The Oaken Snuggery Part 16

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 16 BY TED CURRIE      Mrs. Bosevelt, on her morning rounds of the Bed and Breakfast, picked up a book from the floor, that had toppled from the bookshelf sometime during the night. This, of course, wasn’t all that unusual, as it happened quite frequently, and sometimes the books were so far from the shelf, that even with a modest end over end roll, couldn’t possibly have made it six feet from its former position. It was as if it was purposely taken off the shelf, and the person or in this case entity, that removed it, actually took several steps back, and then slammed it onto the floor. This book, she pointed out, was fairly close to the shelf but it was the only one that was opened by the impact. Odd as well, was the fact it was on its back and open as if it was where the reader was, when the book fell to the floor. She thought I’d be amused by this, and bookmarked the pages that had been facing up, when she noticed it laying on the floor, as if someone reading it had just dropped it perfectly, having been startled by an unexpected intrusion, like for example, a ghost. In this case however, it was more than likely a ghost that pulled the book from the shelf and dropped it, so as to let the owners know their haunting was still very much a work in progress.      The inscribed book is entitled simply, “Friendship,” by Hugh Black, and was given as a Christmas present in 1903, by Reverend Joseph Ewing Reid, to his wife Maude, and somehow wound up here at the pleasant Bed and Breakfast in Rose Hill, operated by the Bosevelt family. The book, after its assisted tumble to the floor, was opened to pages 122 and 23, and is headed “The Eclipse of Friendship.” I read both pages and wondered if the wee lasses who seem to be haunting up a storm here at The Oaken Snuggery, wanted me to pick up on a message or two, possibly contained in Mr. Black’s text. “The great fact of life, nevertheless, is death, and it must have a purpose to serve and a lesson to teach. It seems to lose something of its impressiveness because it is universal. The very inevitableness  of it seems to kill thought, rather than induce it. It is only when the blow strikes home, that we are pulled up and forced to face the fact. Theoretically there is a wonderful unanimity  among men, regarding the shortness of life and the uncertainty of all human relationships. The last word of the wise on life has never been its fleetingness, its appalling changes, its unexpected surprises. The only certainty of life is its uncertainty - its unstable tenures, its inevitable end. But practically we go on as if we could lay our plans, and mortgage time, without doubt or danger; until our feet are knocked from under us by some sudden shock, and we realize how unstable the equilibrium of life really is. The lesson of life is death.” I rested the book on my lap, looked out the window of the Great Room, and pondered whether it was possible, these child spirits could have been so profound and philosophical, that they would stress to the voyeur, how fragile life was, when they had both experienced it first hand. Wasn’t then obvious life was a precarious balance, or was there another reason they were interested in forwarding our research in this haunting business they seemed eager to perpetuate?      “To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange and melancholy stories that are connected with family paintings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a moonlight night, or by the flickering light of a candle, to set the old pictures on the walls in motion, sweeping in their robes and trains about the gallery.” Washington Irving, “Bracebridge Hall” published in 1822.      It was just after breakfast today, having dined enjoyably with the new Bed and Breakfast guests, Angela and Thomas Collins, of Toronto, and the three of us had moved from the dining area, and its glorious food-laden harvest table, courtesy our hosts the Bosevelts, and settled quite comfortably in the great room, and the armchairs positioned around the hearth, still crackling with a small fire. We were allowed the privilege of bringing our leftover coffee to the room, and Mrs. Bosevelt never let our cups go dry, until we finally had to beg her to cease, as our bladders might explode.      Thomas begged our forgiveness for leaving the conversation, as Mr. Bosevelt had promised him an inside look at his woodworking shop in the small barn a short walk from the main house. Bosevelt had done most of the finish carpentry in the restored farmhouse, during its transition to what is now a popular new Bed and Breakfast in the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, known as The Oaken Snuggery. Angela Collins informed me that her husband was a hobby wood worker but hadn’t ever attempted a renovation on their house, or even garage. But had refinished a few press back chairs for their vintage oak dining room set.      After all the din of inmates of the Snuggery moving back and forth, in preparation for their next project for the morning, Angela turned to me and with a loud whisper, asked me about the two young girls who were haunting the house. I was stunned by her question, and assumed one of the Bosevelts had leaked our little in-house secret. When I asked her what she meant by that statement, she looked at me as one who has much more intimate knowledge of ghosts than I can honestly claim. “I saw them sitting on the hall seat when we arrived yesterday,” she said. “You mean you saw them clearly,” I asked this very important new witness to the Snuggery events. “They were both wearing white frilly dresses, and they were covered with dirty blotches, on the fabric, their shoes, socks, and they even had smudges on their faces, as if they had just then, ceased rolling on the ground outside, and were simply taking a break from play. They looked like two normal kids who didn’t want to be wearing dresses that’s obvious.” “But how in the world did you know they were ghosts then, if they looked like they had just been out playing around the yard,” I enquired with peaked curiosity at how this new arrival knew more than me; considering I have been here more than two weeks with little to show for my efforts.      She looked around the room after hearing Mrs. Bosevelt walk through the connecting hallway heading to the kitchen. “I could see through them, for one thing,” she answered. “And I was born with this gift, you might say, or curse depending on how much you like privacy, allowing me to see them, at times, and communicate with those who have passed frequently. Thomas and I don’t talk about this kind of thing, as he is a very staunch about death being final in all ways; no heaven or hell, no God, and no chance of their being anything to this ghost-thing. I just carry on as I always have, which is pretty easy considering my own family had the same beliefs as my husband, and I just got tired of being an advocate for religion, as I have experienced it, but made it clear that I will never drop my faith that there is an after-life. And those young ladies I saw sitting in the hallway, are proof beyond doubt, in the existence of life after death, Don’t you agree Mr. Currie, because I know you have experienced them in a number of ways; they told me so in their own silent way.” I was still stunned by the revelation but relieved that someone else could corroborate what a number of us have experienced as both an aftermath, and as a strange intrusion on our privacy. “Yes some guests have actually checked out early because of those waifs who have been up to considerable mischief in a number of rooms throughout the house. Not all of them, but enough coverage to give this place a “haunted” review by unhappy former guests,” I noted, as Mrs. Collins looked out onto the sprawling pastureland bathed in strong mid April sun glow.      “The crosses,” she asked. “You do appreciate that they are very eager to involve two crucifixes that were lost on the day of their deaths, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” Frankly, I was getting a little spooked at how much she knew about the wee lasses, and the fused together crosses a guest had found during a heavy rainstorm one night, shimmering in the lamplight in a small trough running alongside the newly installed pathway to the front door. What she didn’t know, but I intended to find out for sure, was if she knew from her paranormal meeting with the suspects of the Snuggery haunting, why the small metal crosses were welded together, and why there were no chains as they were obviously meant to be worn around the neck. “You found them didn’t you,” Angela asked. “And then they disappeared from your room. Is that correct.” “Yes it is true, but how did you gather all this information in just a short hallway sighting, that was hardly an inquisition about their handiwork at the Snuggery,” I asked, showing some obvious doubt that she was this acutely psychic. “They’ve never stopped communicating with me from the moment I met them, and they’ve been so determined to keep my attention, that they’ve been entering my dreams, giving me very little time to enjoy this wonderful house and lovely district of Muskoka.” I asked, in this regard, what the girls said about the missing crosses, which of course had been reduced to one only, as they were joined in the centre, but both upright and slightly angled from each other, to truly give the appearance of two distinct crosses that didn’t appear welded together at all, until they were picked up and the linkage was proven. “I don’t know everything about the girls because they’re not quite ready to offer me the entire story of why they are earthbound, and, as you have said, ‘haunting’ this beautiful old house.”      At this moment, Mrs. Bosevelt, with a full cup of coffee herself, sat back down with us, at the armchair directly across from where we had settled, and began a conversation about first the weather, and then about her husband monopolizing Mr. Collins in the woodshop. When Mrs. Bosevelt turned to look at the kitchen, where she heard footsteps on the hardwood floors, Angela reached over the arm of her chair and squeezed my hand to guarantee my attention. “We’ll talk about this later Mr. Currie. We’ve got a lot in common, and the lost children need us to set them free. Believe me, they don’t want to haunt this house. They never lived here and they don’t want to stay.” “What do they want,” I asked, just as Mrs. Collins got up out of her chair, and looked back, saying in a softer whisper, “They want to go home, and to them, it’s the afterlife they’ve been denied because of the accident.” With this comment, Angela turned away, and went to the kitchen with our host, to check on the footsteps. It was Mr. Collins and Mr. Bosevelt, having returned from the shop, investigating whether or not there was a little coffee left in the urn. I was left to ponder a lot of information, but feeling validated for what the Bosevelts and I had experienced before Mrs. Collins arrival. It’s always nice to find out you’re not mad in instances like this. Just admitting to a belief in ghosts gets you that unfortunate status.      “The pathos of life is only a forced sentiment to us, if we have not felt the pity of life. To a sensitive soul, smarting with his own loss, the world sometimes seems full of graves and for a time at least, makes him walk softly among men. This is one reason why the making of new friends is so much easier in youth than later on. Friendship comes to youth seemingly without any conditions and without any fears. There is no past to look back at, with much regret and some sorrow. We never look behind us, till we miss something. Youth is satisfied with the joy of present possession. To the young friendship comes as the glory of spring; a very miracle of beauty, a mystery of birth.” I put the book written by the good Mr. Black back on the bookshelf where the space visibly beckoned, and stood by the fireplace for a few moments, as it had become rather chilly where I had been sitting. I have a feeling the wee spirits of The Oaken Snuggery have a story they wish to be known, and told, and I suppose there are some secrets that must be exposed. Am I then to believe it is my purpose to be the conduit? Stranger things have happened while hunting ghosts!

