Algonquin Canoe Trip to Little Misty; Love to Work on Tom Thomson Projects

Large Format Abstract Painting from the 1970's by G. Dick. Not a Jackson Pollack but a great second hand shop find.

Photo by Rob Currie

MISSING THE SOUND OF THE PADDLE

A CANOE TRIP WITH A LITTLE BIT MORE

     I DON'T BELIEVE, FOR ONE MINUTE, THAT I WAS THE FIRST, SECOND OR EVEN THIRD CHOICE, TO MAKE UP THE FOURTH PERSON IN A TWO CANOE ADVENTURE TO ALGONQUIN PARK…..THAT LONG AGO AUTUMN SEASON. I FOUND SLIDES FROM THE TRIP THE OTHER DAY, AND REMEMBERED I HADN'T GIVEN THEM BACK TO KEN SILCOX. OOPS. I'M KNOWN FOR DOING THIS KIND OF THING. I DON'T LOSE THE STUFF. I JUST NEVER GIVE IT BACK.

     EVEN AT SANDLOT BASEBALL, I EXPECTED TO BE ONE OF THE LAST KIDS PICKED TO JOIN ONE OF TWO TEAMS. IT WASN'T THAT I SUCKED AS AN ATHLETE. QUITE THE CONTRARY. I WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE PLAYER, BUT I WAS A CROSS BETWEEN A NERD AND "AN INDIVIDUAL," WHICH WAS PROBABLY WORSE. I WAS A CRAPPY TEAM PLAYER. I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, A CENTRE IN FOOTBALL, AND I PLAYED LEFT FIELD IN BASEBALL. THAT'S WHERE THE COLACH PUT THOSE WHO WERE ON THE TEAM, BUT DIDN'T QUITE FIT IN WITH THE CLUB'S BOISTROUS "KILL 'EM DEAD" PHILOSOPHY. AND YES, NOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING THIS, IT MEANT AN UNBELIEVABLE FREQUENCY OF UNDERWEAR STRETCHING, SOMETIMES WITH PLAYERS FRONT AND BACK. IF YOU DIDN'T MIX, YOU SUFFERED THE CONSEQUENCES. I HATED THE CLUB MENTALITY BUT I LIKED COMPETITION. SO HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A CANOE TRIP? WELL, I WAS THE LAST GUY THEY CALLED, AND I'M SURE THEY TALKED AMONGST THEMSELVES, "OF COURSE CURRIE WILL GO…..JUST TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS NOTEPAD AT HOME." I GOT THAT A LOT, AS A REPORTER, IN SOCIAL OCCASIONS. I WAS A TELL-ALL COLUMNIST, AND SOMETIMES I TOLD TOO MUCH. MORE THAN A FEW WIVES FOUND OUT THINGS ABOUT THEIR HUSBANDS, THEY DIDN'T KNOW, JUST BY READING MY WEEKLY COLUMN. OBVIOUSLY, MY FRIENDS LIED A LOT TO THEIR PARTNERS. THE WIVES CLUB LOVED ME. THE HUSBANDS? NOT SO MUCH!

HONORED TO BE ASKED NONE THE LESS

     When old friend Ken Silcox came to The Herald-Gazette one day, where I was managing editor, it's likely he started looking for paddle-worthy personnel on the bottom floor first, working his way through the building, before coming up to my second floor office. He probably even asked the receptionist if she was free that weekend. There he found me, bored out of my mind, doodling in my notebook. He stuck his head around the door, and yelled something like, '"I've got a canoe paddle with your name on it!" Geez, I was outfitted, with some fishing gear, and sleeping bag long before he officially asked if I wanted to go on a weekend adventure. I was a newlywed, and Suzanne and I needed a little "quiet" time from each other. Cripes, if she reads this I'm dead. Good thing she won't. I hadn't even given Silcox my answer yet, and I was phoning Suzanne to tell her I was going away for the weekend for some male bonding. "As long as it isn't one of those "Deliverance" bonding things, it's okay," (referring to the movie) I thought she'd say, with a little outdoor's sense of humor. Suzanne isn't known for her sense of humor, so it was more like, 'Well, if you feel it's necessary to leave me on my own, during our newlywed year, then go and have a good time." Which meant, "I won't forget this for the rest of our lives together…..and I will use it against you forever and ever." "Hey Ken, she said I could go," I answered my friend at the door, who was engaged with one of our other reporters, who was probably back-up in case I couldn't go. Geez I'd love to be first string just once in my life.

