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.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 4

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 4

BY TED CURRIE

     The Bosevelts have an adequately stocked mini-library at the old farmhouse I have found quite interesting on those late evenings when, for any number of reasons, an old writer can’t calm easily to slumber. In only a short while I have thumbed my way through most of the newer books, but admit to the bibliophile’s obsession for older books, particularly of the antique variety. I have most recently been entertaining myself, when not hustling about the inn in quest of spirited inmates, by the traveling preacher, Rev. John A. Clark’s biography, from 1836, entitled “Gathered Fragments,” originally published in Philadelphia. It is one of several dozen books from the early to mid 1800’s on a variety of subjects, including several on botanical matters, a whaling history, an early text on schooners, and the rest deal mostly with religion, including this rather worn copy of Rev. Clark’s work. As I enjoy letting a book open itself to favorite chapters and passages chosen by a long history of former readers and owners, I couldn’t help but find some irony in the way the book, with a little encouragement, invited me, the contemporary voyeur, to read “A Family in Eternity,” which is about the preacher’s visit to a cemetery in his former hometown during a visit.

Mrs. Bosevelt, on one fly-by the armchair where I was seated, couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, to see what I was reading. As I might have predicted she had a little chuckle, when she read the heading of the chapter. “I’ve read that chapter about ten times now,” she said. “I have always been interested in the old country cemeteries like the ones we have around here.” And I might add, her interest in identifying the ghosts who have claimed, in part, her newly renovated farmhouse, have obviously, something or other to do with cemeteries. In fact, although unproven, there is an alleged pioneer cemetery on the Bosevelt’s property, on the gentle elevation of land above the pond in the sprawling pasture.

     “As I walked up this avenue, and entered that sacred area, where, in former years, I had so often heard the solemn sound of ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ borne on the air; and where I had beheld weeping mourners gather in stillness around the newly excavated grave, to see the last remains of some dear friend let down into its dark and solitary abode, I could not but stop, and gaze in pensive meditation upon the ‘heaped hillocks,’ of earth that lay thick around me.” Rev. Clark notes in his biography, “As I passed along from grave to grave, the names that I read upon the stones called up the images of a numerous group that I had once known. A plain marble slap that lay near me apprized me that I was treading over the ashes of one whose countenance and character I recollected very distinctly. He was a small thin man, and well known to all the village. Professionally he was an apothecary, and for many long years had he dealt out medicine to heal the sicknesses of others. Though thin and sallow, he had been so long at this post, and was by night and by day surrounded by so many powerful agents to ward off diseases, that many supposed that he had discovered the true elixir of life, and could bid defiance to the shafts of mortality. What a commentary did that stone read to me upon the vanity of all such expectations. His medicine availed nothing when God remanded the dust, out of which he had been formed, to its native inanimate state.” I folded up the wonderful old text, and laughed a little to myself, while not wishing to draw attention to myself, especially from Mrs. Bosevelt, who held considerable stock in this book and this chapter. I don’t think it is all that unusual to have a fascination about cemeteries, and I have been known to wonder amongst the tombstones myself, on these early spring days, when the nature of all places begins to flourish once more; and yes, I find re-birth in places like this all rather ironic, yet not in a humorous way of course.

     It was well after the bewitching hour when I made my way along the creaking hardwood floor of the old house, refashioned from its days serving the shelter needs of the farm family at Rose Hill, north of Bracebridge, known today as “The Oaken Snuggery.” Not that I care for the name mind you, but what do I know about running and promoting a Bed and Breakfast?

     I had moments before, been awoken in the armchair, at fireside, by someone or something whispering in my ear, and then there was the sensation on my hand, of what felt like a child’s grip over my fingers, giving them a soft but recognizable squeeze. It wasn’t unsettling or in any way frightening, but it did establish quite clearly, that the Bosevelts weren’t fooling when they told me the old house was haunted. I was the only person up at that time, and at that moment no other creature was stirring except me in the armchair, slumbering momentarily at my post. I had remained up, you see, in order to sense-out just what the Bosevelts were referring to, when they told me the country inn was occupied by numerous ghosts, that had made their appearances known to numerous guests, who were not so hospitable to these untimely interventions. I would have time to mull it over, what had happened while sitting in the main room of the house, and whether it was just an over-active imagination and possibly a little indigestion.

     The tiny room the Bosevelts had afforded me, while paying guests were staying at The Snuggery, had been used most recently as an office, but with a cot and a nice window to look out over the front yard, it was perfectly acceptable to my operation. Which of course was to identify what was going on at The Oaken Snuggery of an adverse nature. The ghost or ghosts didn’t fit into the couple’s business plan, and it fact, the intrusions did cause several early departures, which cost the Bosevelts money. The sightings and related experiences weren’t of a malevolent nature, and no one ran screaming from the house as a result of a chance meeting. And, to make this clear, I wasn’t in attendance for the month of April to rid the house of ghosts but rather to make an attempt at finding out why they’re hanging around. What might they want of the Bosevelts? Are the looking for validation, or for someone to avenge their deaths? There would be no exorcism involved because the devil wasn’t involved in this occupation of a homestead. More likely it was a casual haunting to add some character to the early 1900’s farmhouse, and it might be the case Martha Stewart would find the haunting an enhancement to the ambience of the old place.

     I pulled open the thick old door to my closet-room, and immediately caught the scent of the potpourri that permeated the hallways and the great room of the inn. It was a little strong for my nose, but I was tired enough not to let it bother me for long. I switched on the overhead light, brought the oak door to a silent closure, and sat down on the edge of the cot to remove my shoes. When I finally settled beneath the comforter that Mrs. Bosevelt had provided for my comfort, that first night, I only remember a few things before the lights went out. My lights. I was sound asleep in only a few minutes. I hadn’t even switched off the ceiling light, but it didn’t stop me from falling into a deep abyss of slumber.

