The Oaken Snuggery - Part Five

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART FIVE

BY TED CURRIE

     As a youngster, with that grand curiosity and vigor, to seek out adventure and exploration, my partner admits her childhood was spent in a heaven-inspired paradise. Growing up in a fairyland of enchanted, misty woodlands, the deeply rich band of evergreens hugging the Lake Rosseau shoreline, at Windermere, Suzanne readily admits there was a paranormal quality to the environs, deliciously textured between vivid realities and inspiring fantasies. In the forests surrounding the family cottage, opposite the picturesque Wellesley Island, she had unfettered opportunities to explore the landscape at all times of the day, and on her travels, it wasn’t entirely uncommon to sense the woodlands were occupied by more than just the voyeur, her, and the creatures who inherently belonged to this acreage of tall pines. There were, as she tells the story, times when, on the hillside above the cottage, between the adjacent farm pasture, and the cottage fence and outbuildings, she would suddenly become aware of a strange music coming from the shadowy thicket in front. As a child, coming upon this strange delicate music, she felt as if she had accidentally stumbled upon fairies preparing for that evening’s moonlight revel, under direction of Queen Mab. When she would approach the place where the music was most clearly audible, the sounds would suddenly cease, as if the wee musicians did not wish to be discovered at their recreations. With the sun beams streaking through the overhanging pine boughs, and the dark, moving shadows blotching the scene, it made quite an impression on the youngster, sensing the resident enchantment of what to most passersby was nothing more than a typical Muskoka forest. Nothing more special than this, and certainly nothing that would qualify it as enchanted or haunted. It is known in paranormal studies, that children are quite perceptive of such strange events and circumstances, that well qualify as hauntings and spirited visitations upon the living. She can still clearly recall the music of those occasions, and yet in a lifetime she still could not put a name to it, or who might have written it in antiquity. Best described, it was “other worldly.” If you have spent much time in the woodlands, over the four seasons in this region of Ontario, it is possible obviously, that you too might have experienced something or other, that defied immediate identification; such as being the rustle of a fox in the fern cover, a rabbit hopping through the tall summer grasses, deer thumping through the birch hollow, or the often eerie moan of a spring wind singing through the boughs of evergreens. Maybe that cadence of bashing down upon on the old earth, and the frenzy of snapping twigs and rustling foliage, has come from the ghost horse belonging to the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, having taken a detour through your woods this evening. Truth is, many of us, as children, had the conflict between reality and fantasy, and were told by parents, time and again, that we simply had over-active imaginations. But possibly, and although I was never able to convince my parents to the contrary, there were fairies, hobgoblins and ghosts in those beautiful woodlands of our home region. Maybe Suzanne did interrupt the fairies preparing for their festivities. But we should never abandon fantasy as a harbinger of some element, some particle of reality, as it would be naive to believe enchantments are all the handiwork of story tellers like me.

     The April sun this morning was a offered a splendid respite to what had been a long and bitter winter season. March had been a mix of weather but mostly cold and dull as it was, and I admit to basking for awhile, sitting in an office chair, its position to the window affording a nice vista over the front yard of the old farmhouse, now identified by the sign posted on the lane, as “The Oaken Snuggery,” an English reference I’m sure, there not being many “Snuggeries” in Muskoka’s past and present. It certainly had its charm, being nestled into this pine forest, with its hollows of topography, and its rounded, smoothed hillsides that undoubtedly get mowed once a week through the summer months. There are numerous venerable maples and some leaning birches to contrast the landscape from its evergreen adornments. The rear of the farmhouse is a far more sprawling acreage with a pond and creeks visible from the main floor picture window in what the owners, the Boosevelts call the “Great Room,” although that is a slight exaggeration about its size.

     It was still quite early in the morning, and although the Bed and Breakfast hosts were surely up and about, starting breakfast preparation, I thought it worthwhile to take a walk outside, to get a better idea what the scenery was like, seeing as I didn’t get a chance the previous day with settling in, and of course, meeting the eight guests, in two parties, who had arrived later in the day.

