempt to refrain from anything more than a cat-nap during the daytime, just in case I invite one of these minor nightmares into my psyche. I don’t like them at night either, but I can go back to sleep fairly soon afterwards, Suzanne re-assuring me that boogeymen aren’t living under the bed, and there are no ghosts hovering over the bedstead waiting to fill my head with malevolent thoughts.

     One such dream that inspired immediate panic, upon waking, occurred at a house we owned on Golden Beach Road, when the boys were very young. It was the house where Suzanne met the wee ghost child we named “Herbie,” who had appeared to her both times, on the other side of our kitchen counter which divided the open concept main room of the bungalow. The account of this was published quite a few years ago in Barbara Smith’s “Ghost Stories of Ontario.” We had many strange episodes at the house, including what the doctor referred to as son Andrew’s three-nights-out-of-seven “night terrors,” which we found out later, may have been caused by “Herbie” looking through the bedroom window. Andrew explained to us that Peter Pan was looking in the window, and wanted him to go off to Neverland as he had watched in the movie we used to watch with Mary Martin as “Pan.” He stuck with the story and we decided to move his bed into another room across the hall, to partner with his younger brother Robert. The night terrors ceased immediately.

     The dream I was alluding to, previously, occurred one summer evening, at around 7 p.m. I had been reading the boys a story in bed, shortly after dinner, just to calm them down a bit before we let them watch a movie. As was typical of their father, I fell asleep reading the book to them, and they took off to play. I would only do this when Suzanne was in the vicinity, so no harm was done taking a wee nap. I don’t believe that I had been asleep for any more than fifteen minutes, according to the clock at bedside, when I heard a most horrific crash of metal somewhere beyond the front yard that our window faced. Across the road was a lowland bordering Lake Muskoka. It sounded as if there had been a traffic accident, and when I couldn’t find either of our lads, my heart was pounding out of my chest. I sprang to my feet at the side of the bed, and raced to the window to see what had just happened. Playing in the driveway were Andrew and Robert, with our dog Alf in the middle, and Suzanne standing just off to the right, or their left as it was at that moment. After feeling great relief, I asked Suzanne what had caused the crashing noise outside, and she looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I haven’t heard a crash and I’ve been standing here for the past ten minutes.” What I did know from my dream, is that a child was hit by a car while riding a bike. Once I composed myself, I was able to recall the brief and violent nightmare, and it did involve a fatality, just not at that moment in time. In conversation around the neighborhood after this, we did find out that a youngster had been killed by a motorist, while riding his bike, at around the place where I thought the crash had occurred just by the distancing of the impact sound. It was a disturbing and vivid dream but now I think it was an historic re-enactment of the psychic kind, as inspired by Herbie, who may have been the victim of that long ago accident. Was Herbie just trying to find his family and instead found us occupying his residence? I will never forget that dream, and Andrew has never forgotten about the nights Peter Pan used to look in his window; Suzanne never forgetting the little boy with blond hair who used to visit her while she worked in the kitchen. 

     Suzanne, my unfaltering research assistant, and wife of course, phoned me earlier this evening, to let me know she had found out some interesting information about this area of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes dating back to the period of the Free Land Grants for emigrant farmers.  And she was able to identify some of the settlement families that had chosen this upper region of what is still considered South Muskoka, although the most northerly portion. She was also able to find an unrelated historical account, written as a matter of some irony by her uncle, Bert Shea, in his well known chronicle of family times in the hamlet of Ufford, in Watt Township, not far as the crow flies, from the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, where I am temporarily residing at The Oaken Snuggery Bed and Breakfast. She read me a portion of an story detailing a near tragic event that occurred in a pioneer built meeting hall, in the neighborhood of Three Mile Lake, and Ufford, when the wood floor collapsed under the weight of the congregation gathered for a weekly church service. The building wasn’t a church but it was all the community had at the time, and all denominations could attend if they wished. Although the collapse of the floor was serious enough, except for the fact there wasn’t a basement, and the fall was only a few feet downward, the most dangerous element of the accident, was that a wood stove was fully engaged, and when the floor gave way, so went the stove and the fire within. Fortunately the fire was contained by quickly thinking members of that congregation, and the injured were rescued from the hollow where the floor had been minutes earlier.

     As these meetings for settlers were often held in pioneer shelters, and could create quite a crowded environment, it happened numerous times that a pine floor broke through under the weight, and it was always a possibility candles, oil lanterns, and the stove itself might have toppled into the hole with members of the congregation. With what information I’ve already given Suzanne over the past two weeks, she believes this is exactly what happened with the first log shanty that was built on the Snuggery property. With the first homestead building, it is presumed that the fire from the toppled stove ignited the woodwork of the broken floor boards, and the interior trimmings before consuming the whole log building. It is doubtful anyone was killed, or even badly injured, because there is no word of any such tragedy, that would have been written about by numerous area historians, based on their sleuthing through back files of old newspapers, like the Northern Advocate. There is also a reference to another shelter fire in the early 1870’s, that nearly claimed the lives of an entire family, caused by a lightning strike during a heavy spring thunderstorm. Losing wood shelters, when the settlers used wood stoves and fireplaces to prepare food, and heat the interior in the winter months, as well as illuminating the rooms with candles and oil lanterns, made structure fires rather common, and in the case of this homestead grant property, it appears that the first two dwelling places constructed were destroyed shortly after being established here in the vast wilderness of Muskoka.

