THE TRAGIC SINKING OF THE S.S. CARIBOU - "IT HAPPENED IN OCTOBER," BY H. THORNTON
U-BOAT IN THE ST. LAWRENCE, KILLS INNOCENTS IN 1942 TORPEDO ATTACK - NEWFOUNDLAND PASSENGER SHIP SUNK
ONE OF THE TRULY RARE BOOKS IN THIS COUNTRY, THE SMALL, SOFT COVER, DOG-EARED BOOKLET, OF 86 PAGES, WAS FOUND RIGHT HERE IN MUSKOKA. IT IS A FOLKSY, HEARTFELT MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, TO THE CREW AND PASSENGERS OF THE EAST COAST PASSENGER SHIP, THE S.S. CARIBOU, THAT BECAME COLLATERAL DAMAGE OF THE WAR IN EUROPE. AT A TIME WHEN VERY FEW CANADIANS EXPECTED A GERMAN U-BOAT WOULD BE PROWLING AS FAR OVERSEAS, AS CANADIAN WATERS, A TORPEDO WAS FIRED ON THE SHIP, CRUISING IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE. FOR YEARS IT WAS DEBATED WHETHER OR NOT IT WAS A TORPEDO. THERE WERE THOSE WHO BELIEVED THE EXPLOSION HAD BEEN THE RESULT OF A TIME BOMB, THAT HAD BEEN PLANTED ABOARD SHIP, BEFORE IT SET SAIL WITH PASSENGERS FROM PORT IN CAPE BRETON. IT IS ALL CONTAINED IN THIS MODEST, UNASSUMING BOOKLET, THAT BECAUSE OF ITS POOR CONDITION, MIGHT HAVE BEEN RECYCLED BY A FORMER OWNER. THANKFULLY, IT WAS CONSERVED, SUCH THAT I CAN SHARE THE STORY WITH YOU, ON THIS EASTER WEEKEND, IN 2014. WE COULD ONLY FIND ONE OTHER COPY OF THE BOOK, AND IT WAS PART OF A MUSEUM ARCHIVE'S PERMANENT COLLECTION.
THE SIMPLY PRODUCED BOOK WAS NOT PRINTED ON HIGH QUALITY PAPER STOCK. EVEN THE COVER STOCK IS OF MODEST ECONOMY, AND THE BINDING IS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF TWO STAPLES. IT'S GRAPHICS AND LAYOUT IS A WORK OF FOLK ART. IT WAS NOT CREATED AS A WORK OF ART FOR BIBLIOPHILE COLLECTORS; BUT RESEARCHED, WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED BY THE MAN IDENTIFIED ON THE INSIDE FRONT COVER PICTURE, AS, "H. THORNHILL, " PUBLISHER OF THE PICTURE ,"REMEMBER THE CARIBOU AND HER GALLANT CREW," AND THE BOOK ILLUSTRATED ABOVE. THE BOOKLET IS A NO-FRILLS, HONEST, FROM THE HEART TRIBUTE, TO ALL THOSE WHO WERE VICTIMS OF THAT HORRIFIC EVENT. IN THIS REGARD, THE BOOK, IN ITS MODESTY BUT SINCERITY, ACCOMPLISHES MORE THAN ALMOST ANY OTHER MEMORIAL TEXT I'VE READ. IT DIDN'T NEED A FANCY LEATHER COVER, OR GOLD LEAF ADORNMENTS, TO BE EFFECTIVE, IN SPREADING THE MESSAGE, THAT SINKING THIS PASSENGER SHIP WAS AN OUTRAGEOUSLY CRUEL CRIME OF THE GERMAN NAVY.
ON THE INSIDE COVER PAGE, THERE IS A PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS "MISS BENNETT, "DAUGHTER OF THE LATE JOHN R. BENNETT, WHO CHRISTENED THE CARIBOU. MISS BENNETT IS NOW MRS. KEDDIE, RESIDING IN MONTREAL." ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE, THERE IS A PICTURE OF MISS BRIDGET FITZPATRICK, THE "LATE STEWARDESS, S.S. CARIBOU." THE FOLLOWING IS NOTED OF HER WORK ON THE SHIP: "MISS FITZPATRICK WAS A NATIVE OF BAY ROBERTS, CONCEPTION BAY, A DAUGHTER OF THE LATE MR. AND MRS. MATTHEW FITZPATRICK. SHE WAS WELL AND FAVOURABLY KNOWN NOT ONLY IN HER NATIVE TOWN, BUT ALL AROUND CONCEPTION BAY, AND THE AVALON PENINSULA AS WELL. FOR MANY YEARS SHE RESIDED IN THE U.S.A. AND HELD RESPONSIBLE POSITIONS IN SOME OF THE FINEST AMERICAN HOTELS. RETURNING LATER TO HER NATIVE NEWFOUNDLAND, SHE WAS ENGAGED IN HOUSEKEEPING AT THE HOME OF REVEREND FATHER, ASHLEY OF TORBAY, A POSITION SHE HELD UNTIL HIS PASSING SOME YEARS AGO. HER LAST CHANGE WAS THAT OF STEWARDESS OF THE ILL-FATED CARIBOU. NEWFOUNDLAND RAILWAY OFFICIALS, QUICK TO OBSERVE HER DYNAMIC PERSONALITY, AND THE EFFICIENCY, WITH WHICH SHE CARRIED OUT HER DUTIES, POSTED HER TO THIS CHARGE SOON AFTER SHE ENTERED THE STEAMSHIP SERVICE.
