WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT WHERE WE USED TO DUMP GARBAGE, IN MUSKOKA, GOSH, HOW STUPID WAS THAT?
SHOOTING RATS AT THE BRACEBRIDGE DUMP, WHAT GREAT SATURDAY NIGHT FUN
Even though I was abundantly familiar with 22 calibre rifles, from having been at the Hillman family's hunt camp, off the Fraserburg Road, about a hundred times, I never once accepted the offer from anyone I knew, to borrow one of these weapons for some living shooting, at the former Bracebridge dump. It was quite acceptable, back in my youth, growing up in Bracebridge, for some target practice, to visit the creekside property, teeming with what some of my mates called resident "livestock". The abundance of rats roaming around the hillside dump, made for abundant, moving targets, until the rodent clan started to sense, that the smell of gunpowder, and repeated loud cracks, meant imminent death for their kind. So in other words, the degree of difficulty increased, the longer the rat-shoot was underway.
The point for bringing-up this little snipit of Bracebridge history, came to mind yesterday, when I was reading an article, in the Muskoka magazine, "What's Up," about provincial and district mapping (and monitoring) of former municipal, industrial and even private dump sites, some of which are still producing leachate, more than half a century, or more, after being bulldozed over, as in the case of the former Bracebridge location, on old Highway 11. Leachate is the run-off and ground water that drains through the contaminated soil, having a wide array of nasty chemicals and such, into other bodies of water. In the case of Bracebridge, if you can believe this, Sharp's Creek, which runs through, what still has to be considered, the contamination zone, with the South Branch of the Muskoka River, just a short distance away.
I first studied the effects of leachate, when I was working as a rookie reporter, in 1979 to 1981, for The Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, and covering the council meetings of the Township of Muskoka Lakes. They were having major problems then, of ground water contamination, at their Port Carling area landfill site, and had been conducting intensive studies, regarding how leachate was traveling to other bodies of water in the area, and the future potential of it getting into well water, and then finding its way eventually to a major lake. It was a huge story and was getting national coverage at the time, so it made the front pages of not only The Beacon, but our sister publication The Bracebridge Herald-Gazette. I had two major stories during this period, that kept me in front pagers. Acid rain and leachate contamination. I believe now, that those breaking, troublesome stories on the dilemma and expense being faced by the Township of Muskoka Lakes, was also seriously affecting other regional municipalities, that also had not known much about leachate and what it can carry underground, to contaminate water sources miles away. It was, in many ways, a wake up call, and the cottage associations were watching this closely, concerned about the decreasing quality of lake water; some of it being blamed on the prevalence of acid raid in our region. That's a story for another day.
The dangerous issue, which had been occurring for many years, became a top priority for the township, working with the Ministry of the Environment; to mitigate the danger associated with contaminated ground and run-off water, and containment measures that had to be employed. It was costly and frustrating for councillors, and I remember thinking, gosh, how could we not have known the damage we were causing to the environment, and each other, for all of these years. I suppose it was believed then, that most of the bad water just went to the centre of the earth, where it was evaporated by lava heat. It is hard to believe, that our forefathers and mothers, didn't see this potential, long before the 1980's, when for all intents and purposes, the horse was long-gone, when the proverbial barn door was closed. In the case of Bracebridge, I don't think there was even one citizen, even children, who travelled with their parents or guardians, up the hillside, near the entrance to Bracebridge, to toss out household garbage or worse, who didn't feel a little bit bad, looking below, and seeing trash floating down stream, along the narrow watershed artery, directly below the cliffside mounds of residential, commercial and industrial cast-offs. Here was this scenic little stream, cutting through the beautiful Muskoka countryside, and this absolutely appalling dump-site, where every motorist passing by, tourists amongst the throng, could see its colorful cascade down the hillside. Then there was the aroma of garbage. The rats, the bears, and raccoons, feeding at the site and being thusly, also being contaminated with all the assorted chemicals dumped there; which meant the food chain was being impacted through these poor beasts, as well as the water they were drinking, from the creek, being full of the quantities and qualities, that were the recipe for mutations, and sickness; for all the critters, large and small, that depended on that slice of former hinterland, destroyed by a lot of bad judgement by the policies governing disposal practices.