     "Should I bring some booze," I asked, looking like a wide-eyed puppy, just offered a begging strip and a pat on the head. As for the booze part, it was still very much a part of my writing career, just as the tavern was a home away from home. This is before Suzanne sobered me up for good. In this instance, however, booze was what kept me from coming home early, on this autumn adventure deep into the Algonquin wilds. It was more medicinal than a couple of ounces for pleasure.

     My canoe partner was the good Mr. Silcox, a terrific paddler, and one of Muskoka's well known real estate agents. In the second canoe was teacher Dave Bird, and Ross Traviss of the local grocery industry, both with huge outdoor experience, and many miles traversed through Ontario's wilderness. Unfortunately, both Dave and Ross have since passed away, and the good old world lost two of its finest citizens. Ross died quite a while ago now, and Dave Bird was fatally injured during a logging mishap in the past year. I have wonderful memories of each gentleman, who made this weekend so memorable.

     It was a little later in the fall season and the weather was bloody cold, windy, overcast most of the time, and snowing when it wasn't raining. Hell I wasn't complaining. I was just excited about doing something with pals, that didn't involve a sticky bar-room table, a jug of skunky draft beer, and a stripper who may or may not have tossed me her boa…..into my beer. And the trip was going so well, even the long bumpy trip into Algonquin Park's Rain Lake. Outside of having to pee like two race horses, I was thrilled to arrive at that beautiful Algonquin oasis. "Currie, we take the canoes off the truck before we hit the washroom," was what I think they were yelling at me….but sorry, I've got a bladder the size of a thimble. The plan was to paddle and portage our way to Big Misty, but I think because of the adverse weather, we only made it to Little Misty.

     About two minutes of paddle, with the bow of our canoe (where I was) breaking through the waves coming right at us, I answered Ken's question, "how are you doing up there," with a simple response; "Isn't this the life?" The second I opened my mouth, it was like the devil himself, took a red hot six inch nail, from his forge, and pounded that sucker into the centre of my molar. The cold wind hitting me in the face triggered the most explosive toothache I've ever had, and it was as if my head was going to explode. My heart-beat was in my mouth. Every time I inhaled, the cold Algonquin air hit that tooth like its nerve on an anvil. Suzanne had saved the trip without knowing it. She had packed some aspirin, expecting that I would wake up with a hangover on at least one of the two mornings at the campsite. Bless her heart. But for that lengthy crossing of the lake, I cussed like a longshoreman. I said things that made my soul cringe. I would have bit the head of an Irishman, I was so mad that this was happening, on the first leg of our three day canoe trip. It wasn't fair, and I let God know as much. I think he may have retaliated, by making it just a little worse, and the wind a little stronger and colder.

     At the first portage, I put two tablets against the tooth…..one on the side, and one clenched between upper and lower teeth, that were all resonating like an Orangeman's bass drum on the 12th of July. The pain was so bad, at this point, my decision making capability had clearly been affected. I had hastily placed a plastic bag of chili Ross's wife had prepared for our lunch, on the end of a paddle, while Ken portaged the canoe. When we got to the next portage, and decided to have a lunch break, well, the chili was gone. So were the dozen buttered rolls in the same bag. It seems a rogue branch had relieved us of the chili and buns. I was still in so much pain at this point, the chili wouldn't have gone down well anyway. Good news though. On our return trip, we found the chili hanging from the same branch, and because it was cold enough outside, to keep it from spoiling, we had the lunch before we re-loaded the canoes on the trucks.

     Once we arrived at our elevated campsite, overlooking the beautiful expanse of Algonquin lake, Ken knew I was suffering from something. "It's my tooth Ken," I answered with the garble of a man chewing aspirins, with a pounding ache in the jaw. "I can't stand the pain. How are you at pulling teeth," I asked. That's when the beautiful man handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps, from his backpack. "It's what we brush our teeth with out here, but it'll fix up a toothache." "Take a couple of shots, and then go and sit by the fire," he said. I may have taken a little bit more than I should have, because I was singing sea shanties at just over two ounces of the good stuff. I had the freshest breath that whole weekend. Actually, if it hadn't been for the schnapps, I would have had to leave, the pain was so severe. I thought about extracting the tooth myself, with any kind of primitive implement, but then I thought about the Bracebridge doctor, who bled to death, after removing his own tonsils. Historians know a lot of neat stuff like this.

