TICKETS ARE SELLING WELL FOR THE UPCOMING SESSION'S CONCERT, BEING SPONSORED, AS PART OF AN ONGOING SERIES OF CANADIAN INDIE MUSIC EVENTS, BY ANDREW CURRIE'S MUSIC AND COLLECTABLES, OF GRAVENHURST, FEATURING COUNTRY SINGER NICK FERRIO, AND THE "WEATHER STATION". SEEN ABOVE, IS HIS 2012 ALBUM, "NICK FERRIO & HIS FEELINGS." HE WILL BE PERFORMING SOME SONGS FROM THIS WELL RECEIVED ALBUM, DURING THIS COMING FRIDAY'S CONCERT, BEING HELD AT ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, ON HOTCHKISS STREET. TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE AT CURRIE'S MUSIC AND ANTIQUES, ON MUSKOKA ROAD, OPPOSITE THE OPERA HOUSE, FOR FIFTEEN DOLLARS PER TICKET. TICKETS, IF STILL AVAILABLE, MAY BE PURCHASED AT THE DOOR, THE NIGHT OF THE CONCERT. DOORS OPEN AT 7:30 P.M.
JACK MCVITTIE SAVED OUR LIVES THAT DAY - I DON'T THINK ANY OF US KNEW, JUST HOW CLOSE WE HAD COME TO DROWNING
A SUMMER BOAT CRUISE ON LAKE MUSKOKA AND THE THROTTLE THAT WOULDN'T DISENGAGE-
A PREAMBLE NOTE REGARDING YESTERDAY'S BLOG, ON OSCEOLA GLADIATOR, OF BRACEBRIDGE'S "NIGGER HOLLOW"
AS PROMISED, SUZANNE AND I HAVE ALREADY UNCOVERED A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT OF NEW INFORMATION, ABOUT THE EARLY BRACEBRIDGE SETTLER, KNOWN AS OSCEOLA GLADIATOR (ALSO SPELLED OCEOLA), WHO, ACCORDING TO FORMER NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER, G.H.O. THOMAS, WAS THE REASON THE YOUNGSTERS OF THE VILLAGE, IN THE 1870'S, BEGAN REFERRING TO HIS HOME, IN THE VALLEY OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, AS "NIGGER HOLLOW."
OSCEOLA GLADIATOR, WAS, AS MR. THOMAS NOTED, "DARK SKINNED," BUT THERE WAS NO ETHNICITY NOTED, AS TO WHETHER HE WAS AFRICAN AMERICAN, OR OF FIRST NATIONS ANCESTRY (NATIVE AMERICAN). ACCORDING TO THE AUTHOR OF THE 1934 RETROSPECTIVE, OF TOWN HISTORY, DATING BACK TO 1884, HAVING DARK SKIN WAS ENOUGH, FOR SOME YOUNG CITIZENS, IN THE CASE OF MR. GLADIATOR AND HIS WIFE, TO JUSTIFY AS RIGHTFUL, EVEN THEN, OUT OF IGNORANCE, THE SLUR OF "NIGGER," MUCH AS IT STILL OCCURS IN THIS MODERN AGE.
AFTER A SHORT SEARCH VIA ANCESTRY.CA, SUZANNE WAS ABLE TO DETERMINE THAT MR. GLADIATOR, WAS ORIGINALLY FROM THE SOUTHERN UNITED STATES, AND HE MARRIED A WOMAN OF FIRST NATION'S ANCESTRY, FROM THE BRANT TOWNSHIP AREA OF ONTARIO. AS THERE HAD BEEN A WELL KNOWN NATIVE AMERICAN CHIEF, OF THE SEMINOLES, OF FLORIDA, KNOWN BY THE NAME "OSCEOLA," IT MAY BE THE CASE, MR. GLADIATOR WAS NATIVE AMERICAN, TAKING THE NAME AS A TRIBUTE TO THE HISTORIC CHIEF; AND NOT AFRICAN AMERICAN AS SOME PRESUMED. HE AND HIS WIFE HAD FIVE CHILDREN, TWO BORN IN MUSKOKA, AND THE OTHER THREE IN BRANT. A FASCINATING STORY IS UNFOLDING HERE, THANKS TO THE RESEARCH OF G.H.O. THOMAS, BACK IN 1934, AS FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE BRACEBRIDGE GAZETTE.
