The Oaken Snuggery - Ghosts Met Along The Way Part 1

 

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY -  GHOSTS MET ALONG THE WAY

BY TED CURRIE

     The half fallen brick chimney is still visible through the encroaching limbs of tall pines and misshapen venerable oaks, that have been silent witness to the chronicle of this forgotten place in its own enchanted solitude.

     There is the time worn imprint of the old roadway leading into the property, through the gate, held open by the thick weave of last year’s tall field grasses, the bordering crooked split-rail fence shows its antiquity with subtle grace, of a time when this place brimmed with its resident humanity. In the pasture, prone, and cast back to the elements from which it was crafted, the remnants of a horse-drawn plow and rake appear starkly against the morning sky, in a place remarkable only for its attributes to the photographer, documenting for some posterity, the shadowed decline of a once contenting place.

     The broken stone path leading up to the badly deteriorated homestead, has held the faith of this place, offering as yet, firm footing, direction to and from their old haunt, for all those earthbound spirits, that travel here to revisit the place they dwelled once, in that mortal coil of life. The summer grasses and stalks of dried wildflowers burden over the pathway, but not at any point obscuring it from the path it offers the voyeur, hiking toward the house, paint-worn and with faded soft brick, blackened woodwork, shattered panes in the askew windows, shutters hanging by a single hinge, or rusted nail, the crumbling mortar fallen from the chimney onto the partially shingled roof.

     The roof line shows a considerable bow in its architectural integrity, and from appearances, still at a considerable distance, the summer kitchen has fallen into itself, the windows having popped from the framing, residing on the ground below, topped with broken bits of chimney brick and wood trim from somewhere, broken away by the weather, cast down by the violent winds of spring storms.

     The dark clouds that have arisen along the horizon, in these past few moments, have given this heritage homestead an enhanced sense of drama beyond the melancholy of its broken facade, and half fallen fencing that was once adorned by thickets of hardy lilacs and silken wildflowers, quilting around the cedar rails locked firmly into the weave of fence posts that defined this place as a homestead. A rural “home” more precisely. The watcher this morning, expects in historical context, of such countryside relics, that this place had been a contenting, happy location in which to dwell, with the pleasant echo of children’s voices, their laughter resonating over the landscape, from a flat area beside the barn, and the faint aroma of woodsmoke circling down low over the land, as a trace of blue smoke wafts from the chimney down into the valley, where the cattle graze on the fresh shoots of new growth. If one listens carefully, thoughtfully, the imagination sparks to the distant rattle of a farm wagon bouncing over the sunken rocks and uneven ground of the laneway to the main road to Rose Hill. The dull plodding clomp of the horse hooves hitting down hard at the packed earth, and the few rusted old bells hanging from the cart to announce arrivals, departures, and work in progress to all those who might pay attention to farm life and times.

     The tired surrendered building no doubt inspired many good times and hosted the celebrations of successful harvests, and festive occasion, and all the social intercourse expected of a family home in the patina of its own ancestral chronicle, like a fine old book yet without its pages. Its hollowness now filled by those unflattering sounds of decay and failure, as even the strongest supporting beams begin to sag and weep down in silent contempt for the neglect it has been shown by the modernists. If the voyeur invests a few moments, to find some vestige of a chair or stool remaining within, what spirited history shall reveal itself, as if a theatre of, and for the deceased. It is their showcase, and they shall not disappear into the gentleness of this solitude, without making their presence felt, if only cast upon the witness as a faint whisper or delicate fragrance of a once perfume, dabbed behind the ear of the matron of this place, in romantic sentiment, once, in recognition of the heyday, most now can not recall.

     In only a few moments, the witness, sitting in calm contemplation of the environs of what is old and otherwise abandoned, can detect the soft silken texture of a dress or jacket rustling upon its wearer, possibly coming down the adjacent stairway, the soft thud of a child trying to remove boots at the doorway into the kitchen, the unsettling voices of former inmates of this place, going about their daily fare, of living, working, cajoling, weeping, laughing, arguing a point, singing together in spiritual harmony, yet not being present at all, in this cavernous room, once a parlor with a view out onto the pond embraced by the hillside pinery, with its random leaning birches, as if Robert Frost had set the landscape to match his poetic interest.