"HERE, BRIDGET, AS SHE WAS FAMILIARLY KNOWN, BECAME ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR EMPLOYEES OF THE NEWFOUNDLAND STEAMSHIP SERVICES. HER DEVOTION TO DUTY COUPLED WITH HER CHEERFUL PERSONALITY ENDEARED HER TO ALL. SHE DIED AS SHE WOULD HAVE WISHED TO DIE, AT HER POST OF DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HER COUNTRY. HER BODY, ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF THAT BRAVE AND VERY BELOVED WOMAN, WAS FOOUND FLOATING IN THE SEA, NEAR THE SPOT WHERE THE GOOD SHIP IN WHICH SHE SERVED SO WELL, NOW RESTS ON THE BOTTOM OF THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE. TAKEN TO PORT-AUX-BASQUES WITH OTHER VICTIMS, HER BODY WAS PREPARED FOR BURIAL AND NOW RESTS BESIDE HER BELOVED PARENTS, IN THE BEAUTIFUL ROMAN CATHOLIC CEMETERY, AT BAY ROBERTS, HER NATIVE HOME." A NOTE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE, READS, "THE WRITE-UP IS DEDICATED TO HER MEMORY BY MR. RICHARD FINN, MANAGER OF THE WEST CORNER BROOK TOWN COUNCIL."
THIS IS FOLLOWED BY THE "PREFACE," WRITTEN BY THE PUBLISHER, H. THORNTON. "IT IS THE INTENTION OF THE WRITER, TO SET FORTH AND DESCRIBE IN BRIEF, A SHORT BUT TRUE STORY, OF THE SAD AND BITTER SINKING OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, THIS BEING CONFIRMED BY OTHER RELIABLE TESTIMONIES AND STATEMENTS GIVEN BY SURVIVORS OF THE CREW, AND TO THE BEST OF THEIR KNOWLEDGE, A TRUE PICTURE TO THE READER OF THAT DISASTROUS EPISODE THAT OCCURRED ON THE MORNING OF OCTOBER 14TH, 1942. MUCH HAS BEEN THE QUERIES AS TO HOW THE CARIBOU WAS SUNK, EITHER BY TORPEDO OR TIME BOMB. THIS QUESTION CAN BEST BE JUDGED BY THOSE WHO ESCAPED TO TELL THE TALE OF THIS SAD HAPPENING, OF WHICH THIS BOOK CONTAINS RELIABLE AND SINCERE STATEMENTS, ENOUGH TO CONVINCE THE READER THAT THE SHIP WAS INDEED TORPEDOED. NO EXAGGERATION HAS BEEN GIVEN, AND EACH WITNESS HAS PRESENTED FACTS OF WHAT THEY HAD EXPERIENCED, AND REALIZED THE IMPORTANCE OF GIVING THEIR TRUE STORY OF THAT DISASTROUS MORNING THAT STRUCK TERROR TO THE HEARTS OF MANY. AS YOU READ THIS BOOK, YOU WILL BE MADE TO FEEL WHAT IT MEANS TO FACE SUCH A TRYING EXPERIENCE AND THE SYMPATHY THAT WILL GO OUT TO THOSE WHO MOURN; WHAT IT MEANS TO BE BLASTED FROM A WARM BERTH INTO THE COLD AND CHILLY WATERS OF THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. GREAT WAS THE EXCITEMENT AND CONFUSION AS WOMEN AND CHILDREN STUMBLED AND FELL IN THE PITCH DARK ROOMS, IN AN ENDEAVOR TO REACH A BOAT OR RAFT. SUCH ARE THE HORRORS OF WAR. WE ARE UNABLE TO EXPLAIN THE WHYS AND WHEREFORES OF LIFE'S ROAD, SO WE ARE OBLIGED TO LET THE CURTAIN STAY. SOME DAY IT WILL BE LIFTED BY HIM WHO MEASURES THE WATERS IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND."
