Being Haunted Was Rather Pleasant As A Rookie Writer Looking For A Story Line - And These Ghosts Were Decent Mentors

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

A HAUNTED ATTIC AND A WRITER IN RESIDENCE AND AN ANTIQUE SHOP

     After the first night living in the charming McGibbon House, on the Main Street of Bracebridge, I knew it was haunted. I also came to know, that as a fledgling writer, I really needed a mentor. From this life or from the so called “other side,” it didn’t matter. I was results oriented, and my gosh, working in this wonderfully occupied residence, brought forth a fountain of inspiration, and I do believe I owe these occupying spirits a lot of credit for my early accomplishments in a notoriously difficult profession. That is, trying to make a few bucks to survive as a writer for the small time press, in yes, a small town, with a small market place.

The year I graduated from York University, in Toronto, with a freshly inked degree in Canadian history, I arrived back in my then hometown, of Bracebridge, and commenced getting involved in everything I could. Community events and initiatives that had even the slightest heritage fringe, must have needed my help. Or so I thought. I guess you could say I was "pumped" to get involved.

It was the spring of 1977. Within weeks of settling in, we had launched plans for a family antique business, which involved a move to the mainstream. I begged some column space from a local publisher, and got my very first byline on a weekly column entitled simply, "Antiques and Collectibles." Before the end of the year I had held an inaugural meeting of a proposed Bracebridge Historical Society, in the attic of the wonderful old McGibbon house, we had just moved to, in order to operate Old Mill Antiques. The Historical Society's objective, when officially launched, would be to save Woodchester Villa, an octagonal home, built by Henry Bird of the well known Bird's Woollen Mill on the Muskoka River. It wouldn't be until 1978 that the Historical Society was officially recognized but it had its seed in the attic of Dr. Peter McGibbon's former Manitoba Street home.

I was overflowing with ambition, some of it misspent. I somehow believed that the rolled up diploma, now tucked into a dresser drawer, entitled me to fire off in all directions, and be successful no matter where I hurled myself. It didn't proceed quite as I'd hoped, but 1977 was a good turn-around year, particularly as a writer in this splendid, early 1900's residence. The best part of the new digs, was that I was able to turn the large attic portion, in the three story house, into a great place to write. With a huge window at the front, affording a panorama of Manitoba Street's, maple-line Memorial Park, I could watch a lot of comings and goings at all times of day and night, over the four seasons. As a fledgling writer, there was always something to make notes about, or expand from observation, into another short story. It was a luxurious, inspiring location that most writer's would have killed for, especially the solitude. Street noise was always muffled, it seemed, even if the window was open.

We had a three room shop that first year, an apartment in the back, and access via the back stair, to the attic room, which stretched from the back of the main house to the front, as the south wing, along the main street, had only two stories. I would work in the store, or in the basement refinishing through the day, and following dinner, I'd spend the rest of the night, and well into the morning, working at the attic window, where I set up my desk and typewriter. For several years, I wrote like a man possessed, and I dabbled in poetry, play composition, short stories, non-fiction, and of course my weekly columns for the local press. Sometimes I'd wake up with a start, head hung down over the typewriter, where I'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. It was a non-threatening, comfortable, subtly inspiring studio set-up, and I wanted to tap into it for everything and anything it could, as inspiration, to motivate a budding but unaccomplished author.

Even as a kid, I've always been keenly sensitive to my environs, and whether I'm writing, or just lounging, the aura of the room or the abode generally, factors deeply into my psyche. It will show up in my writing in any number of ways. It has taken four places of lodging, since, to have found my perfect writing place again, after leaving the McGibbon house, when my wife and I got married. Even though Birch Hollow, for me today, is a great and nurturing place to write, it is nothing like what I'd benefitted from in that main street attic.

As I've been aware of house-vibes, every place our family has ever called home, during the past 56 years, I instantly knew the McGibbon house had a positive aura, from the moment I stepped foot inside the main foyer, on that first look-see with the property manager. Working in the attic, I always had the feeling there was a resident spirit, or more, moving about the house, on the back staircase, and occasionally around me in the attic. I'd suddenly feel a strange draft of cold air, and hear footsteps coming up to the landing-door, when everyone else in the house was sound asleep. I sometimes felt as if a watcher was looking over my shoulder while I worked. Admittedly, I had moments when I felt mildly uncomfortable, but a lot of that came from Hollywood depictions, of ghosts and hauntings, such as the move "The Changling." But the positives of the place far outweighed the occasional sensation of spirits wafting around me. I got used to their presence.

Until one late night encounter, that is! I had worked late to finish a newspaper column. As I did every night, I began at the desk, turning off quite a number of sources of light, two floor lamps and two overhead fixtures, before I'd reach the attic door that was kept closed when I was working. Once the last overhead light was turned off, the only light to guide me down the back stairs, was the hall light on the next floor. When I'd get to that landing, I'd flick off the switch, close the door, and count on the illumination of the ground floor kitchen lamp, to get me down the last flight of stairs. On this occasion, when I had turned off the landing light, and taken a few steps out onto the platform of the second floor, I had an experience never to be forgotten. I had walked into a brilliant, white, cold, scented vapor in the otherwise dark staircase.

For several seconds, I was consumed by this cloud, and could see nothing else but the brilliant light all around me, and the chill-air like one would experience walking into a freezer on a hot summer day. It wasn't a frightening experience at all, but unsettling by its sudden arrival in that location of dimly-lit house. It passed as if it was moving up the stairs, as smoke, and I just happened to get in the way. But there was no doubt in my mind, once it had passed, that I had just enjoyed a one-on-one experience with an apparition. I got down to the bottom of the stairs, sat down on the last step, and tried to recall the sequence of events. Could there be any other explanation to the encounter, than to admit to myself, "I'd just seen a ghost?"

As I sat there, I felt a similar cold draft of air, slide down the back staircase, and it was so strong, it actually ruffled my hair. Seeing as this was mid-winter, and the furnace was directly below where I was sitting, and hot air rises, it seemed as if I'd had a second encounter in only a few moments, with the same passing spirit. I wasn't scared but I was definitely alerted to the potential of paranormal energy, flitting about Dr. McGibbon's former residence.

Several days after this adventure on the back stairs, while I was working in the shop, a group of people came in for a look around. I immediately noticed that they were formally dressed, predominantly in black, and seeing as we were neighbors of the local funeral home, I assumed they were visiting the recently deceased. When I heard them talking amongst themselves, about where they remember a family member sitting, in one of the rooms we had turned into store-space, I felt strangely compelled to listen more closely to the conversation. They had obviously lost a family member who had lived, for some time in the past, in the McGibbon house. They weren't of the McGibbon family, but came much later in the building's history. When I asked them a few questions, because I'm a "Nosey Parker," as my mother used to call me, one of the relatives said that a family member had died on the night I had witnessed a specter, climbing up the back stairway. Then the hair on the back of my neck, really did rise in salute, to the ways of the hereafter. By golly, I think I walked through a ghost, or possibly the ghost walked through me. If you've heard about a spirit taking leave of the places it dwelled in mortal form, during life, then it isn't so much of a stretch, to think that this sighting was just a final re-tracing of the good old days, for one last time.

I didn't say a word about my paranormal introduction, to their newly deceased relative. It wasn't the appropriate occasion, to blurt out something like, "oh, yes, I met your relative on the last go-around of the old haunt," and, back in the 1970's, it was still at a time when folks assumed you were a nutter, if you dared to admit even a slight, half-belief in ghosts. So it was our secret, the ghost and I, until much later when it was shared with Canadian Ghost Sleuth, John Robert Colombo, and it got a mention in one of his well known publications.  It made working in the attic much more interesting and event-filled after this.