      After a good portion of that bottle, I lost all feeling in that radioactive tooth, and in fact, I couldn't feel my face at all. The booze bought me some time that's for sure. I was able to enjoy three days in Algonquin because of schnapps, so let's give credit where it's due. I sang like a opera star all the way across Rain Lake. All I was missing were the viking horns on a tin helmet. No you're right. I shouldn't have been paddling under the influence. But honestly, I wouldn't have been paddling at all without that liquid courage. I really enjoyed the trip, and spent hours writing stories, sitting around the campfire, listening to the tall tales and Algonquin lore as told by Mr. Silcox, Mr. Bird and Mr. Traviss. I apparently learned to yodel during that trip but I don't know who taught me how.

     When it gets to this time of the year, I get a little toothy pang, to head into the Algonquin lakeland, for a little respite. I think about those guys and of course peppermint schnapps. But I also had a great opportunity to write about our amazing province, that has continued to influence me to this day. My notes were kind of hard to read but the inspiration was clear, even without words of explanation. I'm glad these buddies invited me on this autumn canoe trip. I'm really glad they brought the medication too…..because, as history reminds, it saved the entire trip. And I had a second trip to add on to the first.

     Ken Silcox recently sold his Bracebridge house, and took a chance on Western Canada, as a good place to invest for the future. Suzanne and I were sorry to see him go, because for many years, and many, many circumstances, our paths routinely crossed, and they were always remarkable, insightful meetings, of old friends, who could and would finish each other's sentences……but only if necessary.

     I never told Ken this story, so if he's checking the internet, he can read about it now. After he sold us our house on Golden Beach Road (the haunted one), in Bracebridge, he gave us a huge turkey he had raised on his rural property. How big was it? We had to take it to my parents' apartment, because we couldn't fit it into the one at our house. Suzanne was expecting son Robert to pop out any day, and the hustling residence to residence with the turkey in tow, back to our house, and then back for other supplies we forgot, got her so agitated…..thinking it wasn't going to be a perfect Thanksgiving spread in our new house, that she went into labour a short time later. I was eating leftover turkey for two weeks. So were my parents. I never properly thanked Ken for giving us this monster turkey, that may have induced labor, for son Robert……who by the way loves turkey.

Muskoka Winter –

Spending my time this year with the memory of Tom Thomson

Back in the mid-1990’s, during a writing hiatus, I found myself by strange and coincidental circumstance, delving into the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. The legendary painter perished in July 1917, the victim of apparent drowning in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake.

It began after I read a biographical column written by well known Algonquin region guide, and trapper, Ralph Bice, published in a Muskoka weekly newspaper. As a long time admirer of Tom Thomson’s art, one column caught my attention moreso than the others in the series. It was a latent rebuttal of a theory put forth many years earlier by Judge William Little, in the text of his then controversial book, “The Tom Thomson Mystery,” alleging the artist had been murdered. Mr.Bice, revered for his tales from the bush, contended the artist, who may or may not have been intoxicated at the time, simply fell out of his canoe, possibly while relieving himself mid-lake. He believed it was most likely, as other researchers have similarly concluded that Thomson simply whacked his noggin on the canoe as he fell, being knocked unconscious before hitting the water.

It wasn’t just Bice’s column alone that inspired years of preoccupation to find the murderer. It was the collection of strange coincidences that continued to happen during those first two years of research. (Many that still occur today while I continue to delve into reference material about the artist’s life and times) It was one particular coincidence and its spin-off that hooked me early in the Thomson story. It happened shortly after reading Ralph Bice’s column regarding his theory the artist’s death was the result of misadventure. Within an hour of reading the column, I found an autographed copy of Judge Little’s book, The Tom Thomson Mystery, on the shelf at the local Salvation Army Thrift Shop, here in Gravenhurst. Add to this the fact William Little had only recently passed away. It was from this point that coincidence made up a weighty portion of my work, which has led to numerous feature series in local publications, as well as other papers in Southern Ontario, including online sites. What really generated interest above all else, was that Ralph Bice had written the column about Thomson’s death being finally resolved, at a time when Judge Little could not offer a counter point. After consultation with several members of Judge Little’s family, I let them know that I wanted to defend the “murder” theory put forward by their family, and respectfully re-submit information contained in the Tom Thomson Mystery, to balance, at least locally, what Mr. Bice contended was accidental drowning without the shadow of doubt.