The Oaken Snuggery Part 15

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 15

BY TED CURRIE

     Suzanne was going through my ghost archives this afternoon, and reminded me, in a phone call earlier, that she had found the black and white photograph I had taken of “Animal” the cat, back when I lived in the former home and medical office of Dr. Peter McGibbon, of Bracebridge. It was my first and only photograph of a ghost, or at least part of one. It was back in 1981 when I was residing in an upstairs apartment in the McGibbon house, on upper Manitoba Street, opposite Memorial Park. It is gone now and has been replaced with a modern office building. I lived in the one bedroom apartment with Animal the cat, a stray that had been dumped off at the former Herald-Gazette office, on Dominion Street. And when I suggest it was dropped off, it was actually tossed out of a moving car, while a reporter and I stood out front of the office, thinking about heading over to the local press club for a pint of ale. It all changed when Animal arrived on the scene rather unceremoniously, but without injury thankfully. I decided to become a pet owner, and as I was without any other encumbrance than rent and monthly bills, it seemed reasonable that I could support a kitten.

     Animal, after it had been in the apartment for several months, developed a keen interest in the doorway between the open kitchen / living room, and the bathroom; and the doorway at the back where it connected with the attic on the way up, and the kitchen of the apartment on the first floor. When we arrived at the McGibbon house to set up an antique shop in 1977, I lived in the bottom apartment where we had our store, and we also were entitled to use the attic as the main renters of the property. I had a ghostly encounter coming down those same stairs one evening, when in a dark passage way, I literally walked through a white cloud of chilled, misty air, which I believe now was the spirit of a recently deceased individual who had once lived in the house many years previous. I found out three days later, that the fellow had crossed over at the same time as I encountered the mysterious vapor. I found this out when the family of the deceased showed up in my antique shop to see the old haunts where their uncle used to reside. They had just attended his funeral at the parlor next door to the house.

     Where Animal used to situate herself at about seven o’clock every evening, in the doorway, was about fifteen feet from where I had witnessed the stairway ghost that night. After several months of watching Animal head off to the doorway at 7 p.m. I arranged with a darkroom technician at The Herald-Gazette, of which I was editor, to set my camera with a motor-wind and a bulk loaded black and white film, with a pre-set flash unit mounted to the side, to take a number of images of the cat in the doorway, to see if anything else shows up on a negative. Of a large number of photos banged off with the motor-wind, there was only one that showed a distinct yet small cloud of vapor in a direct line from the cat’s turned head, to the corner of the doorway, at about the five foot level of the opening. The photo technician attempted to prove that the smudge of grey vapor was actually a camera lens flaw, but in examining all the other frames, there was simply no evidence of such an imperfection with the glass such that it would only show up on one negative. We studied that image for hours,  drawing lines from the cat’s head, and eye, to the vapor hovering above, and it was obvious Animal was attracted to the nightly visitation, a ghost possibly of a former resident of the house. The visitations continued every night, and the cat always attended the visiting entity. If it was a ghost, it certainly wasn’t threatening or in the least frightening. It was just a daily apartment inspection by the paranormal. I must have passed muster because it didn’t complain about my housekeeping.