Animal The Cat and the Specter in the Hall

     I was standing with one of my writing colleagues, outside our newspaper office at 27 Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, chatting about where we might find the best refuge from our fetters, and enjoy a frosty pint or two recalling the news week it had been for us lowly paid newspaper types. As Brant Scott and I were about to turn south toward the comfortable English pub at the historic Holiday House, a car came whipping right through the intersection with Ontario Street, and out of the window flew a small gray bundled of something, landing on the pavement about ten yards north of where we were standing. We soon realized that what had been thrown out the car window was a gray kitten of about seven months of age. We raced up to the wee bundle with legs, and were pleased to find it still alive, although badly scraped and disoriented. Brant picked it up in his arms, and in only a few minutes, it began moving about and faintly purring to our delight. I thought at that moment Brant had found himself a new apartment mate, but I was mistaken. He handed the wee beast to me, and went off toward the old watering hole without me. I didn’t have anything in my apartment at the McGibbon House to feed the kitten, and no litter or litter box obviously; so Brant had cost me my beer money, to now have to buy kitten supplies for an unexpected guest in the old turn of the century house. It would at least keep the ghosts company, and in this house there were more than a few. Friendly ghosts, like multiple Caspers you might say, but wayward stair climbing spirits just the same.

      The abridged version is that Animal and I got along pretty well, except that I wasn’t home for most of the day, and often bar hopping until the wee hours with my cronies (I was young and foolish in a profession known for its excesses). When Animal was about a year old or slightly more, it developed a strange after-dinner habit. When I did come home to make dinner for both of us, it was always the case, that at about seven that night, Animal would jump off the sofa in the living room, and trot diligently to the hallway from the kitchen leading to the back staircase of the three story house. It was on the same staircase, on the same landing which was just outside my back door, where I had witnessed what I could only believe was a traveling spirit of a former resident of the abode, taking a final look at the, well, old haunt. I knew later that someone had died who had lived in the McGibbon House some years earlier, because, as the story above denotes, I met the family after my encounter, on the day of the local funeral service for this individual. It may have been, I suppose, the case, that the deceased never really left that part of the house, or that this was another paranormal quality of the building, but every evening Animal had a guest hovering in that small dark hallway.

     The fact is, I never really thought too much about it, because Animal was a little eccentric at the best of times, most likely having something to do with its cruel exiting from the moving vehicle that day. After about a month of watching this daily vigil in the hallway, I decided to see if it was possible, if indeed it was something paranormal, if I could capture some image on film, by using a powerful flash unit and a motor wind on my camera. I waited for the cat to attend the scene once again, and positioned myself quietly to get everything in the framing with the lens, to capture any evidence of a ghostly visitation. The odds weren’t good but what the heck. I had lots of company film and a motor wind to whip of a roll in a matter of seconds. When I finished with picture taking, some with flash, some without, Animal looked up at me, as if to say “thanks ace, you just scared off my new friend.”

     When I gave the film canister to my darkroom technician at The Herald-Gazette the next morning, I didn’t tell him what the subject material was, or that I had hopefully captured a ghost in one of the frames. There was a lot of other spent film coming in that morning, and it was just as well he didn’t think I was just adding to his work load for frivolous reasons. He called me into the darkroom at about mid-day to show me the negatives, and several photo images he had done quickly, pondering if he could have a look at my camera, because something was wrong with the lens. He said I had a strange lens flare that was showing up on five or six of the 36 frames, the others just showing Animal staring into the darkness of the unlit hallway. The lens flares appeared as a significant mass of vapor at the top of the doorway, and when I took a ruler and created a line of vision, from the cat’s eye to the centre of this floating mist, it was bang-on perfect; as if Animal was looking at a ghost. My photographer friend studied my camera lens, and tried to figure out why this had appeared on only a small fraction of the frames spent. He finally turned to me and asked quite seriously, if I believed in ghosts. He hadn’t been prompted in this regard, and when I asked why he would ask such a question, he answered simply, and without any emotion, that he had studied alleged “ghost” photographs in his many years working in the industry; and this had all the hallmarks of a paranormal occurrence. When I answered affirmatively, he didn’t show much emotion at all, but volunteered to do a few blow-ups for me, so that I could get a better look at what was visiting my apartment uninvited each evening. It sure gave every appearance of a specter, and for the balance of my stay in that residence, the visits were nightly, and varied, including the somewhat disturbing sound of footsteps coming up the back stairs, belonging to no one in the visible sense, and then occasionally, outside my front door, on the second floor landing, when on once occasion, it apparently tried my doorknob and that of my neighbor, who heard the same sounds, at around the same time of night.

     As I’ve noted about the McGibbon House, and the family that had built and enjoyed the charming property for so many years, the paranormal activity in the dwelling-place was never threatening or particularly unsettling, truth be known. The residents, in my era, just accepted the house was haunted by its past, but not in a bad way. This was not a Hollywood style haunting that you could wrap a story around. It was the contenting neighborliness of more than a few spirits that felt compelled to stick around after their mortal demises, and in all honesty, that was okay by us. We were young folks, dumped by love interests for a bachelor’s lifestyle, and we all actually came to welcome these strange intrusions, that really weren’t intrusions at all. They had obviously been residents here long before us, and they needed housing too. I often wonder where they went, when the old house was torn down a couple of decades a go, and a new building put in its place. I think about them every time I drive by while on a business run to Bracebridge.

     A majority of my ghost stories based on real-time, up-close-and-personal encounters, are all pretty much the same; harmless and in no way frightening, or something to disturb a good night’s sleep. But each contact came with a clear message. “We’re out there and we don’t care who knows it!” Happy Halloween to you.

Welcome To Our Muskoka Themed Halloween Series That Will End With An Epic Visualization Of A Long Lost Mythical Beast

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

The Early Autumn Storms of October Always Conjure-Up Tales of Ghosts, Hobgoblins, and Bandy Legged Wee Beasties Welcome Here at Birch Hollow

By Ted Currie

A Preamble to Our Halloween Series of Posts

    In the past month, which is usually a much slower and less stressful time of the rolling year, we have experienced an unanticipated boom; when all we had hoped for was the kind of modest roar that comes with a profitable season in the retail sense, on the cusp of the long winter to come.

     What has happened most frequently over the past two months, is the direct result of us being one of the very few antique and collectable venues in the region, and a spin-off of this very strange and explosive real estate market. We have heard from numerous visitors about the headache they have bought into, acquiring homes and cottages that contain the possessions of those who have sold these properties. The sellers have agreed to short closings I suppose, but made it clear that in order to accommodate this, some hard to re-locate materials would be left to the discretion of the new owners. We’ve turned down a half dozen pianos and one pump organ, and many, many dining room sets and cupboards, simply because we don’t have room for furnishings; until we sell about fifty or so big items ourselves. We have been called into cottage-closings, where the existing buildings are going to be bulldozed, and that would also include the smashing-up of some really interesting cottage decor pieces. We’ve entertained a few of these, and some larger acquisitions, that as I have mentioned before, can have quite a moving experience on us, clearing out attics and basements, and toting home unspecified heirloom pieces that don’t really want to leave the premises. Haunted inanimate objects you say? Yes! And as I’ve written about frequently, there are passed-down, multi generational collectables, that were the pride of previous owners, who, from the other side, are willing to animate the articles to get their point across. Clocks that begin chiming for no reason, or start to tick-tock years after their winding mechanisms were jammed by overzealous fiddlers, and pioneer era pine cradles (we have a half dozen) that will rock occasionally in the wee hours of the night, as they had been thusly navigated to sooth a newborn in a cold log cabin. So in doing our job as antique dealers, handling the heirloom pieces in all shapes and sizes, the step beyond the tasks of the undertaker, we try our best to be respectful to all these so-called special pieces, that often have significant provenance attached. It’s around this haunting time of year, I think, that we give this matter most consideration, simply because we rather like charmed articles, whether Victorian era dolls, or family portraits, painted or photographic, and when they fuss-up and hang crooked on our walls, we just let them know we are kindred spirits in philosophy, and understand their separation anxiety from kith and kin.