     She also believes the pioneer cemetery isn’t one at all, as there is no evidence to support there being anyone from the original families having died in this part of the Township, in evidence gathered from ancestral records she only recently consulted to get a better profile of who lived on this rural acreage. We had originally thought it might be the case a Diphtheria or Influenza outbreak might have taken numerous members of a family, as it did frequently in other areas of the District, as referenced in numerous other family and community histories dating back fifty years. It was not uncommon to lose from two to five family members in twenty four hours, due to these epidemics, and as was common, in those early days, the undertaker would send laborers to collect the bodies from affected homesteads, take them to either a recognized cemetery, or a piece of property off a main roadway, considered public property, to bury the dead before sunrise. With the danger of disease spreading from the bodies, mourners and the curious were discouraged, explaining the burials at midnight and later. If this had happened, even as far back as the 1860’s, there would have to be some written record of the deaths, and census information gathered by the government for provincial and national statistics. The fact that no regional histories have made any mention of such a deadly outbreak in Rose Hill, indicates pretty clearly that the cemetery in question is vacant, if it ever was a cemetery. It is possible that it was land set aside for such eventualities, by one of the family that resided here since 1868, but outside of a pet dog or other, it wasn’t occupied by human remains. The only way to prove this of course, was to have the small flat site, on the top of the hill above the pond, investigated by someone knowledgable in these matters regarding abandoned and unidentified cemeteries, which do exist in this region and are being discovered every few years by home and cottage builders accidentally uncovering occupied plots. In the case of the logging industry, there are many spring drive workers who, after being either crushed, drowned or both, were most often buried in the general area they perished. I have known of cases where loggers killed in the drive, were buried only a few meters, from where the lunch and dinner camps were established, and always in an area where the ground wasn’t frozen, and was easy to get down to an acceptable depth to conceal the deceased. I have come upon quite a few of these river-bank graves in my earlier days of hiking through the region, and following area watercourses where the logs used to tumbled down the cataracts and rapids on the way to some distant mill. The short answer here, and long overdue, is that the alleged cemetery on The Snuggery property may have been established but never actually used, which probably meant that a churchyard cemetery was established nearby before there was any need for the homestead allocation.

     With this latest bit of intel, I am finally beginning to put more of the puzzle pieces together, making a more interesting picture, especially as relates to the wee lasses who like to haunt this lovely rural property and old farmhouse, owned by the Bosevelt family. I believe, as far as my psychic intuition allows, that the sisters, Cynthia, age 12 and Francis, age 10, were not from either of the first two families to settle on this grant land, where this Bed and Breakfast currently operates. My intuition, having been influenced by quite a number of paranormal incidents, most recently, tells me that the girls were from a neighboring homestead, and were on this acreage frequently, to participate with their parents in the weekly church meetings held in two respective pioneer cabins for the convenience of local worship. They were in the first cabin when the floor gave out under the weight of the people congregated inside, but managed to escape unscathed when the ignited stove toppled into the hollow created by the broken floor boards. They were likely uninjured, and after climbing out of the building, stood back with others, to watch the log structure go up in flames. In the second incident, once again no fault could be assessed to them, the log shelter they were attending, on the same property several years later, was struck by lightning soon after their arrival for worship, causing the structure to catch fire. I don’t believe there were any deaths or injuries associated with this second calamity faced by the mixed congregation. Did anyone in that congregation think, or speak out, suggesting the fires and destruction of the shelters were the acts of God. But I have a profound and nagging suspicion, based on the two welded together crosses we found on the edge of the path, at The Snuggery, were attached because of a situation of prolonged intense heat. But it is the affair of mind and perception in this case, that suggests the crosses had been in the possession of the two girls, as it was most likely their earthbound spirits, that placed the fused icons where they would be discovered by a passerby heading in or out of the inn. Then, of course, the icon in my position, locked safely in my room, was mysteriously removed one evening, only to be found in the same location along the pathway, as it had been found on a casual walk-about. It was very much the case the girls were drawing our attention to the location where the events, the disastrous fires took place, and as I had witnessed a ghostly re-enactment just the other day, during a rainstorm, I know that the cabin struck by lightning was adjacent to a hardy stand of lilacs, and I confirmed with the Bosevelts, that there was indeed a former stand on the exact spot where I had envisioned them in my very real daydream. The girls were using the crosses to get our attention to some missing part of the story, that was slowly starting to come together, despite the fact there was so little tangible historical evidence. There were no death records, no cemetery headstones, no newspaper reports of community deaths or tragic accidents, and even several of the neighbors with deep roots in this neighborhood, have never heard of previous residents of The Snuggery property having died in influenza or diphtheria outbreaks, and certainly not deaths from house fires, at least as far as their family histories are retold and appreciated.

     Suzanne had a theory about it all, pondering if the sisters had stolen the crosses from a previous church gathering, possibly from some Catholic neighbors attending, having removed them or set them down for some reason, the girls playing a prank on a religion they likely didn’t fully understand. The protestants far outnumbered the Catholic emigrants in the early years of homesteading, and there was often conflict between them, especially with the rapid spread of the Orange Hall membership, and the fact there were many Irish protestants in the early waves of emigration to Ontario. Might the wee lasses have thought it a dangerous adventure to steal the crucifixes from Catholic children, as a possibility, promising to return them after, only to renege and leave the gathering with ill gotten icons? The theories abound and most likely they will never get past the theory stage, being unproven and open for speculation long into the future, if that is, anybody other than the poor Bosevelts even care. I have a feeling the hauntings here at The Snuggery won’t end until the waifs at the centre of the frequent paranormal episodes are satisfied their discontent, and unsettled affairs of life, have been addressed and resolved. It leaves me to think that much has to do with the the welded together crosses, and how they need to be re-connected to their rightful owners. Did others know that Cynthia and Francis had absconded with the crucifixes, and promised they would suffer hell-fire if the matter wasn’t quickly resolved? Did the sisters come to believe there was truth to the warning, considering that two places of worship, in short order, were both burned down by acts of God, Allegedly of course. The girls being punished for their sin of theft, and not just any theft. It’s all a wild content of speculation without even five percent fact which doesn’t amuse the historian, while the writer-me, would like to fast track this story to pacify the people who are kindly hosting my stay, and who, so far, have been given nothing of substance for their investment in my services.

     I must retire to bedlam before my head explodes with all these colliding thoughts and speculation, generated by two restless, anxious spirits with unresolved issues and no other place apparently to haunt.

