MALAYSIAN JET SHOT DOWN? I TOLD YOU THE CRISIS IN THE UKRAINE WASN'T GOING TO END GENTLY
YOU JUST CAN'T LET A NEWS EVENT LIKE THIS PASS, WITHOUT WEIGHING IN, IF ONLY JUST TO OFFER SYMPATHY TO ALL THE FAMILIES OF THE NEARLY 300 VICTIMS, ON THE MALAYSIAN PASSENGER JET, WHICH WAS ALLEGEDLY SHOT DOWN TODAY, OVER THE EASTERN BORDER, BETWEEN UKRAINE AND RUSSIA. IT'S EARLY IN THE INVESTIGATION, BUT IT'S THIS KIND OF "INNOCENTS-GETTING-CAUGHT-IN-THE-MIDDLE" EVENT, THAT START WARS. HUGE CONFLICTS IN WHICH THE REST OF THE WORLD IS DRAWN IN, AND INNOCENTS DIE BY THE THOUSANDS. FOR THE GREATER CAUSE, SOME RADICALS WILL CLAIM, AND THUMP THEIR CHESTS, AS IF IT IS A VICTORY, TO CLAIM MORE LIVES. WHILE THERE IS A LOT OF SPECULATION ABOUT THE DOWNED AIRCRAFT, WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE OUTCOME OF THE INVESTIGATION; BUT MOST OF US, WHO KEEP UP ON OUR INTERNATIONAL NEWS, HAVE A PRETTY GOOD IDEA WHO IS RESPONSIBLE. WHAT A TERRIBLE SITUATION FOR THE WHOLE WORLD, BECAUSE IT AGAIN EXPOSES US TO THE VULNERABILITIES EVERYWHERE ON EARTH, DURING PEACE TIME, OR CONFLICT. THERE IS TRULY NO SAFE FLIGHT PATH, AND NO TRULY SAFE HAVEN. IT'S TERRIBLE NEWS WHEN A PLANE CRASHES, BECAUSE OF ENVIRONMENTAL CONDITIONS, OR MECHANICAL FAILURE, BUT WHEN IT IS THE RESULT OF A MISSILE, WELL, THERE'S JUST NO WORD OR SENTENCE THAT EXPRESSES THE CHAGRIN WE FEEL. IT COULD HAVE BEEN US ON THAT PLANE, OUR FAMILY MEMBERS AND FRIENDS, SHOT OUT OF THE AIR, ON A ROUTINE FLY-OVER, OF A REGION, TRAVERSED THOUSANDS OF TIMES. WHAT MADE THAT PLANE AN ATTRACTIVE TARGET? GEO-POLITICAL BULLSHIT? WE'LL HAVE TO WAIT FOR A MORE PRECISE CONCLUSION. IT'S FAIR TO SAY, AS WITH THE AFTERMATH OF 9-11, THAT THERE WILL BE MANY ANXIOUS DAYS AHEAD. MANY DAYS OF SUFFERING FOR THE FAMILIES OF THOSE KILLED ON THE DOWNED AIRCRAFT.
WELL KNOWN IN GRAVENHURST, BLUES GUITAR LEGEND, JOHNNY WINTER, DIES IN SWITZERLAND AT AGE 70
ANDREW HAD SOME GREAT OPPORTUNITIES TO TALK WITH MUSIC LEGEND
Johnny Winter, a legend, even at the time he played on stage at Woodstock, thought Gravenhurst was a good place to bring the blues. There was never an empty seat, any time he played in Muskoka.
I clearly remember sitting-up with son Andrew, for close to two hours, sharing his excitement, after one of his first professional gigs, working as a sound and production technician, at Gravenhurst's well known entertainment venue, "Peter's Players," on Muskoka Road, in Gravenhurst. He wanted to talk about the fact, he had just attained an early milestone in his budding technical career, working with one of his blue's heroes. It was, in his words, a "fantastic opportunity," to saddle up to one of the world's best known blues guitarists, Johnny Winter, who sold-out that night's concert, at Peter's Players. Every Johnny Winter concert thereafter, was a sell-out, including his most recent show, in March, in Barrie.