     At approximately two thirty that morning, I awoke the result, I believe, of a very profound and aggressive dream. Nothing new for me, as I frequently dream in color as well. It wasn’t quite a nightmare but I think it had the potential of getting quite nasty if it hadn’t been the case my mind decided quite independently, my psyche didn’t need the excess baggage that night. Why do we wake up suddenly while having a dream? A nightmare even? I did have a heavy heartbeat, I know that, and it was probably running a little quick for someone who had just been sound asleep. I guess it was as sound as profound, because I could remember a few details that seemed greatly out of place for an average dreamer like me. I came to suspect that it may have been a dreamscape inspired by my visit to this property, and have been tainted somewhat by the reality I was here to investigate a haunting. I wasn’t doing a review of the Bosevelt’s Bed and Breakfast. I was going to let them know at the end of my stay, how many inmate spirits were residing free of charge, at The Oaken Snuggery.

     The bits and pieces of the dream made no sense to me, but then, that’s rather normal fare when trying to understand the alchemy of the juice which influences the brain in slumber. I know the setting was outdoors, and there were at least two human characters involved in the unfolding scenes. I believe that both entities were youthful, and were probably female, but they were visible in my dream judgement, at a considerable distance from where I was situated. Their clothing was white but the panorama of the dream theatre, was green and brown, being the landscape and the trees of some mysterious woodland. I remember a particularly musty odor which is not uncommon in my dream experiences, and this was strange of course, because the scent of potpourri in my room was quite intense with the door shut. There were the sound of voices,  all quite shrill, and it also seemed as if there was a barking dog lodged somewhere in the dream but it was not witnessed such that I could describe what kind it was, or even what size or color. As I pondered the dream for awhile before setting my head back down on the plump and cool pillow, I did have the fleeting sensation that I was being beckoned in this short dreamland adventure, but it was not the case I was being called, or pulled toward someone, or something, yet it impressed upon me that these figures, obscure and even quite abstract, wanted me to follow along behind them. It was a very hazy scene that this dream prevailed upon its voyeur, and it didn’t seem all that compelling or troubling, in perspective, to some of the dandies I’ve had in the past. But I did feel something in my gut after that dream and it kept me up for the next hour, as I tried to tie it in to the earlier experience in the main room, of feeling the hand of a child upon mine, and its voice whispering in my ear. I wasn’t of the opinion at this point, that it was anything worth jotting down, as far as notes, as part of this month-long odyssey to discover if The Oaken Snuggery indeed had numerous non-paying, non contributing inmates.

     I remember a story told to me by a lady-friend quite a few years back, about seeing a strange scene unfolding at a nearby cemetery, to the community of Rose Hill, when she and her boyfriend at the time, were taking a short cut through the hallowed ground, to get from one residence to another. A pretty common thing to do, and a regular stroll the two would take a few times each week. It was quite late at night when they were walking toward her home, in the romantic moonlight of a warm spring evening, when they saw up ahead, a woman struggling to free her long Victorian style gown, from a snag on a fallen wire fence along the roadway abutting the cemetery. They watched it unfold for a few more seconds, while they continued to walk closer, and when they were within range to speak with the woman in distress, she turned to look at them, and then turned back toward the fence, and gently faded into the night. It wasn’t until this disappearing act, that they suspected the lady in white might be of the paranormal ilk. They had thought about the reasons she was wearing such a formal, dated gown, but there could have been any number of explanations, from a costume party somewhere up the road, to a matter of personal choice, possibly a nightgown that looked more formal in the poor light. When she disappeared in front of their eyes, they had no doubt in their minds, they had witnessed a ghost attempting to escape the bounds of the place in which she must have been buried. I think we could all come up with an image of what this must have looked like, in the soft illumination of a spring moon, with the sound of peepers resounding through the abutting woodlot. It is the kind of apparition that has been making infrequent yet mildly disturbing appearances at this country inn, set into the beautiful countryside of Rose Hill, a former hamlet that never made it to village status before being largely abandoned as being “a going concern.” Who the ghosts may have belonged to in life is the pivotal aspect of my on-site sleuthing, and yes indeed, I would be electrified to see such a vision as what my friends had witnessed, being the “lady in white.” I might well have inspired a date with her in my dreams, but expect to awake thusly, feeling enlightened and invigorated; not sweating with a rapid heartbeat, frightened by the interaction. But as I am not able to dial the dream of my choice, I shall retire with hopefulness yet not be disappointed if the lady stands me up, being that, as a matter of protocol, I have never been properly introduced to the delightful specter of that night in the graveyard of South Muskoka.

     I fell asleep again, and awoke to the beautiful rays of the spring sun, beaming onto my bedstead in the most cheerful way.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 3

 T

Rose Hill, Ontario, North of Bracebridge

HE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART THREE

BY TED CURRIE

     “By wells and rills in the meadows green,

       We nightly dance our hey day guise,

      And to our fairy king and queen,

      We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.”

      (The poet, Ben Jonson)

     “Indeed it seems to me, that the older British poets, with that true feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have closely adhered to the simple and familiar imagery which they found in these popular superstitions, and have thus given to their fairy mythology those continued allusions to the farmhouse and the dairy, the green meadow and the fountain-head, that fill our minds with the delightful associations of rural life.” (Washington Irving; “Bracebridge Hall,” 1822)

     The picture hanging in the corner of the Great Room is of Queen Mab: of the "Dream of Lanthe". The scene portrayed is that where the fairy Queen "Mab summons the soul of the sleeping Lanthe, who lies on a couch. The personal image of the soul is seated in the shade behind her, looking at Queen Mab who has risen in her chariot, and in the act of waving her hand.