    This homestead is full of resident inspirations, and it serves this writer well all the live long year. But it is at Halloween that I most appreciate the spookiness that comes with the territory of being considered a crusty old antiques dealer, who may or may not also be a body snatcher working the local graveyard scene. I have always appreciated the connotations of hunting and gathering what has come to the marketplace that is our daily haunt, following the demise of a previous owner. It can be a little macabre at times, and yes, we have had many mourning memorabilia, from wreaths to death-photographs, showing the deceased in a variety of strange poses, including sitting in a rocking chair to greet grieving family members. We might actually have come to own the same rocking chair, and yes, that can be a little weird especially if we can prove this image belonged to this particular household chair. It happened more than you might think, that the deceased were positioned as if “living” instead of being positioned on a bed or in a coffin for a memorial service. We actually own one of these “death” beds that was used by the former minister of the Alhambra Church in Toronto. The bed was in the manse and for those without the financial resources, the bed and room were dedicated to these low budget viewings. We had to own this bed when it came up at an estate sale locally. It’s not haunted at all. Drat.

    This short Halloween series was inspired by life here at Birch Hollow; a most intriguing place that is never boring or predictable beyond the function of a warm, and rain-proof dwelling place. It is what warms the cockles of my heart you might say, and I very much enjoy writing from this small office that looks out over the wetland we call The Bog, that is a pretty haunted place as well at this time of the year.

    In my vast archives of old and dear tales of the paranormal, Birch Hollow has always been a most endearing and accommodating modern-day homestead. It is full of historical items, and a large collection of the this-and-thats of antiquity, from rare books dating back to the 1600’s, to the traditional art work of other centuries, to more contemporary pieces that tease the imagination of curious voyeurs who come for a visit. We have many storied pieces that come with an interesting provenance, and quite a few other relics that belonged to our parents and grandparents that constantly evoke warm memories of once upon a time, when we were young. We have had many paranormal encounters here, but all of them have been fully appreciated and friendly, in the same sense that Casper the ghost only ever participated in mild, calorie reduced hauntings. My old book-hunter colleague, David Brown used to sleep in our downstairs archives, where we had a comfortable couch, and after I wrote his biography, shortly after his death, I asked my teacher-friend, if he was pleased with the content of the book soon to be sent to press? After a short while, and following my filing away the hard copy pages in a brief case, headed the next day to the printer, I felt the huge hand of my buddy on my left shoulder; with a distinctive pat, as he used to do every time we met, here at Birch Hollow, or at our former shop on the Main Street of Bracebridge. I understood what Dave was expressing from the great beyond. “Send it to press Ted,” or as we used to say in the newspaper business, at the end of a busy press day, “Put it to bed.” That meant the prepared flats were going to be transported to the printing plant in preparation for the next day’s edition.

     We’ve had numerous other historical types reside in our house during visits to the region, and one American chum, Charlie Wilson, a former newspaper reporter south of the border, regaled me for hours on end about our mutual interest in the Civil War. Charlie was one of my best friends in history, and I learned a lot from the scholar, who never really thought of himself as an accomplished antiquarian. When I heard that Charlie had passed away long before he could attain the great gift of retirement, as he had planned, it was with no shame on my part that I talked directly to him, on the so called “other side,” and warned him that I would still need to consult with him long into the future; if of course, I planned to stay in this profession; needing his advice on a regular basis, because I had so much trust in his judgements and overviews. Hugh Macmillan, one of Canada’s storied national and provincial archivists, of the freelance ilk, was another trusted friend in the history business, and he spent some time here, also regaling the novice historian with his incredible tales of acquisitions involving some of the most important files in Canada’s past. When he passed away, and the calls ceased, (as you would expect of such a dire situation as death) I felt totally abandoned at a time when I was just starting to figure the whole history thing out. It’s a lot more complicated and demanding than it seems from the outside looking in. I missed all of their regular phone calls, which were frequent and always memorable. Dave Brown insisted I hand over the phone one evening, demanding to talk to Suzanne. This wasn’t particularly unusual because we were all pretty close back then, but what was strange, was that he told her he was going to die in the very near future; and that she should be the one to tell me, not him. I never talked to Dave again, but I did get closer to him when I commenced his biography, and I suppose, he helped somewhat from his heavenly roost, keeping me from either revealing too much or too little, such that the book wouldn’t be successful when put up for sale. I only have several of my own copies left. It did well, and we were both pretty happy about its success.

     I often sit here at the groaning board, being our old pioneer harvest table, watching out over The Bog on stormy October nights, watching the wind tossing about, the maples and oaks of the southern-most woodland bordering the hollow of the wetland directly across from Birch Hollow. I must confess to allowing all the history, all the curiosities, the antiquities, the old art and new, and so many titles composed by so many talented artists, from Robbie Burns, Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, C.S. Lewis, and my favorite, Kenneth Grahame, of Wind in the Willows fame. I do feel the subtle but delicious hauntings that have long companioned our family, here at Birch Hollow, never once frightening the inmates, but always arriving as a pointed sensory perception, when we are at our most questioning, and voyeuristic, looking out as the landscape is pushed and shoved by the chill winds, washing heavily up from the lake, having come from the expanse of Georgian Bay. The candle and lamp lights flicker in the drafts of the older house, and it’s as if each of these antiquarians of which I was so fondly familiar, were sitting in the chairs around this same pine table, keeping up the traditions that we began so many years ago; when I had no embarrassment admitting I was the keen student, and they were my mentors in all things historical and archival. Even these many years since their respective passings, I still have the occasion, on these lonely vigils, with one hand typically warming on a coffee mug, the other hand resting on the table, with fingers outstretched on the keyboard of my ancient Underwood manual, ready at any moment to imprint an observation about why the October windstorms, above all others, seems so qualified to conjure up these cherished hauntings, that without a single word spoken between the partners, seen and unseen, generate such creative enterprise, and untold ambitions, to remember the good old days when we shared the best interests of what I know of Canadiana, and yes, a little Americana from my chum, Charlie Wilson.

     I will remain late into the evening, holding fort here at this table, best known for its accommodation of Birch Hollow dinners, and before the vigil is over for the night, I will have consumed much hot beverage, considerable Mozart and Bach, and studied thoroughly all the curiosities situated within my line of vision, and take one casual glance over the typewritten page that still remains in the typewriter carriage, and trust that in the morning, when my rest has been restored, that my socializing with the guest spirits will have helped create something worthwhile, that I might happily share with you, via the Birch Hollow Antique Press.

     The stories that are upcoming for the balance of this most interesting and alluring month of October, from here in South Muskoka, were written and inspired by all the spirited enthusiasm that flourishes here at Birch Hollow, often from sources unknown but suspected; I will always be grateful of our communing traditions and the sharing of stories that will hopefully never end; even if I become one of the spirits sitting around the table.

