The Preachers Gone Fishing Part 2

 

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE - PART TWO OF TWELVE

     The varied, deep-green hues, so remarkable of the encroaching vegetation, and those dramatic ferns, fluttering birch leaves, and fanning evergreen, with the mirroring on the darkening water, at sunset, reminded him of those compelling stories he had grown up with, as a voracious reader, and eager listener to told and dear stories of the outdoors. As he looked down from where he had arisen, in careful steps, up the incline, it surely reminded him of the way he felt, at hearthside, with crackling cedar fire, reading Izaak Walton's classic "Compleat Angler," and somewhat, of the friendly isolation, bestowed the mind, in David Thoreau's alluring description, of his sanctuary at "Walden Pond." There was something liberating to the mind, the creative enterprise, being isolated by this magnificent geography, in company of others, of similar passion, wishing to escape the toils of the work-a-day world. If he was a poet, he would write a ballad, like Sir Walter Scott's famous border tales. If he had the aptitude to be a painter, he would sketch a picture of the row boats bobbing in the waves, with tiny oil lanterns fastened bow and stern. If he was a musician, what a sweet composition he would write, to represent the wind rushing through the pines, and the lapping and gurgling of the waves against the rock shoreline. He was none of these, he thought, being honest to himself, yet sensing immediately, that there was inspiration here, that could be useful in preparation of sermons, when he returned to his charge, and the work of administering to those feeling the depression of sickness and lack of resources. He would find it logical, and even fulfilling, to preach about a place such as this, that was, at the moment, giving so much pleasure, even by its natural charms alone. He had expected his most joyous situation, would be the landing of a prize fish, the next morning, while on a guided tour of the best angling sites on the lake. This respite had started brilliant well, and he found himself anticipating many good things yet to come; something his position with the church, somewhat prohibited, because of the inherent sadness that comes with failing faith, illness and despair. The Preacher himself, had been suffering exhaustion, and found, over the months leading up to this retreat, he had been unable to lift others, as was his assignment in life afterall. How could would preach uninspired? Doubt was a far greater enemy, than exhaustion, and it was his hope that this re-marriage with nature, unencumbered, would regenerate his faith and passion for the ministry. He was not sure it would!   

     There were already numerous wavering kerosene and oil lamps, illuminated on the front porch, and positioned in some of the tall misted-up windows, of the wooden lodge building; with its long welcoming and gracious verandah, with lounging chairs set back against the woodwork, to allow free movement along its length. The prominent pine architecture which paralleled the shoreline below, on this darkened lake, lost now to sunlight late in the day. The well trodden pathway up the hillside, taken by the steamship passengers, after arrival at the Lake Rosseau lodge, was steep in places, and a heavy rain earlier in the day, had left some precarious uneven terrain, tripping several of the passengers, but not so bad as to make them fall. The Preacher took the incline slowly, stopping every dozen or so steps, to look back on the hollow of the lake, where he noticed the lights of the steamship, twinkling over the choppy surface of the water. It was a peaceful scene, and he fully appreciated the permeating aroma of woodsmoke, arising from the lodge's hearth, and the grey vapors coming from the steamship stack, smelling, in his mind, like a cranky Scotsman's ancient pipe bowl, that had never once been cleaned of its own antiquity. It was strangely nostalgic and enchanting at the same time, and he was eager to reach the door of the beckoning inn, to see what more intrigue dwelled within.

    A clatter of footsteps and banging, on woodwork, sliding luggage, could be heard echoing off the planking from the verandah, and then the bell agitated above the front door,letting the desk clerk and assistants know, the latest group of guests had arrived. When the Preacher finally climbed the three stairs up to the verandah, and navigated through the strewn suitcases left between him and the entranceway, he detected the honest aroma of pine, stove smoke, and an apparent supper in preparation deep in the recess of the lodge kitchen. He paused and said silently to himself, over and over, "this is delightful, very, very delightful; it is a delight to be here now, and I shall very much like this place." He muttered this as he walked slowly into the lowly lit lobby, where he spotted the big counter directly in front, beside the main stairs of the building; but initially, made no attempt to do anything more than observe and allow his senses to connect with what would be his first recreation in many years, attending to his flock, strewn widely over a large district lower in the province. He studied the chandelier, just above his head, with twinkling oil lamps, and greatly admired the conserved fish and deer antlers hung on the wall to his left, where large windows looked out on a terraced lawn lit by a number of post lanterns. There was an old dog, curled up, to the left side of the wooden staircase, with a carpet runner up the middle; and there was a puppy chewing on a bone near a settee by the front window. He thought he saw a trace of a feline resident, but it disappeared quickly, after a race across the floor, possibly after a resident mouse.

     The Preacher looked up above the lone clerk's head, and saw the large calendar face, that boldly dated his vacation here; as being August 21st, 1891, right beside the splendid colored portrait of Queen Victoria, flanked by two perfectly angled British flags crossed in her honor. Below this, was a large desk with pigeon holes, and documents protruding, and two large lodge registers of hundreds of pages each. It mush have been a popular site. A wonderful place to spend the summer, looking out upon this picturesque lake, in the northern part of the district of Muskoka.

     The interior had a smokey gloom about it, with scattered glass oil lamps, but as a Preacher, it was much like some of the old wooden churches he visited regularly, for evening services. It reminded him of some of the large country cottages he had visited, as a young man, while still in England, and Scotland; full of historical articles and lovely rural art, that gave a friendly, haunting folk aura, as if all the former inmates of these places, had never left the abodes, despite their having passed. He was interrupted in his discussion with the desk clerk, registering for the key to his room, by a tugging on the bottom hem of his trousers, and looked down only to see the bright face of a tiny orange kitten, looking up at him. It had taken sanctuary in the hollow between his pants and the wood floor. He laughed, nudged the kitten away from his leg, and accepted the room key in his right hand, while holding the leather strap of his fishing creel, hung from his shoulder, the wrapped fishing rod held to his palm, by several clenched fingers. "Aye, what is this wee rascal," he enquired of the clerk, who when he looked, couldn't see what the Preacher was referring to as a "rascal.". At this precise time, a waiter dropped a glass bowl on the floor nearby, and the subject of the kitten became suddenly of lesser concern.

     The Preacher bent over, and picked up several shards of glass, off the brightly varnished floor, and upon standing again, was handed the large skeleton key to the second floor room, he had just been awarded. He thanked the clerk, and stepped carefully away from the tall counter, watching at the same time, that he didn't step on the kitten's tail accidentally, making his exit toward the staircase.

     He climbed slowly up the first three stairs, hung onto the rail firmly, while turning back, to look down, with newfound affection, upon the great hall in this low light of many curiously placed lamps, window ledge to mantle. He saw the great fire that was warming the air space of the high ceiling rooms, and noticed the activity of servers in the dining room, recognizable by the clinking sound of glasses, and tinkling of silverware. He would come down after setting down his luggage in the room, and taking off his soot-covered straw hat, now smudged front and back with his own fingerprints. It was an inviting scene below him, and he felt comfortable as a lodger for the coming week. The Preacher turned back to the task at hand, and began climbing the rest of the dozen stairs to the second floor. He did think to himself, with only the best intentions of trust, that "this is a very spirited place."