     The Oaken Snuggery is today, a modestly successful Bed and Breakfast operation, operating on a picturesque acreage north of the community of Bracebridge, in what was once the hamlet, if you could even call it that, of “Rose Hill.” It is a hill and valley topography, with its rock outcroppings, fringes of tall pines and the lowland braced by leaning old birches that poet Robert Frost would have found worthy of literary mention. There is a small hollow of pasture probably used in the past for some matter of livestock, but not much good for growing a significant crop. Much of Muskoka, in case you didn’t know this, has a thin soil and was never a highly successful agricultural region in the area of crop production. It was promoted as such in the 1860’s when the federal and provincial governments were looking overseas for hale and hardy emigrants, to take up this challenging landscape to establish homestead farms. Small gardens were successfully undertaken, but not as an economic interest in the general sense. For grazing livestock it was a much better landscape.

     It is day one of my stay at the Bosevelt’s Bed and Breakfast, where I have made an arrangement to lodge here for an entire month, in order to fully document, if it is even possible, the strange paranormal activities in and around the early 1900’s farmhouse. The house, which has been greatly improved upon and expanded, from the watercolor painting that hangs with some prominence in the main room, showing the house and shed sometime between the end of the Great Depression and the commencement of the Second World War. The Bosevelts have carried out the renovations and subsequent expansion since purchasing the estate from family some years earlier. Their idea had always been to establish a Bed and Breakfast home somewhere in Ontario, and by happenstance, they found the Rose Hill property during a general on-line search one evening; and by the next morning, they were making arrangements with the listing agent, to drive from Toronto to visit the site and its sprawling acreage.

     An hour or so ago the second group of four booked into the house, for the Easter holiday weekend, had arrived with great enthusiasm, and the Bosevelts, being kindly hosts, made sure to introduce me to both parties, without however, telling them the purpose of my lodging at “The Snuggery.” I had asked to be able to dine in my room that first night, to allow the paying guests to enjoy the ambience and good company, without creating any interest whatsoever, as to my personal biography, because we hadn’t come up with a covering story to explain the fact I could be seen about the property making copious notes. And then rattling away on the keyboard of the laptop late into the night. I think they did resolve to tell the guests that I was the current “writer in residence,” working on an untitled book project. That was okay with me and left a considerable latitude in which to answer honestly, as it was anticipated the research completed here might well end up in the public domain at some point. I just wouldn’t get chatty about ghosts and hobgoblins in case I was to frighten the paying customers off, which had happened at The Snuggery to other guests in the past months.

     I had made it clear to the Bosevelts that I would probably spend many nights in the coming month lounging about the house in various locations, except for those rooms rented out of course (that would have been awkward). I could only truly appreciate this house and its spirited entities if I had the quiet of night, and the ability to examine all the open rooms in the large farmhouse. I might even wander about the large verandah at the back of the house, affording a panoramic view of the pasture falling below the partially treed knoll where the buildings sat. And with the illumination of a moonlit night, I might also decide to do a walk-about along the cobbled pathways leading down to the pond and the maple grove to the north east. The family gave me all the freedom I needed, to see this house and property at all times of day and night, and to lounge where I though it most likely something unusual, a paranormal moment, or encounter, might prevail upon the voyeur.

     I had only been in the house for a few short hours, hardly enough time to judge if the house was haunted, or the nurturing ground of fantasy for its owners and lodgers. I didn’t feel in any way that this house had even a molecule of malevolence, and as far as a negative feeling within, there simply was nothing to jot down in my reporter’s notepad. It was all quite benign to start with, but I didn’t feel quite the same about the property that while scenic and as lovely an acreage as Muskoka has to offer, I was suspicious there was some adverse history connected here, but it was nothing more than a fleeting sensation on a short walk down to the pond. It was a cheerful house and the guests were happy to be there because there was a great din of conversation and laughter around the huge candle-laden harvest table after dinner. I should note here that while The Oaken Snuggery was indeed a Bed and Breakfast, the Bosevelts were quite prepared to treat guests to a full lodge package, which included three meals each day if so desired.

     Long after all, including the owners, had “retired to bedlam,” as Charles Dickens might have written about the end of social festivities for the night, I found a comfortable wing-back arm chair near the fire place, where I contented myself watching the diminishing flames, still crackling through bits of scattered cedar, and its brightly glowing embers, and had put my notepad and pen on the side table beneath the lamp, and instead, cradled a glass of warm wine amidst a most delicious atmosphere of rural life and times. If I wasn’t intending to write about ghosts and such, this would as well, be the perfect retreat to pen my first novel. It was the perfect solitude and a subtly romantic place to wax poetic. My wife would love it here and at this point, I truly felt guilty that she was not here to enjoy the ambience and, well, the romance of this most pleasant circumstance. I don’t know when I nodded off to sleep, but I know by the grandfather clock in the corner, it had only been about a half hour hiatus. I wasn’t at all sure what had stirred me awake, but it wasn’t the chimes of the clock, because it was neither the top or bottom of the hour. And it never crossed my mind that my awakening had anything to do with a presence in that room, although this was the reason I was on this midnight vigil, notepad at the ready. But there was nothing to report. Nothing visible. No sound other than the ticking of the clocks, of which there were four in two connected rooms of which I was in the room with the view out onto the pasture.