     Beginning on Friday in our pre Halloween feature with a clear Muskoka theme we will introduce you to the work of a Gravenhurst artist who has for the first time in regional history depicted a creature of our long lost folk lore for contemporary celebration. It will be courtesy the sketches of our artist friend Sarah Cole.

Beatrice Scovell Tells of a Federal Army Soldier From the American Civil War

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Charles Blackmore From Muskoka, Enlisted With The Federal Army During the American Civil War

     As a preamble to this story, we are compelled to note, for the record, that we have begun additional research on Charles Blackmore, and his service for the Federal Army in the American Civil War, to corroborate the information published in this story penned by Beatrice Scovell. At present it is a folk story, and a good one at that, but we intend to pursue the facts, as presented, through online Civil War archive sites. You will note by the end of the story, that Charles William Blackwood, on a leave of absence from his Division, for health reasons, decided to return to Canada without approval, which would have most likely meant he was a deserter from the Union Army, and may appear in records as such.
     As we noted in a previous story, my old Civil War re-enactor friend, and historian, Tom Brooks, gave a lecture, on my urging, at the Muskoka Pioneer Museum in Port Carling, on the very subject of British and Canadian citizens who joined the war effort on either side of the conflict. Citizens were discouraged to migrate to the United States to fight in this war, and it more than likely was against the law at the time, to do so. It may have been the case some information was not given by Blackmore at the time of enlistment, to avoid problems as a British subject enlisting in a foreign conflict. This may explain why little information is available under his name, in New York where he enlisted.
     There is a brief chapter in Beatrice Scovell's 1980's book, "The Muskoka Story," that contains information about a local fellow by the name of Charles Blackmore, who found reason to join the fight of the Federal Army during the American Civil War. There were others from Muskoka who had a connection with the conflict, including a man, buried in the Ufford United Church Cemetery, in the Township of Muskoka Lakes.
     Beatrice Scovell, in her fascinating folk history of Muskoka, with an intimate profile of her pioneer family in Huntsville, writes about Blackmore in the chapter headed "The Building of the Peterson Road." She begins her story with the following overview:
     "In 1860, Mr. Richard Hanna came to Muskoka with a contract to build thirty miles of the Peterson Road, from Muskoka Falls east to Minden. This is the Draper Road. The men who built the road endured incredible hardships. In 1969, an historic plaque was erected to commemorate the building of this road, and at that I wrote to Marjorie McBride whose history of the road building was printed in the Bracebridge newspaper. Mrs. McBride had written her story for the ceremony when the plaque was unveiled. She was very kind and said I could use what she had written, and that I could make use of other material she had."
     Beatrice Scovell continues, that "Although Mrs. McBride had more information than I had been able to gather from three other people, this was not the only source of my information about the Draper Road, nor was it the beginning of my interest in it, for years before I had taught in the Uffington School, being sent there to take the place of a teacher who was ill.
     "The home of Mr. and Mrs. Mathias, where I boarded, was a few minutes walk from the school. I had never been in this area before, and I started to gather history as soon as I found some people who were also interested in the beginnings of Muskoka. One of them was my host Mr. Mathias. I had heard about the troubles of the workers on the Peterson Road, from Mr. Hanna, the sone of Richard Hanna, who was given the building contract, and also from Captain Lee. Now Mr. Mathias started to talk about the road-building, and said I could go to the home of one of the builders, who had come back to live in Draper. He had lived on the property until his death in 1922, at the age of 81. Charles Blackmore had been a teenager when he first saw Muskoka, being given a job working on the Peterson Road, by Mr. Hanna in 1859."
     She writes that, "He (Blackmore) was born at Kingston, Dorsetshire, in England, in the year 1841. It was the stringency of the times in his homeland that decided the seventeen-year-old to emigrate. In the years 1857-58, at the close of the Crimean War, England saw the return of thousands of her soldier-sons from the fields of battle. A great number of them were maimed, scarred, incapacitated, unable to earn a living. About this time, Muskoka was being opened by the Canadian Government, and notices were to be seen posted in Toronto, asking for men to work on the colonization roads in the Northland. Mr. Blackmore, with a companion, Tom Page, started for the north. They arrived at Severn Bridge early in January 1859. Mr. Hanna was hiring men to work on the Peterson Road, in Draper Township. This road follwed, as nearly as possible, the fourth and fifth concession lines, the full eight miles from east to west across the township."
     Her research recorded, "From the Severn, a party of six men set out: Charles Blackmore, and his friend Tom Page, Charles Carroll, Jack Lyons, Jerry Sullivan, and a man called McGregor. They drove an ox loaded with two sacks of crushed oats, the men carrying their own dunnage. It is interesting today to note the progress of this party, through the deep snow, as they travelled northward in an unknown wilderness. Their first stop for the night was McCabe's Hotel, situated near where the old Northern Railway Station was afterwards built, at Gravenhurst. The next, about nine miles further on, they stopped at the camp of a Mr. Birney, who was engaged in building the first bridge across the South Branch of the Muskoka River at Muskoka Falls. The third night was spent at a 'Shabeen' called Cedar Camp, kept by Mr. Higgins on Lot 13, Concession 5. The fifth day, the party made as far as Derry Walls, less than two miles, when the ox,  completely exhausted, fell in the snow. The men, who were more than half famished, slaughtered it, dressing the carcass and serving a portion that evening for their supper. They camped in the snow over night. The next morning, Charlie Carroll, the wag of the party, stood on top of the cliff overlooking the valley where they had spent the night, and stretching out his hands in a mock serious manner, named the wretched place, 'The Valley of Death.' The name persists to this day.
     "A cache was made ere, at the foot of a cliff, and the dunnage of the party was hidden away, together with the carcass of the ox. The men made their way about a mile farther on, where they found the main camp of the road builders, at the head of a little lake. Here the men fell-to and worked for about two weeks. Then the food supply at the camp failed. Two men were sent back to the cache at Derry Walls, to bring up what had been left there. A few hours later Collins and Sullivan returned with disastrous news. Wolves had torn the cache open. The clothing and blankets left there had been destroyed and, worst of all, not a bit of foodstuff could be found. The men were literally starving."
     Beatrice Scovell adds to the story that, "The Irish wit of Charlie Carroll still prevailed, even in this crisis, for in taking leave of the spot, he named it, too, 'May the name go down to posterity as Poverty Lake,' he said. That is why this beautiful lake was known, on the very earliest survey maps. However, it was soon changed to Prospect Lake. The trip out of the township that February, taken by the men of that party, was in agony. Some of them were only half clothed and all of them were starving. Not more than one or two had a cent in their pockets to purchase food, even if there had been any to buy. Where the men of this party spent the balance of the winter, no one remembers. But by early in May of the next year, Mr. Blackmore was back in the road camp at the head of Prospect Lake, working under the formanship of Charles McKenzie. When the ice broke up in the spring, the body of one of a surveying party, who had been drowned in the previous Fall, was recovered, and buried, near the roadway, on the lakeshore. But again, the total lack of wilderness experience of these new immigrants defeated them. Returning to the place a week later, they found that wolves had opened the grave, scattering the bones about far and wide. Quietly, the men gathered the bones together and reburied them, and tis time they took care to protect the grave with huge stones,
     "During the summer of 1861, Mr. Charles Blackmore, in company with the late John and Samuel Armstrong, travelled southward to Davenport, looking for work. Leaving the Armstrong brothers there, he went to Buffalo, New York, where he enlisted in the Northern Army of the U.S.A. for service during the Civil War. He was sent to Lockport, New York, for examination, passed on to Rochester, for training, and then sent to Baltimore. His Division was on the James and Potomac Rivers, and spent many weary months camped under the walls of Fort Monroe. He was moved again to City Point, then to Petersburg, Virginia, making ready for a grand advance on Richmond, which his Division never saw. About this time the Presidential elections fell due. Every soldier who could be spared was sent back to his point of enlistment to vote. During this lull, Mr. Blackmore, having been taken seriously ill, was granted leave of absence. He took advantage of this to return to Canada. Despite the early terrible hardships he had suffered, the lure of the great northland drew him as much as ever. A few months later, he was back in Draper Township. His first location of land was lot 20, concession 5, although previously to this, had held a squatterËs right to lot 20 concession 4, which he sold to Joe Massey for fifteen dollars. Later he sold the location to which he did have a deed, to a man called Colvin, walking all the way to Orillia to make the transfer. For the next eight or nine years, he worked in various lumber camps in the Muskoka and Parry Sound districts, finally locating in Draper on lot 19, concession 5, and in 1871, marrying Miss Willena Lamont and settling down.
     Thank you Beatrice Scovell for preserving this important aspect of Muskoka heritage, in your fine little book, the work of a lifetime, entitled, The Muskoka Story.

