The Pioneer Hamlet of Rose Hill, Muskoka and All The Delightful Spirits In It's Midst

The Ghostly Residence At Rose Hill

 SHADOWS AND SPIRIT LIGHTS AT THAT OLD ROSE HILL PLACE

INTRODUCTION TO OUR MULTI-PART SERIES

BY TED CURRIE

     

     At present, here in the bosom of Birch Hollow, where you have visited before, I have been bundled up against the chill January night, at this humble hearthside, with a typical array of winter reading which is customary for this old bibliophile. This winter, all of the material having something to do with the life and writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have read two biographies of Conan Doyle already, one by his own hand, a nicely preserved first edition published shortly before his death. The majority of books at my side, yet to be opened for eager consumption, feature the author’s most celebrated character, being of course Sherlock Holmes, and his trusted companion, Dr. Watson. I have only recently finished reading “The Valley of Fear,” a well known sleuthing adventure, and a few days prior to this, I had he renewed pleasure of watching the movie version of “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” starring the legendary Basil Rathbone as Mr. Holmes. To me, a big fan of Sherlock Holmes, there is no one better who has portrayed the internationally acclaimed detective.

     My dear wife, Suzanne, and sons, Andrew and Robert, pitched in to advance my Sherlock Holmes collection, with Christmas presents galore, to feed my latest appetite for mystery and its resolution. While it is true that I don’t yet own a classic “deerstalker” hat, as Holmes often wore, and I don’t own a single fashionable cape that would suit the cap, or for that matter, no pipe either, I do however,  possess several large magnifying glasses, and a sidekick researcher named Suzanne, my own Dr. Watson. It’s true my address isn’t Baker Street, but in this undertaking, I am quite happy with the lodgings here at Birch Hollow, in the hinterland of beautiful South Muskoka.

     I few years back, during a rather quiet time on the writing-front, sitting here in this very comfortable chair, looking out over the length and width of the harvest table, with its only adornment being a cheerfully illuminated and scented oil lamp, of the antiquated kind, with a view beyond of our very own moor, or bog as it is better known, I began writing what was supposed to be a simple, no frills, rough draft manuscript, for an eventual book project that I felt suited that’s day’s disposition. I had been growing weary of writing daily posts on what was then a successful blog site where I had a fairly large daily following. I was particularly frustrated with writing about local politics and the frequent excesses of developers in reducing our green space here in paradise, in the bid to put up another parking lot to accommodate the urban blight known as “the strip-mall.” I wasn’t writing with even the smallest amount of happiness, because I simply could not find optimism in the quagmire of what I understood, with considerable experience, to be outright municipal bungling. In fact, that bungling nearly cost us this most beautiful lowland across the lane from Birch Hollow, when town hall decided it should be sold off in order to fundraise to cover their deficit. In part, the deficit for building what we often call the “Crystal Palace,” Gravenhurst style. I was getting depressed by the unending challenges of being a day to day blogger, when so much in my opinion, was deserving front page headlines and investigative journalism, and none of that was happening to sharpen up local council. The only thing different today, is there is much less journalistic attention being paid to our municipal government, and that’s a bad, bad thing. So what does an old blogger do in this kind of stalemate? If I had enjoyed the wealth of several million dollars I might have opened a newspaper to address shortfalls in news coverage. But what a foolish thing that would have been, as there’s not enough revenue potential to make back the investment. We still have a shortfall of information, but it’s up to ratepayers to remain vigilant, in case the wetland near them becomes of interest for future development.

     I had, at around this time, been diagnosed with high blood pressure on the verge of something disastrous, unless I shaped up, and became a gentler, kinder individual, and while my physician didn’t discourage my creative jags, online or otherwise, he suggested it might be an idea to reduce the anger and frustration that I apparently, was infusing with great liberality in each steaming post. Then I set about to write about South Muskoka’s cemeteries for something completely different, and for four months, Suzanne and I visited a majority of the community and pioneer graveyards situated along some of the most beautiful and historic country roads in the whole district. At the same time, I decided as well, to write about something of which I was quite familiar, but having a little fictional spice to mix-in to take some of the edge-off, so to speak, the real-time run-ins I’ve had since childhood with the so-called paranormal. And like Arthur Conan Doyle, who had many psychic encounters himself, his second wife becoming a medium, conducting seances, I have since an Angel Dream, experienced as a child, during a long, fevered illness, been a recipient of many spiritual visitations and other worldly messages. These events, no matter if you believe in such possibilities or not, have been an enriching part of my writing adventures since the mid 1970’s, when I began documenting some of my past contacts with what I could only determine, were of a psychic equivalent.