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 24

BY TED CURRIE

     I often, these days, wake up suddenly from what I believe was a deep sleep, feeling as one might, having just experienced something startling, or at the very least, unsettling. It has been happening to me for many years, and it’s one reason that I make every mortal attempt to refrain from anything more than a cat-nap during the daytime, just in case I invite one of these minor nightmares into my psyche. I don’t like them at night either, but I can go back to sleep fairly soon afterwards, Suzanne re-assuring me that boogeymen aren’t living under the bed, and there are no ghosts hovering over the bedstead waiting to fill my head with malevolent thoughts.

     One such dream that inspired immediate panic, upon waking, occurred at a house we owned on Golden Beach Road, when the boys were very young. It was the house where Suzanne met the wee ghost child we named “Herbie,” who had appeared to her both times, on the other side of our kitchen counter which divided the open concept main room of the bungalow. The account of this was published quite a few years ago in Barbara Smith’s “Ghost Stories of Ontario.” We had many strange episodes at the house, including what the doctor referred to as son Andrew’s three-nights-out-of-seven “night terrors,” which we found out later, may have been caused by “Herbie” looking through the bedroom window. Andrew explained to us that Peter Pan was looking in the window, and wanted him to go off to Neverland as he had watched in the movie we used to watch with Mary Martin as “Pan.” He stuck with the story and we decided to move his bed into another room across the hall, to partner with his younger brother Robert. The night terrors ceased immediately.

     The dream I was alluding to, previously, occurred one summer evening, at around 7 p.m. I had been reading the boys a story in bed, shortly after dinner, just to calm them down a bit before we let them watch a movie. As was typical of their father, I fell asleep reading the book to them, and they took off to play. I would only do this when Suzanne was in the vicinity, so no harm was done taking a wee nap. I don’t believe that I had been asleep for any more than fifteen minutes, according to the clock at bedside, when I heard a most horrific crash of metal somewhere beyond the front yard that our window faced. Across the road was a lowland bordering Lake Muskoka. It sounded as if there had been a traffic accident, and when I couldn’t find either of our lads, my heart was pounding out of my chest. I sprang to my feet at the side of the bed, and raced to the window to see what had just happened. Playing in the driveway were Andrew and Robert, with our dog Alf in the middle, and Suzanne standing just off to the right, or their left as it was at that moment. After feeling great relief, I asked Suzanne what had caused the crashing noise outside, and she looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I haven’t heard a crash and I’ve been standing here for the past ten minutes.” What I did know from my dream, is that a child was hit by a car while riding a bike. Once I composed myself, I was able to recall the brief and violent nightmare, and it did involve a fatality, just not at that moment in time. In conversation around the neighborhood after this, we did find out that a youngster had been killed by a motorist, while riding his bike, at around the place where I thought the crash had occurred just by the distancing of the impact sound. It was a disturbing and vivid dream but now I think it was an historic re-enactment of the psychic kind, as inspired by Herbie, who may have been the victim of that long ago accident. Was Herbie just trying to find his family and instead found us occupying his residence? I will never forget that dream, and Andrew has never forgotten about the nights Peter Pan used to look in his window; Suzanne never forgetting the little boy with blond hair who used to visit her while she worked in the kitchen. 

     Suzanne, my unfaltering research assistant, and wife of course, phoned me earlier this evening, to let me know she had found out some interesting information about this area of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes dating back to the period of the Free Land Grants for emigrant farmers.  And she was able to identify some of the settlement families that had chosen this upper region of what is still considered South Muskoka, although the most northerly portion. She was also able to find an unrelated historical account, written as a matter of some irony by her uncle, Bert Shea, in his well known chronicle of family times in the hamlet of Ufford, in Watt Township, not far as the crow flies, from the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, where I am temporarily residing at The Oaken Snuggery Bed and Breakfast. She read me a portion of an story detailing a near tragic event that occurred in a pioneer built meeting hall, in the neighborhood of Three Mile Lake, and Ufford, when the wood floor collapsed under the weight of the congregation gathered for a weekly church service. The building wasn’t a church but it was all the community had at the time, and all denominations could attend if they wished. Although the collapse of the floor was serious enough, except for the fact there wasn’t a basement, and the fall was only a few feet downward, the most dangerous element of the accident, was that a wood stove was fully engaged, and when the floor gave way, so went the stove and the fire within. Fortunately the fire was contained by quickly thinking members of that congregation, and the injured were rescued from the hollow where the floor had been minutes earlier.

     As these meetings for settlers were often held in pioneer shelters, and could create quite a crowded environment, it happened numerous times that a pine floor broke through under the weight, and it was always a possibility candles, oil lanterns, and the stove itself might have toppled into the hole with members of the congregation. With what information I’ve already given Suzanne over the past two weeks, she believes this is exactly what happened with the first log shanty that was built on the Snuggery property. With the first homestead building, it is presumed that the fire from the toppled stove ignited the woodwork of the broken floor boards, and the interior trimmings before consuming the whole log building. It is doubtful anyone was killed, or even badly injured, because there is no word of any such tragedy, that would have been written about by numerous area historians, based on their sleuthing through back files of old newspapers, like the Northern Advocate. There is also a reference to another shelter fire in the early 1870’s, that nearly claimed the lives of an entire family, caused by a lightning strike during a heavy spring thunderstorm. Losing wood shelters, when the settlers used wood stoves and fireplaces to prepare food, and heat the interior in the winter months, as well as illuminating the rooms with candles and oil lanterns, made structure fires rather common, and in the case of this homestead grant property, it appears that the first two dwelling places constructed were destroyed shortly after being established here in the vast wilderness of Muskoka.