IF YOU DIDN'T CATCH YESTERDAY'S PART ONE, REGARDING THE STORY OF "NIGGER HOLLOW," AND HOW THE RIVER VALLEY GOT ITS UNFORTUNATE REFERENCE, YOU CAN RE-VISIT THE BLOG BY ARCHIVING BACK. BY THE FIRST OF THE WEEK, I WILL HAVE PART TWO OF THE STORY, READY TO GO, AND IT'S PROMISING TO BE A FAR MORE INTERESTING BIOGRAPHY, AS WE CONTINUE TO FIND OUT MORE INFORMATION, ABOUT THE LIFE OF THIS EARLY TOWN SETTLER; AND ABOUT THE CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE, OF A YOUNGSTER'S INITIAL RACIAL SLUR, BASED ON THE COLOR OF A SETTLER'S SKIN, THAT CREATED A LESS THAN PROUD NOTCH, IN FOLK HISTORY, FOR AN ENTIRE VALLEY AREA, IN THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. THE RACIAL SLUR TO "NIGGER HOLLOW," HAS LASTED IN VERBAL REFERENCE, FROM THE 1870'S TO 2014, AND CAN STILL BE HEARD OCCASIONALLY, AS A LOCALIZED DIRECTION TO THE VALLEY, OFFERED BY SOME OF THE TOWN'S OLDEST CITIZENS; WHO MAY WELL PASS IT ON TO THE YOUNGER GENERATION, AS CONTINUING FOLK LORE, FOR ANOTHER HUNDRED YEARS. ALL BECAUSE OF ONE MAN'S AND WOMAN'S DARK SKIN COLOR, AND THE FACT, THEY HAD A SHANTY, IN A HOLLOW OF LAND, IN THE TOPOGRAPHY OF VERY HILLY VILLAGE.
DO YOU NEED SOME RESEARCH ASSISTANCE, TO FILL OUT YOUR FAMILY TREE?
SUZANNE HAS RECENTLY RE-BOOTED HER FAMILY HISTORY RESEARCH PROJECT, WHICH HAS BEEN A MASSIVE BUT EXCITING ARCHIVAL ADVENTURE, AND WHILE WRAPPING UP OUR OWN GENEOLOGY, WHICH HAS TAKEN FOUR YEARS, WITH A LITTLE WIGGLE ROOM, SHE IS NOW ALSO AVAILABLE FOR HIRE, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO FIND OUT MORE INFORMATION, ABOUT YOUR OWN FAMILY TREE; BUT IN A QUAGMIRE OF CLUES, HAVE NO IDEA WHERE TO BEGIN. THIS IS A NEW WING OF OUR MUSKOKA HISTORY RESOURCES SERVICE. SO IF YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO FIND OUT WHERE YOU CAME FROM, AND WHO YOUR RELATIVES WERE, THE GOOD, BAD AND THE UGLY, OF THE LOT, SUZANNE PROVIDES EXPERT RESEARCH SERVICES, FOR BARGAIN BASEMENT PRICES. YOU CAN CONTACT US THROUGH THIS BLOG, OR YOU CAN DROP INTO THE STORE TO GET A QUOTATION. IT'S AMAZING WHAT YOU CAN FIND OUT ABOUT YOURSELF, BY IDENTIFYING BACK IN TIME, WHERE AND HOW YOU REALLY GOT YOUR CHARACTERISTICS; ON YOUR FATHER'S SIDE, OR YOUR MOTHER'S?