     I sat there for the better part of an hour, quite relaxed and raging with ideas about a future book I might like to write. But I was slowly succumbing to my weariness from a long day, and I was already initiating the first stretch of several, in order to rise up from this most comfortable chair, and at the same time, with my right hand, scoop up the writing gear of the table, when without the slightest preamble, I heard a faint whisper in my left ear, that could only have been the voice of a child; as I was only too familiar as a parent myself. I could not recite the words spoken because it seemed garbled, as if uttered by an agitated youngster, half out of breath from running. It was then, with both hands on the arm rests of the chair, as I was partly elevated from the chair seat, that I felt a small hand cover over my left hand, as if a child was close at my side, wishing to gain my attention beyond the whispered message. I let myself fall back into the chair, and awaited some other intervention, that I would be better able to appreciate and possibly interpret. There was nothing. I sat in that chair as silent as possible, except for my breathing, hoping for some other contact with whatever had initiated a relationship. When I found myself once again prepared to fall asleep, I decided it was time to wrap up the vigil for the night, having had at least something of the paranormal quality, reach out to me as a sort of kindred spirit. As for being frightened, it wasn’t contact, ghost or not, that was unsettling in the least. The voice and gentleness of the hand covering mine, was assuring and gentle, and it instilled a peaceful disposition in me, at least at that moment in time. From "The Dream of Lanthe" by Henry Tidey: Tis the wondrous strain that and a lonely rain swells which wondering on the echoing shore, the enthusiast hears at evening, the softer than the west wind's sighing  Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes of that strange lyre whose strings the genii of the breeze sweep, Those lines of rainbow light are like the moonbeams when they fall through some cathedral window, but the teints are such as may not find comparison on earth.

     Part 4 tomorrow.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 2

  

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY PART TWO

BY TED CURRIE

     “The appearance of the whole place was forlorn and desolate at the best of times; but, in unruly weather, the howling wind about the crazy old mansion, the screeching of the weather-cocks, and the slamming and banging of a few loose window-shutters, had altogether so wild and dreary an effect, that the neighborhood stood perfectly in awe of the place, and pronounced it the rendezvous of hobgoblins. I recollect the old building well; for many times, when an idle, unlucky urchin, I have prowled round its precinct, with some of my graceless companions, on holiday afternoons, when out on a free-booting cruise among the orchards. There was a tree standing near the house that bore the most beautiful and tempting fruit; but then it was on enchanted ground, for the place was so charmed by frightful stories that we dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would venture in a body, and get near the Hesperian tree, keeping an eye upon the old mansion, and darting fearful glances into the shattered windows, when, just as we were about to seize upon our prize, an exclamation from some one of the gang, or an accidental noise, would throw us all into a panic, and we would scamper headlong from the place, nor stop until we had got quite far down the road. Then there was sure to be a host of fearful anecdotes told of strange cries and groans, or some hideous face suddenly seen staring out of one of the windows.”

     Suzanne, my research assistant on this project, out here at The Oaken Snuggery, had copied down the short passage contained in the chapter, “The Haunted House,” written in 1822 by author Washington Irving. I have consulted his work frequently over the years, particularly since I wrote a small book on the relationship between Bracebridge, Ontario, and Irving’s book, “Bracebridge Hall.” Postal authority William Dawson LeSueur took the name “Bracebridge,” from the title of Irving’s book, as it was his task with the federal department, to name fledgling post offices in rural Canada. LeSueur, an accomplished literary critic and historian, in his spare time, decided that a literary provenance for the South Muskoka hamlet would prove worthy years down the road. Bracebridge was then entitled to share the literary accomplishments of Irving, including his well known story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and of course, “Rip Van Winkle.” As Rose Hill is located a short distance north of Bracebridge, I thought, for literary provenance, that I would once again bone up on what Irving thought about ghosts and hauntings, to see if, by chance, there was something, anything at all, that might shed some illumination on the alleged haunting of the old farmhouse, now a popular Bed and Breakfast. Here I am, and I’m loaded down with precedents and self help materials, so that I can help the proprietors of this beautifully restored Muskoka farmhouse, carry on with their business despite spirited interruptions that have frightened some guests.

     “Formerly almost every place had a house of this kind. If a house was seated on some melancholy place, or built in some old romantic manner, or if any particular accident had happened in it, such as a murder, sudden death, or the like, to be sure that home had a mark set on it, and was afterwards esteemed to be the habitat of a ghost.” (Bourne’s Antiquities)

     The ghost hunt that I was pursuing was certainly not in the “ghost busting” capacity. I believe the owners of the Bed and Breakfast, known to patrons as “The Oaken Snuggery,” would have very much preferred a much less haunted property. Not necessarily void of spirits, but just a lesser occupation of the site. None of the paranormal events, all being of the less-intrusive nature, that guests reported seeing during their residency, were in any way frightening. Certainly not the kind of shock reaction as portrayed in the movie,  “The Changeling”. None the less, some of the patrons were anxious enough after these sightings, and chance encounters, that they ended their stay prematurely, and probably told others about their misfortune at the Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast. I suppose then I was “the softener”. It wasn’t going to be my task to rid the place of its hauntings, but rather to make sense of the collective of wandering paranormal entities, and if possible, figure out why they were hanging around as permanent inmates of The Oaken Snuggery.

     When I arrived that afternoon, of the legitimate April Fool’s Day, also being the Easter weekend, the Bosevelts apologized upon my arrival, asking if I could please look around the house and property for a period of time, as they were trying to get ready for the eight guests, in two parties, scheduled to arrive later in the afternoon. I was only to glad to take the time to familiarize myself with the early 1900’s farm house and pasture-land, situated on the upper border area of what is geographically South Muskoka. It was a beautifully scenic property, and the exterior of the house had been restored numerous times in its tenure, on this wee knoll of topography, looking more like an English country house, than characteristic of Muskoka architecture from the period of the early 1900’s. The interior design completed to the specifications of the Bosevelts, was similar to the outside, reflecting a more British influence than rural Ontario. But as long as it pleased the incoming guests, who was I to render a judgement, other than to myself.

