The Oaken Snuggery Part 14

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 14

BY TED CURRIE

     I was sitting here, the other evening, tucked into the warm embrace of an armchair, in the Great Room with its large fireplace, at the Bosevelts charming Bed and Breakfast, watching a spring storm spray spirals of snow down upon the open grasses of the pasture sprawling out in front, which for The Snuggery, is actually the rear yard, which stretches for quite a few acres to the north. The many side by side floor to ceiling windows offer an amazing panorama of the landscape here in Rose Hill, and on this evening, the guests here were treated to a great show of what Muskoka is known for, especially in regards to the winter season that can stretch with snow and ice well into May, if nature feels so inclined. What was amazing to witness were the lightning flashes and thunder while the snow was being blown west to east across the pasture and the darkened pond, where geese had been drifting the day before. With the howl of the wind and the crackling of the fire in the hearth, it was quite a remarkable display of nature’s artistry, and I couldn’t help but think what it must have been like, in the days of log shanties on this same tract of land, when storms like this blew up over Georgian Bay to the west, and tracked over the less that weather resistant shelters, where snow most definitely would have penetrated the gaps in the chinking and drifted onto the floor inside. But then it was part of their culture of survival, just as this resident comfort at The Snuggery keeps me cozy tonight, as I sip on a nice cup of tea, just delivered by the kindly Mrs. Bosevelt, being a considerate host of the allegedly haunted old farmhouse. Tonight, in the midst of this rather severe storm, in conflict between the seasons, it does seem like a very haunted residence, but an attractive one at least. I wish therefore, not to trade it for one of those 1860’s log shanties with its dirt floors, and evergreen bough bedsteads. I am therefore not as hale and hardy as I often feel worthy, when writing about matters of local history. 

     I asked Mr. Bosevelt, my host here at The Oaken Snuggery, whether or not the painting of the old farmhouse, dating back much earlier in the 1900’s, probably before the Second World War, shows some of the lilac bushes that were part of the former homestead. On my walk-about of the property over the past week, I have seen at least five old stands of lilacs, which could have re-generated many times since they were transplanted here by the initial pioneer families, of which there were two that we know of based on preliminary research. My interest was where there had been lilac bushes prior to the house’s renovations over the past several years, especially the construction work on the pathways that run around the Bed and Breakfast domain, and weave in and around the two outbuildings in the backyard. Mrs. Bosevelt, who had been listening in, stated in no uncertain terms, that she had personally insisted on three heavy areas at the front of the house, that were jammed with unattractive, dead and soon-to-be dead lilacs long past their prime of attractiveness. I asked her if, upon consulting the watercolor painting of the former building and grounds, artist unknown, whether those lilac bushes could be identified. Were they the same ones that she had ordered, in the contemporary sense of home improvement, removed and the vacant ground used for flower gardens? Mrs. Bosevelt moved closer to the painting, hanging prominently in the main room, and pointed to the lilacs she had insisted by removed by contractors, but one that had obviously died and been removed before they purchased the Rose Hill property. “Why do you ask Mr. Currie? Is there some significance to lilacs and our ghost problem,” she asked, with a look of skepticism my sleuth work was going to turn up anything more than a short story about a haunted Bed and Breakfast.

     But after I had taken a closer look at the painting, myself, I offered her the opinion that there is a connection between who or what is haunting the Snuggery, and lilacs. Particularly the scent of lilacs as they prevail upon the landscape come early to mid June. “Every time I have had an experience in this house, from my arrival to this point, there is always the faint but distinguishable perfume of lilac,” I replied to the owners, who had also taken a second and third look at the painting which hung a little crooked in the bright light of a table lamp. “I have been to many pioneer homesteads and rural cemeteries where lilac clusters still exist, most of them planted shortly after the homesteaders arrived in Muskoka, to take up free land grants in the late 1860’s. The plants were to bring some color to the green, grey, brown and black landscape, and dignify the property as a family’s willingness to stay on at the homestead despite the plethora of hardships and privations,” I noted, borrowing a few insights from a long tenure as a local historian. “But most important, the spirited visitations made by two children, female I believe, are generally companioned by the smell of blooming lilacs,” I reiterated. “I don’t know why this is, but I have examined all the rooms where this has happened so far, and there is nothing that smells like lilac. And it always disappears when the children vanish after one of their strange visitations. Their is a link between the two, and it seems as if the waifs are trying to tell us something about lilacs as part of their lives, and possibly their deaths, but we’re still missing the facts about who these children are; who they were, and how they related to the families who have lived here since the 1860’s.”