The Preacher's Gone Fishing Part 1

 

Vintage, circa. 1968, Winter Seasons In Windermere

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING" - THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE - CHAPTER ONE OF TWELVE

     This particular "great expectation," wasn't inspired by a book or an author. In fact, there were very few stories he knew of, from antiquity, except from the Bible itself, that he could draw on, philosophically, to navigate the intricate map of possibilities, this adventure into the wilds might well hold, for the liberated heart. Spiritually he knew the way. If he could inch over the exhaustion he was feeling, having, for long and long, captained the outreach work of the church, the Preacher would have a chance of enjoying every minute of this unfolding, moment by moment adventure, pushing through the reflective images of this amazing peace on earth.

     The soot-belching, vibrating steam engine, lowly thundering in echo, down, and through the forest-lined narrows, plied the still and dark waters of the lake, with considerable authority, as if it was gliding along a submerged railway track. It's steam whistle shattered the calm of the lakeland, and the plume of smoke and steam vapor, clouded and spiraled down over the wake, giving it the appearance of being on fire, from the setting sun; or that the ship was being pursued by some great mythical beast, the sparks clear evidence of the dragon's cranky disposition, at being startled from slumber by the churning, slow moving vessel.

     The Preacher, on his first recreation in over a decade, hung over the railing on the ship's stern, seemingly more enthralled by where he had come from, than where he was headed up the lake. The only slightly occupied, small size steamship, had only one stop left for the day, and that was to land at the lodge's long wooden dock; pulling-up parallel, and then being roped to the iron fittings anchored to the wood frame. Moored over an ample amount measure of water, to accommodate the depth of hull, sitting below the surface. When the steamer would come to dock, at the Lake Rosseau shore, to dispatch its passengers, and their trunks and suitcases, and parcels for the lodge, it would do so, as if sliding silk across silk, with barely a whisper of collision, as the wood bumpers of the vessel, connected, and slid smoothly against the wood timbers of the dock. So gentle was the merger, of boat and dock, that most passengers, who had been sitting inside, conversing, hadn't known of their arrival until it was announced to them, by a roaming ship's mate, letting everyone know it was finally time to disembark. The Preacher, as well, had only noticed the visible slowing down of the passage, and the increasing size of the wake, as the boat sank deeper into the water with a slower speed.

     Still occupying what he thought, was a privileged position at the stern of the steamer, the Preacher turned around, and leaned back onto the railing, to look down upon the activities taking place on the dock, as the boat was quickly and efficiently lashed to the iron relics, fastened themselves, to the huge square timbers. He took his straw hat off, to avoid it being torn from his head, by a gusty August wind, rising from the northwest. He couldn't help then, noticing the soot from the stack, that had come to land upon his head, now a large smudge on the top and rim of the wide brimmed hat. He would have to get assistance from someone at the lodge, who understood such domestic science, to help rid the hat of the smudges, some that imprinted perfectly his fingers.

     The preacher wasn't at all bothered by the state of his now blackened straw hat, that could be cleaned later. He began to head down the stairs to the gangway, that would connect passengers to the lodge dock, where he would have to claim his small amount of luggage, his near-legendary fishing rod and the wicker basket, or better known, creel, that had been passed down to him by his father, that had before this, belonged to his grandfather, a well known Scottish angler, when not tending his flock; as he had also been a preacher. The basket that would trustfully, soon hold the bounty of the lakes, had its visible wear, holes, and broken wicker, yet it possessed the spirit of those memorable angling days back in the old country, so aye, it had its inherent charms. All that were now pleasantly, and trustfully attached, to this most contemporary of occasions, at this grand Muskoka lodge; the architecture just visible at this point of departure, the roof line witnessed only a few measurable feet, above the evergreens clustered along the shore, and the still rising plume of smoke coming from the ship's stack.

     The man, his gear in hand, fishing rod neatly packed away in a short canvas sleeve, had placed his soot-covered hat, back onto his balding head, a little askew from the trip up the lake. He stopped a few feet off the boat, to drink-in the ambience of this beautiful setting, on a cool, late summer night, just as the sun began slipping below the horizon rocks, and stately pines, inherent of this vast northern lakeland. He inhaled deeply the invigorating country air, and quite enjoyed the wafting scent of woodsmoke coming from the lodge chimney, only partially visible through the evergreen needles, wavering in the millions, seemingly as a kindly gesture, all the way up the hillside path toward the main building. He would wish to sit by the hearth of that great fire, in this rustic centre hall of the lodge, as the early evening chill, brought by the gusts of wind across the water, had caused the Preacher to shiver, and pull his jacket tightly around him.

     On his way up the path, falling behind the other passengers, now guests of this Muskoka lodge, he stopped momentarily, to look back upon the last of the sunglow, striking up at the sky, as if from the crushing blow of a blacksmith's hammer, sparking as natural fireworks, into the darkened universe. It was a beautiful scene, that might have struck the outdoorsman, Thoreau, to pen something remarkable, about nature and the soul. There was a subtle, invasive calm, yet excitement in the man, who had travelled days to get to this remarkable little place in the north. Now though, the rumbling in his stomach, and ache of his feet, were more important to tend to, as he turned and began, once again, his climb upwards, giving every appearance that he was heading skywards into the stars.

     He must attend to his registration at the front desk, and as he smelled supper in preparation, presumably deep in the lodge's kitchen, it was time to move his feet to a more progressive and uphill momentum.

"The Preachers Gone Fishing" - Preamble To A Haunted Muskoka Lodge

 

Vintage Pictures, circa 1970, Watt Township

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER, AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, "THE PREAMBLE"

     There it is again! Unsettling the peace and quiet of a woodland hike. The clear rustling, of last autumn's leaves, as if purposely kicked-up by a determined, brisk walk, brushing heavily through the dry leaves just behind you, on the well trodden pathway. When you look back, there is nothing visible that could be responsible, for making such an intrusive, unsettling sound. No squirrel, chipmunk, or prevailing wind gust, that could create the cadence of footsteps, as if someone else was walking immediately behind, trying to catch-up. But who could it be? Your imagination is playing tricks on you. Right?  Or, as reality bordering strange fiction, was it the ghost of someone who had walked these same woods, at this same time of day, many times during their years of living nearby? After departing this mortal coil, is it possible the walks of life, have continued as a quality of the afterlife?

     The rapping on the back door? Now that was a mystery. Three times, the knocking got you out of your chair, to answer the door, and each time, there was nothing on the verandah except the Easter decorations, and the spring season wreath suspended on the door. Maybe the wind was rattling the adornment, mounted high on the entrance, causing it to manifest a knocking sound. But there was no detectable wind. And certainly no one standing at the door.

     Then there was the curiously out-of-place child, wearing a long white dress, visibly brushing against the still muddy ground, witnessed on a countryside stroll, you took that early spring evening. She could be seen running alongside the half fallen cemetery fence, of the old neighborhood. It seemed, at first glance, the young girl was looking for an opening in the rickety barrier, to get into the graveyard. How and why did the little girl simply vanish, as you approached to offer some assistance, to what appeared a fretful circumstance. You ponder that it must have been a unique play of light and shadow, blending at that time of night; or simply a figment of an over-active imagination.

     Think back, for a moment. Have you ever had a strange experience, you initially thought, shortly there-after, reminded you of something your mother, grandmother, great uncle, or cousin seven times removed, might have spun for you, in story-form, from adult to child, that had something to do with superstition, ghosts, or, if they were from the old country, hobgoblins?