     There was a watercolor of the farmhouse that according to Mrs. Bosevelt was painted by a family member of the original owner sometime after the Great Depression but before the outbreak of the Second World War. The painting looks much different than the exterior of the house as it presents today, and the trees around the structures have been cut down and replaced by sprawling, lovely lawns and stone walkways leading to a pleasant gazebo on a ridge overlooking the pasture. The new owners have obviously spend a lot of money doing the upgrades, with the idea of operating a first class Bed and Breakfast. But the nicely framed painting, depicting the homestead as it was in that period, in a melancholy brown, looking much older than it was, had a haunting influence all of its own. One that would keep me coming back to it, as if the very image itself, was the lead-in to the story that was to unfold at The Oaken Snuggery.

     The watercolor image hung beside a large picture window, that looked down into the hollow, to the north, and there were two wing-back chairs situated in front, to afford guests a wonderful morning and afternoon vantage point to watch the day unfold. There were the family’s Irish Setters that rambled up and down the hillsides, one chasing the other, until the roles reversed, and there were assorted free-range chickens here and there, not attracting the slightest attention of the racing dogs. There was a strong aroma of wood in the heart of The Snuggery, and it was especially rich coming from the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling away this afternoon, keeping the big room welcoming and cozy to all who entered, and dwelled there for a time. There weren’t many wall adornments and only a very few paintings and romantic prints but it was most definitely not an art gallery to go with a Bed and Breakfast. The furniture was new and rustic, except for a few vintage pieces of pine and oak, some press back chairs and an antique Boston Rocker in the corner by a book shelf holding about a hundred hardcover editions of older but not antiquarian texts. From initial feelings, and what I was able to see through the farmhouse, there was very little that characterized a classic haunt for anything more than a ghost story read in one of the books on the shelf. In other words, it wasn’t a spooky place whatsoever, but then that isn’t the criteria a ghost, with an inherent right to exist in its former digs, considers when turning on the chill in any worthy new or old haunt.

     I travelled throughout the house before the other guests arrived, and let my curiosity about the interior play itself out, to its own satisfaction. There just wasn’t anything in particular, no vibe or negative aura, that would have warned me of impending gloom, doom or any kind of spirited intervention. To say it was a benign interior is appropriate, at that time in the day. It had all the creaks and settling noises of any old and worthy house, and the creaking of the stairs, and the wooden floors, and of course the original wooden doors, was more theatre of antiquity, than the harbinger of something malevolent about to appear in the low light of the staircase, or the second floor hallway with its small portrait gallery of family worthies, hung for the guests to familiarize themselves with the hosts and their kin. It was generally a very contenting place, and I was eager to watch how nightfall would change the mood inside, and the splendor of the countryside, beyond this picture window, where I had seated myself in its provision of illumination, to admire the view down toward the shimmering pond, reflecting the modestly congenial glow of the spring sun. I was pleased them, in this comfortable portal, to be handed a mug of coffee by Mrs. Bosevelt, my host, who once again offer an apology about being too busy to sit and chat at that moment. I reminder her that I was not to be a chore during my stay, and I would gladly keep myself occupied day and night, picking up after myself accordingly, as was also the deal I made for this generous offer of lodging.

     It wasn’t long in that comfortable arm chair, before I was dozing-off, in the warmth of the fire snapping away romantically in the hearth, to my right. At one point I nearly dumped the coffee into my lap, as my hand let go of the handle, as it was sitting on my knee. I startled myself awake just in time to catch the cup with both hands, before I commenced my stay at The Oaken Snuggery with a domestic mishap. The subsequent nap was much less precarious, and I awoke when the first group of guests scheduled for that afternoon, gave a couple of bangs with the iron door knocker, to announce their arrival at the front door. I had my back turned to them as they were greeted by both hosts, and welcomed to come into the big room just off the hallway, where I was just shaking off the stiffness of a short nap, having had my head tilted heavily to the left. How dreadful if I had been snoring away when these fine folks arrived for their Easter weekend. If I’d been specially costumed as the Easter Bunny, I suppose they would have at least got a good laugh at my expense, hearing Bugs Bunny in the throes of a bad dream, with a snoring disposition.

     I sat still awaiting their arrival in the room, when it would then be appropriate to rise to the occasion, and let the hosts introduce the so called, “writer-in-residence.”

     I recall so many occasions, when living in the former McGibbon House, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, hearing a distinct footfall on the stairs leading to the second floor, where I had one apartment, on the north side, and my friend, the larger unit on the south side. My heart seemed to stop momentarily, as I waited for either the knock on the door, or the turning of the door knob. On one occasion, when I was all alone in the building, quite late at night, the footsteps ended at my door, and then it came, to my great dismay; the knock on the door. There were three clear raps, and the sound of the knob being rattled. I picked up a hockey stick conveniently situated by the front door, and prepared to confront whoever had breached the security of the house’s locked front door. As you might expect, when I opened the door slowly, there was nothing and no one standing on the other side, but there was a musty aroma that I have smelled on other similar encounters, possibly the scent of the grave greeting me in a most peculiar way. Do I believe in ghosts? All I know for sure, is that I didn’t imagine those occasions of footsteps coming up my staircase, but never going down. I didn’t imagine the turning of the door knob, but I did see it with my own eyes. I didn’t invent the aroma that came with he invisible intruder, in a house that always smelled its century vintage, but never musty as it was a wonderfully restored estate, much like The Oaken Snuggery. I still must proceed with an open mind here, so as not to corrupt the investigation with personal bias.