Beatrice Scovelll Tells of The Peterson Road and A Civil War Veteran

 

Photo by Suzanne Currie

Photo by Andrew Currie

Charles Blackmore of Muskoka Joined the Federal Army in the American Civil War

     In the summer of 1864, August in fact, Federal Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur, made a somewhat controversial decision, regarding the naming of the newly granted post office, in what had been known as the hamlet of North Falls, in the Free Grants District of Ontario.
     LeSueur was much more than a civil servant; indeed, a recognized man of letters, in a soon to be sea to sea country, a literary critic, and yet to become, national historian, who liked, during his day-job, to award provenance to new postal outlets he had the opportunity to name. Some names he accepted, as presented by the citizens of candidate communities. In the case of North Falls, he rejected the name, as he did for the citizens of McCabe's Landing two years earlier. The citizens of McCabe's Landing had wished to have that title painted onto the first post office sign, but LeSueur decided "Gravenhurst" was better suited. I don't know how he determined this, because he didn't actually visit the location he was about to name. The same was in store for the citizens of North Falls, inheriting the title "Bracebridge" instead.
     Dr. LeSueur was a serious fellow who may have had a sense of humour, but not when it came to influencing the future of subject communities. As regards the name Gravenhurst, granted in August 1862, he borrowed the name from the title of a book by British Poet, Philosopher, William Henry Smith, a book in reprint that LeSueur reviewed as a literary critic, and the name "Bracebridge," of course, came from the title of a book by American Author, Washington Irving, entitled "Bracebridge Hall." As I've noted many times in the past, the real problem was one of interpretation, and from the beginning, the citizens of respective hamlets felt mildly betrayed by the federal post office. Both were content with the names they had chosen, and didn't appreciate meddling by the government, such as to change the course of history, because it would be a name most likely adopted for the community.
      It would be unlikely that there could have been a secondary name, beyond what the post office granted, such as "Bracebridge Post Office, North Falls, Ontario." It did happen in the case of Muskoka resorts having their own postal outlets, but not usually with small communities not requiring the extra baggage of names. LeSueur never really explained why he had chosen the names in the first place, but having done lengthy research on the subject, he was not the type to take these situations lightly, or in jest, such as giving these postal stations ridiculous titles. It would have helped the cause of history if he had created some sort of companion text, to explain why he wished to honor the authors, Smith, in the case of Gravenhurst, and Irving, in Bracebridge, to help the coming generations deal with this literary provenance. What should be celebrated has been muted since the naming events, because of this lack of interest by the citizens of both communities, seeded unfortunately, because of shortfalls dating back to those pre-Confederation days for both communities.
      In the case of Bracebridge, consider the fact the American Civil War was raging south of the border, and a federal authority has just named this South Muskoka hamlet post office, after the title of a book written by American Author Washington Irving. The citizens of the hamlet and region would have been aware of the Civil War, and possibly a little nervous about the possibility attention might turn northward as it did during the War of 1812. As Washington Irving's literary works would have been known to the pioneer community, because his major works had been published in the 1820's and 30's, there would have been few of the settlers who didn't appreciate the strange occurrence, that had afforded their hamlet an American inspired name, while the conflict carried-on. While the subject matter of the book "Bracebridge Hall," is very British in content, and set in old England, there is still nothing that disguised the fact LeSueur had used the reputation of an American writer at a most precarious time.
     This is a rather wordy set-up to the folk story I wish to present today, that was published in the text of Beatrice Scovell's book, "The Muskoka Story," which we have been examining for the past eight columns. The information within the story captioned "The Building of the Peterson Road," proves the point that settlers in this region knew all about the conflict south of the border, and in the case of Charles Blackmore, the opportunities for engagement as a recruit.
     Keep in mind, that British subjects in Pre-Confederation Canada were not encouraged to cross the border, to enlist in either the armies of the North or South. This was explained to me by my old friend, and Civil War re-enactor, Tom Brooks, formerly of Gravenhurst, who was a specialist in the field of the Canadian and British contribution to the conflict. On trips to United States, he would take Canadian flags specifically, to place on graves of those citizens of the fledgling Dominion, who died on the battlefields of America, serving both North and South battalions. Blackmore would become one of several regional citizens who did enlist in the Federal Army during this time. One was, buried in the Ufford United Church Cemetery, although little is known of his service, other than he wasn't a casualty of fighting. The other was Charles Blackmore, who was simply looking to find employment, in the region he emigrated from England, and when that failed, he decided to take a more adventurous approach, and headed to New York State to sign up for the epic confrontation between the American North and South. When we spin into this story tomorrow, you will realize that LeSueur's decision to name Bracebridge after the work of an American author, was a little more controversial that previously thought. It wasn't simply the case the citizens of the hamlet were displeased he had rejected the title "North Falls." It just wasn't the best time to be saddled up to a nation in crisis, an author's accomplishments or not.
     Please join Suzanne and I tomorrow, for a closer look at Charles Blackmore, a Muskoka pioneer who became a "Billy Yank" and then returned to Muskoka to resume his life.

Beatrice Scovell Retells "The Tale of Two Hats".