     Might you have, some time in your life, awoken in the middle of a stormy night, to see someone standing in your doorway, or even sitting on the end of your bed, which vanished in the blink of a sleepy eye? And if you asked a parent or grandparent, in the morning, which one of them had paid you a wee hours visit, the answer was most likely, as tradition usually dictates, that none of them had been wandering about the abode, at that time of the early morning, to account for the visitation. Might the twinkle of an oldtimer's eye, you detect, cause you to wonder then, if this individual knew more than they were letting on, about what may have occurred, even to them, in their own bedrooms, of the same dwelling place? Or were they just playing a trick on you?

     Have you heard steps coming up, or down the main staircase of your residence, when no one else was at home; or detected the sound of a footfall in the room directly above, while knowing there was no one else but you at home? Ever wonder why you feel some entity is watching you, when entering the basement of a residence or business, and then feel, when climbing back up, the urgent sensation to race up the stairs, as something is coming quickly from behind; that might suddenly and painfully grab you ankle, and pull you back down to suffer untold horrors? Have you heard someone call your name when no one has been in the vicinity, or felt what seemed like a firm hand grip on your shoulder, or pat you on the back, when all alone; or walking along a path where your family hiked routinely over several generations? The friendly spirits of kinfolk? Who really knows?

     Most of us, being honest about such events, and our perception of them, have to admit, however pensive we are about making such a confessional public, feeling unsettled by the incursion, as subtle as it may have been, at the very moment of connection; experiencing curious sensory perception, with what couldn't be easily explained, or pinpointed, to the handywork of an indvidual, possibly playing a practical joke on the unsuspecting "you". It isn't odd in any way, to have had such an experience, that presented no logical reason for occurring; and yet, it would be irrational if not entirely silly, to decide immediately, that it must have been the outreach of the paranormal. There is much in life that can not be explained, and many incidents that we become involved, by the happenstance of living day to day, that defy simple earthly explanation. Yet we can not say that it was the intrusion of those who have crossed over, trying to get a message to the living. While I might believe many of my parallel situations, of strange liaisons with entities unknown, are indeed messages from beyond, it is something that pacifies my interests; but is not something I advocate for, as a hobby medium, of which I am no such thing. I am always interested in stories with paranormal attachments, whether it involves the sighting of a ghost, or strange light in the window of a vacant house; or a spiritual quality that hums in the low light of early spring nights, with no one visible. It is something of a curiosity, that will always, as a matter of irony, haunt us; being this possibility of wayward spirits that can communicate with the living.

     We are, in our own way, responsive to suggestion. We may denounce the belief in ghosts, when confronted by a staunch believer, yet admit in confidence to our family, having seen the ghosts of grandparents sitting in the yard, where they were most familiar on long summer nights. It is no shame to admit one has doubts. This is the foundation of the series of stories in this twelve chapter series, written specially for "Currie's Antiques," and this facebook page, administered by my business partner, and bride of many years, Suzanne. All our family members, have, at one time or another, come face to face with what experts would call the paranormal. We have not be frightened by them, as much as amazed; and exceedingly thoughtful about what the meeting might have meant to all parties. The series of stories, about a Preacher / Angler, of the Victorian era, staying at a Muskoka lodge of that period, is more about the power of suggestion, and what beliefs were passed down through the generations, to our main character, than about ghosts and hobgoblins in their traditional paranormal attire. These are just stories, in honor of our beautiful district of Ontario, and the respites that have flourished in what many have called "God's Country." We want to prove our loyalty to Muskoka, and show that it is, for us, not only a great home region, but the territory that has nurtured our family, from the earliest years of homesteading, when the Shea settlers erected their first humble shelters, dating as far back as 1862, in Watt Township, now in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. It is a truly Muskoka story, and we want you to be part of it. 

     Set your imagination free, and allow us, as historians and story spinners, to take you back in time, to a wonderfully rustic pioneer lodge on Lake Rosseau, to meet the Preacher / Angler. It is not a story to shock you, but rather a tale from antiquity, to hopefully to entertain.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 29, The Conclusion

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 29 A STORY ABOUT OUR RESIDENT GHOSTS

BY TED CURRIE

     I am most drawn as a writer and, I suppose, as a ghost sleuth, to the writings of Washington Irving. This will be obvious to readers of this story. It was his assertion, in his 1822 book, “Bracebridge Hall,” that while science had revealed much about life and times of the planet, and its inhabitants, whether flora and fauna or its human occupation, and mankind is well served by such fruitful investigations. In the field of botany however, Irving pointed out that advocates of the truths of what grows on the planet most often come then to dismiss what writers, poets, artists, and musicians have observed of resident enchantments of these same plants, meadows, pastures and mountain-sides. Not to suggest that truth be avoided to spare the delicious fantasies of fairies and assorted bandy legged wee beasties that frolic in the woodlands. Just that in some cases, the botanist, or scientist is overwhelmed by truth to the point nothing of the fantastic can exist without their express approval and validation. Yet, I have probably read several thousand well documented ghost sightings dating back several hundred years, and some of these encounters have been noted by highly educated and well appointed scholars, politicians, business leaders and historians, who can’t account for what they saw and felt as far as the haunting they were most familiar. Might Irving have been insinuating that the believers in superstitions, and ghosts in particular, should commune with scientists more thoroughly, to identify the bridge between the real and the surreal; the normal and the paranormal. The natural and the supernatural. I think thus, Mr. Irving would be pleased that this has been happening for some time, and it may one day be the case, science will be able to validate those of us who have, with keen senses, come in contact with those who have crossed over, meaning simply, the proof of life after death.

     I sense from events over the past month, that the ghosts of wee Francis and Cynthia Smith have decided I make a pretty good companion, to those who have crossed over. And they seem, at least by a succession of curious mischief that has happened here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, to have happily decided to haunt the Bosevelt’s “Oaken Snuggery” Bed and Breakfast, through the week, and our home at on the weekends. It has been a full month since Suzanne and I wrapped-up our ghost sleuthing at the Rose Hill property belonging to the Bosevelts. According to Mrs. Bosevelt, who I phone at least once a week, the visitations of the spirited lasses have greatly diminished, meaning her antique dolls have not been knocked over, and no books have been pulled off the library shelves or tossed heater skelter on the floor, as once happened when the ghostly activity was at a peak. Guests haven’t reported seeing anything unusual and that includes the occasional appearance of the old woman seen knitting in an unoccupied room upstairs, while pushing back and forth on an antique Boston rocker. It’s not to say that our tidying up of some property history satisfied the girls, making them feel their guilt had finally been resolved and their lives, I suppose, validated after all these years of trying, in the spirit-realm to attract attention to their misdeeds in life, that may have caused considerable carnage to the neighborhood, and potentially the loss of one of their friends, when God allegedly took the boy for his association with Cynthia and Francis, the sisters who had stolen two crucifixes during a prayer meeting in the late 1860’s. That’s a long time to feel the grip of guilt. As for the accidental death of Thomas Tucker, who drowned after falling into the Bosevelt’s pond, as it was back in 1873, it may be considered an act of God, but not a vengeful God, as the girls suspected, and accepted as a necessary burden of guilt, like a millstone, fettering them until death, and as it turned out, beyond the grave. We couldn’t prove, of course, that the girls hadn’t goaded the young Mr. Tucker onto the ice, as might be expected of child’s play and challenges, but with everything we had come to know, via research, and interpret through a myriad of appearances and clues provided by the Smith girls at their most aggressive, there is little to suggest the unfortunate death of the lad was anything more than spring-time misadventure; and who has not been tempted to walk on thin ice once or twice in a lifetime. Tom Tucker’s failure to recognize thin ice before he venture forth, was his death-wish, having nothing to do with Cynthia and Francis, who probably made every effort to assist their friend, and secure help from the owners of the property residing where the Snuggery is situated today.