 The journal continues tomorrow. g me in a most peculiar way. Do I believe in ghosts? All I know for sure, is that I didn’t imagine those occasions of footsteps coming up my staircase, but never going down. I didn’t imagine the turning of the door knob, but I did see it with my own eyes. I didn’t invent the aroma that came with he invisible intruder, in a house that always smelled its century vintage, but never musty as it was a wonderfully restored estate, much like The Oaken Snuggery. I still must proceed with an open mind here, so as not to corrupt the investigation with personal bias.

 The journal continues tomorrow.

The Oaken Snuggery - Ghosts Met Along The Way Part 1

 

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY -  GHOSTS MET ALONG THE WAY

BY TED CURRIE

     The half fallen brick chimney is still visible through the encroaching limbs of tall pines and misshapen venerable oaks, that have been silent witness to the chronicle of this forgotten place in its own enchanted solitude.

     There is the time worn imprint of the old roadway leading into the property, through the gate, held open by the thick weave of last year’s tall field grasses, the bordering crooked split-rail fence shows its antiquity with subtle grace, of a time when this place brimmed with its resident humanity. In the pasture, prone, and cast back to the elements from which it was crafted, the remnants of a horse-drawn plow and rake appear starkly against the morning sky, in a place remarkable only for its attributes to the photographer, documenting for some posterity, the shadowed decline of a once contenting place.

     The broken stone path leading up to the badly deteriorated homestead, has held the faith of this place, offering as yet, firm footing, direction to and from their old haunt, for all those earthbound spirits, that travel here to revisit the place they dwelled once, in that mortal coil of life. The summer grasses and stalks of dried wildflowers burden over the pathway, but not at any point obscuring it from the path it offers the voyeur, hiking toward the house, paint-worn and with faded soft brick, blackened woodwork, shattered panes in the askew windows, shutters hanging by a single hinge, or rusted nail, the crumbling mortar fallen from the chimney onto the partially shingled roof.

     The roof line shows a considerable bow in its architectural integrity, and from appearances, still at a considerable distance, the summer kitchen has fallen into itself, the windows having popped from the framing, residing on the ground below, topped with broken bits of chimney brick and wood trim from somewhere, broken away by the weather, cast down by the violent winds of spring storms.

     The dark clouds that have arisen along the horizon, in these past few moments, have given this heritage homestead an enhanced sense of drama beyond the melancholy of its broken facade, and half fallen fencing that was once adorned by thickets of hardy lilacs and silken wildflowers, quilting around the cedar rails locked firmly into the weave of fence posts that defined this place as a homestead. A rural “home” more precisely. The watcher this morning, expects in historical context, of such countryside relics, that this place had been a contenting, happy location in which to dwell, with the pleasant echo of children’s voices, their laughter resonating over the landscape, from a flat area beside the barn, and the faint aroma of woodsmoke circling down low over the land, as a trace of blue smoke wafts from the chimney down into the valley, where the cattle graze on the fresh shoots of new growth. If one listens carefully, thoughtfully, the imagination sparks to the distant rattle of a farm wagon bouncing over the sunken rocks and uneven ground of the laneway to the main road to Rose Hill. The dull plodding clomp of the horse hooves hitting down hard at the packed earth, and the few rusted old bells hanging from the cart to announce arrivals, departures, and work in progress to all those who might pay attention to farm life and times.

     The tired surrendered building no doubt inspired many good times and hosted the celebrations of successful harvests, and festive occasion, and all the social intercourse expected of a family home in the patina of its own ancestral chronicle, like a fine old book yet without its pages. Its hollowness now filled by those unflattering sounds of decay and failure, as even the strongest supporting beams begin to sag and weep down in silent contempt for the neglect it has been shown by the modernists. If the voyeur invests a few moments, to find some vestige of a chair or stool remaining within, what spirited history shall reveal itself, as if a theatre of, and for the deceased. It is their showcase, and they shall not disappear into the gentleness of this solitude, without making their presence felt, if only cast upon the witness as a faint whisper or delicate fragrance of a once perfume, dabbed behind the ear of the matron of this place, in romantic sentiment, once, in recognition of the heyday, most now can not recall.

     In only a few moments, the witness, sitting in calm contemplation of the environs of what is old and otherwise abandoned, can detect the soft silken texture of a dress or jacket rustling upon its wearer, possibly coming down the adjacent stairway, the soft thud of a child trying to remove boots at the doorway into the kitchen, the unsettling voices of former inmates of this place, going about their daily fare, of living, working, cajoling, weeping, laughing, arguing a point, singing together in spiritual harmony, yet not being present at all, in this cavernous room, once a parlor with a view out onto the pond embraced by the hillside pinery, with its random leaning birches, as if Robert Frost had set the landscape to match his poetic interest.