BACK TO THE AMAZING JACK MCVITTIE AND THE BOATING NEAR-MISS ON A BEAUTIFUL MUSKOKA LAKE
This is a story about misadventure with a happy ending. Historians may read it, and decide amongst themselves, that it is unworthy of inclusion, in the general chronicle of town history. I won't dispute their opinions, in this regard, but it will never thwart me from presenting the story as it is, because of what a second or two of time, gone differently, might have meant for the history of both town and district; as it is very much a story about the near loss, of one of Bracebridge's most progressive, enterprising citizens, critically important to investment in the local economy. If Bracebridge had lost J.P. McVittie, in a boating accident on Lake Muskoka, that day, history as we know it, in this town, would have been denied much of its ink. The ink we historians have given to J.P. McVittie's work and investment in both Bracebridge and Muskoka. A legend would have been denied its full living tenure.
We had only lived in Bracebridge for a short while, after a move north from Burlington, Ontario, in the late winter of 1966, for reasons of my father Ed's employment. He had been recruited to be part of a new management structure, for one of Bracebridge's, and Muskoka's, historic lumber businesses. Ed was to become a manager of Shier's Lumber Company, working with an old family friend, from Southern Ontario, Robert Jones, who had just, a short time before this, purchased the company from the Shier's family. One of two major inroads the company was making, at that point, was in the development of prefabricated roof trussing, as a better, stronger, more efficient way to build a home. Certainly a worthy innovation for a region known for its heavy winter snow. We had a company car, because our own had died upon our arrival in Bracebridge, and this Shier's advertising vehicle, had a small version of one of the actual wood trusses, mounted on the car's roof racks. Yes it was a car that caught the attention of fellow motorists and pedestrians, and at a certain speed, it began to hum with air vibration. The second inroad of the company in Muskoka, was the real estate component, which heralded a new development period for the small town, of only 2,500 residents. The first property pitch my dad made, was selling lots with new cottages, built by Shier's Lumber, in the Sherwood Forest area, off the Fraserburg Road, on the south branch of the Muskoka River. I would often go with my dad on Sunday's, when he was on duty, as the sales agent for Shier's; and with the insects, and the river, preferred that I stayed close to the car. He might also stay there, if the cottage that was being used as the model, that week, didn't have either heat, on really cold days, or air conditioning, on hot summer days. The bugs in the late spring were unbelievable to city slickers like us, and you couldn't walk very far, unprotected, without being covered and painfully drained of blood. This is not a pleasant memory. I don't have any idea in retrospect, if Ed even sold a single lot or cottage, and this bush assignment only lasted for about four Sunday's that spring, thank God.
There was a Saturday, that same summer, when Ed called my mother at home, to see if I would like to go on an afternoon boat cruise with him, Bob Jones and his son Robbie, to see some lakefront property for sale on Lake Muskoka. As I didn't have many friends at that point, I was jumping with joy to do something different, than just whipping a tennis ball up against the house, and trying to trap it in my fielder's mitt.
Ed came home with the company station wagon, with the trademark Shier's truss, on top, and he was so excited about the trip as well, that I wasn't even securely seated, before he was already driving down the street; the door hanging open, and me yelling at him to stop. We drove through town, and down the huge hill, on the south side of the Bracebridge Falls, and down almost to the confluence of the North and South Branches of the Muskoka River. We had to travel past the Shier's Lumber Company on the east side, and we stopped a short distance away, just before the bridge, where there was a designated dock for the use of lumber company patrons. In years after Shier's ceased operation, it was used by the fuel supply boat, "Peerless". Cottagers often came to town by boat, and for Shier's customers, it was a short walk up the road, to get to the main showroom. Here, we loaded into a sparkling Minett-Shields wooden launch, that had formerly been owned by the Shier family, the name which I have forgotten (this boat is still owned locally) and in great condition. It was a beautiful boat and an incredibly bright, sunny, and hot afternoon.
If you have never navigated the Muskoka River, at a slow speed, from the falls to the mouth of the river, at Lake Muskoka, it is a long, winding, time-consuming but picturesque adventure. Bob Jones was driving the wooden beauty, and we were all enjoying the sites along the way. I overheard a conversation between Bob and my father, about meeting with a fellow by the name of Jack McVittie, at his cottage on the lake, but the names didn't help much, as Ed and I knew very little about local geography. Almost nothing when it came to knowledge of the Muskoka lakes.