After the first collection of columns I wrote for the local press appeared, I began getting a significant number of letters, envelopes stuffed with old news clippings about Thomson, offers of Canadian art books for reference, and many words of advice both supporting William Little’s murder theory, and just as many on the side of Mr. Bice, convinced Thomson, an unskilled canoeist had simply drowned. There has been considerable debate whether or not Thomson was a skilled paddler. Over a two and a half year span of time, I spent hours each week reading and re-visiting editorial material submitted, and other documents I found on my scrounging missions to libraries and old book shops. I can’t remember the final tally of articles I had published but it added up, by the pound and the hours spent, to be the most I had ever researched or written continuously on one subject. As an editor-columnist for the local press for many years, I was pretty much set on short pieces and summary histories, versus lengthy, over-written and ink burdened chapters “beating about the bush” to get to the bottom line. The Thomson story didn’t have the satisfying feeling I had anticipated, at the conclusion of each one of the specially prepared series; the sense of successful completion a writer normally experiences when the paper, as they say, is “hot off the press,” finally hitting the public domain. It has haunted me in the same way ever since. The job isn’t done yet! I told my wife Suzanne, in an historian’s typical frustrated rant and resignation, (while one day staring over the pile of Thomson clippings and research notes), that “it’s as if Thomson himself is asking me to carry-on and resolve the circumstances leading up to his death.”

If there’s one over-riding reason I haven’t abandoned the project, in nearly a decade of on-again off-again research, it is the troubling reality Thomson’s death was a clear instance of “justice denied.” While there was evidence he was murdered, a poorly run coroner’s inquest, (without the body…. which had already been buried) hastily ruled the artist had drowned accidentally. His tragic death is entrenched in the history of Canadian art, whether critics care to believe this or not; a mystery, a legend that in many ways, has and will continue to influence impressions of his art work. I would challenge my critics with this question……is there anyone, any art buyer since Thomson’s death, who hasn’t been influenced even to the smallest degree, by what has long been considered a mystery and tragedy rolled into one biographical overview. An exceptional painting, a death unresolved. Even days after the discovery of Thomson’s body in Canoe Lake, those close to the artist made claims about foul play, so the hearsay of murder is, as his death, at a 90 year anniversary.

One of the nation’s best known artists, his work having influenced so much of the national art consciousness of the past century, remains the shade of unresolved demise. I have always be perturbed by the fact so little has been done, with the exception of research by William Little and before him, Blodwen Davies, the first Thomson biographer, to properly address the inconsistencies surrounding his death that were covered-up and ignored by so many authorities and historians ever since. Maybe as some mediums claim of unresolved, discontent spirits, it’s the case Thomson can’t rest in peace until the exact cause of death is determined. I’ve certainly felt like a conduit over this past decade, and I feel it’s important to keep, in front-line consideration, the important findings of both Davies and Little, both revered for their attention to detail and their characteristic reliability to treat fact reverently, and use the critical approach to prove or disprove a theory.

As Tom Thomson’s art work continues to attract higher prices at auction, with more record prices anticipated in the future, I’m of the stubborn belief Thomson’s memory deserves as much respect, and as a researcher I believe Canadian art history would be shaken to the core, if it was finally, and totally accepted our most revered artist was murdered, and not the victim of death by peeing (overboard) misadventure, as it prevails today in most of the authoritarian biographical texts.

The point of this lengthy little preamble, is to let readers know that I will be spending the Christmas season and most of the frigid Muskoka winter, holed-up here at Birch Hollow (our Gravenhurst home), preparing editorial copy for a lengthy series to recognize the 100th anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death 1917-2017, which will be published initially, as an exclusive in one of my favorite publications in Ontario….”Curious – The Tourist Guide,” available in many shops in Southern Ontario, and into the Muskoka region.  God willing it will also be published in The Great North Arrow.