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Beatrice Scovell's Re-Telling of "The Tale of Two Hats," in "The Muskoka Story"

     To conclude this short heritage series of articles, as a far too late review of Beatrict Scovell's 1980's regional and family history, "The Muskoka Story," I wanted to share a prime example of folk history published under the heading, "The Tale of Two Hats." It's a little bit of history, intimate to Beatrice's family, and a little bit folk history, but being one hundred percent a good and memorable tale of the days of yore. Beatrice Scovell was as good a story spinner as I've ever known in this region of Ontario.
     Here now, in the words of the master story teller, is a strange chronicle of a hat:
     "My grandmother Ware fell ill with scarlet fever. She was recovering, but her little daughter had died of the disease, when my great-grandmother came from England to the new family home in Paris, Upper Canada, in 1866. The next year, my grandmother and a baby girl got diptheria and the baby girl died. So my grandmother had lost two little girls and was in poor health. Letters were written to members of her family who had gone to Australia, telling them of the deaths of the two baby girls, and my grandmother's poor health, and the address given on the letters was Paris, North America.
     "Meanwhile, my grandfather was looking for a tract of land big enough to bring all his brothers and sisters out from England, for he wanted to have all the family together again. It was suggested that he should move to some place like Manitoulin Island, but his stepfather, Richard Thornton, said he had lived on an island all his life and wanted something different. Mr. Thornton set out to have a look for something suitable and came back to his family with the information that they could get enough land around Peninsula Lake in Muskoka, but that the colonization road was not built and they would have to take lands that could be reached by water.
     "So by 1870 the family had left Paris and gone to live in Muskoka. It took a long time to get mail from Australia in those days, and meanwhile the family there, wanting to do something for my grandmother, because they were so sorry to hear about the babys' deaths and her poor health, had bought a velvet dress, and a matching hat with a feather, and sent it off to Paris. Someone saw the address, and put 'France' on the parcel. It eventually arrived in Paris, and was re-addressed, 'Try Paris, New France.' So the parcel came to New France, Quebec. From there, it was decided that there was a Paris in Upper Canada, and it was sent there. A forwarding address had been left for mail to be sent on to Muskoka, and finally the parcel came to the Huntsville Post Office."
     Beatrice Scovell carries on the story, noting that, "One day someone arrived on a boat from Huntsville to the Peninsula Creek, and set out to walk to see some land on Peninsula Lake. They brought a note from the Post Office; would someone from the Ware family come and see if a parcel there was meant for them; it looked as if it had travelled over half of the world. The velvet dress and hat were beautiful but where would she wear them? Just where she went to get the picture taken to send to the Australian relatives, we do not know. But we do have a copy of the picture. According to my grandmother's story, the next time the clothes were brought out to wear, was when a general store was opened in Huntsville. It belonged to the Scarletts who had a general store first in Utterson. It was the first store in Huntsville, on the west side of the bridge, and it had all that you cold find in a general store anywhere.
     "The day of the opening came. When my grandmother opened the box, the dress was there, but not the velvet hat. My grandmother put on the dress, and went to the opening of the store. Imagine her surprise when she saw her hat on someone in the store. The person with her hat came up to her, smiling and pointing to the hat on her head. 'I like your hat, very nice on me.' Well, it was what my grandfather called 'another borrowing without permission.' The Indians had been coming to the Peninsula Creek every summer since before Champlain. They came and put up their wigwams, just the same, after the land had been sold by them to the government. They simply did not have the same ideas about property as the white people. They would see something belonging to the grant land settlers and take it, returning it before they left in the fall. For them, the concept of property was a shared thing. They would bring baskets of grass, and moccasins they had made, and leave them, for people, who had done something for them. Or, if someone admired something they had made, it would be given to them."
     The author continues her story, stating that "One morning, in the fall, the velvet hat was fond on the kitchen table, but without the feather. The story of the second hat happened many years after the first, but it had nothing to do with the Indians. It happened to my mother, who was born in 1873, after the family had been in Muskoka for some time. But it concerns the same relatives in Australia. They had been receiving our news, and had heard all about the Grant Lands, but they preferred to stay in Australia. They heard about the death of Herbert, the baby who was brought to Muskoka, from scarlet fever. My mother had had the disease too, and was slowly recovering, but she had lost her hair. She had none to braid or curl and always wore a hat of some kind. By this time her mother had a large family, and it was my mother who used to make the clothes for all her brothers and for her father, even going to Huntsville to learn about making clothes from the tailor, Mr. Flaxman. Because of this, and because they felt sorry for her, the Australian relatives decided to send her some serge material and silk, to make herself a suit and matching hat. We still have the picture of her that was taken when the new outfit was finished; one copy, of course, was sent to the aunt in Australia.
     "The first time she wore the dress and hat was to the Peninsula Creek Sunday School. All the people were glad to see that she was feeling better, and they wanted to examine the hat. She took it off, for by this time she was not self-conscious about her hair. She said she did not mind as her hair was growing again. Now, neither my mother nor my father ever said a word about this episode; it was my mother's brother who told me. He told me that there was in the church building at that time, a girl whose brother in fact was engaged to my mother. She could not sew like my mother and perhaps resented this. Or she must have been in a bad mood that day. For she grabbed the hat, opened the lid of the wood stove, and put the hat inside. Her mother, who was to be my grandmother) saw what her daughter had done. She tried to get the hat out, but too late, it was already on fire. Really shocked, her mother decided to punish this temper, that none of the others in the family possessed. And the girl was forbidden to go to the Sunday School for the rest of the year, as well as having to take some of her money and pay for a new hat. She was the only one of the family to have this awful temper, though her mother was born in Ireland and the family called it "the awful Irish temper.' She liked to tease people and play jokes, but could not stand it if anyone dared to tease her or make fun of her. I remember I was always afraid that it my be hereditary and that I would develop it; and my father used to tell me, 'Count to ten if you think you are ready for a temper.' She suffered terribly for she never tried to curb it."
     Beatrice Scovell offers another story to conclude the chapter that reads as follows: "It happened this way. My grandparents were always very good to the student ministers who were sent into Muskoka. They would always provide a horse for the minister's use, for they had to walk miles from one charge to another. They used to call themselves the 'rider ministers,' for a horse was the only way of getting along the wood trails, and often, if they had no experience in managing a horse, some very funny things would happen. They also included the ministers in family meals. I remember Rev. Percy Peacock, one of the early student ministers, who I afterwards knew quite well, telling me how he first preached at Hillside Church, and was told to come out to the Casselman home, next week for a meal. When he arrived, a little late, he made his excuses, went to the dining room, and seeing the table set for 24 people, said, 'I am sorry, I will come again. I see you are having a party.' My grandfather said, 'Oh no, this is just family. We have a place for you.' Well, one of the student ministers, one summer, spent a lot of time at the Casselman home. He was 'one of the family,' and Martha liked him a lot. One day he was late in coming, and one of the brothers said, 'Perhaps he thinks Martha has not come home yet, Poor Martha won't see him today.' She left the room in a huff. Their mother said, 'You know you should not tease her, you don't know what a temper she may get into.'
     "They did not think any more about it. Later the young man arrived. Martha was outside in the hammock, reading. Not knowing what the brothers had said, he innocently went up to her and said, 'Did you miss me because I went to the Taylor's dinner?' Martha threw her book right in his face. He left without a word. He had been used to writing to her, but no more letters ever came, though she used to make excuses and go all the way to Huntsville and bring back the family mail. He never came back to the area to preach; another student took his place. Poor Martha was the only one of the family who never married. And it was all her own fault."