Outside of learning not to drink too much, in the way of beverages, without a clear idea when the washroom breaks were upcoming, I also picked up a valuable lesson about sunburns, and reasons why you should rub lots, meaning layers upon layers of suntan lotion, on your exposed skin, before taking a boat cruise. And here's the other thing about that! Early on in the cruise up the river, the sun was stinging my exposed arms with heat. There was no way of shielding from it either, and I was also wearing shorts. The sun was beating down, and as a temporary, and stupid measure, I started hanging my arm over the side of the boat, enjoying the sensation of cold river water washing over my skin. I'd even go from side to side, in order to cool off each of my arms, roughly the same way. What, of course, I didn't realize, was that the water droplets, were magnifying the sun rays, and while temporarily soothing, was actually serving to broil my flesh. By time I got home, I was lobster red, and my mother nearly fainted. For four hours in that boat, I was doing roughly the same thing, from departure at noon, to arrival back, at dinner time; and when the trip was over, the pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. My mother just started screaming at my father for not making sure I had lotion on, or long sleeves, but it was my fault entirely; as I had taken the lotion in the car, but not in the boat, or the long sleeve shirt I also left behind when the tour began. I felt bad for Ed, because he was burned almost as badly, and on the top of his head. He thought I had put lotion on, and I probably lied to him, as kids do, about being thorough with the application. Boys will be boys. But being sun burned was of much less concern that day, as compared to the memory, of coming within seconds of death, by impact, or death by accidental drowning. It happened like this:
J.P. "Jack" McVittie deserved to have a book written about him. He was a legend in Bracebridge, and Muskoka, even in the mid 1960's. He had a strong personality, and an even stronger determination to do what he wanted, and whether it was speculation on real estate, canoeing alone on an isolated northern lake, in the middle of the bush, or prospecting in the barrens of this country, every one it seemed, in that locale, knew his name. His name was attached to sections of the local landscape, like "McVittie Island." He was known for his entrepreneurial skills, such as his major investment with former town mayor, George Parlett, in the future development of South Muskoka Curling and Golf Club, in the late 1960's, some seeing it as a risky project at a precarious time, which spawned much spin-off development in Bracebridge; yet, just as much, being known and respected, for his keen environmental stewardship in Muskoka, and interests and actions in re-forestation, of areas left barren by clear-cutting. To those close to him, he was respected for his benevolence and personal kindness, behind what others believed was a hardened, gruff character. The man we were about to meet, was well revered for his land investment choices, and there was probably a deal being considered by the owner of Shiers Lumber, at that time, to secure some of these lakefront lots for future cottage development.
We met Jack, presumably at his cottage / home, although it's very vague to me now. I clearly remember him telling Bob Jones, that he couldn't take the Minnet-Shields launch, into the alcoves we would have to navigate, in order to get close to some of the cottage properties he wanted to show them. So he invited us into one of his fishing or utility boats, presumably, with an outboard engine. It wasn't a big boat, possibly cedar strip, now that I think about it, versus aluminum, and the five of us, fit into it comfortably. Of course, I was pretty burned by this point, and I knew I was in trouble, as the redness got brighter and brighter through the rest of the afternoon.
Jack navigated us, by turning the outboard engine, (which I had never seen used before), and we slowly moved away from his dock, leaving the wooden launch behind. The smaller, narrower boat, skimmed through the water quite fast, and I was still, at this point, running my arm in the water, because it felt so darn cool and refreshing. We were listening to Jack describing the properties we were passing, and some of the cottages owned by people he knew. We came to one property, a few nautical miles along the shoreline, that he wanted to show Bob and my father up close, which meant Jack was going to bring the boat in for a landing. It didn't look like the best place to pull up tight to the shore, as there were a lot of protruding rocks, such that I had to pull my arm in frequently, to avoid injury. There was a high rock face, and very inhospitable looking rocks dotted along the shoreline. I wasn't a navigator, so my observations were casual, and only meant something to me. I did think that this man must have been a fantastic captain, because he was able to weave in and around these protruding, sharp rocks, without hitting any.