THE PORTRAITS OF THE CARIBOU'S CREW
THE FIRST MEMBER OF THE CREW, TO BE PROFILED, WAS THE CAPTAIN OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, AS PROFILED ON PAGE FIVE. THE CAPTION BENEATH THE PHOTOGRAPH READS SIMPLY, "THE LATE CAPTAIN BENJAMIN TAVERNOR, WAS BORN AT TRINITY, NEWFOUNDLAND, NOVEMBER 5, 1882, AND WAS 62 YEARS OF AGE, AT THE TIME OF THE DISASTER. HE COMMANDED THE CARIBOU FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS AND WAS WELL LIKED BY ALL WHO KNEW HIM. HE LEAVES TO MOURN A WIDOW BESIDES MANY FRIENDS AND RELATIONS. ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE, THERE IS THE NOTICE FOR "MR. STANLEY TAVERNOR, CHIEF OFFICER OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, BORN AT ST. JOHN'S, AUGUST 15, 1910, AND WAS 34 YEARS OF AGE AT THE TIME OF THE DISASTER. HE GRADUATED FROM MOUNT ALLISON UNIVERSITY IN 1929 AND LATER WORKED HIS WAY UP TO THE POSITION OF FIRST OFFICER, AND IN A SHORT TIME WAS ABOUT TO TAKE OVER COMMAND OF THE SHIP IN VIEW OF HIS FATHER'S RETIREMENT. HE WAS ONE OF THE VICTIMS OF THE SINKING AND IS SURVIVED BY HIS WIDOW." ONE PAGE BEYOND THIS, OFFERS NEWS THAT A THIRD MEMBER OF THE TAVERNER FAMILY PERISHED THAT DAY. "MR. H. TAVERNER, 3RD OFFICER, OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, WAS BORN AT PORT-AUX-BASQUES, APRIL 25, 1920, AND WAS 24 YEARS OF AGE AT THE TIME OF THE DISASTER. HE WAS FOLLOWING IN HIS FATHER'S FOOTSTEPS AND IN COURSE OF TIME WOULD HAVE REACHED THE PLACE OF MASTER. HIS BODY WAS RECOVERED AFTER THE SINKING."
BENEATH THE PORTRAIT OF "MR. JAMES PROSPER," THE NOTE READS, THAT HE WAS "2ND MATE OF THE S.S. CARIBOU, AND WAS BORN AT BOONE BAY, IN THE YEAR 1888, AND AT THE TIME OF THE DISASTER, WHICH TOOK HIS LIFE, HE WAS 54 YEARS OF AGE. MR. PROSPER, A WELL KNOWN MARINER, IS SURVIVED BY HIS WIFE AND FAMILY." ON PAGE NINE OF THE BOOKLET, AS A CUTLINE FOR THE PORTRAIT OF CAPTAIN L. STEVSON, IT READS, THAT HE "COMMANDED THE S.S. CARIBOU FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS. HE HAD MUCH TO DO IN PLANNING CERTAIN PARTS OF THE SHIP, AND WATCHED HER WHEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION. THE CAPTAIN WAS WELL LIKED BY ALL WHO KNEW HIM. HE SPENT MOST OF THIS LIFE AT SEA AND ALONG WITH OTHER SHIPS, HE WAS ALSO CAPTAIN OF THE S.S. KYLE."
UNDER THE CAPTION, "SINCE THE OUTBREAK OF WAR," THE FOLLOWING STORY LEADS UP TO THE TRAGIC DEMISE OF THIS WELL RESPECTED SHIP. "THE OUTBREAK OF WAR MEANT PERILOUS TIMES FOR THE S.S. CARIBOU, AND HER CREW, AND MANY UNEASY HOURS WERE SPENT IN CROSSING THE CABOT STRAIT, WHERE SUBMARINES LURKED LIKE SHARKS IN THE DARKNESS, WAITING TO CATCH WHATEVER LAY IN THEIR TRAIL. A BLOOD THIRSTY CROWD, READY TO RELEASE THEIR DEADLY WEAPONS UPON DEFENCELESS MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN. THE CRIES OF MOTHERS WITH THEIR LITTLE ONES AS THEY FACED DEATH IN THE DARKNESS ON A COLD, CHILLY MORNING ABOUT 3 A.M, IN OCTOBER, WILL NEVER BE ERASED FROM OUR MEMORIES. THE CREW PASSED MANY RESTLESS NIGHTS WITH FEAR AS THEY KNEW THAT THEY WERE BEING WATCHED NIGHT AFTER NIGHT BY THOSE PIRATES, WAITING FOR A CHANCE TO DO THEIR COWARDLY DEED, THAT ANY NIGHT OR MORNING, THEY MIGHT BE A VICTIME TO AN ENEMY TORPEDO. THE TENSION WAS FELT VERY MUCH BY THE CAPTAIN BUT ORDERS MUST BE CARRIED OUT, AND THE GOOD SKIPPER WAS FAITHFUL TILL THE END CAME, WHEN WITH HIS TWO SONS, HE OBEYED THE ORDERS OF THE ADMIRAL, WHO GOVERNS THE SEA AND THEY THAT GO THERE, TO DO BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS WHOM THE WINDS AND THE SEAS OBEY."