It will be the most thorough investigation into the artist’s death to date, and hopefully it will enlighten readers about the inconsistencies of the “accidental drowning” theory. Hope you can catch the series. Thanks for reading through this rather meaty blog submission.

From the snowy woodlands of Muskoka, farewell for now!

The Antique Store Shopper Who Really Wasn't

     I was sitting in our recently opened antique wing, of our sons vintage music business, here in Gravenhurst, when all of a sudden, I had this strange deja-vu situation. I so clearly recalled an incident at a former store we operated, in Bracebridge, back in the early 1990's. The basement shop occupied a newer addition to an old Victorian house, on the upper end of the main street. It was in this small crowded shop, that Suzanne and I, began witnessing phantom customers. In the antique business, lots of weird things happen, and sometimes, the paranormal energy is brought into the subject shop, because a particular piece of furniture, a doll, cradle or cupboard, is still occupied by the spirit of a former owner. If you are interested in the paranormal, this will make sense. If you're a skeptic, it might still hit a nerve. If you are a total disbeliever in paranormal anything, then you probably won't want to waste your time on this speculative editorial. But here goes anyway. 

    While it might seem from the plethora of gathered stories, so far, that our family eagerly embraces the paranormal to the point of invention, we're still not at the point where ghostly encounters have meant anything more than a slight deviation of life's normal course. I'm reasonably sure many people have had paranormal experiences throughout their lives but opted to avoid even the most basic analysis or cross referencing, in order to authenticate the activity. I'm of the firm belief many of these experiences are a long, long way from what might be considered shockingly intrusive or frightening. Most are pretty passive events and nothing more than everso delicate messages from those who have passed. We in our house tend to be more receptive, and attentive to activities surrounding us, on any given day of the week or month. I don't sit around waiting for something paranormal to present itself but I don't run away scared if all of a sudden a smell of lilacs or a bell mysteriously ringing goes otherwise unexplained. And we don't blame everything on the paranormal; and are quick to find any other source that could explain our sensory intrusion. Quite a few events around us, are accepted but largely unexplained but always welcome none the less.

     I've had exposure to strange encounters most of my life, and Suzanne has had a few but none that were the fuel of public notoriety, such as to facilitate the inking of a movie deal. If you have read many paranormal stories, and are familiar with ghostly encounters yourself, our stories are about as run-of-the-mill as you can get. Nothing particularly spectacular when compared to stories about haunted castles and spiritfull misty moors. Ours are really what might be expected of interesting, somewhat hard to explain encounters.....none of them threatening although possibly a tad unsettling. What we do have is an open minded approach to new and interesting things in this crazy old life. We couldn't possibly rule out the existence of ghosts or Unidentified Flying Objects, or for that matter goblins, fairies, trolls, hobbits, and other assorted wee beasties, internationally acclaimed writers have been telling us about for centuries......we just haven't worked to disprove their existence because frankly it doesn't bother us either way. If we found a fairy in our garden we wouldn't try to snatch it up as a trophy. We'd just be delighted our garden was good enough to provide habitat.

     In every single encounter we have had individually or as a family, we have never been led in that particular direction by, as an example, having just watched a horror flick, or just prior to...., reading about a haunting, or anything else that would have made us anticipate something lurking in the shadows. The encounters have all been when, as they say, we would least expect anything out of the ordinary. There had not been any stimulus to invent paranormal discovery. It just happened out of the blue or the dark depending on the time of day. Each time we have had an experience we might label in the paranormal domain, or at least close, we always try to find reasons it might have been mind over matter. And we never suggest for a moment that what we have witnessed, or sensed, is clear fact the paranormal has been at work.....because as researchers recognize, it isn't that easy to bag a photo of a wayward, passing by, or lodging-in-your-house "spirit," for proof you've been touched by the paranormal. We don't as a rule hunt ghosts or try to get rid of any we do find. Live and let haunt I hear some folks say. As historians by profession however, we cross reference fact and very often find fiction lurking within, and we adore refuting long held historical claims by applying good research skills. We've ticked a few folks off in our bailiwick who preferred the old and trusted histories of the region, very much disliking those historical activists who delve too deeply. Thusly, when we put forward our tales of the paranormal, they are just that.....tales, because we can not prove beyond doubt that what we encountered is the work of the spirit-kind.