I always wondered, what madness would have prevailed, to have positioned a landfill site by a creek, in the first place, and why, in a thriving tourist region, would it have been situated for everyone coming and going, to see in all its naked ugliness. It crossed a lot of minds, I'm sure, but it lasted a long time, even with these prevelent concerns, about how we were contaminating ourselves and future generations; by allowing the site to remain active. The eyesore reality, was a behemoth one, for me then, having just moved to Muskoka, from the urban jungle of Southern Ontario. Today, it makes me sick, to recall my own part in this horror on the hillside, because I used to accompany friends and family to the site, a couple of times each month, and sometimes, yup, to watch as my mates shot at the rats scurrying through the garbage piles. I can so clearly remember, being with a group of friends, and one of their parents, as they emptied a trailer of its trash, and then, watching as my chum's father began walking over, and far out on the cliffside piles, to pull an old bike off the household refuse. I watched him, and some of us went to lighten his load, and thinking then, how incredibly dangerous it was, because at any moment, there could have been a landslide of this loosely cast-off garbage, having no real anchor, to the slope, other than the weight of friction; such as trees, to hold it onto the rock. But others were "garbage picking" as well, and you know, before we drove away, that trailer was almost as full as when we arrived. I thought about re-use-it buildings, before anyone else, because we never left the Bracebridge dump without some found treasures, stuffed into the trunks or the back of a pick-up. I could see the potential of recycling even as a kid, and I did actually participate, by helping others haul stuff back home.
I hated the idea of shooting rats, because of the cruelty associated, although when you're a kid, who may or may not have fried a few ants beneath a magnifying glass, once or twice, there was an unspecified curiosity attached; to actually see what a 22 calibre rifle could inflict on one of these disease-infested critters. That is what we were told, at least, that if they bit us, we could get the black plague, a disease that had killed millions of people once upon a time. My only saving grace here, was that even though I was handed the rifles on many occasions, I couldn't fire into open air, let alone, to aim at one of God's creatures. But I did see the debris field after the shooting was over, and not all of the rats were killed instantly. This is another image I will carry for life. Friday and Saturday nights, were the best for these rat hunts, because folks didn't dump much in the evenings. It's not like it was a civil war battle or anything, and shooters were careful about their conduct, when there were other people dumping their trash or picking from the piles. Many of course, did come to watch the bears. I don't recall ever hearing about someone turning their aim away from the rats, to shoot a bear or raccoon, but it's likely the case, it happened at some point. All, in that environment, at that time, were considered nuisances, and so abundant, that taking out a few, wouldn't have caused any serious wildlife shortages. It doesn't mean that it was tolerated by the then, Department of Lands and Forests, and I seem to remember bear traps being left on site. It was one of the prime bear viewing areas in the region, and even tourists used to make trips in the evenings to check them out. There's a scene from the comedy, "The Great Outdoors," where John Candy is with his son, at a vacationland dump site, and he throws food items onto the hood of his vehicle, in order to get a bear a little closer for quality viewing. Well, it was the same for us, and there were often food scraps used to bait the bruins, so we could get a good show underway.
The story in the local magazine, this week, didn't specify that the former Bracebridge dump, of the 1960's, was one of the sites the Ministry of the Environment, and the District are monitoring, for ongoing leachate contamination. I don't need to see an environmental report, to know, that from what I saw being dumped on that hillside, from paint cans to household cleaners, and even asbestos-filled debris, as well as other painted, and contaminated building supplies, to appreciate that water draining through, will never, for generations, cease altogether, creating a toxic brew, running down into the beautiful little creek, that winds its picturesque way through the landscape.
It's a big positive, that these Muskoka sites, are being mapped, along with hundreds of other contaminated properties through the province, for what they are potentially still producing in the way of leachate, and the damage, occurring as ground water drains through miles of countryside.
As I've written about many times in the past, as a vintage bottle hunter, in my youth, I found myself in a lot of curious situations, while uncovering old homestead and village dumpsites. In the early going, sleuthing-out these buried-over dump sites, I didn't really think too much, about the kind of contamination I was getting into, by disturbing the earth of the specific areas on each property. When I was, in later years, offered an opportunity, by a private property owner, to dig-up a long retired garbage dump on his property, I had to decline because of insurance concerns. The reason being, that by disturbing the site, with a shovel and rake, I would be liberating glass and crockery vessels, that could still contain residue of toxins, that would suddenly then, be able to free-flow into the underground water, and potentially, into neighborhood creeks and even wells. I would have needed a lot of legal work to do this, even with his permission. In earlier forays, I did, of course, cause the liberation of a lot of contamination, which came to light, when I started to find more and more half-full poison bottles, and medicinal compounds, that were still very much a danger to the quality of nearby water sources; as washed away by rainfall (and melt water in the spring), and carried below the surface, all over the former homestead acreages.