     She also believes the pioneer cemetery isn’t one at all, as there is no evidence to support there being anyone from the original families having died in this part of the Township, in evidence gathered from ancestral records she only recently consulted to get a better profile of who lived on this rural acreage. We had originally thought it might be the case a Diphtheria or Influenza outbreak might have taken numerous members of a family, as it did frequently in other areas of the District, as referenced in numerous other family and community histories dating back fifty years. It was not uncommon to lose from two to five family members in twenty four hours, due to these epidemics, and as was common, in those early days, the undertaker would send laborers to collect the bodies from affected homesteads, take them to either a recognized cemetery, or a piece of property off a main roadway, considered public property, to bury the dead before sunrise. With the danger of disease spreading from the bodies, mourners and the curious were discouraged, explaining the burials at midnight and later. If this had happened, even as far back as the 1860’s, there would have to be some written record of the deaths, and census information gathered by the government for provincial and national statistics. The fact that no regional histories have made any mention of such a deadly outbreak in Rose Hill, indicates pretty clearly that the cemetery in question is vacant, if it ever was a cemetery. It is possible that it was land set aside for such eventualities, by one of the family that resided here since 1868, but outside of a pet dog or other, it wasn’t occupied by human remains. The only way to prove this of course, was to have the small flat site, on the top of the hill above the pond, investigated by someone knowledgable in these matters regarding abandoned and unidentified cemeteries, which do exist in this region and are being discovered every few years by home and cottage builders accidentally uncovering occupied plots. In the case of the logging industry, there are many spring drive workers who, after being either crushed, drowned or both, were most often buried in the general area they perished. I have known of cases where loggers killed in the drive, were buried only a few meters, from where the lunch and dinner camps were established, and always in an area where the ground wasn’t frozen, and was easy to get down to an acceptable depth to conceal the deceased. I have come upon quite a few of these river-bank graves in my earlier days of hiking through the region, and following area watercourses where the logs used to tumbled down the cataracts and rapids on the way to some distant mill. The short answer here, and long overdue, is that the alleged cemetery on The Snuggery property may have been established but never actually used, which probably meant that a churchyard cemetery was established nearby before there was any need for the homestead allocation.

     With this latest bit of intel, I am finally beginning to put more of the puzzle pieces together, making a more interesting picture, especially as relates to the wee lasses who like to haunt this lovely rural property and old farmhouse, owned by the Bosevelt family. I believe, as far as my psychic intuition allows, that the sisters, Cynthia, age 12 and Francis, age 10, were not from either of the first two families to settle on this grant land, where this Bed and Breakfast currently operates. My intuition, having been influenced by quite a number of paranormal incidents, most recently, tells me that the girls were from a neighboring homestead, and were on this acreage frequently, to participate with their parents in the weekly church meetings held in two respective pioneer cabins for the convenience of local worship. They were in the first cabin when the floor gave out under the weight of the people congregated inside, but managed to escape unscathed when the ignited stove toppled into the hollow created by the broken floor boards. They were likely uninjured, and after climbing out of the building, stood back with others, to watch the log structure go up in flames. In the second incident, once again no fault could be assessed to them, the log shelter they were attending, on the same property several years later, was struck by lightning soon after their arrival for worship, causing the structure to catch fire. I don’t believe there were any deaths or injuries associated with this second calamity faced by the mixed congregation. Did anyone in that congregation think, or speak out, suggesting the fires and destruction of the shelters were the acts of God. But I have a profound and nagging suspicion, based on the two welded together crosses we found on the edge of the path, at The Snuggery, were attached because of a situation of prolonged intense heat. But it is the affair of mind and perception in this case, that suggests the crosses had been in the possession of the two girls, as it was most likely their earthbound spirits, that placed the fused icons where they would be discovered by a passerby heading in or out of the inn. Then, of course, the icon in my position, locked safely in my room, was mysteriously removed one evening, only to be found in the same location along the pathway, as it had been found on a casual walk-about. It was very much the case the girls were drawing our attention to the location where the events, the disastrous fires took place, and as I had witnessed a ghostly re-enactment just the other day, during a rainstorm, I know that the cabin struck by lightning was adjacent to a hardy stand of lilacs, and I confirmed with the Bosevelts, that there was indeed a former stand on the exact spot where I had envisioned them in my very real daydream. The girls were using the crosses to get our attention to some missing part of the story, that was slowly starting to come together, despite the fact there was so little tangible historical evidence. There were no death records, no cemetery headstones, no newspaper reports of community deaths or tragic accidents, and even several of the neighbors with deep roots in this neighborhood, have never heard of previous residents of The Snuggery property having died in influenza or diphtheria outbreaks, and certainly not deaths from house fires, at least as far as their family histories are retold and appreciated.

     Suzanne had a theory about it all, pondering if the sisters had stolen the crosses from a previous church gathering, possibly from some Catholic neighbors attending, having removed them or set them down for some reason, the girls playing a prank on a religion they likely didn’t fully understand. The protestants far outnumbered the Catholic emigrants in the early years of homesteading, and there was often conflict between them, especially with the rapid spread of the Orange Hall membership, and the fact there were many Irish protestants in the early waves of emigration to Ontario. Might the wee lasses have thought it a dangerous adventure to steal the crucifixes from Catholic children, as a possibility, promising to return them after, only to renege and leave the gathering with ill gotten icons? The theories abound and most likely they will never get past the theory stage, being unproven and open for speculation long into the future, if that is, anybody other than the poor Bosevelts even care. I have a feeling the hauntings here at The Snuggery won’t end until the waifs at the centre of the frequent paranormal episodes are satisfied their discontent, and unsettled affairs of life, have been addressed and resolved. It leaves me to think that much has to do with the the welded together crosses, and how they need to be re-connected to their rightful owners. Did others know that Cynthia and Francis had absconded with the crucifixes, and promised they would suffer hell-fire if the matter wasn’t quickly resolved? Did the sisters come to believe there was truth to the warning, considering that two places of worship, in short order, were both burned down by acts of God, Allegedly of course. The girls being punished for their sin of theft, and not just any theft. It’s all a wild content of speculation without even five percent fact which doesn’t amuse the historian, while the writer-me, would like to fast track this story to pacify the people who are kindly hosting my stay, and who, so far, have been given nothing of substance for their investment in my services.