Andrew, who even to that point, had worked with some amazing, internationally acclaimed performers, as a sound technician, for the Gravenhurst Opera House, had to admit the Johnny Winter show was in a league of its own. "It was a loud, loud show, but it was an evening for the record books. The audience didn't want the show to end. If he had kept playing, they would have stayed through the night. That's how much they respected him, and his legend was real."
But being a blues guitar player himself, having the opportunity to work with Johnny Winter, "was awesome, because of his legendary reputation, and just watching him play, was a great honor," he told me this morning, soon after he heard news, Johnny had passed away in Europe. So thinking back to that very first night, was his initial reminisce. As it turned out, he did the sound and production work for Johnny Winter, and his band, five times, at Peter's Players, over the past few years, and this past March, as an invited guest, at the newly opened, "Violet's Venue," in Barrie, where he once again, was able to visit privately with the guitarist, who always remembered him when I shook his hand. His eyesight was pretty poor, so once you introduced yourself, he would remember where our paths had crossed before," Andrew recalled.
"He seemed to be in good spirits when I visited with him, back in March, although he was hunched over and frail in appearance. But any time I did see Johnny perform, he wasn't too much different. While physically, he was a shadow of his former self, once the man started to play, there he was, the big and bold Johnny Winter, who could bring fans out of any funk they had at the beginning. He might not have looked like he had it in him, to electrify the audience, but it only took a few seconds with that guitar, and we would have followed him anywhere."
"Every time I worked with Johnny, I fascinated to watch how well he related to the audience, unlike some musicians, who play their sets, hardly looking up, and out on the audience. Johnny's vision was good, but his spirit was. He would approach the audience, caring very much who was in the seats; really taking an interest in the fans, some who brought along some of his first records dating back decades, they had purchased news in and around the time of Woodstock. He tried to make a personal connection, because, I think, he knew they made up his own roots in the music industry. They were loyal to him and he wanted to meet with them. Many in the audience, for those concerts, had seen him multiple times before, but had to keep coming back for more. There was something about the guy I can't really explain, but he definitely got into your soul with his music. In the last few years, I noticed, more and more, how he wanted to get closer to his fans, and would call them out to his R.V. for a little visit; and he would give autographs until he got tired. He would sit there and chat, as if we had been friends for life. He didn't act like a celebrity, and he was very approachable. Best of all, he liked to talk about the blues, and what it all meant, and that was the real bonus of working with him; because you got an education in music history at the same time. I had quite a few talks about the blues, and its survival in the future, at the hands of the younger generation. I did his sound and production five times at Peter's Players, and one as a guest, when he played the newly established "Violet's Venue," and that was a neat opportunity; because on that occasion, I could concentrate on his performance. When you're doing sound, you have to focus on the controls, and you miss a lot of the performance, watching and listening to how the sound is reaching the audience."
"Johnny Winter, in his own way, believed he was keeping the blues alive, and I was never at one of this shows, that it wasn't a sell-out. Boy oh boy did he have a fanship. They didn't care how old he was. They just wanted to be part of his music, in their own way. His band was great, and easy going on the technical staff, and I spent a lot of time with them, and Johnny. He was 70. He looked his age, but he played like he was much, much younger. The crowds loved him; even though he was visually frail in his last years, when he cranked it up, there he was, the real power-house, Johnny Winter. The audience was spellbound. For as long as he was on stage, even if he was just sitting there, the audience had him locked-in to their focus, and just about anything could happen elsewhere, off-stage, that might have been a distraction, without disrupting their concentration on the stage. Sometimes, from my vantage point, as a technician, you notice when the audience starts getting bored with a set. You didn't get this impression, at any time, when the Johnny Winter Band was playing. I don't know whether this is remarkable for any one else, but it is for me, because I have a good panorama of the audience from my position. I think the audience, really got their money's worth with Johnny Winter. It's just a personal opinion."
"I will miss him, that's for sure," Andrew concluded, while proudly showing me the photographs of himself, and Johnny Winter, taken when he was here in Gravenhurst, at Peter's Players. He had invited Andrew specially, to his R.V., where he was holding court, following one of his sell-out concerts. "Johnny just wanted to thank me for doing the sound, and to talk for a few moments about what it was like to live in Gravenhurst, and even about my taste in music. He got a big smile, when I told him I loved the blues."