I may have thought to myself, that he was travelling a little fast, considering the obstacles. The four of us, however, were not watching Jack, because we were looking forward at the property now directly and close ahead. If we had looked back, at the pilot, we would have seen the intense activity, of him trying to disengage the engine's throttle, which as he said later, was "wide open," or something like that, referring to the maximum output of the engine. He was trying to get us through the obvious rocks, and figure out how to cut the juice, to slow the boat down. When we got way too close, for the speed we were travelling, at that moment, we saw Jack with a worried look on his face, trying to fix whatever it was, that had caused the throttle to get stuck wide open. I never saw the man panic, or anything close to over-reaction, but regardless of his apparent confidence, all on board prepared for the impact against the rock face, directly in our path. We'd look back at Jack, and then at the shore, and once again; but at this point, in our collective fears, it was a matter of awaiting what seemed an inevitable impact. And, I suppose, reacting accordingly, when we were flung into the water. I couldn't swim. "Hang on Teddy," yelled my dad, over the roar of the engine. I knew then, we were in trouble, because my father was a die-hard optimist, and a former sailor of the North Atlantic Squadron. If he thought we were going to hit the rocks, I had no reason to doubt him. But then, I didn't know Jack McVittie, who apparently, was also die hard in these dire situations.
I mentioned this story, to Jack's long time friend, George Parlett, at a lunch several years, at the curling club, both men founded, and I remarked that throughout the near tragic event, which probably lasted for no more than a minute, Jack showed no signs of panic or resignation. George nodded his head, recognizing Jack to have been a confident, stalwart character, who would never give up on a responsibility. At that moment, instead of showing us some interesting Muskoka lake real estate, he was tasked with the responsibility of saving five lives, one being his own. At the speed we were travelling, any impact was going to be severe, and the water was deep. So it was potential, that if we hit the shore, with no soft landing in evergreens possible, we would be knocked unconscious, with broken bones, and cast into the water to either sink or swim.
I remember looking to the rear, one last time, hoping the pilot had been able to fix the problem. As I looked back, I saw Jack violently turn the outboard engine, so the boat made a sharp, immediate change of direction, at literally the last moment, to the right, with a rough downward gouge into the water, that brought a flood of water overboard. I don't have any idea how we managed to get through the exposed rocks in the water, without so much as a scratch on the bow, or how we didn't hit the shelf of rock below the cliffside, that only had a few inches of water over top. I saw this, as we were wrenched in the boat, side to side, tumbling off our seats. I remember seeing these shallows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, as we whipped a wave of water at the shore, as if we were on water skis. The passengers wound up on the bottom of the boat, having slid from the bench seats, but a few bruises and a wet behind, were infinitely better, than what could have been the end result, of a collision with an unmovable rock face.
When we all got back up, and re-seated, Jack shut down the engine, and after clearing his throat, and standing up to get a better look at the engine, told us the throttle had jammed at full speed, and he wasn't able to do anything about it, except navigate us out of the way, as quickly as possible. There wouldn't have been more than several seconds to react, and he was bang on, when he made that decision, to not worry about unjamming the throttle, to instead, make a sharp turn at all cost. This could have meant, that we tumbled out of the boat into the water, and possibly getting hit by the propellor. But at this point, hitting the wall of rock would have seriously injured all of us instead. So Jack McVittie made the right decision, and navigated us safely through dangerous, rocky water, back out to the main lake, relatively unscathed.
I told George Parlett, that Jack had definitely shown his experience on the water, by the way he reacted to an emergency situation, where, for us, it looked like there was no safe way out of trouble. Once again, he agreed heartily, Jack McVittie was both stalwart and proficient at whatever he set his mind to, and on this day, by happenstance, it was the lives of four new friends and himself, he saved with his evasive reaction. If on that day, we had hit the rock face, Bracebridge history would have been seriously affected, as Jack McVittie had a lot of investment yet to bestow, in a town on the verge of expansive new growth. As for the passengers, we would have lost an air force pilot, with Bob's son Robbie, and a future writer, in Ed's son "Teddy." And the local lumber scene would have been minus one of its most historic businesses. But we lived to tell the story, of how Jack McVittie saved us from the grasp of the grip reaper, by an evasive procedure that was nothing less than miraculous. It was another of my numerous near death experiences, so believe me, when I tell you, how lucky I feel, sitting here now, tapping at this keyboard, in a comfortable studio, in uptown Gravenhurst; thinking back to that boat tour adventure, bordering on the catastrophic, with one of the legends of Muskoka, saving the day.
