The Oaken Snuggery Part 6

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART SIX

BY TED CURRIE

     “Neither Will nor Reason is the product of Nature. Therefore either I am self-existent (a belief which no one can accept) or I am a colony of some Thought and Will that are self-existent. Such reason and goodness as we can attain must be derived from a self-existent Reason and Goodness outside ourselves. In fact, a Supernatural. (This material was taken from the context of an essay written and presented by author C.S. Lewis, in a lecture to the Socratic Club, in England . “Mr. Lewis went on to say that it was often objected that the existence of the Supernatural is too important to be discernible only by abstract argument, and thus only by the lectured few. But in all other ages the plain has accepted the findings of the mystics and the philosophers for his initial belief in the existence of the Supernatural. Today the ordinary man is forced to carry that burden himself. Either mankind has made a ghastly mistake in rejecting authority, or the power or powers ruling his destiny are making a daring experiment, and all are to become sages. A society consisting solely of plain men must end in disaster. If we are to survive we must either believe the seers or scale those heights ourselves. Evidently, then, something beyond Nature exists. Man is on the border line between the Natural and the Supernatural. Material events cannot produce spiritual activity, but the latter can be responsible  for many of our actions on Nature. Will and Reason can not depend on anything but themselves, but Nature can depend on Will and Reason, or, in other words, God created nature. The relation between Nature and Supernature, which is not a relation in space, and time, becoming intelligible if the Supernatural made the Natural. We even have an idea of this making, since we know the power of imagination, though we can create nothing new, but can only rearrange our material provided through sense data. It is not inconceivable that the universe was created by an imagination strong enough to impose phenomena on other minds.”

     I have a photo copy of this editorial piece taken from “The Collected Work of C.S. Lewis,” the author of course, of the tales of Narnia and the magic wardrobe that gives the children a conduit to all kinds of magical adventures. As for understanding his expertise on the Natural and the Supernatural, I confess to getting lost in his wisdom, as a result of my own lack of tutoring in the finer details of what takes something beyond the “natural.” For example, as I’ve been sitting in the Great Room of The Oaken Snuggery, making these notes, a candle on a table to my right, has been blown out no less than four times, to the point that the proprietor has just now given up re-lighting it, muttering to herself about the miserable drafts still coming through the front windows. I haven’t noticed a draft whatsoever, and I’ve been here now for more than an hour. Still the flame has been extinguished, and relit by Mrs. Bosevelt, refusing to surrender the romance of the bright high-ceiling room, at the back of the old farmhouse. Would Mr. Lewis, if he had been available for an after-dinner beverage, have explained the nuances of drafts and peculiarities of old houses, and the extinguishing of this candle, as being a Natural or Supernatural event; four times mind you in less than an hour, in a room fronted by large brand new, energy efficient windows. I sense a spirit is playing silly ass regardless, but it is the more conservative approach to blame it on a draft, because that’s what old houses do when bored.

     “You will not like this shorn place unless your mind is attuned to the brilliance of loneliness and the hardness of nature. There is nothing of softness here unless it be the bogs and marshes all over the moor. A place, in its depths, inhabited only by cattle and horses, by wild bees in disused quarries and the mounting skylark. A place lit by the light of wide skies the colors of yellow lichen, milkwort, biting-stone-crop and the green of open space. A forgotten place of ruined cottages on the edge of civilization, crossed by horse riders, and a single plane overhead. A place of profound secrets and of and revitalizing myth.” (My Cornwall, written by James Turner, on “Bodmin Moor”)

     I was satisfied that I had located the unmarked family cemetery on the property of “The Oaken Snuggery,” quite a distance from the old farm house, past the depression of the pond and assorted marshes in the locale. The plots are in a small clearing where there is clearly a stand of leafless lilacs, an historic indication where these rural cemeteries have been situated, from as far back as the late 1850’s. There are no statistics as to how many settlers died on the homestead acreage they were trying to clear, and establish profitable farms, but I think we would find this number rather shocking, especially what percentage of emigrants who didn’t survive the rural hardships in the first year, up to five years. Odds became a little better as time went on, and the hardships were addressed. In those first few years, settlers without any experience farming in such an inhospitable region, with poor agricultural qualities and quantities, failed simply because of the difficulty clearing enough land of trees, stumps and rocks, to be able to plant a first crop, if only to use the eventual harvest to sustain the family over the winter months. Crop failures were commonplace, because of the thin soil over rock, and the short growing season. I digress. Sitting out there beside this tiny family cemetery reminds me of the great hardships these folks had, coming from the old country, and its cities, to attempt the impossible, farming under such adverse conditions. Medical assistance. It was as poor as the soil was thin. Many died long before medical treatment arrived, and there were no hospitals as such in the 1860’s and 70’s, when I would argue the need was extreme, as injuries and disease raged in the frail settlers unused to such sustaining hardship, far more difficult for survival, than if they had stayed in their places of origin.