     The silent partner in this charade of past realities, can feel without compromise to prevailing actuality, a mouse scampering across the hardwood floor, and a chipmunk having just now jumped upon the window sill outside, the quilting of moods of its past, this now humbled residence that once so firmly held back the inclement weather to protect its mortal dependents from harm and discomfort. At times the hollow room is filled with a musty atmosphere of sadness and regret, and it might compel the attentive witness to abandon the vigil, as having experienced enough. As gently inspired as the change of outside light, to illuminate the parlor from its momentary gloom, the room has a more inspired brightness of prevailing mood, as if at any moment an invigorated gathering might manifest from the thin dusty air, and resume where it had left off, of mortal festivity and rampant optimism, that tomorrow might well be as pleasing as today. In the moments to follow it is characteristic of these antiquated quarters, abandoned, left to succumb in its own obscure retirement, the internal enchantments should become faint and reclusive to the enquiring eye, and sensitive ear, such that the voices, the laughter and singing become ever so quiet and distant. To the psychic sensibility, the haunting is at its finale, as a paranormal entity. There must then be some sadness that this is so, as these apparitions of the past, having loved and been nurtured by this place, have possess no discernible shred of malevolence, not wishing to unsettle or disturb the compliance of normal course, and the decency of an uncompromising residence, with a new reality, an updated encumbrance of inmates in the most contemporary setting. But antiquity is most often mistaken as being benign in terms of energy; the spirit-kind duly considered vanquished by mortal will, and disbelief. And the union of antiquity and the paranormal, unfathomable, when to the watcher of such enchantments of time and spirit, it is pure fantasy and unfettered imagination, that allows a ghost to be a ghost in it own drama of strange fiction. Nothing more, and nothing less. Still, it begs the question, how many of you have had a paranormal experience in your lives? Have you ever seen or been the recipient of a message from the grave? The image of a lost family member or friend, standing in the doorway of your bedroom, in the middle of the night, letting you know he, or she, has arrived safely to the “other side”? If we were to acknowledge the existence of ghosts, and the ability of those who have crossed, to make contact with the living, what might the percentage be then, of those who could readily admit to having had one or more relationships with the dining, or the clearly deceased? Could it be that a majority of the living have had, from birth to their present maturity, a paranormal encounter? Is it then, within the realm of possibility, paranormally speaking, that the interior of an old farmhouse could be haunted by its past, and shared with those who, for some reason, cross its threshold for the sake of experience and adventure? If you suppose that it is not only possible but likely, and an experience that you would enjoy, as a milestone of discovery, then you may well find that the coming series of chapters, over the next month, about “The Oaken Snuggery,” of Rose Hill, Ontario, will be a sensory-awakening journey that might well provide some illumination in this antiquated Muskoka farmhouse situated just north of the Town of Bracebridge, in the far reaches of what can still be considered South Muskoka.

     I have walked the pathways of the former homestead, and I have seen and experiences its spirited presences, the subtle mood changes, that elevate an atmosphere from pleasant and comforting, to the unease of melancholy and sunsettling sadness, for no apparent reason of weather or time of day. I can admit to having felt the soft tissue of a human hand in mine, held at my side, and feeling its strength tugging at me to stop, for a moment, at an apparently important junction of a path with another, where something in the past may have manifested. Knowing that it is indeed the hand of a child holding yours, but being too pensive to look down immediately, just in case a visible entity is walking alongside. Nothing threatening about the sensation. Nothing to inspire fear or that would make the recipient of affection, flee the scene with rising trepidation about such things as hobgoblins and bandy legged wee beasties. For the moment of engagement, the witness might be served well by validating the experience, and showing acceptance of the reality, that some earthbound spirits have a quest of which a mortal might play a role. Thus I allowed the sensation to continue, trying to absorb the very enchanted moment, between the parties, seen and unseen, until finally the soft, gentle caress of fingers upon fingers ceased to be, and we travelled our separate paths, until, that is, we were destined to meet once more upon this beautiful landscape on the cusp of a Muskoka spring.

     Welcome to my story of a most wonderfully haunted place, “The Oaken Snuggery,” operated by Mr. And Mrs. Bosevelt, as a charming Bed and Breakfast amidst a forest of pine, birches, oaks, and those thriving stands of lilacs that send an entrancing perfume about the environs in the late spring, when this pasture and pond-side explodes in new life and color.

     Please join me tomorrow, as we open the door of the country inn, and accept the kindnesses of the Bosevelts for a month long stay in the countryside; a homestead property that was first settled in the late 1860’s and living was hard and the prosperity thin to non existent. Times would change. Some things would not, because that is the magic of antiquity after all.