"THE LAST LINE CAST! ON OCTOBER, 18TH, WHILE LYING AT SYDNEY PIER, TAKING HER LAST CARGO OF FREIGHT, THE S.S. CARIBOO CAST HER LINES FOR THE LAST TIME; TO SAIL AWAY INTO THE DARKNESS, NEVER TO RETURN TO THE SHORES OF CAPE BRETON AGAIN, WITH PASSENGERS AND CREW WHO WOULD NEVER COME BACK. IT WAS SAD TO THINK THAT MANY SOULS THAT NIGHT WENT SAILING INTO THE UNKNOWN, TO A LAND WHERE NO TROUBLED WATERS LIE AND HEARTS KNOW NO FEAR. IT WAS A STILL NIGHT, DARK, BUT NOT STORMY. IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT, AS THE SHIP PRESSED SILENTLY ON WITH THE PASSENGERS ASLEEP, OR RESTING IN THEIR BERTHS. SEEMINGLY, BY SOME THERE EXISTED A MYSTERIOUS FEELING IN THE AIR, THAT HUNG LIKE A VEIL OVER THE SKIES, A FEELING OF SOME TRAGEDY THAT WAS TO CROSS THE PATH OF THE S.S. CARIBOU. IT WAS NEARING 3 O'CLOCK. JUST AHEAD, HIDDEN BENEATH THE WAVES, WAS THAT MOSTER OF DEATH. EVERY MOMENT FOR THOSE HARD HEARTED, BLOOD THIRSTY MEN, MEANT ANOTHER SHIP GOING TO THE OF THE SEA, THEN TO SNEAK AWAY WHERE THEY WOULD REPORT THEIR EVIL DEED, AND BE APPLAUDED BY THE ADMIRAL, AND THE ACCEPTANCE OF AN IRON CROSS GIVEN FOR SUCH CRUELTY."
"UNKOWN TO PASSENGERS OR CREW, THE DEADLY TORPEDO CAME SKIMMING ALONG THE WATER, AS IF TO CONCENTRATE THE SPOT WHERE PARENTS AND CHILDREN LAY SNUGLY IN THEIR BERTHS; NOW TO FACE DEATH IN THE COLD CHILLY WATERS OF THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. THE TORPEDO HIT WITH A HEART SICKENING THUD AS IT FELL UPON THE EARS OF TERROR STRICKEN PASSENGERS AND CREW, SENDING PIECES OF THE SHIP AND HER LIFE BOATS HIGH IN THE AIR. EVERY LIGHT WENT OUT, WATER RUSHED DOWN THE STAIRWAY, PEOPLE FELL OVER ONE ANOTHER IN A RUSH TO REACH SAFETY. IT WAS A TERRIBLE SCENE AND TO MOST OF THE SURVIVORS IT SEEMS TODAY TO HAVE BEEN ONE BIG NIGHTMARE. AS YOU READ THIS BOOK, AND HEAR THE TESTIMONIES IN THE SAME, YOU WILL GET A SMALL PICTURE OF THAT TERRIBLE CALAMITY, BUT THOUGH SMALL, ONE MUST FEEL DEEPLY TOUCHED FOR SUCH A SAD HAPPENING.