My mother ran me a bath that night, and even though it was cool, I cried in pain from the extensive sunburn on my arms, legs, neck and face. But dammit, I was alive.
Son Robert just handed his old dad, a bottle of water, because I looked thirsty, he said. I looked at his six foot frame, and wavy hair, and thought to myself, oh what a lucky man I was. This lad hovering over me now, is alive, because of the capabilities of Jack McVittie. So is the young fellow, Andrew, hitting the drums in the other room. Oh how history would have changed, from what it is at this moment, if not for the efforts of the courageous captain, of a tiny boat in great peril. This is how I came to know J.P. McVittie, a man and family well documented in the chronicle of Bracebridge, Ontario.
Thanks so much for visiting with me today. Please join me again for more Muskoka tales and recollections
FROM THE ARCHIVES
HAUNTED MUSKOKA IS THE ALLURE - WHAT KEEPS THE WRITER - THE WANDERER, CONTENT - NOT THE TYPICAL FARE
I have tried on several occasions, to make public presentations, depicting our picturesque region as “visually, characteristically, and spiritually haunted.” While my wife can attest to the fact, we’ve never actually lost any of the museum audience to outright slumber, or feigned illness.....or the sudden necessity to take-off and walk a dog.....any dog, when you begin a half-scholarly discussion, regarding the paranormal, you pretty much expect the sceptics and the realists to bolt for the door. I’m not trying to make converts at these lectures, so I’d just as soon they did leave. It’s a little humbling having folks depart early, from a presentation, but when you’re talking about ghosts, folklore, legend and other wee beasties and strange entities of the woodlands, it’s quite important to have an audience of the patient and tolerant. Versus those who are irritable with indigestion, and dislike anything that doesn’t rap like a hammer and nail in regards to historical accuracy. It’s a hard sell. Ghosts? Are you nuts? Maybe!
My mother claimed to have seen the ghost of her mother but would argue vehemently against such things. My dad, who saw great tragedy at sea, during his years in the Royal Canadian Navy, had no use for any discussion about paranormal anything. The two people I was closest to, when educating myself about ghosts and such, were not all that approachable on the subject. When I did begin writing about ghosts etc., and our family factored into a number of nationally-told stories about paranormal encounters, they would roll their eyes in a curious, but editorializing look that said, without a word being spoken; “Can you believe these people? Where did we go wrong raising Teddy”
I’d gotten used to this early in life. When I first began writing, during my inaugural year in university, I did so as a poet. I was featured frequently in a local publication, and because my father named me after himself....(not my fault) well, a lot of his lumber clients, at Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge, were pretty hard on the old guy. Amongst a tough group of loggers, lumbermen and contractors, and a merciless staff in the trade, poor Ted Senior got a razzing just about every day. So I changed my first name to the proper, “Edward,” but the fact was, he didn’t even like having to tell these ever-joking associates, his son was of the “poet-kind.” The girls sort of thought I was a latent beatnik and that wasn’t gay. My dad assumed that poet and gay went together. So here I am, looking forward to a life as a poet, and my father’s freaking out, about his potentially gay son,..... and that some of his more suspicious friends still think it’s really him......reciting verse in the closet. Geez what a mess. Instead of being congratulated as a young writer, getting some credits, my father thought I should join the navy to toughen up. I was offended at the time but I came to understand his perspective. His generation and his choice of friends, probably couldn’t have named a poet anyway. But there was this thought that being artsy-fartsy had a lot of problems associated. I was in for it, because I’ve never given in to my critics. It started then and continues.