Beatrice Scovell and The Culture Infilling of Folk Stories of Muskoka

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Where Would We Be Without Those Culture-Infilling Folk Stories, Such As Beatrice Scovell's "The Muskoka Story"

     When I worked as a painter, at South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, in Bracebridge, during those summers of the mid-1970's, trying to finance my university experience, I had a remarkable opportunity to hear some of the most amazing folk histories, as told by some amazing story tellers. First of all, I had never heard anyone tell a folk tale like Hospital Administrator Frank Henry, and when, during our coffee breaks, Bill "Willy" Andison happened to be at the table, gosh what wonderful entertainment. Willy and Frank would start competing with their reminiscences, and honestly, the telling of regional history was never as poignant as it was on those occasions. In my opinion as a wide-eyed, open mouthed voyeur of these master story tellers, Willy always had a little bit of an edge, but seeing as Frank was our boss, we made it seem they were even-steven at the end of coffee break.
     A story I will remember forever, was the one Willy, a tad older by the way, told about the day a few of his young cronies, got the idea to cause a little mayhem on the Queen's Hill in Bracebridge. The Queen's Hill, in case you don't know, is the incline at the traffic lights on Manitoba Street, and what I knew as Thomas Street. The corner where the old federal building stands with that magnificent brick clock tower that guided and reminded me of my time, throughout my youth. Actually, even in adulthood, when I used to tipple too much at the Hotel Patterson, and at the press club down at the Albion Hotel on Main Street.
     The Queen's Hotel afforded the steep hill its name, and at one time, it was a much greater incline that caused many horse and cart disasters. The Queen's Hotel became the Patterson Hotel and then the Hotel Patterson where I drank way, way too much, listening to some great local bands. In Willy's circumstance, in the early 1900's, there were round stones and sling-shots involved in the buddying mayhem. Each of the three lads had sling-shots, rocks in the bands, and waited patiently for the next milk wagon to be pulled up the Queen's Hill. Alas, they didn't have to wait long.
     Hiding behind a corner of the Queen's Hotel, the lads waited until the cart was nearly at the top of the hill, before running into the open, taking aim, and hitting each of the horses somewhere on their back sides. Of course, they reared-up after the stinging blows, and in turn, caused the wagon to pull up, and subsequently dump its load onto the still-dirt road. All down that hillside, rain gallons of milk, rutting the dirt, and nearly killing the driver, who probably toppled out of the wagon along with the milk cans. Mission accomplished.
     As you might expect, the lads were quick to exit the scene, and found safe haven in between the buildings near the Albion Hotel, beside the train station. But there were witnesses, and although coffee break was over, just at the point I wanted to ask if they were ever caught, there was a twinkle in Willy's eye that told me justice was served later. Willy, by the way, was the hospital gardener, and a former farmer out Purbrook way. He gifted many visitors to the hospital with his stories, and for many of those folks, anxious about being at a hospital in the first place, he gave them reason to relax and even chuckle.
     Beatrice Scovell, who probably knew Bill Andison, from hospital visits, the collected folk stories from her early 1980's regional and family history, "The Muskoka Story," parallel in story-telling enthusiasm, the elder gardener. One for example, is headed "Wanda, The Doctor's Horse," and while not humourously tinged as such, is heart warming and wonderfully nostalgic of a former time in history.
     "The only horse my father ever had was called Wanda. People all around Huntsville knew her. She was a direct descendant of the horses brought from the Prairies by the Indians before Muskoka was opened up for settlement. Before anyone came to the Grant Lands, the Menominees, who were Indians, had a farm on the shores of Vernon Lake (Huntsville). There they bred and trained horses, to sell other Indians and later to settlers. Horses were in great demand in those days. When the Menominee Indians decided to leave Muskoka, they sold their Prairie horses to a farmer in the area who carried on the horse farm."
     Beatrice Scovell writes, "Unless you knew Wanda, you would not believe she could be so clever. It was my uncle, Sam Ware, at the Canal, who bought her in the first place to be hitched to another horse, and do the ploughing. She balked. She would not be one of a team of horses. She was so strong and she had such willpower and was so stubborn, that my father thought it would be a very good thing if he could get her to work for him. So he bought her. It was a good thing, too. We had her until she was twenty years old. Sometimes she would have stubborn spells, and then my father would go and talk to her as if she were a human being. He would give her some candy or sugar, which he kept for her in his pocket, and his voice would change and he would call her a good girl, It worked every time.
     "One winter night, when there was a lot of snow beside the roads, Wanda stopped at a gate. She kept trying to get into the snowdrift at the roadside. Nothing would stop her or make her go ahead again. So my father took his flashlight and started to look in the snow. Eventually he found a man. He had been so drunk he could not make the trip into his house. He had fallen into the snow and would have been there all night, if it had not been for Wanda. He would probably have frozen to death.
     "My father got him to the house, beyond the gate, and found that he had been working at a wood camp to get money for his family. He was supposed to buy groceries and bring them home, but he did not have any with him. It was learned, later, that he had got into the hotel with his workmates, and there spent all his money. When my mother heard about this, she got a box and filled it with food, and returned next morning to the house with my father. When Wanda reached the gate of the home, where the family lived, she turned into it without being told to."
     Mrs. Scovell adds to the story of Wanda the horse, noting that, "When winter came the lakes froze and the ice was so thick that people could cut blocks of it to put in the sawdust of ice houses. A road was made across Fairy Lake. On one of his trips to the Portage, my father came to the Canal and got onto the ice road across the lake, to come back to Huntsville. Then Wanda balked, and started to back up. Nothing would make her go forward. When he took his flashlight to find out what was wrong with Wanda, she tried to nip his ears. While he stood there, talking to the horse, the clouds moved, and the moon showed open water ahead. The next morning, a farmer, coming to the office, told of another farmer who had tried to cross the ice on Fairy Lake, and who had lost his team of horse and his sleigh, when the ice had broken. He had been able to crawl to a safe spot and is life had been saved.
     "One trip was made, a long way from town, to call on a family who had come from England, bringing with them their young grandson. They had bought a property that was advertised for sale and moved to it, bringing the grandson as a baby. At this time, he was about four years old, and they had never taken him to town. This call was going to take some time, so Wanda was taken from the buggy and allowed to eat some grass, while the buggy was pushed up against a fence. The family used to buy candy for the little boy when they went into town, and they had told him about the store window there that was filled with candies. He wanted to see it. So he crawled into the box behind the buggy, and no-one saw him except Wanda. When Wanda reached her barn, she got round to the back of the buggy, and nosed it, just the way she would nose my father's pocket, if she thought there was some candy or sugar in it. When the lid of the box at the back of the buggy was opened, up popped the little boy's head. It was a good thing that this home, out in the country, had a phone. Someone came for him the next day, but first, I took him to see the store window full of candies, and let him pick some out for himself."
     She concludes her story, that "In 1919, Wanda was twenty years old, and we had her shot. She is buried on the Casselman Grant Lands at the Canal. My father dug a slanting ditch and walked her into it with a bag of oats around her neck. But he could not shoot her. He could not even fill in the grave, and neither could my brother help my uncle. It was like losing a member of our family."

Beatrice Scovell Writes About The Contribution Made To Huntsville By Pioneer Artist Ada Kinton

Photos by Suzanne Currie

Beatrice Scovell Writes About Pioneer Artist Ada Kinton and Her Family of Huntsvil