"SITTING WITH THEIR FEET IN THE WATER, CHILLED BY THE OCTOBER WINDS, WAS THE REMNANT OF THE CARIBOU, CREW AND PASSENGERS WAITING WITH SAD HEARTS, AND MOURNING THE LOSS OF FRIENDS AND SHIPMATES, WHOM THEY WOULD NEVER SEE AGAIN. AS THOSE MEN AND WOMEN SAT THERE THAT MORNING, FLOATING AROUND ON BOATS AND RAFTS, NEAR A SPOT THAT A FEW MINUTES AGO WAS HEARD SCREAMS FOR HELP, ALL CONFUSION WAS NOW HUSHED INTO SILENCE AND OVER THE NOISE OF THE WAVES, SOUNDS OF SQUEAKING OARS UPON THE ROWLOCKS AND THE SINGING OF HYMNS IN PRAISE, TO HIM, WHO HEARS WHEN MEN ARE IN TROUBLE, COULD BE HEARD FROM A RAFT NEARBY. AROUND NINE THAT MORNING, WHEN THE RESCUE SHIP ARRIVED NEAR THE PLACE WHERE THE ILL FATED CARIBOU WAS TORPEDOED, THEIR HEARTS WERE MADE GLAD AT THE SIGHT OF SAFETY AFER PASSING A NIGHT OF HARDSHIP. THEY WERE SOON MADE COMFORTABLE BY THOSE ON BOARD THE RESCUE SHIP, AND HEADED FOR NORTH SYDNEY, WHERE PASSENGERS AND CREW WHO SURVIVED THE DISASTER, WERE TAKEN TO THEIR RESPECTIVE HOMES."
IN TOMORROW'S BLOG, I WILL RE-VISIT THE BOOKLET, AND PROVIDE INFORMATION, AS PRESENTED BY A NUMBER OF SURVIVORS OF THE SINKING, INCLUDING TESTIMONY OF "HAROLD WANE JAMES, CHIEF COOK OF THE S.S. CARIBOU," WHO BEGINS HIS DESCRIPTION OF EVENTS, AS FOLLOWS: "WE WERE 25 MILES SOUTHWEST OF CAPE RAY LIGHT, WHEN WE WERE TORPEDOED ABOUT MIDWAYS ON THE STARBOARD SIDE. IT WAS ABOUT 3:50 A.M., AND I WAS LYING IN BED WHEN THERE WAS A TERRIFIC CRASH, WHICH THREE ME OUT OF MY BERTH ACROSS TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM, SEVERELY SHAKING ME, AND FRACTURING MY HIP AND SHOULDERS. HAVING PRESENCE OF MIND, I TOOK MY LIFE JACKET, FOR I KNEW WE WERE TORPEDOED AND SINCE THE EXPLOSION WAS ABOUT TEN FEET AHEAD OF MY ROOM, WATER CAME RUSHING THROUGH THE BULKHEAD STRIKING THE SECOND COOK IN THE FACE." (WE'LL CONTINUE OUR STORY TOMORROW)
HAPPY EASTER, AND THANKS FOR VISITING WITH ME TODAY. IT'S ALWAYS A PLEASURE.
THE ANTIQUE DEALER AND THE STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE PROFESSION
THE PLACES I USED TO GO, AND THE HASTY RETREATS OFTEN MADE
THERE WAS A MUSKOKA FAMILY, QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK NOW, THAT USED TO COLLECT FOR CHARITY, OR AT LEAST THAT WAS THE IDEA. THEY HAD A DONATION BOX ON THE SIDE OF THEIR LANEWAY, AND FOLKS DID DEPOSIT CLOTHING ITEMS AND SUNDRY OTHER BITS AND BOBBS, THEY NO LONG WANTED. THERE WERE SOME THINGS THAT DIDN'T GO TO CHARITY, IF THERE WAS INDEED, ANY OTHER BENEFACTOR THAN THEMSELVES. I'M ONLY NOTING THIS, BECAUSE I HAVE NO PROOF ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, BUT IT WAS A LONG TIME BEFORE THERE WAS A LOCAL THRIFT SHOP ESTABLISHED, AND THEY MAY HAVE OFFERED THE A VALUABLE SERVICE TO THE COMMUNITY. I JUST CAN'T SAY FOR SURE.