     In case I haven’t mentioned this previously in my earlier posts, I am like the veteran hockey player who didn’t know when to quit the game. When it was time to hang up the skates, dry the sweater, and live happily ever-after recollecting the big games of the past. You might not believe this, but writing professionally since the mid 70’s, has over the years, in concert with very bad posture at the keyboard, has in grueling reality, left this poor old-timer nearly crippled as a result. Although my typing teaches used to whack me on the back and shoulders for sitting poorly at the typewriter desk, I, as the song says, “I didn’t it my way.” So I have permanent damage to my neck, shoulders and back, as well as a miserable affliction known as temporal mandibular joint dysfunction; which is a couple of wonky misshapen cordials in my jaw joint, that have some flat sides, that when used to talk (which I love to do), gives me symptoms of anxiety you wouldn’t believe. Together, the foursome foursome of dysfunctions and battle wounds make it very unlikely that I can have a happy long term relationship with any keyboard no matter how its design might fight my working stature. Unfortunately, the writing is also on the proverbial wall, that this journeyman writer must do things differently in the future, if, that is, he wishes to have even one bone and joint in his body that does’t cry out in pain - in a quiet but not gentle sense. Suzanne is a real trooper in this regard, and tries valiantly to correct my posture, however late in the game it is for me, the old hockeyist-writer, who is burdened constantly by the old ways carried, as it was, on his shoulders.

     In keeping with the situation, I have drawn some material from my rainy day fund of back-copy and old manuscripts, that never quite made the grade for publication in print or online. Not bad stuff but needing of polish. My Dr. Watson, Suzanne, is my long suffering editor, and she assures me there is new hope for old stories. I wrote this opening piece, to tomorrow’s series commencement. I hope you will be able to join the rather long, but hopefully not cumbersome story, through many small chapters, for the next month and a bit, while I get some other material ready for publication. I trust, as with some of my other pieces this past half year, you will be somewhat familiar with what it’s like here at Birch Hollow, and appreciate that it is from this perspective, this room overlooking the moor, where this story has been derived, and yet, the pioneer encampment of Rose Hill, where the Beatrice Town Line connects with District Road 4 (North Manitoba Street), was very real, at least in terms of its mapping on reliable district maps. I trust that, like me, now, you will be able to imagine the rich scent of burning coal oil, as it was in the pioneer cabin, and hear the snapping of wood in the metal fireplace anchored on a platform of brick; hear both the creaking of the house timbers in the January cold, and detect the scratching of the birch branches hitting the roof at the rear of the house. You might also imagine the wavering light of dancing flames in the hearth, and the shadows and strange silhouettes beyond, created by several pairs of old wooden skates hanging nearby, and the glow agains the antique crocks that rest poetically on the brickwork, as the weaving of light in the room, make them seem animated which is, of course, impossible. Unless being manipulated by the spirit hand. The dogs, Pooh Bear and Muffin, and Beasley, the last of our seven cats to dwell at Birch Hollow, are calmly curled in respective corners, and the radio plays Mozart on cue, as the wind begins to howl and the snow pellets hit the windows. This story, about a forgotten old homestead, in a forgotten hamlet, from a forgotten era in our folk history, is for the sensory perceptive - such that it should be considered a seance in spirit, and a bit of fiction infused for those who like their stories to have that little extra, as a takeaway from the reading experience. I may well fail at this, but the attempt has, none the less, been made, to share some actuality of paranormal experiences I’ve had in my sixty-six years, none of which have been frightening; rather they have alway been enlightening, and leaving me wishing for more contact with those who have passed.

     I hope you will enjoy this offering, which is one of numerous to be presented via this site in the coming year. The Covid pandemic, has certainly given rise to creative enterprise, often due entirely, to being in isolation, and wondering what the hell to do with all the free time.

     If I haven’t extended a “Happy New Year” to you previously, please accept this now from Suzanne and I, and our family, from this quiet place above the moor at Birch Hollow.