Three years ago, as if I needed a brush-up on this contamination issue, I purchased about a hundred old medicine bottles from a local estate. I made the mistake, and it was certainly an error in judgement, of purchasing at least twenty of these corked bottles with partial contents. Although most were medicinal, some contained arsenic, and substantial levels of these liquids. I made the mistake of opening several of the medicinal bottles, and wow, what a punch, after a century-plus being corked. I had to dump the contaminates into separate vessels, and not cross contaminate, in case a toxic combination ripped apart my lungs. I then had to take them to the landfill site, during one of their toxic waste disposal days. I certainly wasn't going to pour it into the dirt in my driveway, because I would then be destining the liquid to eventually flow into the wetland across the road. But this was repeated time and again, at these isolated homestead properties, on occasions when I'd break apart a bottle, accidentally, with the tip of the shovel, and then watch the contents seeping into the already contaminated soil. God only knows what contamination I exposed myself to, in those years of reckless abandon, questing for those neat old cork-top medicine and soda bottles, that are worth a fair bit of money in the antique and collectable trade. Obviously I was inhaling some of those set-loose molecules, and it wasn't uncommon to develop a cough, a couple of days after my excavations. Sort of like the treasure hunters, seeking King Tut's loot, who died mysteriously after entry into the catacombs of the tomb. It was speculated, by some in the science community, that rather than it being the result of a legendary curse, it had been caused by bacteria released from former food items, that had been offered to the dead king; thusly being dispersed into the air, when the tomb was disturbed. Well, I thought about this, when I started getting the distinct aroma of bad stuff, coming up, in a slight vapor, from the ground, in certain locations I dug into.
The one that impacted me the most, was when I found several old buried dumps sites, at our family cottage, on Lake Rosseau; and while we lived there, in the fall of 1988, (in between buying and selling houses), I started some minor excavations. My father in law knew what I was doing, but didn't seem to care one way or the other, as long as I cleaned-up after the work. Now, keep in mind, that this was common practice, of getting rid of unwanted and household items, and there are still thousands of cottage and homestead sites, holding similar buried treasure and toxic waste. What happened one day, while Suzanne was at work, and I was looking after our two young sons, Andrew and Robert, arrived without any sense of emergency. Andrew, with a small shovel of his own, was investigating an area of the dig, that I had already been through, when he cut his finger on one of the broken pieces of glass recently uncovered. Seeing as I've had hundreds of cuts, with glass piercing my work gloves, I only ever had a small infection erupt. So at first, I just led him down to the cottage, from the hillside, and cleaned the small cut, and coated it heavily with anti-bacterial ointment. When we went back up to the dig site, I started thinking about the invisible dangers, beyond the obvious shards of glass, that might be lurking in that debris field. Especially when I was finding bottles with partial contents of shoe polish, cleaning solutions, leftover paint, food items, from relish to mustard, arsenic, medicinal compounds (such as Lydia Pinkhams), and motor oils all dumped together. Then I thought about that cut on Andrew's finger, and just how much chemical and bacterial contamination, could have been, on the tip of that tiny shard of glass, which had pierced his skin. Golly, what had I done? I had, for many years, even with safe practice, contaminated myself on every dig, and every occasion that I cleaned an old bottle that held undetermined contents, for decades and even a century. That was the last time I dug for old bottles. I did do a minor excavation at the family home, some time later, and found the same, plus some old boat and car batteries. It gave some clarity, and sense of actuality, to so many other realities of environmental contamination, I had witnessed first hand, in this beautiful hinterland. I sort of expected this of city life, but I was pretty naive about the liberties taken in rural areas. Yet it has been common practice for centuries, and whenever I hear now, of someone being diagnosed with cancer, who never smoked, drank alcohol, or was a heavy meat eater, I can't help wondering about all the other sources of contamination; even undetected on their own property, in the form of an old dumpsite. Yet it is just a part of day to day life even in this new century; especially when we know so much more, how chemical exposure is making us sick. Killing us!