     On the 30th of April, the Bosevelts, with Suzanne and I, went down to the pond, dazzling in the afternoon sunlight, and in a quiet ceremony, with very few words spoken, took the fused crosses, and as a latent memorial to Thomas Tucker, Mrs. Bosevelt, who had the most experiences with the girls, of anyone else at the farmhouse, threw them out toward the middle of the pond, where the accident most likely had occurred that day in 1873, one hundred and forty-five years earlier. It was also said by Mrs. Bosevelt, that it is recognized today, by all who live and work at this Rose Hill property, that Francis and Cynthia Smith were not responsible for young Tucker’s death, and that they, by taking the two crosses from a church service, were additionally not responsible, in God’s benevolence, for the accidental fires that claimed to pioneer cabins, being used at the time to house Sunday prayer meetings. As well, any misfortunes that may have happened to the Smith family, including the young deaths of the Mr. And Mrs. Alfred Smith, was not the result of the actions of their daughters, bringing about any kind of revenge upon their well being. Just behind us, Mr. Bosevelt, a hobby woodworker, had set in place a small park bench for guests of the Bed and Breakfast to lounge while out on a gad-about of the property, dedicated to the memory of Thomas Tucker who had drowned in the pond accidentally on April 30th, 1873. A small brass plaque was screwed onto the backboard engraved with this information. Just behind the bench, Mrs. Bosevelt had just recently planted a newly acquired lilac bush in recognition of two wee lasses who had known this property intimately so, back in the 1860’s and 70’s, when they ran wild through these fields and uplands, disappearing into the evergreen forest, taking turns hiding from each other, and skipping flat stones found along the shoreline of this beautifully reflective pond this hour, as they must have witnessed it a thousand times as children.

     The Bosevelts accepted my month’s labour in the form of a manuscript, that was composed specifically for The Oaken Snuggery, to be offered to guests of the Bed and Breakfast, to prepare them for the potential of a ghost encounter, assessing that it would be better to prepare lodgers, instead of having them frightened by a sighting or something that could only be the handiwork of the sisters at their recreation. The story is more a tale of intimate enchantment, than a tale of a haunting that might parallel those perpetuated by castle ghosts and old manor house hobgoblins. The girls are not malevolent in any way, and should they make themselves known, from time to time, at The Snuggery, it is infinitely better that guests treat them with the same cheerful respect, as we all have, during the month of our intensive study of the old farmhouse and its acres of Muskoka countryside; finding it emotionally peaceful with Walden Pond solitude, yet brimming with natural curiosities and richness, that makes the stay here all the more enthralling.

     It is unfortunate that an accidental death occurred on this same magnificent corner of heaven on earth, but strange enough, the ghost of Thomas Tucker has not remained earthbound, having accepted his fate, one might suppose, that it was his fault that day, when fate reminded him his luck had run out. The wandering spirits of Francis and Cynthia were just making sure that their childhood friend Thomas, would have his eternal place in this natural paradise, as he felt of it, with great zest for adventure, during his brief but fulfilling life. But one day, it is possible, in the intense light of a spring dusk, when the sun glow sets fire to the surface of the pond, that the three children will again make an appearance in this hollow of pasture, in the ghost-hamlet known as Rose Hill, Ontario. Then, as the sun gradually settles below the line of tall pines on the hillside, their tiny images will fade into antiquity once more, to enhance the folklore of an enchanted, storied region.

     Is it the case then that “The Oaken Snuggery” has been exorcised of its spiritual entities. I can only hope not. The Bosevelts concur. The true peace and goodwill of the place, respects their residency in the eternal sense of inhabitation. They have made it a “storied place,” and in their heavenly presence, goodwill shall prevail upon one and all, who call The Oaken Snuggery their home away from home.

     I bid you farewell, and thank you so much for visiting.

     Suzanne tells our friends that we talk to dead people. It’s true, and we get answers, but one thing is for sure. We don’t get invited to parties. There is still a stigma attached to the belief in the “fantastic” and the kind of entities that defy rational explanation, yet we find it entirely rational to communicate with ghosts, like the two wee lasses we met at The Oaken Snuggery, in beautiful Rose Hill, Ontario. They asked nothing of us, except to be recognized for the state they currently reside. I think the Bosevelts will find the atmosphere somewhat more calming and inspiring with these now subdued spirits. I feel comfortable now, closing this chapter, that was if nothing else, heartwarming and very non-ghostly.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 28

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 28

BY TED CURRIE

     When you refer to a place, whether a cottage, home or apartment, being “haunted,” it is automatically linked by drama, to Hollywood movies such as “The Changeling.” Frightening dramatizations of ghosts and their attention-getting antics, in locations that simply have to be haunted by appearances alone. The old farmhouse here in Rose Hill, Ontario, is hardly a poster dwelling for anything to do with “haunting” or “haunted.” It’s a beautifully situated former homestead, and it has been tastefully decorated and modernized for comfort’s sake. If any place might play host to a resident ghost, or in this case, several, it just wouldn’t be a place like this. It is far too lively and luxurious for a country place, with bright colors and soft cushions, and well, a lot of attributes a typical haunt wouldn’t possess. It is by far a cheerful positive place to reside, even for a short term, and I would think that most ghosts would feel it was too happy to be fertile enough to get a good solid haunting off the ground. It’s not that the girls here haven’t selected a neat place in which to occupy themselves, from a nether world perspective, but that it doesn’t blend well, in order for it all to be taken all that seriously by any one. Indeed, they have startled some of the guests here and that was understandable. But generally, pulling books off a shelf and knocking over collectable dolls belonging to the owner, is moot even in paranormal circles, and it has made the wee lasses somewhat more endearing to us, now that we understand part of their ambition, to remind us of the past, as it was important to them. I think this place would be seriously lacking now, without these resident spirits who have made it all the more contenting, even if their ambition had been to scare us from under its protective roof.

     By noon the next day, Suzanne had driven out to the Bosevelt’s farmhouse intent on taking me to a community cemetery situated next to a small Victorian era church only a few meters off the roadway. By checking out death certificates in the family of Alfred Smith, she was able to find a number of family documents, but of particular importance were the death records for Francis and Cynthia, his two girls, the ones we believe are still very active, haunting The Oaken Snuggery, for reasons unknown. I simply had to see the gravestones for the two lasses I’ve come to know posthumously at the old farmhouse, where I have been a lodger since early April. Suzanne couldn’t find the death certificate for their young friend, Thomas Tucker, who had drowned while in their company, on April 30, 1873, after falling through the thin spring ice on the Bosevelt’s pond. I’m sure she will find where the lad is buried sooner or later.