     I must retire to bedlam before my head explodes with all these colliding thoughts and speculation, generated by two restless, anxious spirits with unresolved issues and no other place apparently to haunt.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 23

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 23

BY TED CURRIE

     Suzanne and I were talking last evening, on the phone, about our early years of marriage, the many jobs we took on while raising two wee lads, and, oh yes, running a Bracebridge Museum on the few hours we had every week to zone-out from trying to make a living. I had been one of the founder of the Bracebridge Historical Society back in 1978, and I was on and off the directorate of Woodchester Villa and Museum up until the autumn of 1989, finishing off my tenure as Operations Manager, with Suzanne serving as my assistant. The non-paid kind. I loved the “Bird House” as it was known because it had been built in the 1870’s by Woolen Mill magnate Henry J. Bird, and I particularly disliked having to leave its employ, but there was too much political interference and agendas to carry-on, especially the very real risk that my good wife would divorce me on the grounds of social, political, historical overload. We hardly spent any time at home that summer season, and when an alarm sounded at two in the morning, I had to drive from area of the former Bangor Lodge, on the Golden Beach Road, to Woodchester, located on the hillside overlooking Bracebridge Falls. But I didn’t want to separate from the museum I had a hand in launching, but family came first. I regretted as well, leaving the myriad of ghosts that lodged at Woodchester, because we had, after many years of varying opinions about one another, figured a way of getting along in the large octagonal estate. We went from being unsettled about the many interventions we attributed to earthbound spirits of former family members, to being quite at home with the typical chatter, banging, knocking, and footsteps up and down the main staircase, without anyone or anything visible that would cause the cadence of steps.

     The first serious introduction to the ghosts of Woodchester came the day my friend, and fellow Historical Society Director, Ted Williams, (a well known book binder), asked my to listen to a tape recording he had made in the parlor of the house, using the antique Victrola and some of the 78 rpm records from the cabinet. The plan, for Ted, had been to record the 78’s onto cassette tapes, and with a new speaker placed in the bottom of the record player, with a connection to the tape machine kept in a nearby bathroom, staff could play the music through the day, especially with guests coming to visit the new town museum. The problem had been, to that point, guests fiddling with the Victrola and overwinding the main spring which would be expensive to replace. This way we could remove the crank and close the lid, and still hear a record being played. This was a good and workable plan. But here’s what happened to an otherwise ordinary recording session in a very quiet room of the old estate.

     Ted asked me to sit in the parlor one afternoon, and listen to the tapes he had so patiently recorded the day before. From the beginning to the end the tape machine, which had been placed just in front of the Victrola speaker, picked up curious noises that must have been happening in the house at the time, but Ted didn’t hear anything but the spinning record and the pleasant sound of period music. There were voices recorded that were definitely not on the record, and there were many knocks, banging, and also, yes, footsteps up the nearby staircase that came out clear on Ted’s recording. Yet he heard nothing beyond the music from the Victrola speaker. There were even the sounds of dogs barking, which was a standard at the museum, heard in almost all rooms of the three story building. When staff would go outside to see where the dogs were, thinking they had been left in a hot car or were otherwise in distress, there was never a canine visible, or barking anywhere in the neighborhood. Ted didn’t hear the barking that was recorded, but it’s clear on the tape a spirit dog made its presence in the house known. By all the noises recorded on those two tapes, Woodchester was obviously a busy place for ghosts and their ilk.   

     At about age six, or maybe it was seven, I had an “angel” dream during a particularly nasty childhood illness that paralleled whooping cough. I coughed day and night, and wretched frequently, my body giving up any fluids in my stomach. On this night, I have to admit that I was feeling quite weak and emotionally drained from sleeping in an upright position for nearly two weeks. On the edge between being awake and falling into the early regions of slumber, I heard my parents talking at my side, indicating that it might be necessary to have Teddy (as I was known in the early 1960’s), taken over to Joseph Brant Hospital, if that is, the fever doesn’t subside. This was the last grasp of reality before slipping peacefully to sleep, despite what felt like a rigorous bout of influenza. The only thing I was aware of physically, is the sensation of cold on my forehead, as my mother kept putting a wet cloth on my forehead. It was within the dreamscape, undoubtedly inspired by my illness, that I came to meet the specter of an angel. I recall being lifted off the ground in her magnificent presence, but not being able to move of my own free will. But then I didn’t want to move. I certainly didn’t wish to run away or hide from this illuminated creature looking down on me from a corner in a room of which I was familiar. No words were spoken but the message was clear. “It is not your time,” was what I remembered, and seeing as I’m still here after all these years, she was true to her words, even though I didn’t actually hear them. I awoke sometime later, with a most euphoric sensation throughout my body, knowing as well that the fever had “broken” as my mother joyfully reported to my father. I had survived the illness but I think I had some other worldly assistance. It was such a profound dream that it is as clear today as it was when I woke up, drenched with sweat, feeling as if my life force had been restored to its youthfulness, when quite honestly, a few hours earlier, I pondered if death was coming.