     Both owners admitted that they too had often noticed the perfume of lilac wafting through the old house, but couldn’t related it to any of the numerous ghostly incidents that had occurred during the past year of occupancy, and running the Bed and Breakfast. As well, both had attempted to discover the source of the aroma, which usually seemed most evident in closed areas, and rooms that hadn’t been aired-out frequently, including the attic where there was nothing more than room for storage of old trunks and bits and pieces of furniture that had been left in the house when the real estate deal closed. Obviously the former owners weren’t interested in these sundry articles, and a few press back chairs missing spindles and heavily painted. It wasn’t much to go on, but at least we were all in a more believing frame of mind, when it came to actually confessing that we were dealing with a considerably haunted abode here, and that this effort to identify the entities, wasn’t a wasted effort despite the shortage of hard facts, names and dates of those deceased, who may have stayed behind when their time came to leave this mortal coil. There was a lot of loose evidence to compile, and more experiences to welcome, if that is, the wee lasses will continue providing us with messages from the other side. It seems we have developed a reasonable relationship, and they should be pleased, as spirits can be impressed, so I am told, that we have all, who are presently standing in this room, validated their presence, and their capability to connect with the living. Possibly this coming together, not of course, to rid them from this building and property by religious exorcism, but rather to understand their reasons for making surprise visits, should, if the paranormal is reasonable at negotiation, make a more profound attempt to secure our undivided intention. The little spirited vignettes aren’t helping us along, and stealing the fused metal crosses, doesn’t help fill in this biography with the history it seemingly is warranted for those with past interests, and those of the contemporary passion to live undisturbed in this beautiful old house, on this inspiring acreage of South Muskoka.

     After dinner that evening, I enjoyed a short walk around the pathways closest to the house, enjoying the fact the light of day lasted longer day by day, concluding finally one of the longest winter seasons, as far as cold goes, in my own memory of a half century of living in the District of Muskoka. It was wonderful to hear all the sounds of awakening nature in the regenerating grasses at my feet, where invisible creatures moved about in intricate missions of unspecified accommodation, and how enchanting it was to here the venerable old crows of the county squawking from the towering pines along the far border of the multi-acre property. It didn’t show any appearance of being haunted, or even a good subject property to include in a ghost story. It was far too pleasant and contemporary, beyond the obvious antiquity of the original buildings, and connected sheds, and even looking back at the farmstead in the moments before sunset, with its large windows reflecting the red glow in the deep blue sky, it was a most cheerful and contenting location, perfect for the Thoreauesque writer, to concentrate on this small version of Walden Pond, glistening silver and gold in the fading light of the retiring dusk. What did these children want of the Bosevelts, and what was the message I was to represent when all investigations were completed, and the final chapter had to be penned of the experiences at The Oaken Snuggery? I was counting heavily on Suzanne, back at home, to find something, anything about this property, and those who are buried in the tiny lilac ringed pioneer cemetery at the top of the hill, overlooking the same pond as is painted so heavenly this early evening. But it is for certain that the lilac is pivotal to the plot, if there is indeed such a pinnacle of story-line, to complete this journal to the Bosevelt’s satisfaction. I would like them to feel the effort and expense of inviting this long-in-the-tooth writer to this property, housing and feeding me, three times each day, was worth the investment, considering at the very end of my stay, I will not be able to hand them a containment unit, with a cork in it, as full fledged Hollywood type ghostbusters, may have caught the suspect intruders, bottled them up for convenient transport to anywhere else but their former haunt. My effort will be in story form, as it is the Bosevelt’s choice that no harm come to the residents of The Oaken Snuggery, including the spirit inmates, for the goodwill of one and all. It’s what I liked about the project from the beginning, as it is a most enlightened way to study, identify and well, live in harmony once an understanding has been achieved.

     Now it’s back to the business of identification. Why would the wee lasses take the fused crosses from the glass bowl in my room? And why, when they vanished, was there still a trace of lilac scent in my room? Why is the lilac their calling card, or is that just my interpretation? I need to read a book to clear my mind of preconceived notions and grandiose expectations, of what might happen next at the Bosevelts “Oaken Snuggery.”

      That storm of the other night, ended in such an enchanting gentle snowfall settling over the rolling landscape here at Rose Hill. What had been a tumultuous storm only moments earlier, with drifting and spiraling snow, mixed with thunder and lightening, had calmed considerable, into a typical winter scene for South Muskoka. The only grief for the lovers of spring, was that this snow had fallen to the great compromise of April’s budding life, visible all along the roadways in and out of Rose Hill, the shoots of new growth now covered over by several inches of fresh snow that would take days to melt away again. Still, there was something amazing about this place with all the diversities of nature, and the resident enchantments of this fine house amidst the guard of venerable pines and leaning old birches that Robert Frost wrote about in his famous poems. This was a storied place and ghosts or not, it was a place in the country where I would like to dwell permanently. I would never fear being short of things to write about, even those strange bumps in the night that bring about a little depth and character where newness and decoration have disguised the antiquity I find so endearing of old houses like this one in Rose Hill.