     It had been three full days without so much as a spirited rap upon the door, without anyone there to enter. I had not heard a phantom footfall up the stairs, or heard children playing in a house without such intrusions, and there had not been the slightest scent of lilac, which seemed, for most of my stay here at the Oaken Snuggery, the harbinger of the wafting presence of two young ladies desperate for attention. Suzanne, my research assistant working from our home at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, has not found anything factual to identify the bodies buried in the long-overgrown pioneer cemetery, on the ridge of topography above the hollow where the pond reflects silver and black at this time of the very early morning. This isn’t uncommon in regional history, because there was necessity to have a burial ground once settlement began, but it wasn’t for some time later that church and public cemeteries were established as part of community life and, yes, death. In the case, for example, of Diphtheria, it was often the case that half of a large family could be wiped out in one night of raging illness. There was with this, and influenza during outbreaks, where the bodies were buried late in the evening, or in the hours after midnight, to avoid public participation. As these bodies were highly contaminated, and others could be adversely affected even at funerals, undertakers from the closest villages, would send grave diggers with the funerary staff, to bury the body, or bodies, quickly, quietly, and often in graves dug on homestead properties when no other sites were available without prior arrangement. As well these cemeteries, mostly for family members, were not registered at the time, and this is one of the problems for those interested in ancestry research. There are hundreds of burial sites like the one at The Oaken Snuggery, where the names of the deceased are absent from memorial stones, which of course, were most often wood markers that long ago rotted away, and disappeared into the forest floor. As well, these deaths weren’t reported in the legal sense, as a registration of the deceased for municipal record, or noted in the closest census, in the 1860’s, when the first homesteaders arrived here, on this grant land situated north of Bracebridge, Ontario, in the then hamlet of Rose Hill.

     I have had my doubts that the cemetery was going to hold the clue as to the haunting developments at the Bosevelt family’s charming early 1900’s farmhouse, turned into an attractive, well appointed Bed and Breakfast operation still in its first year of active business. The spirit occupants of this house, who enjoy strolling about the property as well, are not quite as pleased about the early success of the business, and have been turning up at curious times, to confront Bed and Breakfast guests, and on occasion, letting the Bosevelts know, and intimately so, that they would like the house to return to its former use. As a family home I suppose.

     It was on a walk down the country road that connects the Bosevelt property to the rest of the world, when I again found the girls at play amongst the overgrown evergreens on the far side of the drainage ditch that keeps the lane from being washed away during the spring melt. I was wandering along the dirt road with nary a serious thought in my head, but a song in my heart, when I suddenly became aware that I had, without knowing it, walked into a shroud of blinding mist. I went from having the sun rays warming my face and hands, to feeling as if I had dropped from space into a cloud, but it had all happened on a bit of old country road, within earshot of the place I was temporarily residing. It was a truly strange moment or two, and all I could do at the time, was to stop walking, and try to understand what had just enveloped me. Was I having some eye problems all of a sudden? A stroke? A seizure while still standing apparently? It had a distinct musty odor to it, and it seemed similar in character and wafting content, to walking in a lowland being freed of its snow canopy, and watching the swirls of mist rising up from the ground, and blowing across the landscape. Only this mist had stopped over me, as if I was the wind-break, yet there was no wind at this moment. Not the slightest breeze. It was still and sunny, and here I was inside a grey cloud that smelled like earth. Wet, springtime earth. It was eerie and a little frightening for those few seconds of blindness, where I could not see the sharp rays of sunlight breaking through the pine canopy, blotching down on the still wet roadway.

     As it had suddenly arrived for my displeasure, the vapor soon passed over me, and light returned to my eyes. I turned around quickly, so as to see the mist traveling on its way down the laneway, but there was nothing visible. It had dissipated as soon as it had passed over me, leaving no evidence upon me, other than a troubling recollection, of another spirited moment at the Rose Hill property. Yet almost immediately after this brief encounter, that probably could be explained by someone familiar with atmospheric phenomenon, in the spring of the year, I lost the sensation of earthiness, and inherited a sensory perception of, once again, a lilac bloom in an area where there were no such bushes, and if there had been, April was too early to host any blooms on the existing trees. I believe the children have once again, after a brief hiatus, decided to re-visit the writer-in-residence, to impress the voyeur that there is an unspecified amount of property heritage, that has never been documented. Or, I just had an immersion in spring time enchantment, here in the rejuvenating woods of South Muskoka. I carried on my morning hike a few miles more along the winding country road, and very much enjoyed the sights and sounds of this grand emergence of roadside ferns, the hardwood leaves in advanced bud, and the greening-up of the field and lowland grasses, contrasting against the dull brown and black shadows of the half-fallen rail fences weaving along the former farm properties; graced occasionally by a hundred feet or so of rock fences, three feet high, reminiscent of the back-breaking work of the homesteaders, trying to clear enough farm land to plant a crop. Then there was the evidence of border stump carcasses, pulled from the earth by man and beast, to then be pushed aside to line the fields, as a reminder of how near-impossibly it had all been in those first years of clearing the land of natural obstructions. Many homesteaders died as a result of this exhausting labour, and it should be no surprise that these pioneer cemeteries were required, being so isolated in the wilds of a then sparsely populated region.

     I returned to the Oaken Snuggery an hour later, and sat close to the rock fireplace, to enjoy the warm comforts of the hearth, and related my paranormal experience to Mrs. Bosevelt, who joined me just then, with a pot of tea and a freshly baked muffin. New guests were coming later this afternoon, so she was building a supply of baked goods for dinners today and tomorrow. I was the beneficiary of her kindness as a sort of freeloader taste-tester. There was nothing paranormal about this quiet time at hearthside, and the good company of Mrs. Bosevelt, interested to know more about the ghosts of old Rose Hill and The Oaken Snuggery.

     Paranormal events and intrusions such as what have been happening at The Snuggery can be quite unsettling. Yet in more than forty years of hunting and gathering information on regional ghosts, and such, I have never been truly frightened by an encounter such that I felt it prudent to run away, or seek some kind of spiritual protection, such as a cross or a Bible. I have usually calmed to the situation by trying to address the entity, although in almost all cases previous, the conversations have been one sided. But it hasn’t stopped me from trying to engage them anyway, and possibly they understand that I mean them no harm, or plan to host an exorcism to remove them from their old haunt. I find them fascinating such that I enjoy encounters, or at least most of them. The Bosevelt’s ghostly inhabitants are a bit more rambunctious than others I’ve come to know across Muskoka. I want to learn more about them, and I’m beginning to think they intend on giving me the inside scoop, to borrow a reporter’s mission to get all the poop on a big story to “scoop” the competition. I think a lot of writers on the paranormal would like to have the opportunity I’ve been afforded by the Bosevelts, here at The Oaken Snuggery.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 14