Andrew also had a mitt-full of other autographed posters and records, some that are republished at the top of today's blog. "I thought he would be around forever, but one thing's for sure, his music will be," he said, putting the poster back up on the wall of the music studio.
"I've got some wonderful memories of those shows, and they're more important to me now, especially today, than just the autographs; so I thank him for inviting me into his life and career, on those occasions, when he came to my hometown," says Andrew, as he turns the lock on the front door, to open the music shop for yet another day. As he was "texting" his friends about Johnny's death, literally from the moment he heard the news, early this morning, you can bet the topic of discussion, in the front room musician scrums, for most of this day, will have something or other, to do with the loss of a music icon. Johnny Winter, thanks for your contribution to music, in this big old world of ours. It's still resonating in our ears. That's how good and loud he was.
HOLY CRAP, I NEARLY RAN FOR MAYOR OF GRAVENHURST - NO WAY, FORGET ABOUT IT, ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN, NOT IN THIS LIFETIME
Truth is I got a better gig. As a politician I make a great writer.
As I wrote copiously, my point being illustrated with "election cap" photographs, last Saturday, professing my disdain for the idea of having to run for mayor, of this town, simply because I can't abide the thought of an acclamation scenario, otherwise a coronation, of only one candidate...., I never took the issue seriously, other than how I looked beneath a couple of neat old hats from the shop. I have been holding out hope, that with these daft proposals to run for mayor myself, I could flush-out a mayoral candidate in the meantime, and I've heard some on-the-street rumors since, that suggest we've got a few fence sitters, close to making the big decision.
I do want to admit something here about myself. Heck, you probably already know, and it doesn't have anything to do with religion or sexual orientation. I wouldn't belong to any organization that would have a guy like me as a member. Beyond being a practical joker, and very seldom serious, for more than ten minutes at a time, (unless I'm in a twenty minute anger jag), I am comfortable at all times, admitting my limitations. The rest of my kin hate the whole self-criticism thing, but I thrive on it! I've been poking fun at myself from childhood, when I used to strike out regularly in baseball, or send the snap of the football, ten feet past the quarterback's cupped hands; and when I let in a few of those red line slapshots, that took two our more bounces off the ice, long ahead of hitting the goal crease. Before my team-mates could call me a "bum," "sieve," or a "strike out king," I was on-side with self criticism. I've never changed through the years, and this is a perfect case in point, where I'm one of the only realists out there it seems, because I could not cope with what this next four year municipal term, is going to offer as a challenge, to those who are successful in the October election.
I have always had a sixth sense, to know when to get out of hell's kitchen, pardon me Chef Ramsey. Love your show! Honestly, with what I know, on the Q-T, through that fairly reliable grape-vine, there are some particularly volatile issues, about to face the new council that will test their mettle, that's for sure. I've already tested mine, after hearing that the province will likely unload some property assets in the coming year; meaning to me, the Muskoka Centre property will get its long awaited "for sale" sign, and that's going to be momentous for councillors and town staff. Once it's put up for sale, the potential developers of this hugely important and large property, will be knocking on the door, and who really knows what the province will accept as an offer, and who will get the nod to make the purchase. The new town council, will be on the hot-seat minutes after taking office, and I don't envy them one bit.
Even if that property was turned into a public park, with nary a building erected on site, there will be objections to the flow of traffic and boating concentration to and from the site. There is literally no way of getting around the potential for conflict, and the need for resolution. Then come the high priced planners and lawyers, and we get ourselves an old fashioned debacle in the heart of our community. If you haven't read about the failed Roseneath re-development project, from the early 1980's, in Milford Bay, you can archive back in these blogs to find out a little more. But honestly, you just have to study the past five years in the Bala hydro electric generation stand-off, to get the idea, that a lot of these large-scale projects, which have an impact on scenery and the environment, are not passing through the democratic process without serious, full range challenges, and literally from all sides. Not just the traditional seasonal residents versus the permanent population, as it was in the 1980's. The picturesque, gem of property, of the former Muskoka Centre, is going to attract many development interests. How big and sprawling, is news yet to come.