It's encouraging to know, that the major dump sites, long since retired, are getting some attention these days. I never pass by the site of the former Bracebridge dump, without thinking about the what-ifs, and how layers of soil and vegetation, can not de-contaminate everything that was deposited there for long and long. I wonder about the creatures that inhabitat this zone, and in the creek, below, that I recall being full once of old appliances, and bags of household refuse. To remove the source of contamination would take many millions, at a time, when taxes are high, and funds for such things, are being stretched to the limit. If here is proven leachate, still draining into the watershed, from that old garbage dump, is it going to be worse, on a priority basis, than hundreds of other similarly contaminated landscapes, dotted across this province?
It was once said, of the Bird's Woollen Mill, in Bracebridge, that you could tell the color of blankets they were producing at that point in time, by the color of the water coming over the falls, and down into Bracebridge Bay. It is known that there was arsenic used in the chemical treatment process, of the tanning industry, and we had two large tanneries in the urban area. In one case, in the 1980's, it was discovered, that concrete containment vats, that held arsenic contamination, had all crumbled and allowed the contents to drain into the Muskoka River. So it's not just the old garbage dumps compounding matters of past contamination. It's all around us.
I said to a contract grounds-keeper, in our neighborhood, why he was dumping my neighbor's yard waste, amongst other garbage, down in the lowland we call "The Bog." When he said he had permission to do so, I asked whether or not the property owner, on the lot he was working, could prove ownership of what I knew was under municipal stewardship. He couldn't answer that one, so I did it for him. When it was ascertained, that he had no legal right to dump the garbage, and yard waste, onto public property, I couldn't help but show him one of the partially filled plastic oil bottles, that was part of that day's cast offs. I enquired whether he could estimate how long it would take, a bottle like that, to become soil, and in that eventuality, what would become of its contents, seeping down into this important filtration area, above Muskoka Bay? He had no answer. Fortunately, he had some time on his hands, fearing that I was going to report him to the local bylaw department, and decided to retrieve several months worth of infractions, of garbage he had dumped there previously. I asked him, when it was all cleaned up, where he was going to deposit the refuse, after leaving this job site? I guess I jumped the gun, because I interjected, as a statement, "I hope you're not going to dump this alongside the road somewhere else," to which he answered, "No sir, I'm going to take it to the landfill site." Well, I took his word, and on this occasion, I didn't feel the need to follow him down the road. I still keep watch around the neighborhood, for other acts of environmental abuse, but so far, so good.
Back in time, makes you wonder, all the bad stuff that got dumped in onto our precious hinterland, and waterways, because it was a convenience to do so, without anyone worrying about what goes around, coming around.
Thanks for joining today's blog.
FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES
OLD HOMESTEADS - AND THE GHOSTS WERE MANY
By Ted Currie
You have seen these homesteads before. The bleak, dilapidated wood and brick structures, on overgrown countryside acreage, slowly eroding back into the earth from which it was inspired. And you wonder to yourself, what it must have looked like in its heyday. What it looked like with wind-blown laundry hanging off the strung line, from the back kitchen to a high post in the mowed yard. The kids. The sounds from that homestead, of resident and neighbor children playing hide and seek. Baseball in the level part of the pasture. Horse drawn wagons up and down the dusty lanes, and then the automobiles that banged slowly along the pot-holed road out front. Even when you pass by quickly in a car, and cast only a casual glance, it still impressed upon you, that it is a scene of loneliness and history. Do you also sense something else? Do you have even the fleeting thought, about the spirits that might still dwell there, loyal to the old ways and memorable times. The Easter dinners with family? Good news received at that front door, and the bad. The celebrations, the joy and then the grieving, all within its walls. Birth to death, the stories that relic of history could tell, if it had the chance. I have been invited into many of these tired and failing homesteads, by no one in particular.
The confluence of creative enterprise can be either complimentary or destructive. One strong, unabated current might over-take and snuff-out the other. Or they might just thwack into each other, like to locomotives on the same track. Which after the big bang, imposes the kind of stalemate that arises here frequently, at Birch Hollow, when I simply can't make my mind up. Should I create an art piece, a sketch, a sculpture, or start on a writing jag? Projects at this keyboard that can last for days. The ones that usually end up with me suffering from a headache, stiff neck, and frustration. But there's a source of inspiration I've always trusted, telling me that with the pain, will generate some type of positive gain.