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 14

BY TED CURRIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Oaken Snuggery Part 13

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 13

BY TED CURRIE

     “The ’Twentieth’ school was built of logs hewn on two sides. The cracks were chinked and filled with plaster, which had a curious habit of falling out during the summer months, no one knew how; but somehow the holes always appeared on the boys’ side, and being there, were found to be most useful, for as looking out of the window was forbidden, through these holes the boys could catch glimpses of the outer world - glimpses worth catching, too, for all around stood the great forest, the playground of boys and girls during noon-hour and recesses; an enchanted land, peopled, not by fairies, elves, and other shadowy beings of fancy, but with living things, squirrels and chipmunks, and weasels, chattering ground-hogs, thumping rabbits, and stealthy foxes, not to speak of a ghost of flying things, from the little gray bird that twittered its happy nonsense all day, to the big-eyed owl that hooted solemnly when the moon came out. A wonderful place this forest, for children to live in, to know, and two love, and in after days, to long for.”

     I had been browsing through some of the Bosevelt’s book shelves, to see if there were any titles I might enjoy, while sitting next to the fire snapping away in the hearth, in this great room of The Oaken Snuggery. It was with great joy that I found a copy of the first book I ever purchased. It was the 1968 hardcover copy, (of the original 1901 release) of Reverend Charles Gordon’s “Glengarry School Days.” The author used the pen name Ralph Connor, and wrote many adventure stories for young adults back in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Many are still popular to this day, and I have numerous copies of his work in my own library at Birch Hollow. What was of greater importance, for me, was that it was the first book of several hundred thousand titles I’ve owned in my years as a book collector and seller, now pushing beyond four decades. I owe something then to the memory of the good Mr. Gordon, because the book inspired me so much, especially in the field of Canadiana, that from that point I became a bibliophile. The only reality that held me back was that I was a kid on a tiny allowance, and it took a couple of decades to build up a decent library of good books.

     I remember being on a school trip with my class from Bracebridge Public School, and stopping at Upper Canada Village on the return trip from Ottawa. I had about five bucks left after buying a lot of souvenirs in the nation’s capital, and I decided to invest the left over funds to purchase “Glengarry School Days,” for the amount of $3.95, and then, for one dollar, I acquired a freshly baked loaf of bread from the Village bake shop, which I picked at for the balance of the road trip home. Even before we hit the welcome sign at the Bracebridge boundary, I had already read a third of the book, and before the weekend was finished, I had consumed both the loaf of bread and book at about the same time. By the way, I loved Upper Canada Village and it, as well, came to influence my love of Canadiana, in glass, wood, furniture, and quilts. On this occasion, I settled into the warm embrace of an armchair near the fireplace, (because April was still a little on the chilly side), and began reading this important little book as if for the first time. I think in many ways, it was the book that created my fascination for Canadian history and the inspiring national landscape, especially as it exists here in South Muskoka, where The Snuggery is situated. As well, it probably had something to do with my interest in Canadian ghosts as well, bringing me to the Bosevelt’s rather haunted farmhouse, now a comfortable Bed and Breakfast in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill.

     It can be said with some compelling evidence, that I am being adversely affected by the alleged hauntings at The Oaken Snuggery. Maybe it is mind of matter as the cynic reminds, of what the brain can fabricate in it’s recreations, to confound the logic of an unfettered and liberal volume of common sense. The ability to be self critical under the circumstances, is failing me a little as of this hour of this day, as I sit bolt upright in my bedstead, trying desperately to make sense of three dreams, one after the other, dealing with the two children, both girls, who seem to be invading my space with increasing vigor. Then, earlier last evening, when I returned to my room following supper with the Bosevelts, hosts here at the Oaken Snuggery, the welded together metal crosses I had placed in a glass dish on the only table in the room, had been removed by someone or something. When I came back to the room I noticed a lamp-light shining under the door, and I heard the distinct singing voices of what I would identify as two young ladies, who by the way, are very good at disappearing in an instant. Much as they vanished before I could catch a glimpse of them when I slowly swung open the heavy old door. Of course, they probably didn’t have any form at any rate, because they had no intention, in their paranormal process, of letting a witness to see them in bodily form. This must be part of the game they are playing, because they aren’t backward whatsoever, infiltrating every other sensory perception of my being, including my dreamscapes.

     I can feel my rapid pulse, still thumping away in my neck and chest, and the cold sweat that I awoke with, after this, the third consecutive dream this morning, and it’s still only three a.m. They’re not nightmares but they are unsettling in all ways, and I’m becoming quite aware that there is a purpose here and now, the paranormal entities haunting the writer-in-residence, to appreciate their own personal stake in this South Muskoka Bed and Breakfast owned by the Bosevelts. I must be slow in this regard, because I still feel quite mystified at it all, and don’t really believe I’m any closer to putting a story together about what gently but persuasively haunts this charming old farmstead in the former hamlet of Rose Hill, situated just north of my old hometown, Bracebridge.

     The dreams are a succession of tidbits and half-hints, half my own intimacies, of which have fed my dreamland adventures with rich details since childhood. The dreams reveal two strong entities without question. But they are invisible in my dreams as they have been in this house. The only time I witnessed anything of form, was while at the pioneer cemetery above the pond, when in a rather brisk wind rising over the embankment, and through the pinery, I felt confident that I had witnessed two distinctly separate ghost-like vapors, wafting in the air currents, as if small see-through sheets lifting and bobbing about like kites tethered by string. They were not kites and there was no string. The dreamland experiences were vague and without memorable images, but there were sensory aspects to each one, such as the scent of lilacs, which I had recognized from my room the night before, and then the soft singing in the background, yet no particular tune registered with me. Each one was short in duration, because I would awake and immediately check the clock, thinking there might be some relevance to a time of night or morning common to these subtle and strange interventions. The first two dreams, but very much shy of being nightmarish, were particularly teasing and sensual, as if trying to lead me onto something or other, but nothing being of the clarity required to satisfy a researcher’s agenda. The third mini-dream was far more aggressive and yet far more emotional, as if the wee spirit-kind were getting frustrated trying to influence my unconscious moments, such that I would suddenly arise and understand completely what they had been trying to say, in a subliminal way, as a ghost talks to a mortal without the fear-factor.