     I snuck out, undetected from the back door, which was only a four step decline from where my small office-room was situated. It wasn’t really a back exit, but instead a door at the side, that was concealed by a couple of lush cedars in a bordered garden. I ambled along the bricked pathway down the gradual slope of the hillside, heading toward the shoreline of the rather large pond, at this time of the year, not quite as green and full of the fern canopy it would obviously have in several months, dotted along this sunny but wet expanse of nostalgic terrain. I deviated from the red bricked pathway, and found my way up one small hillside and down another, weaving in an out of tree cover, old and young maples clustered in places, short of being qualified as a sugar bush, a popular place at this time of year in Muskoka. The variety of treed areas were what arrived here after the initial and secondary clearings, for the original homestead back in the late 1860’s presumably, and with the vegetation having been altered by property uses ever since, it was similar to many re-generating rural properties, after farming interests gave up trying to make a profit from the land, allowing it to revert to its natural state. The use of this old farm house as a Bed and Breakfast is a perfect re-use of the property, and probably a much better way economically to benefit from this particularly scenic acreage. Farmers weren’t, in their day out here, too interested in the inherent value of the scenery. The fact that the arable soil was thin and in short supply, was the impediment that was found to be the ultimate obstacle. This and the fact the growing season in Muskoka is a short one even today.

     As I rose to the top of a third small hillside, I looked back on a most pleasing scene, as the surface of the pond was reflecting with considerable brilliance, the early rays of light breaking through the evergreen ridge. The Bosevelts had done a superb job sculpting this landscape to compliment their Bed and Breakfast farm house, and although it was a little bit too romantically appointed for my taste, it was, in the Martha Stewart scheme of decorating for “entertaining” of which she is well accomplished, it could only be observed as being a near perfect place to spend a few days, a week, or a month if so desired. It was a peaceful place and even if there are ghosts haunting it, they may well be considered honored guests. Like haunted manor houses and castles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, I could actually imagine guests coming to “The Oaken Snuggery,” because of the spirited enhancements of the house and countryside. I won’t suggest this now, to either of my hosts, who at present, feel the exact opposite; several guests being intruded upon during their stay by something of the paranormal ilk, including a vision of an old woman rocking in a chair, while knitting in the illumination of a bright moon glow cascading through the window of a vacant room. I would very much like to witness this myself, as it is my duty here, on behalf of the Bosevelts, to find out whether there are textbook ghosts here or just the conditions of decorating that adversely spark vivid imaginations of those vulnerable patrons wishing to be haunted in a Hollywood fashion.

     I was able to navigate my way through one particularly thick stand of sprawling cedars and what appeared to be old dried-out clumps of lilac bushes from an era decades removed. It was common for pioneers to import and plant lilac stands near their homesteads for color and character for their roughly hewn clearings, and as I have found out many times, in my adventures hunting for forgotten rural cemeteries, used by families in those early years of settlement, lilacs were the choice plant to mark these final resting spots; commonly a short distance from their log shanties. I struggled through the evergreen boughs, tripping several times over low branches and small stump outcroppings from the soft ground cover, and eventually I came to a very small clearing that, as experience serves, it gave every appearance of being a long-ago burial ground. The Bosevelts did tell me where it was, so I wasn’t surprised to find it, rather that I found it so easily on my first walk-about of the property.

     There were obvious depressions in the ground that parallel many of the other private homestead burial grounds I’ve inspected in the rural clime of South Muskoka. It initially gave the appearance of there being four or five plots in the small section of treeless land, but as there were no visible grave markers, or inset stones to mark the head and feet of the graves, I would have to consult with the owners to see if they have any knowledge how many bodies are in place in the ground of the contemporary “Oaken Snuggery.” This is quite common throughout Muskoka, as it wasn’t rare that a family member was planted in the back acreage, versus being taken many miles of difficult travel, to be buried in a church or village cemetery. First of all, in the 1860’s and 70’s there were few church sites in South Muskoka, and fewer cemeteries available for burials of distant pioneers, who found themselves quite isolated, especially in the winter months. Even getting a doctor to visit a homestead site would take several days if a medically trained individual could be found at all. Many homesteaders died as a direct result of emergency situations because they could not get medical assistance in time. For the sake of expedience, the deceased were often buried on the family’s homestead, where surviving members would be close to their departed loved ones. As development in Muskoka pushes evermore into the hinterland, where these old homesteads were situation, it is to be expected more bodies will be inadvertently exhumed by earth movers and foundation-diggers.