Awkwardly, I've always been able to strike at least a half-balance. In fact, seeing the environs with an artful eye, and as a writer, has had its advantages over the decades. Feeling the presence of ghosts? Spirits? Assorted other hobgoblins and bandy-legged wee beasties? I'm always seeking inspiration, and when you open the mind's door, you just never know what might cross the threshold. Here's a little story for you, to understand my creative process, my passion for art, and my senses about what may be going on with the interrupted paranormal, of a house, a barn, graveyard or spring pasture.
Just prior to entering university, in the summer of 1974, I had begun bottle-digging. I was looking for old medicine and soda bottles, buried on the grown-over acres of long-abandoned Muskoka region homesteads. I have been a lover of old stuff most of my life but it has nothing at all to do with my family's influence. Merle and Ed were minimalists and modernists at the same time. They liked history but not the clutter associated antiques and collectibles. They couldn't have cared less for vintage furniture or valuable ornaments, and weren't particularly nostalgic, except for the old standbys of family photographs, and personal keepsakes, jewelry etc., and a few prints and paintings that had belonged to their respective parents and grandparents. We lived in a relatively modern apartment, at the time of the late 1950's, and there was nothing they had, or were interested in, that sent me in the antique direction in later years. They did take me to historic sites in Southern Ontario, and in the United States, but I was pretty young at the time to formulate much of an opinion, as to whether these were great places to visit, or just curious stops along our travels.
As I pointed out in a recent blog, on my Gravenhurst site, about my early exploration of an old estate in Burlington, that was in the final stages of demolition, and the sense of occupation and history in those sad old rooms of a once elegant house, it probably is accurate to say, it was pretty much a case of self-motivation by immersion. I found the old house alluring, and "haunted," even before I knew the implications of the word. Before I had the burden of knowledge and insight, here was a kid with eyes wide open, in a huge Victorian house, in its final days as an architectural entity, and I felt the presence of many former residents. I didn't see them. I knew they were there, and I told my parents about it later. All they could think about was that there son was a trespasser, and a thief, as I had hauled home some keepsakes that had been broken and strewn over the floors. I could have shown them teeth punctures in my neck, from a vampire, and they'd still have been more concerned about the fact I'd defied their order to stay away. Old, abandoned and falling-in buildings have always beckoned me to enter. It is a failing of mine. But I just want to look around. I've never been in one yet, that I didn't feel it was occupied, in some way, by very poignant memories…..if not the spirit-kind itself.
When I'd wander back to an old homestead, somewhere in the Muskoka lakeland, tromping around the old farm fields to find the lumped, tinny ground, of the family dumpsite, I was always influenced by the aura I encountered. I might not have got much from fields, in general, except if I caught evidence, in the grass, that a bear was nearby, but as soon as I found the old dilapidated cabin or farmhouse, mind over matter created a lot of images from the past. It wasn't a frightening experience, and I enjoyed sitting for awhile, on some old fallen log, or piece of farm machinery still stuck in the field; and quietly celebrating the lives of those who had once tilled these fields…….stoked the fire in the hearth, lit the candles on the harvest table, and served up meals to those who called this place home. In fact, I'd be working away, digging in the homestead dumpsite (long since grown over with thick sod), and swear to hearing the voices of hikers coming up behind me, and then discovering there was no one near. Many times I'd stop, believing someone was standing right beside me, and look around quickly, to find a wavering wildflower, or windswept bunch of ferns brushing together.
I had so many of these experiences, sometimes even seeing a person in the field below, or on the hillside above, when in reality I was quite isolated and alone, that I penned a series of fictional stories, for a local summer publication, that I entitled "Homestead Chronicles." It wasn't a lengthy series, and may have only run in ten or so issues of the paper, but it was full of ghostly encounters, all from those field explorations…..all of them on old homesteads, some that had their own unmarked gravesides that I was also careful to avoid with my shovel. I remember one old-timer, taking me aside, when we met in a local shop, and telling me how much he and his wife were enjoying the series, as it reminded both of them about their respective childhoods, growing up on a similar farmsteads in north Muskoka. "Ghosts? There are lots of ghosts out there; sad very sad," he told me. "There was a lot of hardship, and a lot of folks suffered a lot, trying to survive. Then there was the illnesses. You know, it wasn't uncommon to have whole families wiped out in one night of sickness. It was terrible," he told me, and I believed him. As a regional historian, by this point, I did know a great deal about those difficult homesteading years, in a very unforgiving region. I thanked him, and wrote a few more columns that year, before I was buried by new editorial responsibilities. For years after, I'd meet up with the same gentleman and his wife, and they'd always ask me if I planned to continue the series in the future. Both these folks are gone now, themselves, and I've thought many times about taking another turn at the series. It haunts me you see. And that's very real.