     From what little detail has been presented in these consecutive dreams, the two young girls had something to do with this property, and seemingly were the victims of some type of mishap or misadventure near this house, or one of the earlier settlers’ cabins, both of which burned down prior to the farmhouse construction early in the new century. I am not clairvoyant and have never made any claim of being a medium, so it is a one way avenue with these alleged spirits, trying to contact me, but for my part, there is a validation, sincerely so, that I wish to meet them to know more about their circumstance, and why they feel it necessary to haunt the Bosevelt’s charming Bed and Breakfast. And frighten off some of their guests! I understand with this one-sided arrangement, I have to take what I can get, and I suppose that means having these rather nebulous dreamscapes that seem like an illuminated abstract painting. I dream in color by the way, as I have for most of my life.

     The welded together icon, the two crosses fused in the middle, were not part of the dream. None of the three in fact. The most profound aspect of the ghost hunt, at this point, has involved both finding the crosses in a puddle alongside the front pathway, on a stormy April night, and the reality it was not only given to me to handle, and examine, but to, in some way, preserve as a possible minor artifact of evidence, regarding this very odd and seriously cold case of paranormal mischief. Why then, I thought to myself, as I continued to shiver in the dark, with only an outside lamp to illuminate the room through the window pane, wasn’t the fused crosses part of the dream scenario. If the young ladies had come to my room to remove the crosses, obviously important to them, why then didn’t they plant the seeds of questioning in my mind, when they had the opportunity during my feeble attempt at slumber? There is little doubt these wee spirits have an interest in this house and those who dwell here presently, including the guests who retreat here for a Muskoka vacation. I am not feeling in any way victimized by the entities, or the fact they have found the paranormal key to entering not only my room but my unconscious self, to play silly asses with my emotions. But it is all most certainly leading to some discovery of fact fractured free of this flight of fantasy, that alludes but doesn’t define what this haunting is all about. I probably won’t be able to go back to sleep for a long while now, and I’m probably going to conger up a dream anyway, based on the first three of the evening. Maybe it will be about anything other than wee ghosts and such. I love dreams about food most of all.

     I was awakened by the first sun beams of the day bringing a pleasant, invigorating glow into my room, and stretching itself onto the bottom of my bed. When I turned over on my back to lounge awhile longer before being called to breakfast my Mrs. Bosevelt, my kind host, I couldn’t help but notice the faint but unmistakable image of two faces in the mirror, neither being representative of me, or Mrs. Bosevelt. I pulled myself up on my elbows to have a clearer look at the large mirror attached to the white dresser in the corner, and of course, as one might predict, the faces had disappeared once more. I wanted to chastise them, I honestly did, as if a parent would correct his offspring for being rude to a house-guest by being bold and intrusive. I propped my head up with several spare pillows, and stared at that mirror for the next half hour, just in case the mischief makers decided to make a return, in the visual sense, framed by the woodwork of the old mirror. Either this room was exceptionally haunted or I was being targeted as a conduit between mortal inmates and the rest of the spirit-gang, because I believe there are a few others here beyond two precocious children at ethereal play.

    There is something amazingly alluring about the Muskoka topography, and whenever I feel a little low on inspiration, all it takes to refuel the spirit, is to take a walk in the woods, or along the rocky shore of one of our picturesque lakes, rivers or ponds, such as the one that sparkles in the sunlight here on the Bosevelt’s property, bordered by the tall pines and leaning birches that all seem so poetic in folklore. I have had many adventures here already, and most have had something to do with the outdoors, especially along the old pathways from the days when it was a farmstead, and the cart-ways connected to neighboring properties. There is a lot of history imbedded here, and I wish I knew more about the folks who worked this homestead, and who their neighbors were, who tried to eke out an existence from such a harsh, yet beautiful environs. Of course there are ghosts here. Why wouldn’t there be? Ghosts are created by tragic circumstance, and there were many such tragedies involving these pioneer neighborhoods, and the village graveyards identify some of the cases of premature and accidental deaths. Just reading the inscriptions, that note birth and death dates, tells the voyeur premature death wasn’t uncommon, especially for children and their mothers, who died in child-birth. The veiled sadness is felt when one walks in close proximity to one of these over-grown and slightly neglected cemeteries, where these pioneers are buried. Yet against the backdrop of this picturesque landscape, the haunting emotions of history, fade into a brighter melancholy, quite accommodating to the story teller, sitting now, once again, with a good book in hand; Glengarry School Days.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 12

The Deer Trail Through The Woods
Photos by Suzanne Currie

  

The Oaken Snuggery Part 12 By Ted Currie

My mother thought I was a strange kid, for any number of reasons I suppose, but mostly because of my penchant for old discarded stuff that I routinely hauled home to our Burlington apartment. Car parts, shiny things, smooth rocks, and jagged ones that showed the sparkle of fool’s gold, and a wide variety of items I bartered for from school mates, from pocket knives to tadpoles in Mason jars. I seemed to Merle, undoubtedly, a peculiar child who was destined to become either a mad scientist, a Beatnik poet, artist, or author of stories right out of the Twilight Zone. It was my favorite television show, when I was given the pleasure of staying up later in the evening to watch it on our ever-failing black and white RCA. I can’t remember how many times I was within earshot when Merle would call me an “old soul” in a child’s body, but let’s just say, she felt it necessary to point out that I was a tad touched this way, but in a good way I think. What my mother never knew was that I had experienced an angel dream as a child, and potentially two or three more just not quite as memorable, and that I often felt as if I had been reincarnated, at a time when I didn’t understand the word. I knew the feeling of having lived before, but for the life of me, I thought it was normal human stuff.

     One morning here at Birch Hollow, I had just sat down for a beverage, after writing for several hours. I prepared a pot of tea, set out a few biscuits for myself (Suzanne and the boys were at school), and had an Enya CD playing. I love Enya, and I often relax after writing jags with CD’s my family got me for Christmas and birthdays. I was enjoying the morning break and allowing myself to relax to the very brink of slumber, when all of a sudden, I had this necessity to look up at the living room wall where I have my favorite paintings hung. Within the frame of one landscape, that used to hang in my parents apartment, way back in our Burlington days, I saw the image of my Uncle Jack, who had died a few years previous. Jack and I got along famously, and it was customary for us to get together, at family gatherings, to enjoy a wee shot of brandy to celebrate Robbie Burns, and the more shots we’d have, the more difficult it was for me to interpret what he was saying. He became distinctly more Scottish as the evening wore on, and we’d both start laughing to the point we’d hurt our stomachs. He was a charming fellow, and on this occasion, I was just a little shocked to see him staring at me, with about the same animation of his face as I remember from those social events. Without actually speaking, he let me know that everything on the “other side” was fine, with the family members who had already crossed-over, but that my mother was going to suffer a serious set-back, but would survive the bout of poor health. Of course I rubbed my eyes, and tried to re-focus but his face was still impressed in my mind. What did he mean about my mother. Now at the time Merle had been having some serious problems with her bowels, and a re-activated hiatus hernia, and in her eighties it wasn’t looking good for her, as far as a trouble-free future.