     There are only sixty or so cemetery markers in the modestly proportion churchyard, and at least half of this number are obscured by moss and by the erosion of the centuries. The only reason we closed in on the subject plots, was due to the fact there was a large marble monument for the family of Alfred Smith, who died, himself, in 1875, his wife passing five years later. After brushing off the natural growth on the faces of a couple of nearby stones, we were able to find, first, to Alfred’s right, the grave of Francis Smith, who died in the same year as Queen Victoria, 1901. It took us a while longer to find the badly obscured and fade name of her sister, Cynthia Smith, with the date of death imprinted, October, 1912. From what Suzanne retrieved from ancestry records, and death certificates, both girls remained unmarried as no other names are referenced, or any indication they had offspring. No causes of death were revealed on the documents or on the tombstones. Brushing the dirt of our knees, having been on the ground for some time attempting to clean-up the inscriptions, and wiping the dirt from our hands with the paper napkin Suzanne carries around in her purse (a habit of being a parent herself), we both stood silently for a period of time, trying to appreciate all that was going on here, and of course at the Oaken Snuggery, where the earth-bound spirits of the lasses were causing dismay for the Bosevelts, who were trying to run a ghost-free Bed and Breakfast, called The Oaken Snuggery. Why were Cynthia and Francis unable to leave the old homestead property; an acreage by the way, they had never lived on, or resided for any great length of time, during their lives here in what is now the ghost-town of Rose Hill. How ironic. Much of this story is ironic and strange beyond the paranormal occurrences which were, in all honesty, more of an inconvenience to the Bosevelts than reason to pack up and move away. The guests were frequently caught off guard, and mildly frightened, but it wasn’t as if the girls could be heard crying through the night, or could be seen as Hollywood type ghosts, in their white gowns, floating through the hallways, and declining the staircase for the benefit of an audience. Although there had been sightings of the girls, especially noted by a former guest, also a psychic practitioner, who made a visual connection of the wee waifs as they were seated comfortably in the hallway of the inn, on the day she and her husband checked in to The Snuggery. I had seen wafting vapors while out in the pasture on one occasion, and I had experienced some of their mischief, especially having been able to not only steal the welded together crucifixes in  my room, but penetrating my evening dreams on several more occasions. But they were not malevolent, in any way, and meant no harm to anyone at the old house. Yet, they had a story to tell, and Suzanne and I were getting some ideas on what may have happened, over time, to make Francis and Cynthia suffer from life-long guilt, especially in the connection to the death of Thomas Tucker.

     Suzanne suggested that we should head back to the Bed and Breakfast because the search for the boy’s tombstone was proving impossible. I stood in the nicely treed border area, near a half fallen length of old fence, and couldn’t help but notice a toppled marker that had nearly been consumed by Mother Earth, it had been grounded for so long. I asked Suzanne to help me right the stone, just in case it was the Tucker stone. It was the most astonishing find, being the Tucker family plot marker, being the graves of the boy’s mother and father, Mary and Charles. After considerable cleaning and scraping off the debris of the ages, we found that both parents had died in the same year, being 1883, ten years after the drowning death of their son, with the words, “Died the Result of Diphtheria.” This was what ended Mary’s life, Charles passing away seven months later, but no cause was provided. There must have been a separate stone for their son, but we couldn’t find it, except to have located two other badly crumbled markers moved back to the fence line by the cemetery caretaker. We could only assume that he was buried here as well, and most likely, having been the first of the emigrant family to have been buried in Muskoka, a sad beginning to the homestead adventure.

     It was most definitely a haunting moment standing in the pioneer cemetery, thinking about the two girls I had come to know in the most abstract way possible, in the paranormal grand scheme of things, and then having accidentally, at the last moment, finding the approximate location of their friend’s final resting place on the opposite side of the hallowed ground. We didn’t feel their presence, and we certainly didn’t sense that Thomas Tucker was reaching from the grave to offer his spirited point of view. It was just a beautiful and warm spring day, with an afternoon illumination of sun that was dazzling here, blotching on the ground where the evergreens didn’t block out the glow. The very light wind was just enough to sing-song through the overgrown pine boughs, falling low over the far west side of the cemetery. Yet in the mortal sense, Suzanne and I did feel that we had brought a new profile to this historic haunting, realizing finally, the girls must have lived gravely for so many years of their lives, believing that they had caused all the mayhem, by stealing the two crosses from a church meeting, held in a pioneer cabin that had once occupied a small parcel of land, where The Oaken Snuggery, the former early 1900’s farmhouse, stands today. Suzanne and I had been wondering aloud, as we walked back to the car on this day of great discovery, whether the girls had been suspected of the thefts of the crosses, possibly set aside by members of the congregation, on that day, for reasons unknown, and been told that there would be “hell to pay,” for those who perpetrated the crime of stealing icons celebrating God. Maybe they had the intention in the weeks that followed, to return the crosses without anyone noticing their actions, still having to endure the inquisition from members of the multi denominational pioneer prayer meeting, and most likely from their parents, hoping against hope that the theft couldn’t be attributed to their two fine daughters.

     Before they could slip the two crosses back where they had found them, on the day they went missing, an accident in the building, that saw the pine floor collapse, and the lit-stove topple into the crawl space of the building, also ruined their chance to be anonymous. The newly constructed pine shanty caught fire and burned down because of this unfortunate event. Although there were no lives lost or serious injuries beyond sprained ankles and wrists, from the fall, the makeshift church and pioneer homestead was turned into ash by a wind-fueled fire. Is it possible the girls considered this an act of God, punishing them and the congregation for the theft of the crosses? And then, only a short time later, when a second shanty, of larger design, was hit by lightning, only moments after the last few neighbors had come indoors out of the storm, which may have been the sisters with crosses in hand, a bolt of lightning hit the large lilac cluster directly beside the log building, also setting fire to the bottom logs, sending thick smoke into the interior. Those who had come to pray were forced out into the bad weather, while the cabin burned to the ground. By the fact the crosses were found in the exact area where the cabin had been situated, close to the roots of the lilac cluster that still bloomed every June, before it was removed by the Bosevelts to improve the pathway to the farmhouse. The crosses, when they were pulled out of a puddle by a passing guest heading to the entrance of The Snuggery, it was noticed that they were welded together, yet both showing the clear integrity of the cross, obviously fused by the intense heat of the cabin fire on that day back in the 1870’s.

     If then, while playing on the ice of the pond, with their neighbor friend, Thomas Tucker, on that fatal day in April 1873, when he crashed through the thin ice into the six or so feet of frigid water in the pond, did the girls immediately believe this to be the handiwork of an unhappy God, still punishing them and the people around them, for having stolen the crosses, a sin never to be forgotten. How did they cope with the loss of the little boy, and did they ever consider confessing what they had done, previously, and what it may have caused since? How would they have reacted when their parents died still relatively young, leaving them to fend for themselves, having hurt many through one act of self indulgence, stealing crosses of unfathomable influence on the living and the soon to be deceased. Is this, asked Suzanne, “what the girls are looking for; forgiveness for what they perceive was a giant trespass of Christian faith and responsibility?” How would we find this out? Why haven’t we experienced any spiritual entity representative of Thomas Tucker? It would seem that by his sudden tragic passing, he would have most definitely met the requirements of becoming and earthbound spirit, looking for validation as a victim of misadventure? Suzanne and I talked all the way back to The Snuggery, where we cozied into the arm chairs of the Great Room before dinner, of which she had been invited to join, discussing various situations that might at some point down the proverbial road, settle this haunting once and for all. The issue was how to prove to a couple of ghosts, that they weren’t in any way responsible for the two fires, the death of their friend, who had willingly gone onto the ice undoubtedly warned about its thin condition, and certainly they could not be held accountable for the deaths of their parents. Maybe they were threatened with “hell fire” when they were considered thieves, but it wasn’t a holy verdict of punishment cast down upon their mortal existence, or to damn them for eternity. This was going to be a tough sell for a couple of hobby ghost hunters who had never really spoken to those who had crossed over. A sighting and paranormal experience isn’t the same at all, as having a conversation with an unknown entity, or two, and making a good job of it!