So when, later in my writing career, I began working on paranormal-themes, and living the life of a hobby ghost-hunter, I’m pretty sure my parents thought about the hospital nursery, and the very real possibility their boy had been switched at birth. It wasn’t just my parents weirded out about having a poet / philosopher in the house. My girlfriends couldn’t figure me out either. Every girl I went out with, before Suzanne, tolerated my bard-like musings, my thoughtful wondering through the woodlands, and my lengthy diatribes about life and beyond. I was their Jim Morrison but I couldn’t sing. Marion didn’t know I was a budding poet. She didn’t understand the notes I used to slip her. I thought it was a romantic gesture. She didn’t! Linda was a sweetheart in every way, and she thought my jottings were amusing.....which they weren’t supposed to be, but I couldn’t correct her. She was very sensitive. Gail was totally indifferent to whether I wrote a little or a lot, as long as when we went out, I was just a regular guy who would defend her honor. She was a huge realist and had little if any use for a hanger-on philosopher. I could never discuss my devotion to the study of the paranormal, or supernatural, with Gail, because it wasn’t relevant to partying or shopping. Unless I could have produced a ghost for her close inspection and analysis. She would have put that poor ghost through the mill, and probably still been undecided, after a battery of tests, whether it was a real ghost or a figment of imagination. Marilyn was a born-again Christian, and a wonderful gal, but she didn’t want to hear about paranormal anything. Only the Lord. Barbara was another charming girl who had no interest in my theories about anything, and it was a short-lived relationship.
Suzanne enchanted me because she believed in woodland fairies, and had heard their singing in the sunlit woodlands of Muskoka. She knew about fairy rings and moonlight revels, about Queen Mab, and all the other lore and legends I have adored for long and long. She had seen ghosts, known haunted places, understood that some things in life and times defy clear and total definition. And she was the lady who would teach our boys woodland lore, and about Aloicious, or something like that, the hobbit-like creature that lived in a hole at the base of a venerable old tree. Andrew and Robert went on hundreds of woodland hikes, looking for trolls and fairies, leprechauns and wee ghosties that drift through the moors of Muskoka. Suzanne put them in situations to arouse their curiosity and utilize their imaginations. They were invited to see the differences, up close, between what is real, and what is supposed. They weren’t discouraged from finding truth in either, and letting it all into their hearts to fuel expectation. As musicians today, writing songs regularly, I’m pretty sure they owe some of their creative enterprise, to a mother who let them imagine and dream, and concoct to their heart’s desire.
While my girlfriends of once, used to watch me work at a typewriter, or journal, and scowl, Suzanne has afforded me the freedom that a writer, poet, ghost hunter needs to hone his skills. She is never surprised by my assertions, of having just seen a ghost, and in all likelihood, she will reply, in response, “the one I saw had red curly hair,” or “was yours wearing a yellow shirt.” Suzanne has seen numerous ghosts, and together we have shared dozens of paranormal experiences, from encountering strange angelic singing, in the dark of the forest, to an actual visit with a guardian angel. We don’t think each other strange or obsessed by the so-called paranormal. We’ve shared the same page since we married, back in the mid 1980's. If I told either of our boys, that we had seen a ghost that afternoon, it would be equivalent to watching any current event for any other person they know. They wouldn’t think it odd whatsoever, because they have witnessed the unexplained themselves. Andrew was only a wee lad when he claimed to be see a little boy, looking into his window every night, at about the same hour. It was the same house in Bracebridge, where Suzanne had two sightings of a little blond-haired boy, standing in her kitchen. It was the same house, where I had a bizarre dream about a little boy being killed in a bike-car accident, out front of our house. When I awoke in a sweat, from the early evening nap, I rushed to the window to see if either of our boys had been hit, and saw them both, with Suzanne, playing in the driveway puzzled by my chagrin. Both boys have grown up appreciating that there’s a lot we don’t know about life and after-life. We’re not foolish enough to box ourselves in, and know that the universe is a spectacular place in which to dwell.