In essence, it was about the life of a young girl, living on an isolated homestead with her parents and siblings. But it is the reminiscences of a ghost. The writer / voyeur finds an unmarked gravesite, where a number of folks were undoubtedly buried (shape of the depression in the earth usually gives it away), and the guardian of the plot, this young lady, becomes the story-teller. This was a long way back in my writing career, and it seems very profound to me now, that I companioned with a fictional ghost to build the story-line. Truth is, I know that what was in that column series, had more foundation than the word "fiction" suggests. I'd often sit, on breaks from digging, on a similar rise of land, overlooking the original homestead pasture, and let my imagination go…….dropping all pre-conceived notions. I've never been at one of these homestead digs, that this didn't happen, my thoughts infilling quickly about the lives invested in this land, and the heart and soul still remaining, despite the clear vacancy of house and land. These were very haunted places but I never felt repelled. A wee bit nervous about coming between a bear cub and mother, but never about malevolent spirits, not wanting my intrusive digging-about. I always felt comfortable in the environs but my mind overflowed with impressions about what it had been like, in its heyday. I even had times, sitting out on grassy knolls, studying the remaining homesteads, when I would swear I was sitting beside someone……looking out onto the same scene……maybe sharing the same regret that the good old days were gone. I remember on one fleeting occasion, that I actually felt a small hand grabbing mine, as I walked over the matted grass of a spring pasture. It was the spark I needed, to create that series, I wrote about earlier……Homestead Chronicles, that very much involved the earth-bound spirit of a little girl, who refused to leave the place she had been born.
Even now, after a long, long relationship, writing about the paranormal, and reading every book I can on the subject, I can't seriously relate these impressions, to any sort of spiritual imposition. Maybe there was, and I just never recognized that detached voices, and the sensation of hands on my shoulder, footsteps in the tall grass, could be my hosts that particular day. It just never crossed my mind. I do think about it more today, and wonder if I was simply too detached myself, as I was pursuing the bottle dig, for one, and planning future writing projects, at the same time. Could it have been the result of an over-active imagination? Of course it could have been the case. Here's the thing. There are few people, who know me, or who have known me for some time, who aren't familiar with my intensity. When I work at something, I am absorbed. You pretty much have to hit me hard, to knock me off a writing project. So while bottle digging, I was always consumed to the last molecule of concentration, with getting on with the job. Finding the next great soda bottle or torpedo bottle which meant "a really good profit when sold." So for me to be aware of someone touching my shoulder, or standing beside me, during a dig, is something to more seriously consider. I can remember so many times, stopping the dig, looking up, and wondering who had just called my name, or touched my shoulder. Sometimes it could be rather startling, as I was worried about bears in the spring, smelling my bag-lunch, and potentially eating me instead. But I did very much have the feeling I was being watched by someone. I got used to it. They certainly didn't frighten me off. Not once.
When I go back and look at some of the circumstances and situations I've been in, over the past thirty-five odd years, I can look a little more objectively and sensibly at what may have been paranormal contact, that I had dismissed as an over-active imagination….or the jitters of being in the wilds with a lot of critters. Crossed paths with bears many times.
As I continue this series of columns, exclusively for the Great North Arrow, I will go back, from time to time, to places where it may have all begun…..this long relationship with the alleged spirit-kind…….that I find so remarkable and interesting……but not frightening in the least. In the past 35 years of writing, I have been consumed…..and I mean consumed, by writing what I call landscape pieces……as an artist would sketch on paint-board, a scene that seems inspirational. I've never known what exactly compels me to merge art and writing, with these landscape depictions in print, but I think it may have something to do with that early immersion, young and impressionable, and those Homestead Chronicles I started…..but never really finished. It might well be, this is, in essence, the "haunting" of Mr. Currie. Thus, I have no shortage of things to write about, when it comes to the paranormal situations I find myself in!
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