     I sat for a few moments on a fallen pine tree, that looked as if it had been toppled over in a windstorm, and I contented myself wondering about the former citizens of this country, unidentified and intruded upon by new forest growth, daydreaming for a bit about how they might have fit into the profile of that first, or even second homestead, that was erected on this property. I did know, thanks to information passed on by the Bosevelts, that both roughly hewn shelters had burned down in their respective days of service, and that The Oaken Snuggery was actually the third dwelling place on this acreage in the former hamlet of Rose Hill, situated north of the present Town of Bracebridge, at the very north line of what can be considered geographically as being in South Muskoka.

     After awhile, I decided that I should make an appearance at the house, as breakfast would soon be served, and I, having only had a small dinner the night before, was feeling a little peckish at the moment. I vowed to return to this hallowed spot on this sprawling, and interesting homestead property, because I had a strong feeling, that who rested eternally in these plots, may well have something to do with the resident hauntings at the Bed and Breakfast. If nothing else, it was a nice place to sit and make my copious notes about this whole ghost hunting exercise, now into its second day.

     I remember the evening, quite a few years back, when I finally finished the last editorial proofing of my collecting friend’s biography in my downstairs office at Birch Hollow. As I believe that mortals can communicate with those who have passed, I never stopped conversing with the subject of the biographical work, and Dave Brown, in his own eccentric way, just as in life, did the same but with a lot fewer words. When I had been hired on by Dave to write his biography, particularly about his work in the founding years of the Outdoor Education program in Ontario Schools, he informed me we would partner on the work and share the credits. I was good with this sharing concept, but it was short-lived. He phoned Suzanne a few days later to tell her (but he wouldn’t talk to me), that he had a fatal blood disease, and only had a few months to live. After Dave’s death Suzanne and I decided, with substantial support from his friends and colleagues with the Hamilton Board of Education, to carry-on with the biography on Dave’s goodwill, and yes, his assistance from the grave so to speak. I never finished a day’s research and writing, in those three months that followed, that I didn’t extend hearty thanks to Dave for his encouragement and inspiration. I felt he was looking over my shoulder as I worked, and I just normalized the sensory situation, by acknowledging him and the good work we were putting together, to get this book to the printer. On that final night of work, when all the necessary modifications were made, and all the editing issues were cleared-up, I closed up my typewriter case, tucked all his old files in my desk, packed up the manuscript into three envelopes to give to the printer in the morning, and after all was completed, I asked whether or not he (Dave) was happy with the work we had just completed, and if it met his expectations. Dave was persnickety to a fault. I got up from the desk, stood there looking at the old couch where Dave used to sleep on his regular visits to Birch Hollow, and as I turned to exit the room up the small number of stairs to the kitchen, I distinctly felt the big, meaty hand of my good friend, settle heavily on my left shoulder, as he often did when he arrived at Birch Hollow. It caught me entirely off-guard, and I even felt the hand squeeze my shoulder, in what I believe was an approving manner, demonstrating that the manuscript had been approved. The sensation lasted only a few moments, but it was without doubt, the hand-work of the fellow I had known so well, and worked so closely with in the short time we had been connected by mutual interests, particularly old book collecting. It wasn’t a frightening experience whatsoever, and I thanked him for all the help he had provided, from the other side, of course, in the three tough months of trying to piece together the man’s exceptional life-story. Do I believe in ghosts? They apparently believe in me! It’s why I’m here now at The Oaken Snuggery, working on behalf of the Bosevelts, to identify who and what is haunting this lovely old farmhouse, and scaring some of the guests. The work continues.