A lot of folks I know, people from our neighborhood, already think we Curries are pretty odd. They will also tell you we have never asked for their opinion, or frankly care what they think. We aren’t interested in racking up converts. As I opened this blog with a few lines about lecture-events, I’ve attended, the reactions are pretty typical.....the same as if you all of a sudden said to a family member, friend, work-colleague, something like, “Oh by the way, I believe in ghosts, do you?” They may make the sign of the cross and step back from the “nutter” you. Yet when I’d start getting into the meat of my presentations, of Muskoka legend and lore, Suzanne and I (we always worked together) could hold them spellbound for about two hours. I always brought lots of props. Not ghosts or wee beasties for their scrutiny, but rather, some allegedly haunted antique pieces, a portrait of a little girl comes to mind, along with compelling stories about things that go bump in the night, and the reasons we should open our minds to those who have crossed over......and who still wish to communicate with us, still spinning through this mortal coil.
When I used to climb up on the hillside of Grey’s Rock, in Bracebridge, with my neighborhood chums, I could sit up on that bald, windswept lookout for the whole sunlit day, and never run out of inspiration.....often necessitating a passionate begging, for just a few more moments from my mates, anxious to move on to new adventures. They had no interest in knowing that for those precious moments, I was in company of the gentle arms of the paranormal, legend and lore drifting over the contours of smooth rock, as the wind sang in the outstretched evergreen boughs. I knew that the ethereal sensations were pulling at my heartstrings to create, to explore, to believe in what wasn’t tangible.....but to allow the imagination to drink it all in, much as what I believe motivated artist, Tom Thomson, standing on the shore of an Algonquin Lake, as a storm approached, seeing the spirit-side of legend, manifest in natural art form. When I’d climb up a particularly steep hillside, near the Muskoka River, with my girlfriend Gail, I’d pull away from a lover’s embrace, because I needed to feel that awe of being close to the edge, looking out over a sparkling lakeland.....to see the gnarled old trees and etched rock of history, and feel the spirit of the land surrounding me, in a sudden, unexplainable nirvana, making it necessary to jot observations, and wax poetic, deflecting romance as if it was a negative intrusion on a sacred moment. I never blamed Gail for getting cross with these mindful, unanticipated sojourns, when I truly invested my soul, to soak-up the inspiration so generously offered the bard-in-waiting.
I was to take Gail to dinner one evening, the first winter I’d moved home, after graduating university. I had been on a late-afternoon cross country ski traverse, on a remarkable trail through an old homestead property in Bracebridge. I got so pre-occupied with the enchantments of the early winter landscape, I wound up out in this barren field, below a huge ice-covered rock face, with only the moonlight to illuminate my lengthy trip home. I was in a time warp, I swear, because that old abandoned homestead came to life. Of all the places I’ve travelled, and studied in Muskoka regionally, this was my most poignant spiritual adventure. Since the winter of 1977, I have written hundreds upon hundreds of editorial pieces, from short stories and poems, to feature articles for many publications, about and influenced by that old haunted homestead......where I witnessed a team of horses pulling a sleigh up the snow-covered lane.....saw lights in the half-fallen farmhouse, and heard Christmas carols being sung, when there was nary a soul other than the one on skis, who by the way, must have had a look of shock on his face the whole time. Trying to explain why I was late for our date, didn’t really fly. Telling your girlfriend you were delayed by companion ghosts, just isn’t credible to someone who has no such belief in the paranormal. Suzanne would have begged me to take her to the homestead......right then! Gail just rolled her eyes and ordered her dinner.
I have arrived at this comfortable station in life, here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, where I can finally ghost-hunt, delve into the paranormal, run amuck through legend and lore, and get away with it! Over so many years living and working in this pleasantly haunted region of the world, and having my mind so full of the tales of the Historic Hudson River, as told by Washington Irving (Bracebridge Ontario, was named after Irving’s book, Bracebride Hall,) that I’m only too happy to seek out ghosts and hauntings across the region, hoping to find at least one headless horseman, or a phantom ship on the Muskoka Lakes. I haven’t come upon them just yet, but I’ve got a few years left to search.
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