While I kid around about taking a run at the mayor's job, on Town Council, for the coming term, I know when to pull back, and think this one out; especially when I start getting calls of support for my election bid. Geez, I wasn't counting on winning the contest, because I thought I could only muster four votes from family members, and that's wasn't even a sure thing. The very thought of me entering the race, and winning, even by one vote, is a sobering thought, and in no way a fantasy dream come true. I couldn't help but let this town down at a critical time, and if anything, I have enough respect for the good folks here, to avoid mucking things up, by pulling such a wild and reckless election stunt. I may have followed through, you know, until that is, I found a core of support I didn't know I had out there. I thought I was loathed, and I find out now, I was only partially disliked and semi-loathed. But it just doesn't matter, when you're not qualified to do the job. I'd rather, you see, advise, than be pierced on the hook, to squirm, and as a voyeur, I am of course best suited.
I hope you don't think of me as a pacifist, but I am definitely chicken, especially with what I know is likely to occur in the next four years of council business. To get through the landslide of issues, and development proposals, these folks are going to work hard and long for their pay cheques, and honestly, my next mission, is to find out exactly how much councillors are getting paid per hour; because my hunch is, when the work and stress-load hit this next term, it would be more profitable overall, to work as a labourer on a farm instead. This isn't fear mongering whatsoever, and if you are, by your own admission, one of the weaker candidates, you might want to do some self reflection, on how well you stand up to unrelenting pressure. This is not going to be a glamorous, grip and grin term of office; more like a grimace and groan long-haul. I know people who could stand the heat, but I don't see their names listed yet. If you are under-qualified, it's going to show up in the heat of battle. How do I know there is going to be a battle? You can't really avoid it, when one of the best pieces of lakefront property, in Muskoka, comes for sale, that presumably still has an institutional zoning allowance. I can't imagine it being developed into cottage lots, or turned into a provincial park. A resort seems likely as does condo development. Development at The Wharf was one thing. This isn't the wharf.
From the third month, of this present council term, I have been skeptical, they could handle business of the term, if it got too controversial. Very few of the councillors, at least the ones I know, are great debaters, and are only as strong, as the staff at town hall is durable. In a public forum situation, with a live audience, having some genuinely pissed off citizens, I do not feel that council's retaliation would be anything more dynamic, than watching a punching bag take a jab or left hook, and keep on hanging in there. This isn't about hanging in, but rather, about engaging adversaries and critics as a necessary part of the job. They might breathe a sigh of relief, when they've extinguished a perceived fire, caused by the static of an unhappy camper; but they must surely realize by now, that even the most invisible tiny spark, can generate a blaze back to life. They have been able to slip through, this term, largely because there have been few major urban and resort developments, in the past four years, other than the recreation centre upgrades, which even had them in front page headlines, in the early going of that first year. There hasn't been a lot of cooking going on, in that civic kitchen since, but this is about to end. So the question, beyond my general incompetence as a municipal leader, is how a group of well-meaning citizens, without a lot of experience in fierce negotiations, will be able to manage this multi million dollar corporation, and not feel the true heat of city-council style conflict. They narrowly dodged one just recently, with the BIA expansion, and they damn well know, what a challenge could have meant, if the major objectors rallied support for a legal fight. I knew it would never pass muster, and I was sure councillors would start feeling some serious heat, from those about to be burdened by more taxation, at a time, when profit margin isn't all that thick. So my feeling is, present councillors did have some intuition, that made them standoffish; and as it turned out, they played their cards right, by offering no other opinion on the matter.
None the less, I would give them a point, for keeping their oar neatly tucked in, so as not to suffer too much collateral damage.