     The short version is that Uncle Jack was quite correct. Within days my mother had to be taken to the hospital, and during an operation to remove a bowel obstruction, she suffered a heart attack and a stroke. She wound up for the next month being on a breathing device, and had to be flown by air ambulance to Toronto, to be weened off the machine. It was likely she would never be the same, and shortly thereafter, she was admitted to a nursing home, where she survived for more than a year, but did succumb shortly thereafter. Was Uncle Jack for real? Truthfully, it is exactly what Jack would have done, and the fact that it was his face and not some of my other relatives, made acceptance of the situation much less aggressive and unsetting. Jack had a way with words, and a few of them I even understood. On this day, I understood very clearly, and although I didn’t quite believe my senses, it happened just as he predicted. Do I believe mortals can be contacted by those who have crossed over? Yes indeed. It’s why I agreed to participate in this paranormal research project at the Bosevelts Bed and Breakfast here in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill.

     I returned to my first floor room / office shortly after enjoying a lovely dinner with the Bosevelts, the owners of this fine establishment, here in the centre of the former hamlet of Rose Hill, and it came as some surprise to me, even knowing the old farmhouse to have a plethora of situation-hauntings, to have heard the voices of children singing beyond the heavy oak door. It was also the case the light was switched on in the room, because I could see it through the bottom crack on my approach. I stood for a few moments to ascertain what the music was, where exactly it was coming from in my room, and wondering if there was a radio I hadn’t yet found during my stay, how then had it become engaged in the short while I was having dinner with the proprietors. I didn’t want to open the door at that moment, in order to gather as much information as possible, about a haunting that was fleet footed and evasive as an ever moving vapor in a spring wind.

     It sounded distant and there was an eerie aspect to coming upon this scene, hearing this strange child-like singing, in a room that I occupied only an hour ago, without any sign of sensation of a paranormal intrusion. I did not recognize the singing but I would have bet the voices I heard through the door, belonged to two young girls, probably no older than ten to twelve years of age. The voices were not in harmony, and one was higher than the other, and seemingly faster with the words, making it sound very much childish, two youngsters singing while occupied at another recreation. Certainly not singing as a performance piece, but as a recreation for the moment. I fully expected to open the heavy oak door, slowly with the idea of catching two interlopers jumping on my cot, or playing a game on the oval braided rug over the hardwood floor. But from the moment my hand touched the door handle, the voices became thin and distant, and when I was able to look within, through a tiny crack between the door and the jam, the light in the room had been switched off. When I was able then to enter the room, the singing had stopped entirely, and when I did engage the lamp, there was no evidence whatsoever, that there had ever been anyone else in the room since I left it to attend dinner precisely one hour and ten minutes earlier. The bed covering wasn’t ruffled or showing that anyone had been sitting or jumping on the surface, and there were no leftover game pieces from child’s play left on the carpet, and whoever was in my room had been able to tidy up, disengage the light, and walk through the wall in less than five seconds. That is, between the time I put my hand on the door latch, and physically opened it to peer inside. Well, this was another of the strange occurrences at The Oaken Snuggery, the Bed and Breakfast offering guests a little more than food and accommodation. This place was haunted. Not in a frightening way, if you’re used to living in a haunted dwelling, but in a perplexing way, as you try to figure out who and what is behind the, at times, subtle events and intrusions, that obviously have a purpose even for the dear departed. What messages are we to gather from these disturbances? I’m now more than a week into this investigation, on behalf of the Bosevelt family, who would like a resolution soon, and all I’ve been able determine, is that the mingling of spirits and mortals, is more of a mischief / victim kind of relationship, without a shred of ill humor or anything resembling old fashioned Hollywood malevolence.

     I sat in the arm chair by the window, for a few moments, to contemplate what I may have heard, or thought I heard, and if there was a pattern showing itself with the other chance encounters I’ve had since arriving here on Easter Friday, being the start of the first weekend in April, 2018. Along with the other details of past intrusions by something or other, offered by the Bosevelts themselves, it was becoming clear that this haunting was with purpose, and seemingly the handiwork of more youthful spirits possibly, when at a young age, with plenty of vim and vinegar as they used to say, having lost their lives to some serious illness, accident or misadventure, more than likely occurring in and around this property. Might they be buried in the family cemetery located on the pine hillside just above the pond on the back acreage of this property?

     There was a perfume scent permeating the closed atmosphere of that room, so much in fact, that I had to get up and check outside my door, to see if the Bosevelts were in the vicinity, or had been using scented candles or an interior fragrance of any kind. I didn’t bring any cologne or even after-shave with me, for this particular visit, so I knew it wasn’t coming from my lone bit of luggage lodged in the small closet across from the bedstead. It smelled like lilacs of which I am a minor expert, seeing as we have two major areas of lilac bushes on our property in Gravenhurst we call Birch Hollow. But the lilacs, because of the long and cold winter, are still a long way from blooming, possibly not until early June. Besides my window isn’t open even a crack, so the perfume is coming from somewhere within this small domain in the old farmhouse. I didn’t think it was connected to the singing I had heard earlier, and if it was a paranormal sign, or a vapor that had not yet entirely dissipated from the space, I must have been preoccupied otherwise to give it the notice it most likely deserved. I was too focused on the fact the fused metal crosses that had been left for safe-keeping in a glass dish on the table, near the window, was now missing and presumably removed by someone who had an interest in the strange icon, which had been found in a puddle along the front walk,  by a guest entering the house through the main entrance. A violent wind and rain storm had just blown through and it is expected the heavy run-off eroded earth along the newly installed brick pathway, freeing up the buried crosses, locked together as one piece, minus the chains that apparently had corroded away in its years below ground. I would have to ask the Bosevelts as soon as possible if either one of them had been in my room in the previous hour or so, and having removed the welded-together crosses that Mrs. Bosevelt had given me to examine shortly after it was discovered and turned in by the newly arrived guest.