     For fifty-five of sixty-two years, I have worn this dream as if an invisible crucifix. Yet, I have never been overly religious, and have only attended church a few times in my life. Every detail of the childhood dream is clear and has a sensory texture and aroma attached, including the music that companions angels when they visit their mortal assignments. As I have cherished this recollection, and found strength from its innermost energy and positivism, I have great concern about how I shall remember the incident from yesterday morning, here in Rose Hill, on the property of the Bosevelt family’s “The Oaken Snuggery,” Bed and Breakfast. I was returning to the country inn along the main pathway to the old farmhouse, with a quickstep because of the much heavier rain falling at that moment, and wishing not to drown in the deluge getting worse moment by moment. I had distinctly heard the distant roll of very light thunder, but thought it was still a long way off, and as I was very close to the Snuggery, I felt confident I wasn’t in the least bit of danger. Admittedly, and strangely, two ghostly waifs appeared in my line of vision, through the heavy veil of rainfall, who looked the part of the two sisters from antiquity, who had been haunting the Snuggery actively for the past year. I had only seen them as wafts of mist, and could have been interpreted as just that, versus anything paranormal. A friend of mine, a guest by the name of Angela Collins, had seen the girls in full regalia, as Victorian children, sitting together in the hallway of the Bosevelt’s house, one evening when entering the building. The girls were said by her, an active psychic, to be Cynthia age 12 and Francis, age 10. There have been quite a number of what could be called paranormal incidents here since I arrived for a month-long stay, back in early April, but nothing of a serious nature. Rather, they have all been as if the handiwork of a mischief maker, and this case, two of them working together. The usual stuff. Knocked over dolls in Mrs. Bosevelt’s bedroom, books pulled off the shelf, some being toppled to the floor, and various sightings of the wee specters pretty much all over the house, although there was a sighting of an old woman knitting while rocking in a chair, that doesn’t fit their style of haunting. But when I saw the girls disappear into what appeared to be a log cabin to the right of a cluster of lilacs, I was finally, after weeks, fulfilling my mandate to situate and identify the spirit-kind haunting this beautiful rural Bed and Breakfast here in the very northern limit of what is still considered South Muskoka.

     I don’t know how the spirits arranged that I should, first of all, see the girls slip into this pioneer abode, of which was burned down well before the turn of the century, and then see it all vanish before my eyes as if I was suffering from some dream again, this time, without the attending angel. Then came the lightning strike onto the rocks at my side, with enough force of energy, to knock me off my feet, to lay prone in the heavy rainfall, while I gathered my sensibilities to retreat, mud-caked and disoriented, into the nearby farmhouse. Only to be informed by a puzzled Mrs. Bosevelt, that there had not been a lightning strike, and no one in the house, including newly arrived guests, had heard even the faintest roll of thunder in the distance. How would I deal with this dream-like situation that had apparently attached itself, with some purposeful intent, to the actuality of my trying to secure shelter from the coming storm. A storm that materialized in rainfall only. In only a matter of a half hour from my incident, imagined or not, the sun broke through the cloud canopy, and this April day turned out to be one of the finest and warmest of the spring season thus far. So what was it all about? Was I afforded an inside glimpse of the innermost details of the pioneer era, of which Francis and Cynthia were obviously attached? I had asked for them, by thoughts alone, to show me more details, about what they were hoping to achieve by haunting this property, specifically the fine folks who operated this Bed and Breakfast. I didn’t get an answer to any of my questions, but then I didn’t expect they would respond immediately, as the ghost sense of urgency is obviously down-scaled from the mortal penchant for expedience and timeliness. The vision, if one could call it that, was potentially their way of answering some of my enquiries. Seeing as I wasn’t drinking anything with an alcohol content, and I was fully awake and alert at the time, to the situation unfolding around me, and in front, there aren’t many other ways to look at the actuality of the moment, or delusion although I haven’t really had a lot of experience with the latter.

     I had to trust my instincts on this, I suppose, as one who has had an angel dream, and digested all its delicious contents, as well as one who has been a long-time writer, reporter, and historian, who has on more than one occasion, covered a story that defied all other stories as far as being strange to the furthest extent of unbelievable. Putting the information together, much of it provided by my psychic friend, Angela Collins, also including the other tidbits of paranormal crumbs I had been extended subtly since I arrived at the Snuggery, I could only assume that there has been a lingering, unresolved issue involving the Victorian age sisters, who may or may not have been involved in the theft, at some point, of two metal crosses, potentially connected to homestead church services, held weekly in the homes of neighborhood pioneers, during the period when there were no nearby churches to facilitate worship. Keeping in mind that I had been afforded the opportunity of examining a fused together relic, of two metal crosses, which based on the weld between the two, had something to do with a significant heat source at some point. Was it a potential in this cold, cold case, that the girls carried the crosses on them, possibly one of the girls holding both of the ill-gotten icons, when a thunder storm produced a lightning strike that hit the log cabin, during one of these Sunday services, conducted by a roving preacher, resulting in a fire than consumed the structure and may have contributed to the loss of life. I don’t even know at this moment where all these obtuse possibilities are coming from, except an overheated imagination, but maybe it’s the case my own guardian angel, known for most of my like, is weighing in on the matter without my first having asked for assistance. Possibly she was the girl’s guardian angel before she intervened in my dreamscape, meaning in a very light-hearted way, that it’s more than likely the lasses survived the lightning strike and resulting fire, even if the crosses didn’t fare as well. I need to rest. I really do. Forgive me for having to put down this notepad and pen, as I am half asleep as I jot down these final few words for today. Goodnight!

     I couldn’t nod off before thinking about Woodchester Villa once more today. The old house has been haunting me for decades, but in a good way I think. There was an event Suzanne and I had organized for the lawn outside the main house, in the shadow of the Museum annex which was the rebuilt model of the first Presbyterian Church in Bracebridge. It was part of our Christmas in July week of events that summer, and Sunday was supposed to be the grand finale of the celebration, featuring the Ontario band of the Salvation Army, which was terrific by the way. It was a beautiful but hot day and there was a large crowd building even an hour before the concert was to be performed. It also happened to be a day when Suzanne and I both came down with a terrible stomach disorder, and what fun it was to navigate all the technical details and difficulties while running back and forth to the washroom. Did I mention we had our two boys with us, and while they were feeling okay, they were also acting as aggressive as possible, sensing we had less control than usual.