     The silent partner in this charade of past realities, can feel without compromise to prevailing actuality, a mouse scampering across the hardwood floor, and a chipmunk having just now jumped upon the window sill outside, the quilting of moods of its past, this now humbled residence that once so firmly held back the inclement weather to protect its mortal dependents from harm and discomfort. At times the hollow room is filled with a musty atmosphere of sadness and regret, and it might compel the attentive witness to abandon the vigil, as having experienced enough. As gently inspired as the change of outside light, to illuminate the parlor from its momentary gloom, the room has a more inspired brightness of prevailing mood, as if at any moment an invigorated gathering might manifest from the thin dusty air, and resume where it had left off, of mortal festivity and rampant optimism, that tomorrow might well be as pleasing as today. In the moments to follow it is characteristic of these antiquated quarters, abandoned, left to succumb in its own obscure retirement, the internal enchantments should become faint and reclusive to the enquiring eye, and sensitive ear, such that the voices, the laughter and singing become ever so quiet and distant. To the psychic sensibility, the haunting is at its finale, as a paranormal entity. There must then be some sadness that this is so, as these apparitions of the past, having loved and been nurtured by this place, have possess no discernible shred of malevolence, not wishing to unsettle or disturb the compliance of normal course, and the decency of an uncompromising residence, with a new reality, an updated encumbrance of inmates in the most contemporary setting. But antiquity is most often mistaken as being benign in terms of energy; the spirit-kind duly considered vanquished by mortal will, and disbelief. And the union of antiquity and the paranormal, unfathomable, when to the watcher of such enchantments of time and spirit, it is pure fantasy and unfettered imagination, that allows a ghost to be a ghost in it own drama of strange fiction. Nothing more, and nothing less. Still, it begs the question, how many of you have had a paranormal experience in your lives? Have you ever seen or been the recipient of a message from the grave? The image of a lost family member or friend, standing in the doorway of your bedroom, in the middle of the night, letting you know he, or she, has arrived safely to the “other side”? If we were to acknowledge the existence of ghosts, and the ability of those who have crossed, to make contact with the living, what might the percentage be then, of those who could readily admit to having had one or more relationships with the dining, or the clearly deceased? Could it be that a majority of the living have had, from birth to their present maturity, a paranormal encounter? Is it then, within the realm of possibility, paranormally speaking, that the interior of an old farmhouse could be haunted by its past, and shared with those who, for some reason, cross its threshold for the sake of experience and adventure? If you suppose that it is not only possible but likely, and an experience that you would enjoy, as a milestone of discovery, then you may well find that the coming series of chapters, over the next month, about “The Oaken Snuggery,” of Rose Hill, Ontario, will be a sensory-awakening journey that might well provide some illumination in this antiquated Muskoka farmhouse situated just north of the Town of Bracebridge, in the far reaches of what can still be considered South Muskoka.

     I have walked the pathways of the former homestead, and I have seen and experiences its spirited presences, the subtle mood changes, that elevate an atmosphere from pleasant and comforting, to the unease of melancholy and sunsettling sadness, for no apparent reason of weather or time of day. I can admit to having felt the soft tissue of a human hand in mine, held at my side, and feeling its strength tugging at me to stop, for a moment, at an apparently important junction of a path with another, where something in the past may have manifested. Knowing that it is indeed the hand of a child holding yours, but being too pensive to look down immediately, just in case a visible entity is walking alongside. Nothing threatening about the sensation. Nothing to inspire fear or that would make the recipient of affection, flee the scene with rising trepidation about such things as hobgoblins and bandy legged wee beasties. For the moment of engagement, the witness might be served well by validating the experience, and showing acceptance of the reality, that some earthbound spirits have a quest of which a mortal might play a role. Thus I allowed the sensation to continue, trying to absorb the very enchanted moment, between the parties, seen and unseen, until finally the soft, gentle caress of fingers upon fingers ceased to be, and we travelled our separate paths, until, that is, we were destined to meet once more upon this beautiful landscape on the cusp of a Muskoka spring.

     Welcome to my story of a most wonderfully haunted place, “The Oaken Snuggery,” operated by Mr. And Mrs. Bosevelt, as a charming Bed and Breakfast amidst a forest of pine, birches, oaks, and those thriving stands of lilacs that send an entrancing perfume about the environs in the late spring, when this pasture and pond-side explodes in new life and color.

     Please join me tomorrow, as we open the door of the country inn, and accept the kindnesses of the Bosevelts for a month long stay in the countryside; a homestead property that was first settled in the late 1860’s and living was hard and the prosperity thin to non existent. Times would change. Some things would not, because that is the magic of antiquity after all.

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.

We Are So Close To Kicking Covid Out Of Our Lives To Bring About A Truly Great New Year

 

Photos of vintage New Year post cards by Suzanne Currie

A BRIGHT NEW YEAR AND A NEW YEAR OF CHALLENGES, OBSTACLES, CONFLUENCES AND POSSIBLY SOME BREAKTHROUGHS FOR US ALL

BY TED CURRIE

The Covid numbers released today, for testing on New Year’s Eve was in the vicinity of 18,000 positive cases. I had predicted 20,000. And because of the backlog of tests and the lack of testing available, my estimate was even at 20,000, much lower than what is actually the hardcore fact of the fourth wave. So how has your New Year started off? Hopefully not with a Covid positive.

     From the beginning of this pandemic, our family has been faithful to facts. Faithful to the science and the medical community that has valiantly tried to save our good health and ultimately our lives. They have done such a fantastic job against odds that at times, have been for lack of a better description, unimaginable even for a creative fellow like me. All our science and medical personnel, who have dedicated themselves for our safety, are the heroes of the century, and we will, in years to come, realize what these courageous souls have had to endure from those who believe in conspiracy theories and have a distorted view of facts, despite the plain truth, that many thousands of these pandemic deniers, have perished themselves while defending their right to refuse masking policies, and avoiding vaccines because of what may be in the medicine; that, well, might make them crazy. Fortunately, they are the minority, and thankfully those in charge of our well being, at least most of them, have pushed us calmly and with determined commitment, toward all proven safety measures, including upgraded vaccines, to keep us prepared for those worse case scenarios that are yet to materialize. That’s the jolly good thing about preparedness isn’t it? I don’t try to raise a picnic canopy when I’ve heard the warning alarm on the radio, that a tornado is imminent or occurring in our general vicinity. It’s the same warning we’ve been hearing now for two years, and believe me, our family is one week from being fully vaccinated, meaning we will all have been “boosted” at that time, and counting down until the second booster available after three months. It allows us to sleep better at night, and raise up in the morning with the optimism that we can open our busy main street shop, with all the safety protocols in place, and expect to make it through yet another day, week, or month, in the shadow of ominous conditions looming.