If I had run for mayor, I would have been big and colorful, and full of anecdotes, and would have been forced to give up this blog, for fear of conflict. I am confident, that I could have dressed like a mayor, chortled to myself as a mayor, and worn the chain of office for photographs, as well as any mayor in the history of mayor-ing. But I would have known intimately, possibly from wetting my pants in the hot seat, that this was not a smart move, of someone who figures he's pretty darn intuitive. I could not live with myself, should my lack of qualifications, get this municipality in a conflict situation, because I'm overly environmental in my slant on town life. I don't want to grind my axe from the inside. It's an outside job. Fortunately, I have come to my senses early on, so as to not have had my name, imprinted on the ballot, only to find out later, it was all a horrible mistake, and my inability to govern and lead, would bring the good ship Gravenhurst crashing onto the rocks. I still would like to see more qualified, and experienced council candidates, because the stakes have never been higher. I, of course, would like to see a mayoral competition, because I know there are some great candidates out there, just waiting for a little encouragement to enter the race. I'd make a great advisor, and I only need some bakery fresh donuts as payment for my services.
"You're too claustrophobic to be locked up in a council or committee meeting," Suzanne reminds me, of the character I am. "You'd be making farting sounds, every time a councillor lifted a cheek, so sooner or later, you would have been kicked out of office. Better that you don't tempt fate in the first place." My wife knows all my practical jokes, and everyone of my off-hand comments, and as far as political correctness, well, that's a joke on its own. So believe me, our town is better off, this moment, by this most intimate examination of my character flaws, and my experience short fall in the grand scheme. Yet I do offer the sincere advisory, that potential candidates for election, should find out more about what they're getting into, before standing for that first official photograph, as a newly elected town official.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
ANTIQUES THAT HOLD THEIR SPIRITS - I'VE HAD A FEW OVER THE YEARS
THE GHOST OF TORRANCE HAS LONG HAUNTED ME
HERE IS AN EDITORIAL PIECE I JOTTED DOWN QUICKLY, A SHORT WHILE AGO, WHILE PREPARING A NEW SERIES OF COLUMNS, FOR A PUBLICATION CALLED "THE GREAT NORTH ARROW," DEALING WITH MY EARLY PARANORMAL EXPERIENCES. SOME BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION HAS ALREADY BEEN INCLUDED ON THIS BLOG PREVIOUSLY, BUT IT'S NECESSARY FOR BACKGROUND, TO INCLUDE IT WITH TODAY'S BLOG AS WELL.
THERE WERE A LOT OF EVENTS IN MY LIFE, DATING BACK TO BURLINGTON, AND GROWING UP WITH THE SOUNDS OF FOG-HORNS BLASTING OUT ON LAKE ONTARIO, THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME EVER SINCE. NOTHING FRIGHTENING. BUT EVENTS AND PEOPLE I WAS ASSOCIATED WITH, THAT HAD A HAUNTING, EERIE QUALITY, THAT COME BACK TO ME FREQUENTLY, ESPECIALLY WHEN WRITING ABOUT PARANORMAL SITUATIONS I HAVE FOUND MYSELF IN……EVER SINCE. I GUESS BY REPEATING THEM, I AM JUST TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF WHAT THEY WERE ALL ABOUT, FROM A DISTANCE OF ABOUT A HALF CENTURY. I WAS A SICKLY KID. I DIDN'T HAVE ANY DEFINABLE DISEASE, OR DISABILITY. WHEN I GOT A COLD OR THE INFLUENZA, I'D BE HORRIBLY SICK, SOMETIMES FOR WEEKS. I'VE OFTEN WONDERED HOW MANY OF MY EXPERIENCES HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THESE PROLONGED PERIODS OF ILLNESS. IN ONE OF THESE LENGTHY BOUTS, AS I WROTE ABOUT PREVIOUSLY, I HAD A VISITATION FROM AN ANGEL. OR DREAMED I DID. HOW MANY READING THIS TODAY, CAN RECALL A DREAM THEY HAD, AT ABOUT SIX OR SEVEN YEARS OF AGE? MINE IS AS CLEAR TODAY, AS THE MOMENT I EMERGED FROM THE HIGH FEVER THAT ALMOST KILLED ME.
Even as a kid, trundling home from school, there were things I found along the way, that I couldn't resist scooping up as found-treasure. I'd arrive home to our Burlington apartment, with pockets full of this and that, leaving my mother Merle to figure out, when I wasn't looking, how to free our abode of toads, grasshoppers, old bits of metal, some shiny rocks, and chestnuts in various stages of decomposition. She threw out three quarters of everything I collected, from broken hockey sticks, to neat old bottles found down in the thickly overgrown ravine of Ramble Creek.