     It was a sparkling April morning, and there was a lot of activity in the tree tops of the tall evergreens bordering this incline above the hollow where the pond, at present, was playing host to a dozen or so ducks recently returning to the region after a long winter season. There was the wafting fragrance of full cedars at my back, and the strong scent of these tall pines, mixing with the aroma of Mother Earth thawing from its winter deep-freeze. There are still a few clumps of snow visible in the shaded areas of the woodland here, and in a few other places I noticed on my morning hike along the bricked pathways. There was the rustling of tiny creatures through the layers of autumn leaves and brown needles, and the squirrel population, at present, appears to have suffered no decline over the winter months, as there are at least a half dozen foraging beneath the hardwoods to my left. It is a most pleasant panorama from here, and it is obvious the Bosevelts had the right idea, selecting this mid-Muskoka acreage to operate their Bed and Breakfast. It is quite an enchanting property all right, and even with its busy natural protocols, that I’m witnessing at this moment, it is very much a place of solitude and peacefulness, perfect for the writer-me to benefit from as long as I’m able to remain in residence.

     There was a gentle breeze washing through the upper boughs of the venerable pines, and what a haunting refrain it offered the voyeur, in his morning vigil. It was at this moment of gentle calm, that I once again felt a presence watching over me, as if the entities were lodged in the low boughs of the maples just to my right. Maybe you can remember the feeling, in such a circumstance, that you weren’t alone despite all appearances to the contrary. Possibly it was the fact several large crows had settled down on the branches of these trees a short time later, after encircling them for several moments before lighting on the leafless branches. The sun was drenching down through the pine needles and the glow was wavering strangely on the rejuvenating forest floor, where the heads of ferns would soon appear in the spring ritual of rebirth. When I arose from the stump where I had been sitting during this brief sojourn, my eye detected a faint billowing of something white, on the brink of the hillside, that was only barely visible from where I was now standing. In fact, I spotted two such visible vapors wafting in the slight wind rising up from the hollow of the pond, as if a detached mist, drifting along the tree line, visible for only seconds at a time, before disappearing frequently in the darkness of the woodlot between me and the manifestation.

     The two wisps of thin folk darted in and out of the brilliant sunlight, more visible in the low light, than when dancing through the illumination in the open spaces between tree clusters. I wondered if there was some campfire or possibly someone smoking a pipe nearby, exhaling these mysterious, small clouds, moving with some detectable intent, coming closer to me in a movement best described as a frolic more than something with a more sinister intent. The two tiny clouds of thin vapor, seemed to be able to navigate through the trees, and it dawned on me, as I stood silent and in considerable awe, that I might actually be witnessing ghosts at play, if that is possible. The closer they got to me, being about five feet apart for most of the traverse through the tree lot, the smaller the visible mist, to the point that with arm’s reach, both had dissipated into the beams of sunlight drenching the clearing where I was situated; being the border of the overgrown cemetery plot. In that moment I felt a wee shiver, and detected the slight perfume of lilac, yet it was still more than a month before these companion bushes would have their first blossoms bending down the thin boughs. I couldn’t depart at that moment, as I needed time to replay what had just happened in a most subtle yet beautiful way, as if the spirited entities of this pioneer property, had reached out to the interloper, to test his sensitivities to such things as ghosts and such, still able to play as once, when they were part of this grand mortal coil of life and times.

     As began today’s story, I shall end the same way. I have lit the candle on the table beside me four more times, in the past half hour, as Mrs. Bosevelt laughed at my ill-fated efforts to keep the flame burning. Each time, after about five minutes, the flame would be extinguished, but as I watched what was happening, there was no movement of the flame to either side, which would, of course, be evidence of a draft hitting from either direction. In four out of four occurrences, the candle was extinguished from a force coming from above, as if the ghost was using a candle-snuffer instead of immortal breath, that by the way, would smell a tad musty. I pointed this out to Mrs. Bosevelt later that evening, and she had no problem believing it was the handiwork of a resident spirit, one obviously worried about the safety of her ignited candles. Others in the room and the dining area also extinguished themselves. I’m not sure C.S. Lewis. Can help me on this one, to sort out what is natural about this old farmhouse, and what is quite clearly of the Supernatural ilk. I’ve got a lot of reading to do, that’s for certain. This haunting is complicated and I’m pretty sure we’ve got multiple spirits working the floor here at this Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast.

     Is it possible I had my first paranormal experience at The Oaken Snuggery? I would feel honored and privileged if this was the case, as it was the very purpose of my visit, and my extended lodging with the Bosevelts.