     We are going to be closed this week and if need be, the week after that, if the numbers and local protocol demands we close to the public for public health reasons. When we think back, two years, by golly, we can get the family shivers thinking about not only Covid potentials, but the fact that we were operating a big business, needing significant monthly sales, to pay the really big rent and associated business costs; and then there was the need for take home pay for the four partners (we operate without staff), to cover general living expenses and rental payments. We started off petrified, and listened nervously to every news report that offered us the latest numbers and projections, and honestly, even though, in comparison, the stats were moderate, meaning low, we wondered how much damage Covid was going to do to us, the unvaccinated, if we were unlucky enough to contract its contaminates, and how again, we would be able to make the kind of business transition necessary, to meet our obligations. Well, we took it day by day, and we were able to secure emergency funding from the federal government, thankfully, which allowed us to keep our shop operational through the most damning part of the first and second year of the pandemic, for short period of time after being forced by provincial authority, to close our doors to the public. We are still operational because of the federal contribution to our particular situation of disadvantage, as a result of the spreading pandemic. Critics can hammer away at the Liberal minority government all they want, but they came through for us, and thousands of others in peril, when options for survival were thin to virtually non existent.

     You can’t extend thanks broadly enough, to cover all the brave folks who kept our grocery stores open, and served on the front line even when vaccines were not available. It makes me so mad to hear stories about the ridiculous antics of anti-maskers who did everything possible to cause problems for these front line workers, risking their own health and welfare to make sure we were supplied with our food and medical needs. God bless them all. Especially for weathering the storm of protest which did little more than show how disunity on a life and death issue, can turn otherwise gentle folk, into inadvertent activists out of their element; protesting because they can, not because they can accomplish anything more than disturbing the peace, and threatening peaceful people into believing their take on the latest conspiracy theory making the rounds.

     We had several customers arrive in our shop with masks on, who later removed them in protest of our restrictions for in-store masking, (in keeping with provincial guidelines), who when asked to leave, and escorted to the door, informed us in a heightened sense of message-extending, that we were all “a flock of sheep,” because we were following government regulations set down at the time. We let them know that “these sheep” were law abiding, and were quite capable, being sheep, to escort them physically to the door if necessary, or in calling the local constabulary, to have them forcibly removed if nothing else seemed to do the trick. In two years, and nine months or so being closed, we only had what can be considered a minor number of inconveniences with science deniers and conscientious objectors, and in the past few months, we have only had to ask that masks be raised from a lowered position, (while inside the store) on ten occasions; still annoying but not too bad when you’re talking about thousands of visitors each month to our busy little main street shop. One fellow, just before Christmas, was denied entry to the shop because he did not have a mask, and would not wear one that we offered him for free, and before the door closed behind him, he advised us just how much money we had lost, as he would take his business elsewhere; obviously to a shop he believed would be willing to violate the mandate to make a few bucks. But we can’t say that we have been seriously beat-up by anti-maskers. They have read our signs, and in some cases experienced our resolve to enforce the law, and have simply decided to move on to more fertile ground, I suppose, where there are more kindred spirits, who also disbelieve good advice, and that good advice saves lives. But then again, this is reality, and this resistance is growing in many other areas of our society, and the obstacles are manifesting in many social circles, education, politics, and for gosh sakes, inspiring in some other countries, book banning and I suppose old fashion burnings. Normalcy is, for this sheep, what I prefer to seek day to day.

     As we have done our due diligence in information seeking, right from the onset of the pandemic, basing it on the past history of similar outbreaks, such as SARS, much earlier, we have made sure to bracket our understanding of all the details and consequences of Covid, and never refused to listen to counter opinions, because we thought them ridiculous. There are stories now about truths that were denied as far back as two years ago, that have gained the attention they didn’t receive at first, and it’s what we all need to know about moving forward. The critical approach to find the correct information is never a wasted effort, and in so many cases, in the past two years, it has helped us create a modified plan of operation that has allowed us to weather one hell of a storm. And it has helped us navigate in the right direction, to avoid those proverbial half sunken icebergs, like the one that took out the Titanic. We didn’t function well under fear. We did remarkably well dealing with the realities and urgencies of the day, the week, and the month. We never went over-the-top, as they say, looking for happenstance remedies to our immediate problems. We, like you, played the waiting game, and found patience we didn’t know we possessed. And now, having had a brilliantly successful re-opening last spring, after a six month closure, and being now only one week away from our booster shot, as Covid insurance, and never once having had a single serious reaction to the initial vaccine shots, we’re hear to tell all who will listen, please, please get vaccinated and be safe. Trust the medical community in this country who have done so much to keep us informed and protected in this most precarious period of world history. Skeptics have a place in this society, and it’s because of them that we can force enquiries, and demand due diligence, and feel free to demand truths when our rights appear to be infringed upon. But when due diligence is followed, and the truths, as they are known are presented and dissected, it is also important for skeptics to adjust their terms of reference, based on hard facts and not on hearsay or doctored, purposely misleading information that is attached to known anterior motives and profiteering. A lot of money has do doubt been made by conspiracy originators, flogging product and their brand. And it has cost us all dearly in lives lost, and serious, life altering illness that didn’t need to either occur, or be as debilitating it was, due to lack of full vaccinations.

     We may be closed beyond this coming week if the numbers of infected locally rise to what we believe is a danger to us being open; and being able to safely accommodate our customers. I believe in the word of medical experts, stated recently, here and in other countries, that there is a crest coming, and we may just being seeing an end to the Covid domination of our lives. There is hope for the New Year in this regard, and hope for all of us, who want so badly to return to a normal bill of fare. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Get vaccinated. Wear a mask.

     Happy New Year.