    One such strange but unproven encounter, that developed twice, visually, occurred once again at our former antique shop in Bracebridge. We had dolls tipped over previously, and a famous haunted portrait we own, hanging askew each morning, over a period of half a year. On the first occasion it had been a busy afternoon with a lot of tourist traffic passing through the basement shop. It was a strange location in many ways. Our shop was situated in a modern storefront addition that had been built onto the front of a large Victorian house that had once been occupied by the local undertaker. You couldn't get into the house from the addition and the original building had been divided into apartments. The creaking and groaning of the modified building never stopped, and it was common several times a day to hear footsteps coming down the stairs, only to find no one arriving in the shop. In the early years of the store, our sales desk was in a larger second room to the left, a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, such that we couldn't see who was coming in until they rounded the corner into the main shop. If they went straight into the room at the bottom of the stairs, we might only hear the tinkling of china or pinging of crystal, as a shopper(s) tested the wares. Lots of times we would get up and actually go to the room to see if any one had actually belonged to the footfall. We just wrote it off to a settling building and the constant pounding of heavy traffic up the main street.

    Late this particular afternoon, Suzanne looked up from bookwork at the counter, to see an elderly bearded man in an old coat, with what appeared to be a captain's hat on his head, standing a few feet in front. She was about to say "hello" to the sudden guest of the shop, when the figure simply vanished into thin air. Yet she could describe his facial features and clothing, his height and expression as clearly as you would any customer, who appears at your sales desk, with an enquiry or a request to purchase. Several weeks later, in pretty much the same circumstance as the first encounter, Suzanne felt a presence near the counter, looked up to see if someone needed help, and saw the same gentleman standing in front as before. She thought at first that she had been too quick to judge the gentleman's visit, the first time, as a ghostly encounter; due to the fact he was obviously interested in something in our shop. As she pulled up from the chair to properly address the chap, still standing within a few metres of the counter, he simply turned and vanished as quietly and mysteriously as he had arrived. It did leave my wife rubbing her eyes wondering just how the lighting in the store was creating this illusion of a short bearded man in a uniform. In retrospect, what she did see, was not a chap from the 1990's, but someone dressed characteristic of many decades previous. It had the usual trappings of "I've seen a ghost." Suzanne was looking for another sale for the day, but instead got a twice disappearing customer . She just didn't understand the message you might say.

     There are many stories about the folks who used to dwell in this particular Victorian era house, one being that a sickly relative had lived and suffered from a long and serious ailment alone in the attic, over many years; eventually passing away in that same section of the old home. Once again as historians, we have not verified this claim by a former resident. Suzanne has no doubt about the man she saw but whether it was the deceased attic-dweller, we will probably never know. I never saw the chap in my days at the store but I did hear the phantom footsteps, at least once every day, for more than five years. Still, it was a good location for our shop, and during its run we enjoyed a pretty good volume of sales. We gave it up to pursue new business opportunities in Gravenhurst, a town ten miles south of Bracebridge but we still have a soft spot for the Birch Hollow location of once.

      Our two room shop today isn't haunted. There are pieces in our antique collection that may be, because we sense those strange vibes that come from antiques, greatly loved by previous owners. We had a customer recently, who asked to hold one of our Victorian era dolls. The moment she picked it up, and held it to her chest, the smile on the customer's face indicated the obvious. The doll had a new owner. It wasn't based on pristine condition. Far from it. The sale was based on compatible auras. One human, one paranormal. When she came in a short while later, the lady once again asked if she could hold another doll from the showcase. I watched this unfold, believing she would do exactly the same, and choose to purchase the second doll. There was no hesitation, no smile, no embrace, just the statement, "I'm sorry, but this dolly is not for me," and handed it back, as if it possessed a negative aura, she could not accept. The girl left the store, looking back, and hasn't been back in months. Welcome to the antique business. We get this all the time. But I very much appreciate the vibe that comes from historic pieces. The doll that the customer rejected wasn't possessed by anything evil…….but it most definitely spoke to the customer, in a very subtle and engaging way. Honestly, this is exactly how Suzanne and I shop, without knowing it, being compelled to buy certain antiques, and being repelled by other parallel pieces…..simply because of our sense of compatibility. Sometimes profit is the last consideration, and I know that doesn't make much business sense. In the antique trade, we come to accept the paranormal as the patina of aging. Not extraordinary. Just the history within, good or bad.