I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW MUCH ABOUT THEM, BUT MY GIRLFRIEND AT THE TIME, AND HER FAMILY, HAD KNOWN THE ELDERLY COUPLE FOR YEARS AS NEIGHBORS. SHE SUGGESTED THAT THE WOMAN MIGHT HAVE SOME INTERESTING ITEMS TO SELL, BUT SHE HIT ME IN THE ARM AT THE SAME TIME, FOOTNOTING WITH FORCE, AND SOME PAIN, THAT THIS, BY ITSELF, DIDN'T MEAN THEY WERE SNITCHING FROM THE DONATION PILE. "THEY'RE NICE PEOPLE," SHE SAID. "THEY'VE HAD A LIFETIME TO COLLECT STUFF, SO MAYBE THEY HAVE OLD TOOLS AND FURNITURE THEY DON'T NEED ANY MORE." HER FAMILY WAS TRYING TO HELP ME, AS MUCH AS THEY COULD, GET A START IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS, AND HONESTLY, THEY GAVE ME SOME GREAT ANTIQUE-FINDING ADVICE. HER FAMILY HAD A GREAT COLLECTION OF HISTORIC PIECES, AND THEY HAD A GOOD SENSE ABOUT WHERE EXCEPTIONAL PIECES WOULD TURN UP IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD. BUT THEY SORT OF DROPPED THE BALL ON THIS ONE HOWEVER, SUGGESTING I MIGHT FIND SOME HISTORIC ITEMS IN THE OLD CABIN. BUT YOU KNOW I LEARNED SOMETHING THAT DAY, AND IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH ANTIQUES. DON'T WEAR COLOGNE, THAT MIGHT ENCOURAGE THE FAMILY PET TO GET EXCITED…..AND WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU BETTER. I THINK HER FAMILY MAY HAVE SET ME UP ON THIS DAY, BECAUSE THERE WAS NOTHING OF SIGNIFICANT AGE IN THE CABIN, EXCEPT THE OLD COUPLE THEMSELVES.
A NIBBLE ON THE EAR
The house was more of a farm shed with rooms, and it appeared sturdy enough as you approached from the front, but then, a few steps to the right or left, you could see that it was in a precarious, day to day balance against the elements. If for example, you looked at it from the side, you might expect a gust of wind to knock it over. An autumn gale could have reduced it to splinters at any moment, and before I entered, I listened carefully, in case the wind had begun to bluster over the fields. The roof leaked, and that was evident in many areas of the tiny cabin-like affair, that was a combination deal, of home, workshop, garage and farm outbuilding. It's one of the first things you have to shake as an antique dealer.....sort of like an apprentice mortician. No matter what you learn from a book, and at school, reality smacks you like an open hand across the face. My girlfriend told me there would be lots of experiences worse than this, if I remained in the business for a couple of decades. I knew she was right, but I still would have liked to avoid experience by this particular afternoon immersion. By the way, that was in 1977, so I've lasted through a lot of similar experiences, and she was right-on, that I needed to cut-my-teeth on adverse circumstance, to toughen up to the demands of the industry. The necessity was to get what I needed for my antique-buying customers, and being shy destined me to a shop without inventory.
When the door opened to the tiny, dimly lit living quarters, the robust elderly woman, with her tied-back, long white hair, motioned us to come in, and find a place to sit. "We'll have a cup of tea, won't we," she asked, but it was more of a statement....that before we did any business, we were going to socialize with a hot cup of tea. The people were from the east coast originally, and were very hospitable. The thin, slightly less mobile husband, greeted us heartily, and extended his hand in friendship. It was an historic environs, that Charles Dickens might have written about, of simple, humble folk, living in a countryside cottage, living off the kindness of passersby, buying their modest garden harvest. This was the place stories like this get their root, but by golly, this wasn't fiction. It wasn't my imagination. I had stepped back in time, and these people were leftovers from the 1800's, who must have got trapped in some type of time warp, that brought them unceremoniously into the 1970's. I was spellbound. As a writer, I was in awe of all that surrounded me. It was a sensory explosion, and I remember trying to see it all…..even the stuff hanging from the ceiling, and the piles of blankets and clothing around the larger of the rooms.
The first comfortable looking chair I found, covered in a lot of white hair, was presumably from the woman of the house moreso than the balding chap, stuffed like a doll, in the wooden rocker, whittling a small piece of pine. Yes the shavings were going on the floor. There were a lot of items on the floor, but I wasn't tempted to pick anything up. Just as I went to sit down in this chair, and brave the hair, the gentleman of the house, said abruptly, "You better not sit in Martha's chair. She'll put up quite a fuss." I didn't know that his wife's name was "Martha," so I found another chair. "Missy will be upset if you sit in her chair too," he said, without actually looking at me. My girlfriend had been to their house before, so she found a chair at the small dining table on the other side of the room. "Missy," by the way, was the hundred pound cat that had hopped up on the cushion, just as I went to sit down. I just found another wooden chair at the same table, and wondered what species of animal "Martha" was, when it finally made an appearance. While I was there, it never did get up on the chair. But Martha did make herself known.