The Oaken Snuggery Part 27

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 27

BY TED CURRIE

     Have you, in recent memory, or have a little something from your own family antiquity, that comes eerily close to the domain of the paranormal? Can you remember a time when you were residing comfortably in your abode, and suddenly detected the faint scent of a long-ago perfume like the one your grandmother or aunt may have worn? Or the wafting aroma of a freshly baked apple or blueberry pie that your mother, or father may have been making, in the good old days, but unexplained on this occasion seeing as your parents have crossed over? Can you recall feeling something different in your apartment, house or cottage, giving the voyeur the opinion of not being entirely alone, despite the fact no other humans are in attendance? Have you ever distinctly heard someone calling your name, yet no one is in the vicinity? Can you remember a time, when, for example, you were out for a drive or a country walk, when without warning, you feel as if you have just gone back in time, and are re-living the exact moment that was important to you say twenty or thirty years earlier? You fully understand the present, but your heart strings play a song from the olden days, and you might come to expect family members and friends to all of a sudden appear, either in the passenger seat of the car, or coming from a crossroads just down the lane where you’re headed? Who is baking grandmother’s banana bread? Why do I smell father’s aftershave lotion in the bedroom? Why do I feel compelled to look out the window just now, because I hear old and familiar voices, as if a family barbecue is about to happening, as it did when your parents were alive?

     Suzanne will often say that she caught a whiff of her mother’s favorite cologne, known as “White Shoulders,” at a time and place in our house, when there is no apparent source of the wafting aroma. I have heard my dad’s voice a hundred times since he passed away, and in all the places where he attended during his life, and that I still visit. I’ve had slaps on the back from invisible entities, and smelled fresh-from-the-oven bread that my father used to bake as recreation, and have looked pretty foolish arriving in the kitchen ready to cut off a couple of pieces. Suzanne not smelling baked bread at all. Maybe it is just the quirks of an over-active and sentimental imagination, that inspires these gentle intrusions, that are mostly pleasant and reminiscent of many good family times. Both Suzanne and I used to get a little choked up when these interventions would occur, making us think of our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, who had in the recent past, crossed over. But after awhile we ceased to mourn them, and slowly learned to appreciate them as casual reminders of what we both recollected as precious moments, and instead of being upset by them, actually looked forward to their arrival, bringing warm sentiments instead of cold realities. Have you ever wondered if you might become a ghost yourself when that times comes? Who and where would you select as your favorite haunt, and what might you get up to, in order to arouse the senses of friends and family who may or may not believe in the after-life? All I know, is that I would like to sit in my favorite place at Birch Hollow that I have since we moved here in the fall of 1989. Those who come after me might well decided to get rid of my favorite chair, but I will still lay claim to this special place at hearthside, where I have officiated the living room activities for long and long. I’d even assure the family that I wouldn’t moan or drag chains about the house, or cause any kind of mayhem, if that is, they would permit my weary but liberated soul, to have a little slice of the good old days, to serve me in the afterlife. There are however, a few adversaries I would like to haunt, possibly with the occasional cream pie in the face, or subtle kick in the ass when opportunity presented. I must now get on with today’s story for gosh sakes. 

     This afternoon I enjoyed a long walk around the property here in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, Ontario, the home site of the Bed and Breakfast known now as The Oaken Snuggery. It was on this gad-about, along a few of the interconnected country lanes, and old road that has overgrown on this property, that I felt the presence of the girls once again. Cynthia and Francis, the daughters of homesteader Alfred Smith, and his wife Mary, had been identified according to census records dating back to the late 1860’s. Not much was known of the family from those times, as there was no mention in the regional histories written in this neck of the woods, although Suzanne was on the trail of some other census records beyond this period, including looking up any death certificates that were available. She was going to call me as soon as she uncovered some more information about the family, who owned the land grant acreage that was situated kitty-corner to the present Bosevelt farm, of which I am a guest writer this month. Each time I wander these winding dirt roads, and overgrown country lanes that once served the homesteaders needs, I have felt very much in company of the two children, who allegedly, at least according to a psychic, Angela Collins, who had stayed at the B&B a week ago, are fully engaged in haunting the farmhouse for reasons unknown, and the proprietors are concerned about the damage ghosts could cause to future bookings at the newly opened accommodation. I am just one of the options they have been pursuing, hoping that I might be able to make some sense of the paranormal activities, as a longtime hobby ghost hunter. Mostly, I think they hope that my research over the months staying at The Oaken Snuggery, will produce, at the very least, a manuscript about the haunting, that when published, will be available to guests, to at least attempt to explain the interesting goings-on, and assorted bumps in the night, manifesting in the early 1900’s house when truly most inconvenient. There is a story here and with the help of my research assistant, and life partner Suzanne, working from home in Gravenhurst, the employment of ancestral materials has already improved our understanding of the mortal realities of the persisting entities at present. Before they were ghosts, you see, Cynthia and Francis Smith, were frequent visitors, as wee lasses to this homestead, now The Oaken Snuggery, where they attended initially non-denominational church services conducted each Sunday by a traveling preacher from Rosseau. They also enjoyed the topography here as well, based on Angela Collin’s assessment, especially playing down around the pond, which is the central feature of the back acreage of the former farmstead. It is a beautiful location set in the pine hollow of pasture only a few minutes walk from the back deck of The Snuggery.

     Since arriving at the inn around the first of April, I have seen many strange things here, and they are in fact, too numerous to repeat here, for editorial efficiencies. There is little doubt that the spirit-girls have a reason for haunting this beautiful place, both at the inn and out here, in the sprawling pasture and nicely treed hillsides, but thus far we are still dealing with too many fragments of what come closest to facts, mixed with speculation, and conjecture, but nothing to create a significant representation of what these unhappy spirits want of us mortals. Particularly the Bosevelts, who are quite sensitive to the paranormal situation unfolding almost daily, yet continue to be frustrated by the frequency of ghostly mischief, now beginning to influence guests to end their stays after only one night of interrupted sleep. I have tried talking to the girls and made a sincere attempt of finding out what they wish to occur, at the inn, to satisfy their immortal dissatisfaction, whatever that might represent to the crank waifs.