     I was in the downstairs kitchen making up a big cooler of lemonade to go with the huge cake that Suzanne was cutting in the front verandah in preparation for the celebration at the end of the concert. I was worried about Suzanne because she was feeling much worse than I was, and she had decided to keep both Andrew and Robert with her, letting them play on the front lawn for awhile. On three occasions I ran up the stairs and through the house, from back to front, to see why one of the boys was crying. I’d get to Suzanne, and she’d look at me strangely, pondering what I was going on about, as far as crying was concerned. “But I heard a child crying Suzanne. I thought one of the boys had fallen and hurt themselves,” I said, before retreating back downstairs to finish making the lemonade. A few minutes later, the same crying could be heard coming from upstairs, yet there was no crying child. Mine or anyone’s at that point. Just like the invisible dogs, there was no crying child. On the third trot up the stairs I just looked at Suzanne, when she shook her head, and winked about yet another ghost at Woodchester we hadn’t previously recognized. After this day, I heard the crying child several more times, and I even tried to sneak up on the place where I was sure it was originating, but no luck identifying the unhappy child. When I got close, the crying stopped. The ghosts of Woodchester, I think, liked the fact Suzanne and I, and of course, Ted Williams, validated their presence, and of course, their right to haunt the family home that they obviously had an old time investment in, dating back to the 1870’s. Who were we to tell them to get lost? It was the provenance of the old house, and as strange as this may seem, we did have a hard time looking back at that house on that last day, as we pulled down the long narrow driveway, sensing those spirits we had come in contact with over most of a decade, we watching us from the windows, knowing once again, chance was being thrust upon their humbled antiquity.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 22

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 22

BY TED CURRIE

     I think back about my many encounters with what might be referred to as the “paranormal,” or “supernatural,” ghosts by any other name, and reckon that it would have been a rather dull haul through these 62 years of living. Not that Suzanne and our sons haven’t contributed to a happy family life, just that those little unexpected extras always seemed to enhance my outlook, and sense of adventure especially as a writer constantly seeking any crumb of inspiration in order to create something. I will confess this honestly, that I have never suffered from any stiff bout of writer’s block since I joined the profession more than forty years ago now. The reason for this is simple. I have always lived in a dwelling that had residents enchantments. Some of a minor nature, others of a far more aggressive nature. It’s true that I have greatly benefitted as a writer for long and long because of my rather loose but profitable association with ghosts. When I said to Suzanne that I needed a “muse” to get my writing mojo topped-up, at first she thought I meant a Leonard Cohen kind of muse, that I might even write a song about. Well her name is Suzanne after all. What I meant of course, was to have a muse of the spiritual kind, that inspires me to write about paranormal activities and associated hauntings. I suppose I have two minor muses at the moment, here at the Bosevelt’s “Oaken Snuggery,” but thus far, they have been slightly more aggravating than invigorating in the positive sense. I suppose I’m rather a vampire in that regard, because my interest is peaked by the friendly intervention of others relevant to my project. I haven’t quite arrived at that stage yet but I’m pretty sure that there will be a peak reached in this odyssey, such that I can look down on all this gathered evidence, and complete the story that currently is full of holes. I fear, like someone making a puzzle, that I’m going to arrive at an empty box and have a dozen pieces missing. Don’t you hate when that happens. I have no choice in this case but to be optimistic the girls will help me out with a few more details. I’m begging them at nights before slumber to please visit my dream state which lately has become pretty much a carnival of weird scenarios far from a homestead farmhouse and its spirited inmates. 

     The walk back to the farmhouse had become somewhat precarious, as the rainfall had intensified significantly, from when I had been wandering about the property an hour or so ago, and the change in only a few minutes has made the difference between a slow walk back to a sort of rural hustle to boot it home. The mist of the April morning had long since dissipated, and now the deluge had begun proving quite thoroughly that my attire was definitely understated at time of departure for this walk upon the Muskoka moor. I was soaked to the bone, not to make light of the fact that when it began to pour, I was standing at the side of the pioneer cemetery at the top of this gently sloping hillside. I suppose family members who set out this plot for their own, desired that those buried here would have, at the very least, a good view of the small picturesque meadow below, and the permeating perfume of lilac blooms in early June. As I was trying to speed up the travel time back to The Oaken Snuggery from where I had departed an hour earlier, the water in my boots were making the attempt a sensory discomfort, that’s for sure, as well as putting me off any significant gainful stride down the hillside. Several times I felt myself slipping in the newly generated mud along the well trodden-down path, which was averted at the last moment, with an acrobatic, gymnastic prowess I didn’t know I possessed.

     It was after righting myself on the second stumble, that I caught a glimpse of two children running along the same pathway, just a few meters from my position, at the tip of the pond closest to the inn. I had water streaming into my eyes, and being somewhat out of breath, I was sensory challenged at that point, so I had to stop, with a definite slide, in order to get some perspective on the path ahead, and if my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Is it possible that I’ve come upon the wee lasses who have been haunting this property so stubbornly in the year past. The water was stinging my eyes a bit, and the rim of my baseball cap was acting like the shelf of a waterfall, so everything in front was obscured and faint because of the dark sky that was currently offering up this deluge. While I could no longer see the ghostly silhouettes of Cynthia and Francis, I could hear their distant laughter and sing-song voices, chattering away, said but still audible through the much louder pitter patter of accelerating rainfall as a small storm cell seemed to be moving over the property once more this week. I stood my ground and worried less about getting wet, at this point, in order to hear more completely what the girls were up to, running up this lane toward the Bosevelt’s farmhouse. All of a sudden the merry-making of the duo ceased, the only sound being the very distant roll of thunder from somewhere to the west of the Snuggery property. I was pleased however, to have once again come upon the dearly departed young ladies from another era of this homestead history, although it was disappointing not to have witnessed their frolic from a better angle. But then, if I had appeared intrusive to their travels, they most likely would have become nothing more than a drifting vapor as prevailed here, in this small valley, and hour ago while I walked this same pathway.