     It was then I heard a very faint but familiar laughter coming from just outside my closed bedroom door. I had heard these voices before, in laughter, and in song, and I was quick to rise to the mission of opening the door to uncover the mischief makers. They were making quite a fool of the ghost hunter, because by time my hand hit the door handle, the laughter suddenly stopped. In the open hallway, which was well lit and free of furniture clutter, offering no place for rascals in play to hide-out, there was nothing to be seen or heard. The exception was the very much stronger aroma of freshly picked lilacs, but that was impossible in actuality. As for paranormal circumstances, well, that was markedly different and apparently quite possible. Did the waifs of the spirit-kind belong to the pair of tiny metal crosses welded together, and taken them from the glass bowl on my table-top. How did they make a solid, tangible icon disappear into thin air, along with themselves, though highly capable of singing and switching on a lamp. Maybe I was getting close to a theory about the perpetrators of the seemingly purposeful visitations and apparent mischief. If it was the ghosts of over-zealous children, who may have lived on this property some time in the past, would they be satisfied now, having retrieved these formerly lost and buried crosses, fused together as possibly these young ladies were in their own mortal existences? I had way more questions than answers, but I do believe there is a story building here, that may have a much more interesting drama attached than I could have expected from what I was given as a little more than a crumb when I agreed to pursue the mission of whether The Oaken Snuggery was haunted or just a place for unrelated manifestations to call home. I need to talk to Suzanne, my research assistant currently working at home, to find out if she has uncovered any more information about what may have occurred on this South Muskoka property dating all the way back to 1868 when the land was given out to an emigrant family as part of a free land grant of one hundred acres. I don’t expect to fall asleep easily tonight, with these rascals determined to get, and keep my attention.

     When Suzanne and I operated our first antique shop, as a couple, in a Victorian era house, modernized into a storefront, on upper Manitoba Street, we both had many paranormal experiences, from heavy footfalls on the steps down to our basement shop, to the disappearance of customers within our book shelves, who we later came to call our dead beat “phantom” shoppers. Suzanne remembers the day she was tending the store, while I took the boys out for an ice cream cone, uptown in Bracebridge, and she had reason to rise up from her chair to greet several customers who had just then come into the store. She talked to them for awhile about sundry things and the weather outside, which was particularly hot and humid, and after she sat down, and began more work on our accounting, she felt a strange presence looking down on her from the other side of the counter. Looking up she noticed a rather portly small man of elder years, and wearing a curiously appointed uniform, standing with his arms at his side inches from the sales counter. Suzanne, as she does with every guest to our business, said hello to the well dressed gentleman, all the while trying to figure out what the uniform represented. He wasn’t wearing a cap and there was not distinguishable badge or stitched insignia on the jacket. The man didn’t acknowledge her welcome, and after a few seconds, turned and walked away without ever once saying anything, eventually disappearing behind some shelves in the middle of the room, to never be seen again. In order to get out of the store, the man had no choice but to walk in the open space to the small hallway, in clear view of the shop clerk. He never left that day, except by vaporizing. We think it was probably related to some demise in the old house over the previous century. It had once been a funeral home and furniture shop operated by the good Mr. W. Kinsey, a well respected businessman. Was it he who visited that day? It will of course remain a mystery in the Currie family history of which there are many, many similar personalities, who have stayed a while, but never a long time. We’re hoping for better luck at The Oaken Snuggery.

The Oaken Snugger Part 11

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 11

BY TED CURRIE

     I was sitting by the huge windows that afford an amazing panorama of the Rose Hill property, feeling, at this moment, quite fortunate as an old writer, to be basking in this rural luxury at the Bosevelt’s “Snuggery”. Even if the mission here was to uncover the earthbound spirits residing in the farmhouse, it was still a very comfortable platform from which to conduct my research. I was thinking back, cup of tea in hand, to the first apartment Suzanne and I shared, while living in Bracebridge where we were both employed on the same block. I was the editor of The Herald-Gazette, at the intersection of Dominion and Quebec Streets, and she was a rookie teacher at Bracebridge High School a short walk in the opposite direction. When I moved into the apartment in the Victorian house, the resident ghost or two didn’t care for my intrusion, or the fact I used to leave my wet hockey equipment on the porch after games. I brought quite a number of antique pieces into the marriage, including a large number of old books, and what had been a nicely arranged and perfectly decorated apartment, thanks to Suzanne, became unfortunately for my dear wife, a holding zone for our eventual antique shop still several years done the road. Whatever entity haunted that apartment, of the Victorian house, it appreciated Suzanne’s “less is more” decorating concept, and very much disapproved of my hoarding of old stuff. So much so in fact, that it created a stir through a number of interesting interventions in an otherwise quiet one bedroom unit. The first spirited event was the nightly performance of windless wind chimes, that tinkled away without actually being anywhere in the building or outside. There were no chimes in fact, but we could record wind chimes in spirit. Then there was the many incidents of opened cupboard and refrigerator doors each morning, including drawers in the kitchen counter being opened as if someone had been busily working in the room. If the drawers and cupboard doors weren’t open, then the lights in the kitchen and bathroom would be switched on each morning, as if someone had just finished ablutions and forgot to extinguish the lamps. It wasn’t frightening stuff that’s for sure, but it was pretty clear, that unless someone else was using the apartment when we went to bed, there had to be a nocturnal resident who wasn’t paying their fair share of the rent. There were other intrusive situations in the apartment, but nothing that we couldn’t handle with conversation between the living and those who had crossed over. We explained to them that we had no intention of forcing them out, or holding an exorcism to expel them the hard way, as long as we could respect each others right to enjoy the lodgings for as long as we shared the same space. It didn’t stop the late-night activities, but we learned to get along with our apartment mates, by simply enjoying the wind chimes, closing the cupboard doors and switching off the lights whenever we happened to get up, even in the middle of the night. We worked around their schedule you might say. 

     Several days went by at the old house, without much happening in the way of spirited interventions. Nothing the voyeur would attribute to the paranormal, or I dare say, the supernatural. The guests have now left after having two days of relative harmony, and peacefulness, as The Oaken Snuggery and the Bosevelts met every demand of accommodation, keeping up their standard of hospitality. I have done little more than wander through the house, when it was vacant of occupants, and wandered the property on numerous occasions from sunrise until the lamplights switch on a dusk. Even then I have found reason to amble along the stone pathways to the hillside overlooking the pond, thriving with sound at this rejuvenating time of year. If this property and this old farmhouse are haunted, the past few days and quiet evenings have shown little to be concerned about, in terms of the spirits eagerness to take over its occupation from the proprietors. Even when there is a prevailing sensation of paranormal activity, it is of a gentle influence, that is strangely passive, as if one could chastise whatever perpetrates an unwanted visitation, and demand they vacate the premises, and thus abandoning would be done with acute haste. But I have not tried this, and feel it would be regretful not to, in some equally passive way, to validate their purpose here. As I am confident these roaming, mischievous spirits, possibly of children, have an interest in making the present owners appreciate their inhabitation. Nothing presumably fostered with fear, although the Bosevelts have reason to worry, as the incidents have been increasing since they opened the Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast.