     The strongest feeling on the property, as a whole, is the negative aura that seems to ring the hollow where the pond is located, quite contrary to the picturesque quality of the acreage, giving, from a distance, lending heartily a most positive and beckoning allure, if only to pick out an armchair that is situated to afford such a panorama from the Snuggery’s Great Room. It was in this location, that I had initially decided that there were three distinct spirits at work here, yet it wasn’t the same once in the farmhouse. Then the paranormal presence clearly represented two entities, at least two that were intent on being recognized. There may be more admittedly, but they are contented, like the old woman in the rocking chair witnessed knitting while rocking in a chair, to make cameo appearances when least expected. At pond’s edge there is definitely a feeling of one other participant in this Muskoka haunting, and I have a hunch it is the immortal remains of a former playmate, who at some time in the past, played with Francis and Cynthia in this hollow of farmland, and possibly got the occasional soaker, throwing sticks and stones into the pond, that according to the Bosevelts, was much larger even forty years ago than it is today. It’s difficult for me to describe with anything more than what comes to me as sensory perception. I just can’t help feel that there was a tragic circumstance attached to one of these spirit-kind, and I don’t believe it meant that one or both girls died accidentally here on this property. I am suspicious someone else did, who was connected, as a playmate most likely, on a particular day when misadventure claimed a life. Now proving that will be difficult even for Suzanne, but we’ve already set the wheels in motion, and our combined research may well out-last my stay at the Snuggery. I can’t very well ask the Bosevelts, who have been more than kind, and generous, to extend my residency by another week or two, on the hunch more information with be forthcoming. It may take years to put this story to bed, so to speak, meaning a finished product, that is readable in a semi-factual way. That’s the way most writers handle ghost issues, as often there is no hard evidence to offer to identify the cast of characters in a typical haunting. This story may never elevate from what may only be an interesting bit of local folklore and nothing that serves to do anything more than add color to a black and white image, or better stated, dreamscape. I’ve already had three distinctly influenced dreams that seem to have been infiltrated by these two lasses, determined to keep me focused on their spiritual maladies, that I didn’t at first appreciate ghosts could suffer from over an apparent eternity. The Bosevelts have only had a short stay at their newly refurbished country inn, and the girls in that short time, have put on quite a show here at The Snuggery. So what did they do here before the Bosevelt’s arrived, and saved this house from being demolished? As it was an estate, evidence has probably been taken to the grave, because I can’t believe that with their interventions at present, they were quite five or twenty years ago, having the same grievances about mortals and their unwillingness to take the dead more seriously.

     I have just talked to Suzanne again on the phone, making three times today, asking her to re-investigate some of the local histories, one that even her uncle wrote for the Township of Watt, nearby, looking for any reference to an accidental drowning that may have occurred in this general vicinity, late in the 1800’s. Surely an accidental death would have made news here, and been the subject of an article in the Bracebridge newspaper. This is of course, the needle in the haystack, because we don’t have immediate access to old newspaper files, and unless there was a sentence or two in one of three local histories, it would obviously come down to months of archives digging to potentially come up empty in the end. I risked a mild scolding giving Suzanne so little to work on, as a hunch inspired by a paranormal twinge, but I’ve been re-educated many times during the past three weeks, by entities unknown and only partially seen.

     Suzanne phone me just minutes before midnight. Mrs. Bosevelt had to call me to take the land-line call in the hallway of The Snuggery. “Sorry to get you out of bed Ted, but I’ve got a lead for you on that possible drowning victim,” she reported with a tone of vigor and accomplishment ringing in her voice. “Are you ready for this,” she asked. “Of course, let me have it,” I replied with electrified interest. “Thomas Tucker was drowned in a local pond on April 30th, 1873, after having fallen through the late spring ice, while trying to cross with two friends. The young man was pulled from the water several hours after disappearing beneath the surface. He could not be revived. He was the son of Charles and Anne Tucker of Rose Hill, Ontario.” There was a pause on the phone, after she finished reading the short news piece which had been published in one of the histories she had been reading through after talking to me earlier. “Ted, are you still there,” she asked, wondering if I had hit the floor unceremoniously with this somewhat shocking revelation. “My God, that’s got to be part of their mission to engage us; Cynthia and Francis had something to do with that boy drowning, and I’m pretty sure they are suffering an eternity of guilt, and the welded together crucifixes are right at the centre of this story, so my dear, the puzzle is finally taking shape. Thank you for finding this link for me. It’s going to connect a lot of other pieces from this point on.”

     I retired to bedlam on this night, feeling, for the first time, that I was going to be able to offer the Bosevelts something more than an apology for my inability to close the story with tangibles. Tomorrow was a new and important day as far as this research is concerned.

     I wonder if I’d make a good ghost? I’m certainly not angel material, if that option was presented. Maybe there’s some wiggle room if I negotiate with the Boss, about the range and capabilities I can pursue, on the other side, without, you know, going to the penalty box. I really would like to know what it’s like to be a ghost, but I don’t like the requirements to try-out for the team. Good night finally.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 26

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 26

BY TED CURRIE

     I was in great need of a change of pace the other evening, sitting in my small room, which is actually an office space used by my host, Mrs. Bosevelt, here at The Oaken Snuggery. She has an interest in older religious texts, some she admitted receiving from a great aunt many years ago, and had added a few additional ones when she found them at flea markets and second hand shops. I was intrigued by a tiny, badly worn and misshapen text, entitled “Original Poems For Infant Minds,” as written by “Several Young Persons.” It was the 8th edition of the religious book, this one being published in London at the time of the war between Canada and the United States, in 1812. The date certainly drew me into the text, because I wanted to know what “Several Young Persons” could come up with, in terms of insightful poems of a religious context, to entertain and inform children of that era. Keep in mind that Washington Irving had not yet published his “Sketch Book,” (1818) or “Bracebridge Hall,” (1822). It was a fascinating couple of hours, because I simply had to read it cover to cover. There were some rather macabre poems in the mix, including “The Last Dying Speech And Confession Of Poor Puss,” which is full of unfortunate details of animal abuse. It’s the only poem I actually had to stop reading because, as an owner of four stray cats, I couldn’t stomach the tales of mistreatment and suffering at the hands of abusive owners. I kept reminding myself that the book was published in 1812 long before the establishment of the Humane Society, and there was little fear of being punished for beating a poor old farm cat.

     But it was the poem, simply entitled “Night,” that caught my attention more than all the others. Keep in mind, this was for “Infant Minds”. I could not have read this poem to my sons when they were infants. I’m not sure I feel entirely comfortable today reading them this macabre analogy of night as death. Here is how it unfolds for a child’s entertainment, in the Christian mission of 1812.

     “No longer the beautiful day, Shines over the landscape so light, the shadows of evening grey, are closed in the darkness of night; The din of employment is over, not a sound, not a whisper is heard; The wagon bell tinkles no more, and still is the song of the bird. The landscape, once blooming so fair, with every gay color inlaid; The landscape, indeed, is still there, but all its fair colors are shade. The sun sinking under the hill, no longer shoots bright to the earth; The bustle of business is still, and hushed is the glamour of mirth. The busy hand, busy no more, is sunk from its labors to rest; closed tight every window and door, where once the gay passengers pressed. The houses of frolic and fun, are simply, dreary and dark; the din of the coaches is done, and the weary horse rests from his work. Just such is the season of death, which comes upon each of us fast! The bosom can’t flutter with breath, when life’s little day-time is past. The blood freezes cold in its vein. The heart sinks for ever to rest; not a fancy flight over the brain, nor a sigh finds its way from the breast. The tongue stiff and silent is grown, the pale lips move never again; the smile and the dimple are flown, and the voice both of pleasure and pain. Clay cold the once feverish head, the bright eye is sullen and dark; for death’s gloomy shadows have spread, that night in which no man can work. But as from the silence and the gloom, another gay morning shall rise, so, bursting awake from the tomb, we shall mount far away to the skies, and those who with meekness and prayer, in the paths of religion have trod, shall worship all glorious there, among the Archangels of God.”

     I closed up the book wondering if the two wee lasses who haunt this old farm house, had been reading over my shoulder. I put the tiny book back on Mrs. Bosevelt’s shelf, wishing not to consult it again during my stay. 