Did I mention the highly pungent animal aroma of the house? It wasn't pleasant, and I politely turned-down the chance to sample one of the woman's home-made biscuits. My girlfriend gave me "the look," as if to say, without uttering a single word, 'You will eat the biscuit Ted Currie, or else." She had quite a lot of influence over me, back then, but I just couldn't bring myself to eat the baking. I did pretend however, to take one for later, jamming it into my pocket for safe keeping. Yum, yum I said, returning "the look," with a wink, indicating I had met the protocol half way, and that should suffice. While I was having my tea, and watching the woman fumble about boxes stacked in the kitchen area of the habitation, I could sense something behind me that wasn't visible, when I'd turn to check it out. I could hear chewing, when no one else was consuming anything. I did overhear the woman ask her husband what Martha was doing, and as my girl chum had never mentioned anyone else in the family, still living at home, I just assumed that they were referring to another cat, or dog.
As the lady of the house, held out her hand with some reproduction medicine bottles, she thought were the genuine articles, I felt hot breath on my neck, and a distinct nibbling on the lobe of my left ear. "Jesus Christ," I blurted out, in this God fearing homestead, and everyone jumped, as if by divine decry, he had just walked through the door in a halo of golden light. When I turned around, I was staring at the wet muzzle of an old goat, that had crept up behind me from some hiding place in the quagmire of clothes that were piled in the four corners of the house. "Decided to visit with our guests," asked the husband, of his pet that had been sampling my soft tissue. I wanted to get the hell out of there, let me tell you, but the stern face of my partner, made me sit back down again, and continue my intimate relationship with the wee beastie within. Never being at a loss for words, well sir, I was absolutely without comeback. I had no idea what to ask, say, state or question. A goat lived in this house. It smelled very much, as if a goat was living here. As a guest however, I had no choice but to ride it out, scoop the goat hair out of my tea, and listen to the voices of history, over the small, beaten harvest table, covered in crumbs and sticky stuff of unknown origin......at least happy to have witnessed this kindly homestead, where antique dealers, fat cats, and old goats are always welcome.
I purchased a couple of the old bottles, and a few books she had given up trying to read-through, and maybe a small painting if memory serves. It was my first significant antique buying foray, beyond the relative safety of the auction, yard sale or flea market, where you had the advantage of wide open spaces, to make a hasty retreat if things got ugly. They were nice people, country folks, leading a simple life, with the creatures they found comforting, and good company on those long and cold winter nights. I'm glad I hadn't actually sat down on "Martha's" chair, because if she felt free enough to bite my ear, gads, what else might she have felt obliged to attack. I'm not sure how one gets a goat off his or her chest, so I'm quite glad about not having pressed the issue with this nimble fellow.
My girlfriend had been absolutely correct, to take me on this adventure, as a stark introduction, to what these antique buying visits might represent in the future....if I stayed in the industry. I learned quickly, to scan the premises, of places I'm invited, to find the goats and other creatures, before I get too comfortable. As I'm particularly sensitive to auras, and the paranormal qualities of homes and other buildings, I have to deal with vibes received, (whether I want them or not) from the front door, that may suggest, "turn around, and get the heck out of here," or "I want to own this place." I don't know if I'm picking up a host of ghosts still dwelling in these residences, or not, but I always develop very clear opinions about the happiness or not, of each building I enter. I was crazy like this, even as a kid, when my mother Merle, would take me to visit the homes of her friends in Burlington. In some cases, I'd be kicking and screaming to get out, and as God is my witness, I had no idea why this feeling came over me. I didn't see ghosts, and it wasn't so much a fear thing, but just an uncomfortable feeling, as if I would definitely be met with hostility, once I crossed that threshold.
The problem with this, for an antique dealer, is that I have to do this frequently, and I must to tell you, (in case you have aspirations of becoming a dealer) it's not much easier now than it was visiting with my mother, who might have had to employ a choke-hold, to make me sit down and shut-up. I usually came to grips after about a half hour, in the house, but I certainly never asked the owner if I could come back for a visit. There were many more houses I attended, that were perfectly fine, and I would actually beg my mother to stay a little longer. Today this is usually the case, but even if the vibe is negative, or threatening within, I will stick it out, because my business depends on it. You can just imagine how difficult it was to sell me a house. I nearly drove our real estate friend Ken Silcox nuts, because of the houses I would dismiss before fully walking through the front door. He earned his commission, let me tell you. I could never tell him why I was turned off with some houses, early in the tour. Especially when they were otherwise lovely houses, with all the bells and whistles at an affordable price. Something about the attitude of the occupying spirit of the house, said in a soft, clear voice, "Currie, get out of my house." I didn't need to be told this twice.