     The fused metal crosses discovered by a guest of the Snuggery, during the heavy rains of the other night, connected with a rather violent April storm, are still in my possession, now resting on a glass tray positioned beneath the office lamp on a corner table beside my bed. I have studied it carefully, in lamplight and natural light, and it is most definitely a curiously connected piece, welded together presumably by high heat, yet both crosses maintain their integrity, joined at the middle, both upright yet angled slightly apart, giving the appearance of actually having been made that way which is highly unlikely. They are different crosses in size and design, and both have an opening at the top for the insert of very light chains, to be worn around the neck. The chains were missing when the fused crosses were located in the puddle of run-off water, following the heavy part of the storm which had obviously eroded a goodly section of the walkway at the front of the house, near the main entrance. The illumination from the porch light caused a faint reflection in the tarnished silver, enough to catch the eye of the passerby that evening. It has been the talk of the household ever since, but I have maintained it in secret since Mrs. Bosevelt handed it to me, the next morning. Is it a sort of missing link, to explain the hauntings of The Oaken Snuggery? If only there were inscriptions on the backs of the crosses. Just some tidbit of information that could be used to get a hold of this story I know out of immense frustration, is yet to be told.

     The first good news of my stay came from my wife and research partner Suzanne, who phoned to tell me that she had uncovered some formative information about the Rose Hill property, from the first emigrants who took up the free land grants that were offered in the late 1860’s. She couldn’t find anything about the family that would be particularly helpful, other than they had come from Liverpool to Canada in 1867 originally, to Muskoka two years later, but who abandoned the property only two years after arrival at what was to become known as the hamlet, Rose Hill. This was not uncommon in Muskoka, and there were many turnovers of property in the first ten years of occupancy, when settlers discovered by trial and error, just how many impediments there were going to be, in order to pull in a successful harvest from rocky and stump filled acres, and how unlikely they would ever be able to make enough profit to support the homestead expense, and their family’s sustenance. Many of these early homesteaders had to supplement their incomes by being hired-on by the lumber companies, at their winter camps dotted throughout the district and beyond. It meant that the men of the family were employed elsewhere, during the winter and spring log drive, leaving the women and children to manage the home in the wilds. It was often enough hardship, heaped upon privation, to convince settlers to move on to more hospitable futures, not in Muskoka where the growing season was short, and the topography was not best suited to agriculture. As compared, of course, to other homestead grants being offered in other parts of Ontario and in the west where a trans continental railway would one day connect, ocean to ocean. There were no shortages of opportunity, but there was to be limited success in both south and north Muskoka, and only the hardiest of homesteader could make a go of it in the rural clime of the region. Homestead abandonment was common, in short, and as it turned out, there were quite a few more inhabitants of this acreage of the present Oaken Snuggery than the Bosevelts were aware of, garnered from some in the neighborhood how offered what amounted to as protracted hearsay. A little more like folk lore than an honest chronology of ownership, that would be helpful in this present quest, although it is quite a stretch to attempt an identification of garden-variety ghosts, to the fifty to a hundred former residents, who called this acreage their own since 1868, when the forest that reigned above, was toppled unceremoniously to herald civilization, letting the sunlight beat down on a landscape held in the shadows for centuries.

     While I sat in my window-side chair, earlier this evening, watching the fading sunlight of what had been a most engaging spring day, warm and alluring to the countryside wanderer, I held that fused piece of metal in the palm of my hand, and tried to assess how such a thing would have happened naturally, or why it would have been welded together on purpose, although I very much doubted this had been crafted upon two delicate, beautiful crosses, that probably meant a great deal to whoever had owned them in the past. I was fascinated by the situation of the crosses, and the reality they still possessed their original integrity, and ability to sparkle in the light, even after many years, if not decades, being buried at the side of the front yard pathway. It’s surprising to me how the piece wasn’t dug up when the pathways were installed by the Bosevelts two years ago, or so they tell me, but then the fact that they have been dislodged with this latest rain, pretty much indicates the digging nearby partially liberated the buried icon, such that such a natural event would reveal it to the open air sooner or later. I fail to find anything sinister or of significant meaning to the welded crosses, but I do believe there is reason to suspect that they were fused together by heat, from a man-made or natural source, such as having been damaged in a fire, such as the common knowledge here, is that there were two dwelling places destroyed by fire before the turn of the 1900’s. But where had these shanties been situated on the property? Did any of the occupants of these cabins perish in these accidental fires? Are there the remains of fire victims buried in the unmarked cemetery on the hillside above the pond? And what, if anything at all, do the deaths that occurred on this property, since 1868 have to do with the most recent string of ghostly visitations and paranormal activity experienced by the proprietors and guests of The Oaken Snuggery? I suppose the only way of finding out is to ask those who have perpetuated the hauntings, to come clean about their mischief, and to provide reasons for their unwelcome intrusions. Rather than exorcise them into their own ethereal eternities, I wanted most of all to communicate with these entities, because I believe there are reasons for their spirited communications. We just haven’t been speaking a common language thus far, but being honest with them might be a good place to start learning about one another, the mortal and the immortal who have conflicting claims to full occupation of this historic property in rural Muskoka.

    In retrospect, I was also thinking about the first house Suzanne and I purchased, only one block from where we had been residing on Quebec Street. We were at the foot of Ontario Street, below the High School, in a small two story brick facade house built in the early 1900’s as a cheap house for town tannery employees. It wasn’t long into our period of residence, with a child on the way, when we discovered this house also possessed a little something extra, that we hadn’t bargained for when we inked the deal. At first we wondered if one of the ghosts from the apartment, (of which we believe now there were two) had come with us inadvertently, to once again, play with the light switches. This time, the preferred place to frolic, was in the small downstairs bathroom. It didn’t matter how many times we corrected the situation, turning off the ceiling light, a half hour later, it would be switched back on once again. It was kind of humorous because we had gotten used to the ghosts of the apartment, that did some of the same things, potentially to get us to move our stuff out, and leave them to haunt at their leisure. What we found out after our first year of switching off lights in the old house, was that the former owner, who lived in the house just before we arrived, had passed away while having a bath. We supposed she was pretty keen on keeping the light on, and following this revelation, we would offer the woman our apology for switching off the lamp, based on the fact we were a young couple without a lot of money, and we couldn’t afford a big hydro bill at the end of the month. The incidents switched down to half from the way it had begun. Still, we found the haunting to be mild in every way, and hardly the kind of paranormal situation to write a movie script about.