     I’m naturally inquisitive, and I was one of those precocious children who badgered elders for answers to impossible questions. My teachers told me that the learning curve depended on the answers to questions, and that the only way to succeed in life, was to be forever questioning. I took their advice, but truthfully I was a question badger even before I was sent to Burlington Public School that first year. Then I badgered teachers, and it was often noted on my report cards way back then, that “Ted is very curious…..” The rest of the sentence? I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. So when I noticed a small watercolor painting, framed and hung in a rather dark corner of the Great Room at The Oaken Snuggery, I simply had to enquire who the children were in the image, wearing brightly colored hats, at play sitting amongst wildflowers, on a hillside overlooking a pond, that looked very much like the valley and pasture we could view from the huge windows at the back of the farmhouse. Mr. Bosevelt was the first to cross my path, as I was sitting in my favorite arm chair, with the best view over the lowland at this early afternoon time of the day, but he didn’t no much about the painting other than it came with the house. When he went back to the kitchen and asked his wife the same question, she emerged, baked goods in hand for the inn’s tea time, to let me know that the painting had belonged to the former family who had owned the property up until recently, and the girls had something to do with neighbors but we have no other explanation. I think it was the case that their neighbors had passed on, and left an estate to be settled by family, and for some reason of association, this image was acquired by the owners here, most likely because they had some unexplained connection to the children. “It looks a lot like our pond, doesn’t it,” she noted, taking a closer look at the well executed watercolor in a frame that would date it to the 1860’s, if my antique training counts for anything. When she turned back to me, as if she had seen a ghost, or two, Mrs. Bosevelt said, “Is it possible that the girls in this painting are Cynthia and Francis, the wee ones who may still be with us? Even the trees around the pond look similar and the wildflowers thrive on that hillside in mid-summer.”

     I got up out of my chair to get a closer look, beside Mrs. Bosevelt, who seemed stunned by her own revelation, and that possibly, the image, nearly obscured by a deep recess of shadow, half hidden in this corner of the house, was part of the story all along. “We wanted to display as many items of significance, that we found in the house when the family packed up the estate, leaving, for whatever reasons, a few interesting relics, including the painting of the farmhouse from the 1920’s or 30’s, this little scene of the girls at play, and a few small bits and pieces left in cupboards and found when rugs and the kitchen flooring was removed during the renovations.” “Do you think this painting is of the girls,” she asked me, as I handled the painting, having taken it off the wall to check the back for any names of either the subjects, in this case, or the artist, and where it may have been painted. There was a faint imprint of a pencil, and one word, or name located on the bottom right corner of the backing paper. I asked Mrs. Bosevelt if she had a camera phone, to take a picture of the imprint, so that it could be blown up to give us a better opportunity to determine the letters of the name. In a few moments, after bringing out a tea pot on a tray with four cups and saucers, she pulled the phone from her pocket, and together we manipulated the framed original in order to maximize the light enhancing the faint letters only marginally visible to the naked eye.

     After three or four attempts to get a good clear image of the name, Mrs. Bosevelt was able to blow up the print and highlight it with the camera options, clearly identifying the name as “Smith.” There was nothing more on the back, but it was something more than we had a few minutes earlier, before I had even had my attention drawn to the watercolor. Which of course, also leads me to believe that the girls may be up to their old tricks once again, because after close to three weeks staying at the Snuggery, I had never looked at the picture as anything more than a decoration for a less than visible corner unworthy of even a chair. But for some unexplained reason this afternoon, it had the kind of allure attached, to make a questioning fellow wonder if the spirits have once again been at work, or play, to draw me further into their story. If these are representative of Cynthia and Francis, who have been keeping us all rather busy this last while, what on earth, or in heaven, is the story here, that they seem determined to dictate to the rather confused scribe, tripping over the encumbrance of so many puzzle pieces that still don’t fit anything we come up with, as the so called “bigger picture,” of why this old house and scenic property are being occupied by their restless spirits. What will satisfy them that we take them seriously, I thought, while standing with a cup of tea and a freshly made biscuit, looking out onto the hollow where the pond reflects golden this afternoon, in a most delightfully warm spring sun. I was, at the very least, able to send my research partner, Suzanne, a name that might have some relationship to the neighborhood back in the 1800’s, using some of our archive books and maps of the early homestead properties.

     In less than an hour, Suzanne called me back to let me know she found reference to three holdings, of early homesteaders, right up to the cusp of 1879, when the Guide Book and Atlas was published, that were under the ownership of settlers by the name of “Smith.” While not an uncommon name, it was typically the case, with free land grants, that parents, sons, brothers, uncles and cousins also came to Muskoka and made land claims in vicinity of one another for obvious reasons. In this area of Muskoka, being the northerly border of what is still recognized as South Muskoka, there were three farmsteads within a mile of one another, owned by pioneers by the name of “Smith,” presumably having arrived here from overseas to start new lives, bringing their young families. What this find allowed us to initiate, thankfully, was an ancestral search online, to find out if any of the Smith’s in census documents, had daughters by the name of Cynthia and Francis. It was a long shot of course, and being career researchers on such matters, we are always prepared to abandon one route when warranted, and sometimes never find anything tangible to prove our arguments about lineage. There are a lot of dead ends investigating, well, the dead!

     Before retiring to my room, much later that evening, Suzanne called once again, this time with some amazing news. The third Smith she was able to identify on a government census, did have children, five of them in fact. They had three boys and two girls. And yes, the girls were Cynthia and Francis, and had been born in Liverpool, England, and came to Canada as infants, with their older siblings, settling eventually on this Muskoka acreage, that on the 1879 map from the Guidebook and Atlas, suggests the Snuggery property and the Smith homestead were kitty corner to one another, making it entirely likely the two lasses criss-crossed the Bosevelt’s property in the 1860’s onward, as a matter of childhood amusement and recreation. All of this came from an obscure watercolor painting hung in a dark corner of the farmhouse, and the ever so faint imprint of a pencil of a long-ago artist, who, thankfully, extended just enough information for us contemporary adventurers to make sense of the association with two unsettled, unresolved spirits, who want to tell their story. Now it all gets much more interesting. Who was Alfred Smith and why are his children haunting this beautifully restored farmhouse here in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, Ontario? It’s not a story yet, but there’s at least a greater likelihood now, the ancestry specialist, Suzanne, will be able to find out more as she looks for more crumbs of family history, going way back in the Smith family chronicle, that eventually takes her into the rich history of England, Scotland and Ireland.

     I will sleep better tonight? Or may not!

     “Miss Fanny was found of a little canary, that tempted me more than mouse, pantry or dairy; so, not having eaten a morsel all day, I flew to the bird cage, and tore it away. Now tell me, my friends, was the like ever heard, that a cat should be killed for just catching a bird? And I’m sure not the slightest suspicion I had, but that catching a mouse was exactly as bad. Indeed, I can say with my paw on my heart, I would not have acted a mischievous part; but, as dear mother Tabby was often repeating, I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating. Be this as it may, when my supper was over, and but a few feathers were left on the floor, came Fanny, with scolding, and fighting, and crying, and gave me those bruises of which I am dying. But I feel that my breathing grows shorter space, and cold clammy sweats trickle down from my face; I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side - she stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died!” I knew I shouldn’t have read that poem even in part. Now I’ll be dreaming about it for the next week. So yes, indeed, I have haunted myself by my own hand, of picking this book to read for entertainment, when I should have been trying to connect with two girls who have a story of their own to share. It won’t be about cats, I know that for sure.