The Oaken Snuggery Part 13

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 13

BY TED CURRIE

     “The ’Twentieth’ school was built of logs hewn on two sides. The cracks were chinked and filled with plaster, which had a curious habit of falling out during the summer months, no one knew how; but somehow the holes always appeared on the boys’ side, and being there, were found to be most useful, for as looking out of the window was forbidden, through these holes the boys could catch glimpses of the outer world - glimpses worth catching, too, for all around stood the great forest, the playground of boys and girls during noon-hour and recesses; an enchanted land, peopled, not by fairies, elves, and other shadowy beings of fancy, but with living things, squirrels and chipmunks, and weasels, chattering ground-hogs, thumping rabbits, and stealthy foxes, not to speak of a ghost of flying things, from the little gray bird that twittered its happy nonsense all day, to the big-eyed owl that hooted solemnly when the moon came out. A wonderful place this forest, for children to live in, to know, and two love, and in after days, to long for.”

     I had been browsing through some of the Bosevelt’s book shelves, to see if there were any titles I might enjoy, while sitting next to the fire snapping away in the hearth, in this great room of The Oaken Snuggery. It was with great joy that I found a copy of the first book I ever purchased. It was the 1968 hardcover copy, (of the original 1901 release) of Reverend Charles Gordon’s “Glengarry School Days.” The author used the pen name Ralph Connor, and wrote many adventure stories for young adults back in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Many are still popular to this day, and I have numerous copies of his work in my own library at Birch Hollow. What was of greater importance, for me, was that it was the first book of several hundred thousand titles I’ve owned in my years as a book collector and seller, now pushing beyond four decades. I owe something then to the memory of the good Mr. Gordon, because the book inspired me so much, especially in the field of Canadiana, that from that point I became a bibliophile. The only reality that held me back was that I was a kid on a tiny allowance, and it took a couple of decades to build up a decent library of good books.

     I remember being on a school trip with my class from Bracebridge Public School, and stopping at Upper Canada Village on the return trip from Ottawa. I had about five bucks left after buying a lot of souvenirs in the nation’s capital, and I decided to invest the left over funds to purchase “Glengarry School Days,” for the amount of $3.95, and then, for one dollar, I acquired a freshly baked loaf of bread from the Village bake shop, which I picked at for the balance of the road trip home. Even before we hit the welcome sign at the Bracebridge boundary, I had already read a third of the book, and before the weekend was finished, I had consumed both the loaf of bread and book at about the same time. By the way, I loved Upper Canada Village and it, as well, came to influence my love of Canadiana, in glass, wood, furniture, and quilts. On this occasion, I settled into the warm embrace of an armchair near the fireplace, (because April was still a little on the chilly side), and began reading this important little book as if for the first time. I think in many ways, it was the book that created my fascination for Canadian history and the inspiring national landscape, especially as it exists here in South Muskoka, where The Snuggery is situated. As well, it probably had something to do with my interest in Canadian ghosts as well, bringing me to the Bosevelt’s rather haunted farmhouse, now a comfortable Bed and Breakfast in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill.

     It can be said with some compelling evidence, that I am being adversely affected by the alleged hauntings at The Oaken Snuggery. Maybe it is mind of matter as the cynic reminds, of what the brain can fabricate in it’s recreations, to confound the logic of an unfettered and liberal volume of common sense. The ability to be self critical under the circumstances, is failing me a little as of this hour of this day, as I sit bolt upright in my bedstead, trying desperately to make sense of three dreams, one after the other, dealing with the two children, both girls, who seem to be invading my space with increasing vigor. Then, earlier last evening, when I returned to my room following supper with the Bosevelts, hosts here at the Oaken Snuggery, the welded together metal crosses I had placed in a glass dish on the only table in the room, had been removed by someone or something. When I came back to the room I noticed a lamp-light shining under the door, and I heard the distinct singing voices of what I would identify as two young ladies, who by the way, are very good at disappearing in an instant. Much as they vanished before I could catch a glimpse of them when I slowly swung open the heavy old door. Of course, they probably didn’t have any form at any rate, because they had no intention, in their paranormal process, of letting a witness to see them in bodily form. This must be part of the game they are playing, because they aren’t backward whatsoever, infiltrating every other sensory perception of my being, including my dreamscapes.

     I can feel my rapid pulse, still thumping away in my neck and chest, and the cold sweat that I awoke with, after this, the third consecutive dream this morning, and it’s still only three a.m. They’re not nightmares but they are unsettling in all ways, and I’m becoming quite aware that there is a purpose here and now, the paranormal entities haunting the writer-in-residence, to appreciate their own personal stake in this South Muskoka Bed and Breakfast owned by the Bosevelts. I must be slow in this regard, because I still feel quite mystified at it all, and don’t really believe I’m any closer to putting a story together about what gently but persuasively haunts this charming old farmstead in the former hamlet of Rose Hill, situated just north of my old hometown, Bracebridge.