     As I continued on my way back to the Bed and Breakfast, soggy but mildly contented to have made contact with the girls, loosely as it was, I caught another glimpse of the waifs standing still, with their backs to me, just as the edge of the garden path that circles around to the front of the house. I couldn’t believe my fortune at that moment, and I clumsily proceeded trying as hard as I could, not to draw attention to myself by skuffing my water-logged boots along the now gravel pathway. They were both wearing white dresses only a few inches off the wet ground. It was a stunning scene unfolding. I could see through them, in their vaporous form, and they seemed pre-occupied with a stand of lilacs, as if they were both examining it for blooms, yet it was too early in the spring for this to happen. To their right by about twenty yards or so, I could make out the angles of a structure, distinctly made of logs, with several windows facing me, with a chimney emitting a trace amount of wood smoke. My God, was this a ghost cabin, because there was no cabin there when I passed this same location this morning in a clear atmosphere. There was no mistaking that it gave every appearance of a settler’s cabin, much like the ones that had been built on this property in the 1860’s, and then in the early 1870’s, after the first one burned down. As I approached as gently as possible, the girls who had been standing by the lilac bush, vanished once again, yet the vision of the building remained for several seconds. I wondered as I approached, if the waifs had entered the cabin, explaining their sudden disappearance. In a fraction of a second all became invisible, and there was no longer the scent of woodsmoke that had companioned the cabin for those few moments of clarity. I was stunned by the vision and certainly put myself through the paces, trying to disprove my own senses, as being the product of wishful thinking and of course, an over-active imagination. I had been trying to piece this story together for so long now, that I was inventing sightings to pacify my ambitions.

     I took several more steps toward the place where I had seen the girls and the log cabin, beside the lilac shrub I also didn’t remember from my walks in the past couple of weeks, and with the suddenness of lightning at its most intense, I was knocked off my feet by a sharp crack and then explosion of flames off the rock twenty yards to my right. The thunder clap was deafening, and I just assumed I was either dead or close to passing, as the rain pounded down on my exposed face, while I lay prone on my back looking up at heaven. In the mix of fear and the desire to run amuck, if it was the case I was still amongst the living, I felt a hand on each arm, at the elbow, trying to lift me to my feet. I assumed it was a sensation caused by the near electrocution, and yet, as the feeling being more intense, of being pulled powerfully to my feet, it seemed obvious the paranormal character of The Oaken Snuggery was at play once more. I could offer no resistance to my helpers, who I could not see squeezing my arms tightly. Raised to my feet, still shaking from the near death experience, of being hit by lightning, I admit to being too stunned to either panic at the thought of having just been aided by ghosts, or splitting this location in case lightning might find me a second time, and that wouldn’t be good for my mortal constitution. Feeling that my wobbly legs would be able to motor me forward with some awkwardness, I pushed every mortal fibre, emotional and physical, to lean toward the place that would offer me immediate safe haven. I did ponder rather briefly, why no one from the inn had come to my rescue, considering there were people sitting at window-side when I was walking toward the house moments earlier. How could they not have seen me nearly fried on-the-hoof by this sudden bolt from heaven that knocked me to the ground?

     I stumbled the rest of the way up the path, which offers a gentle incline, and by time I hit the front door, I was just about to collapse into a heap from sheer exhaustion and the shock of coming within a whisker of leaving this mortal coil with a bang. I even had to rap on the door, because my hands were too wet and muddy to get a grip on the heavy iron handle. It took a near-eternity for Mrs. Bosevelt to get to the door, and offer me sanctuary from the raging storm. “My goodness Mr. Currie, what on earth has happened to you,” she remarked with a hint of sarcasm lost initially on me, just anxious to gain the inn’s roof for cover. “Did you fall down somewhere,” she asked, helping me through the door, but insisting that I stand on the welcome Matt in the foyer of the Snuggery, to remove my muddy shoes. Getting a little more air capacity in my lungs, after a few moments rest, I answered as politely as I could muster that, “Didn’t you see that lightning strike out front. It bloody well knocked me to the ground.” “What lightning,” she asked with a puzzled look on her face. “We haven’t had any lightning here, and I haven’t even heard thunder, and I think if it was as close as you say, we would have had our power knocked out, and it’s fine right now.”

     I looked out the front door, while Mrs. Bosevelt helped me take off my poorly appointed rain jacket, and the sun was beginning to break through the cloud cover. “How did that storm pass so quickly,” I asked Mrs. Bosevelt. “I was still hearing thunder when I climbed up the stairs to the front door. I didn’t dream this. I was within twenty yards of getting hit by the lightning, that hit near where the cabin was located, and where the girls…..” “Mr. Currie, I think you have just seen ghosts, and witnessed a phantom cabin, in a nonexistent thunderstorm,” she added, leading me into the Great Room to have a seat by the picture windows, where the sun was clearly dazzling the late morning scene here in Rose Hill. “But what about the lilacs bush where the girls were standing only a few minutes ago,” I asked the inn’s proprietor, as she headed off toward the kitchen to boil some water for a cup of restorative tea. “Lilac bush,” she questioned back, stopping and turning to face me once more. “Ted that lilac bush hasn’t been in that spot for more than a year now. It was cut down and the roots dug-up so we could improve the width of the existing pathway that you must have been walking along at the time.” “A cabin,” she asked? “There is a rock foundation overgrown very close to the lilacs, but it dates back to the first settlers who erected their log cabin; at least that’s what our neighbors told us, when we asked about the traces of several rock borders shortly after we began doing the landscape work. But we never went any further to find out if what they say was correct, as we had so many other restoration projects in the works. But one thing is for sure. The cabin has been gone for well more than a century, so you must have been mistaken, or like I said, it was a mirage of a cabin with a lilac bush beside it.”

     I had a lot of questions to include in my day’s notes, that I scribbled throughout the afternoon, with the assistance of strong tea and some stronger cider leading up to the dinner hour at The Oaken Snuggery. I wish I felt enlightened, but I’m still trembling about my alleged near death encounter. Did the girl’s play another prank on the living? That’s yet to be determined.