     Suzanne and I, on a chilly autumn day, soon after a light dusting of snow the evening before, stood on the spot where Ada Florence Kinton was buried in the Huntsville Cemetery. I've written numerous feature articles on this pioneer artist, published in numerous magazines and newspapers since I first found her book, "Just One Blue Bonnet," for sale in a Bracebridge used book shop.
     Ada Kinton painted historically important scenes in Muskoka, while staying with her brother Ed Kinton, in the pioneer settlement of Huntsville, in the 1880's. Her brother Mackie was also living in Huntsville at the time. She came for a visit from England and some years later, would return to live in Canada, after the death of her father, and the dispersal of the family holdings. She became a respected artist, and art instructor, but would come to choose a life in the service of the Booth family, in the missions of the Salvation Army. She would also become a writer / illustrator with the Salvation Army's magazine, "War Cry."
     We have previously published biographical sketches of Ada Kinton on this blog so you can archive back if you wish, to learn more about the artist. I wish, at the time I was writing these feature articles, that I had known about Beatrice Scovell's wonderful chapter on the pioneer artist and her family, in her 1980's book, "The Muskoka Story." I have only recently come to own a former reference copy of the Muskoka history, that was published in small numbers in 1982, leaving few to be sold to the public. As a great admirer of folk historians such as Beatrice Scovell, kin of the Huntsville Casselman and Ware families, and an eager hunter of stories about Ada Kinton, you can then imagine my delight, at finding the section in her book entitled, "The Kintons and William Randleson, Early Huntsville Residents." The best part? Beatrice Scovell actually met, and sat with Ada Kinton, who was staying with her brother in Huntsville, only a short time before the artist-missionary's death. Here now in the words of this wonderful story teller, Beatrice Casselman Scovell:
     "In 1880, Sara and Florence Kinton left England and came to visit their brothers, Edward and Mackie Kinton, who had settled in the Village of Huntsville. Edward (Ed) Kinton had the Post Office in his General Store. At this time, there was no plan for the sisters to make this their home. But two years later, after a short illness, their father J.L. Kinton (a teacher in England) died. Edward came back to England, and it was decided Florence was to make her home with her two bothers in Huntsville. Sara went to Paris, France, to work in an evangelistic mission.
     "(Ada) Florence kept a diary, and from this, and letters she wrote to her sister, in France, I got some information about Muskoka. I spent many afternoons on the verandah of Sara (Kinton) Randleson's home, reading about Huntsville and the people who were there in the years from 1882 to 1900. This from a diary written in 1885." The journal entries include the following information:
     "Huntsville in 1883 was a tiny village with not more than three hundred inhabitants. It had one street, there were no sidewalks. Most of the houses were made of logs, and if another room was needed you made a lean-to at the side. Edward Kinton and James Hanes had the first brick houses." From a letter written to her sister, on February 6th, 1883, while travelling on the steamship S.S. Sarmation," the following is noted:
     "You will be sorry to hear that we had a very rough voyage. The Captain said it was the stormiest the Sarmation has ever had. It was greatly amusing to hear the sea coming over the deck and down the stairs and past the cabin door, hissing and seething and fizzing like champagne in a passion. Once the stewardess could not get to me unless she waded knee-deep in water. The doctor was taking a mustard plaster to a patient, and he fell and dislocated his knee, and a passenger slipped on deck, and knocked himself insensible."
     Huntsville, February 12th, 1883: from a letter to Sara: "I am happy to say that we have safely arrived at last, after being on the journey from Tuesday evening until Sunday morning. We have been two days short of three weeks since we left England. We landed at Halifax on Tuesday and got straight into a Pullman. At Montreal we changed cars and from there to Toronto we met all sorts of  trouble. We were caught in a snow storm and had to wait to be dug out. Then there was a freight train off the track, and then there were two freight trains that collided; we had to wait for the track to be cleared. The we got to Gravenhurst, and I had my first sleigh ride. The horses frisked and skipped along like kittens, their long tails and manes waved about so prettily. I don't suppose I shall ever forget this trip to Muskoka. The 'tintinnabulation the the sleigh bells,' and the forest and the quiet midnight."
     Beatrice Scovell writes, "Most of the stories I heard from early settlers did not tell about their travel to the Grant Lands. I would have liked to hear more of their life before they came here, and why they left their former home; but the people who came across the ocean did not say much about it. More from the Kinton diary:"
     "I spent the day down in the office with people waiting for the mail. Mackie calls out the names as he sorts the mail. It is great fun shopping here in my brother's store, because you cannot get anything you want, and have to go away without, or make something quite different instead, and it is in the contriving and scheming and arranging that the pleasure comes in. Commenced to draw Mr. Hooie's premises and the cows and sheep. The doctor goes by a 'cutter'. It is like a perambulator on light runners. The cutter has a row of bells. Funeral procession of a young man from Fairy Lake passed the store, about fifteen sleighs following, chief mourners had large scarfs of some white material tied around the right arm.
     "I will sketch the view of the river disappearing in the bush and the steamer Northern still sleeping in the snow and ice. Also if I can get a large piece of paper I will make a drawing of the village. Mr. Crompton came into the store, a white-haired man with bright sharp eyes, formerly a Bible reader in London and Liverpool. He came out and settled on Grant Lands. Being a man of education and an eloquent speaker, at the wish of the Bishop, he was ordained and is now a travelling missionary in Muskoka. Yesterday we went to Allan Shay's plantation on the hill-top, where the Virginia Creeper grows so lovely and heard the birds sing, 'Hard Times in Canada, Canada,' over and over; or, as some say, they sing 'Sweet, Sweet Canada, Canada.' Had afternoon tea in Mrs. Godolphin's shanty, an odd little wooden house. It seemed quite a change to have tiny cups of pink china and tiny slices of bread to nibble. It seemed like home to me. Then on the way back to the store there were several sleighs drawn by oxen with broad backs and rough, long haired, tawny hides and big rolling eyes. The sleighs are mere boards on runners close to the ground.
     "Florence Kinton accepted a position as art teacher at Malvern, in England, in June 1883. During the Christmas holidays we went with her sister, Sara, to the home of General Booth, of the Salvation Army. Sara was acting as Visiting Governess to the Booth children. Visits were paid to the Army Training House, where Sara also taught a class of children. This proved to be the work Florence wanted, and eventually she joined the Salvation Army to work with General Booth. Later she came to Toronto and helped with the editing of the Salvation Army paper, 'The War Cry.' From there she went to Australia with the Booth family. Florence returned to Huntsville in poor health. She was in Dr. Hart's Hospital, suffering from rheumatic fever. I remember talking to her on the Randleson's verandah, when I had taken her some pansies. She died in 1905 and is buried beside her brother Edward and her niece Florence."
     It is known from Ada Florence Kinton's journal, that the stay in Australia had been difficult on her overall health, and the long hours expected of her, to work for the Booth mission, diminished her resistance to illness. When she contracted rheumatic fever, she was already in a weakened physical condition, and the destructive nature of the fever, was too much to survive. Her hands had been so swollen at the end, that she couldn't even attempt sketching the view from the Randleson's verandah. It is known, that despite her suffering at the end, she very much enjoyed her final days overlooking the small town that had grown so much since her first visit in the early 1880's.
     One of her close friends, Agnes Machar, one of Canada's early historical novelists, knew her as a talented artist who could have made considerable fame and money as both a painter and educator in the field of art. She pointed out, when invited to comment in the book published by Sara Randleson, that there was an occasion, when Ada Kinton was invited to attend a special art exhibition and prize presentation, in Toronto, I believe, where a number of her students were about to be awarded prizes for their work. By this time Miss Kinton was a member of the Salvation Army, and was wearing her uniform when she attended the event. When she saw the formally attired guests and artists, and judged her faded, worn uniform as being inappropriate for such public display, she hid near the doorway refusing to enter the hall for fear of being considered unworthy and unwelcome because of her outfit. Yet there were students who had achieved artistic excellence, and were being recognized, who she had tutored in the past; students who gave considerable credit to their kind teacher Ada Florence Kinton.
     There is another story of Ada Kinton working at a Toronto soup kitchen, run by the Salvation Army, and rescuing a young boy delivering newspapers for the local daily. The boy was suffering from the intense cold, having been poorly attired, and suffering from malnutrition. The wee lad fell down on the sidewalk, a short distance from the Salvation Army Mission, and she was profoundly disturbed to watch as passersby stepped over and around the child, dying in front of them. She helped carry him into the warm hall, where he was revived with hot tea and a warm lunch. This was the story of Ada Kinton throughout her life, and she had no regrets about the hardships suffered in this pursuit of looking out for the welfare of humanity.