     The dreams are a succession of tidbits and half-hints, half my own intimacies, of which have fed my dreamland adventures with rich details since childhood. The dreams reveal two strong entities without question. But they are invisible in my dreams as they have been in this house. The only time I witnessed anything of form, was while at the pioneer cemetery above the pond, when in a rather brisk wind rising over the embankment, and through the pinery, I felt confident that I had witnessed two distinctly separate ghost-like vapors, wafting in the air currents, as if small see-through sheets lifting and bobbing about like kites tethered by string. They were not kites and there was no string. The dreamland experiences were vague and without memorable images, but there were sensory aspects to each one, such as the scent of lilacs, which I had recognized from my room the night before, and then the soft singing in the background, yet no particular tune registered with me. Each one was short in duration, because I would awake and immediately check the clock, thinking there might be some relevance to a time of night or morning common to these subtle and strange interventions. The first two dreams, but very much shy of being nightmarish, were particularly teasing and sensual, as if trying to lead me onto something or other, but nothing being of the clarity required to satisfy a researcher’s agenda. The third mini-dream was far more aggressive and yet far more emotional, as if the wee spirit-kind were getting frustrated trying to influence my unconscious moments, such that I would suddenly arise and understand completely what they had been trying to say, in a subliminal way, as a ghost talks to a mortal without the fear-factor.

     From what little detail has been presented in these consecutive dreams, the two young girls had something to do with this property, and seemingly were the victims of some type of mishap or misadventure near this house, or one of the earlier settlers’ cabins, both of which burned down prior to the farmhouse construction early in the new century. I am not clairvoyant and have never made any claim of being a medium, so it is a one way avenue with these alleged spirits, trying to contact me, but for my part, there is a validation, sincerely so, that I wish to meet them to know more about their circumstance, and why they feel it necessary to haunt the Bosevelt’s charming Bed and Breakfast. And frighten off some of their guests! I understand with this one-sided arrangement, I have to take what I can get, and I suppose that means having these rather nebulous dreamscapes that seem like an illuminated abstract painting. I dream in color by the way, as I have for most of my life.

     The welded together icon, the two crosses fused in the middle, were not part of the dream. None of the three in fact. The most profound aspect of the ghost hunt, at this point, has involved both finding the crosses in a puddle alongside the front pathway, on a stormy April night, and the reality it was not only given to me to handle, and examine, but to, in some way, preserve as a possible minor artifact of evidence, regarding this very odd and seriously cold case of paranormal mischief. Why then, I thought to myself, as I continued to shiver in the dark, with only an outside lamp to illuminate the room through the window pane, wasn’t the fused crosses part of the dream scenario. If the young ladies had come to my room to remove the crosses, obviously important to them, why then didn’t they plant the seeds of questioning in my mind, when they had the opportunity during my feeble attempt at slumber? There is little doubt these wee spirits have an interest in this house and those who dwell here presently, including the guests who retreat here for a Muskoka vacation. I am not feeling in any way victimized by the entities, or the fact they have found the paranormal key to entering not only my room but my unconscious self, to play silly asses with my emotions. But it is all most certainly leading to some discovery of fact fractured free of this flight of fantasy, that alludes but doesn’t define what this haunting is all about. I probably won’t be able to go back to sleep for a long while now, and I’m probably going to conger up a dream anyway, based on the first three of the evening. Maybe it will be about anything other than wee ghosts and such. I love dreams about food most of all.

     I was awakened by the first sun beams of the day bringing a pleasant, invigorating glow into my room, and stretching itself onto the bottom of my bed. When I turned over on my back to lounge awhile longer before being called to breakfast my Mrs. Bosevelt, my kind host, I couldn’t help but notice the faint but unmistakable image of two faces in the mirror, neither being representative of me, or Mrs. Bosevelt. I pulled myself up on my elbows to have a clearer look at the large mirror attached to the white dresser in the corner, and of course, as one might predict, the faces had disappeared once more. I wanted to chastise them, I honestly did, as if a parent would correct his offspring for being rude to a house-guest by being bold and intrusive. I propped my head up with several spare pillows, and stared at that mirror for the next half hour, just in case the mischief makers decided to make a return, in the visual sense, framed by the woodwork of the old mirror. Either this room was exceptionally haunted or I was being targeted as a conduit between mortal inmates and the rest of the spirit-gang, because I believe there are a few others here beyond two precocious children at ethereal play.

    There is something amazingly alluring about the Muskoka topography, and whenever I feel a little low on inspiration, all it takes to refuel the spirit, is to take a walk in the woods, or along the rocky shore of one of our picturesque lakes, rivers or ponds, such as the one that sparkles in the sunlight here on the Bosevelt’s property, bordered by the tall pines and leaning birches that all seem so poetic in folklore. I have had many adventures here already, and most have had something to do with the outdoors, especially along the old pathways from the days when it was a farmstead, and the cart-ways connected to neighboring properties. There is a lot of history imbedded here, and I wish I knew more about the folks who worked this homestead, and who their neighbors were, who tried to eke out an existence from such a harsh, yet beautiful environs. Of course there are ghosts here. Why wouldn’t there be? Ghosts are created by tragic circumstance, and there were many such tragedies involving these pioneer neighborhoods, and the village graveyards identify some of the cases of premature and accidental deaths. Just reading the inscriptions, that note birth and death dates, tells the voyeur premature death wasn’t uncommon, especially for children and their mothers, who died in child-birth. The veiled sadness is felt when one walks in close proximity to one of these over-grown and slightly neglected cemeteries, where these pioneers are buried. Yet against the backdrop of this picturesque landscape, the haunting emotions of history, fade into a brighter melancholy, quite accommodating to the story teller, sitting now, once again, with a good book in hand; Glengarry School Days.