While I'm not a medium, and make no claim to be able to connect loved ones with the dearly departed, I do get these sensations, that someone is tapping me on the shoulder blade, to pass on a few details to someone else in the room. I don't get complete sentences, or any real direction from the so called other side, other than feeling the person I'm with, is supposed to know, or appreciate something intimate, and well.....I'm the guy that is expected to pass this on. While I'm real good chatting with my friends and family on the other side, I suck when it comes to extending messages to people I don't know very well.....or feel comfortable with, asking, for example, whether or not they had an uncle who used to treat all his cuts and bruises with witch-hazel. It gets too crazy and I'm an antique dealer first, a writer second, and absolutely not a medium. So when I'm with clients, in their homes, talking about the estate they wish to sell, I have a beggar of a time, deflecting this urge to stop negotiations, and ask them personal questions about family history. As I've written frequently about haunted antiques, and the few that I have owned, it has seemed to me that these persistent family members, trying to get a message to the living, might get angry with me, as a crappy conduit, and purposely haunt something I intend to purchase.....to punish me at my home or shop. You can read more about these strange antique "hauntings," by archiving in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghosts blogsite.
There's a woman I know, locally, and whenever we talk about antiques and collecting, I get the message, there's something I'm supposed to bring up, to jog her memory, of some important family time of the past, from those who have crossed-over. It seems they wish to rekindle some memory that I haven't got a clue about. My friend doesn't want to talk about death and what comes next, and that makes two of us. I sometimes think this is the biggest problem, for a lot of naysayers, because there is this emotional wall, that stops perception of these subtle signs from those who have passed. I'm not interested in trying to convert anybody, about the possibilities of communicating with the deceased. By the way, I've just heard a news report about a five million dollar research project, recently launched, to investigate the afterlife, and the trip that leads there. I could have saved them five million bucks.
When out on the hustings, buying antiques and collectibles, there are many influences and situations to bypass or learn how to accommodate. There are a lot of circumstances you can't prepare for in advance. I wish I could. Like the time I went to see an elderly gentleman, who had just recently lost his wife, and wanted to sell some of the antiques she had collected during their married years. I took my girlfriend Gail on this junket, and it was another incredible learning experience. The house was full of negativity and unfriendliness, and I felt very much as if I was pushing against a jet stream to get through the doorway. It was a feeling moreso than an actual tunnel of wind. The chap was nice enough, and very gentlemanly, but it was obvious, he was having a problem coping with being alone. The house was up for sale, and he was going to be moving to a retirement facility. He wasn't happy about it, and it showed. In my opinion, the spiritual presence of his departed wife, outraged about an intruder in her home, touching the antiques that she had cherished, was reason enough to exert a little low volume haunting. There were many family heirlooms that were to be sold off, as his family had no apparent interest in keeping them. Or at least this is what he told us.
Every antique in the house, had a story attached. He had to explain the background of each piece I was interested in, and even those pieces I bypassed. For nearly three hours, we walked the house, room by room, on two levels, and when it came to prices, and the hundreds of pieces I wanted to buy, the only thing I could afford was a vintage pellet gun he used to scare off squirrels from the bird feeder. He would actually laugh at me, when I'd offer a price for a small table, or tea cart. I didn't even offer a figure for the dinning room set, or the hoosier cupboard. He seemed to find it amusing to thwart, and then chuckle aloud, about my attempts to purchase anything in the house. Accept the gun that he handed me, just before we left the house, with nothing else to show for our time invested. "I'll sell you this gun for twenty bucks, so your trip wasn't wasted," he said, and by golly, I paid him the money, and honest to God, I wanted to shoot him in the ass for being such a tool. I still have the gun but it's in two pieces, thanks to son Robert, who always played rough while growing up......as a Muskoka free-range cowboy.
The man died a short time later, and never made it to the retirement home. I think on that night, he knew her spirit was still kicking about the house. I think she was held to the house, by the fact he wasn't coping well, with her loss. I honestly believe they were having sport with us, and were only validating how valuable their collection was, and how competent they had been as collectors, hustling pieces from places they had travelled together. I felt her presence, and didn't need to be told someone in the family had recently expired. As far as I was concerned, that night, his wife was hanging off his shoulder, and darn it all, he knew she was there. It doesn't take a stalwart belief in ghosts, to know when a loved one is hanging around your neck.....in actuality, or in spirit.
So if I ever visit your house, to see some of the antiques you wish to part with, don't be surprised if I seem pre-occupied or pensive, about something I've sensed about the premises.....you may not be aware of yourself. If you've got a goat, and it lives in the house, well, just make sure the chair is properly identified, before I sit for a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Thanks so much for visiting today's blog. Please visit again soon. Cheers.
No comments:
Post a Comment