I was attracted to certain things by forces unknown. At least that's what Merle used to tell the neighbors, when she saw me coming up Harris Crescent with pockets bulging and overflowing, while swinging a ball bat, or old hockey stick I found alongside the road. Strangely though, she was right about some things, regarding those early acts of acquisition. There was something that "made me do it," and it wasn't a voice in my head, directing my actions. It was a feeling then, just as it has always been throughout my collecting life. I will encounter a relic, an antique or collectible in a shop, at a yard sale, or at an auction, that I'm drawn to for more than the capital value. As an antique dealer I do operate on a for-profit basis, even though my wife, the accountant, questions this frequently, when I come home with something else truly bizarre, to what we normally acquire to refurbish and re-sell.
One of my most poignant recollections, of a childhood experience, where I truly felt in the company of the spirits, came in a most casual, spontaneous way, making me feel on that particular day, as if I was being urged by something unknown, to visit an old house in the neighborhood,……then only a few days from being crushed by earth movers. It was to make way for the construction of a large apartment tower amidst some wonderful late Victorian architecture. The old estate, on Torrance Avenue, that looked so storied and charming amidst the wreath of venerable old hardwoods, and the ever-popular chestnut grove bordering the road, was facing its last few days as prominent architecture in our neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario. Which was a short hike to the shore of Lake Ontario, and a place that was often brushed by thick morning fog, and the muted sound of fog-horns from huge freighters passing somewhere on the bay. It was a little bit Hollywood, in scenery, perfect for a ghost story, but at this time of my young, impressionable life, I didn't have much knowledge of spirits or their ilk. I was just a curious little snot, usually with the arse ripped out of his pants, and a tangle of torn knee patches on both legs, with pockets-full of interesting livestock etc. I was an "eyes wide open" kid. I was an antique hunter in training, long before i knew what an antique was all about.
On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, back pushing, and triple-daring before we decided to pool our collective bravado, and the thin, still growing, shreds of our male hubris, to challenge what our parents had instilled, rather burdened upon us, about invading private property. They taught us to respect signs that stated "no trespassing." Have you ever broken trust before? Found a way to circumnavigate some unfair imposition? We wanted to see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time, as I walked by, when "old house" and "kid" didn't subtly exchange glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, a pull on my wanderlust, to just make a friendly visit. Even just a head-poke, through the half-open front door, to glance both ways, around the corner. What harm could that do? As a career antique dealer, this has been the most often repeated question, and the common thread of a great deal of unravelling.
Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was! My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions, I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.
The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak. There isn't an inquisitive child alive who could resist the allure. What was left inside? Scrounger's rights! Finders keepers! I could find all kinds of justification, for defying every rule, civil and otherwise, to work my mates into a frenzy of self righteousness. God wanted us to enter that old house.
Once inside the door, which of course involved a typical amount of pushing and "you go first" challenges, it was definitely a treat for the senses. It was quite dilapidated by this point of its forced-decline, and there had been doors and built-in cabinets ripped from the walls, corner cupboards unfastened, leaving ugly holes in the wall. Even the mantle was gone and everywhere there was evidence of home-wreckers, having swung their hammers and prying bars. There were broken Christmas ornaments strewn on the floor, and pages from old magazines and newspapers crumpled in corners and in doorless closets. There were dishes on an old table, and drinking glasses on the remnants of a kitchen counter. As we chums wandered slowly, in awe, from room to room, we picked up little keepsakes from the floor, that attracted our darting and weaving span of attention, in the lowly lit environs of what had once been, a truly magnificent home. I remember the curious way light shone through the stained glass on some of the old windows.
What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle, just to hear the echo through the empty rooms. Then without any provocation or inspired fear, of being detected, wandering through the old house, I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, a sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race. Much as if my soul had encountered something ominous, I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie, within a very short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en, dressed up in a sheet, with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities, I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the rooms. I wasn't frightened, and I don't think the feelings I had experienced, were shared by the other three chums. At least they never admitted to anything, or any fears other than facing a police officer, or our parents, should we be found out. But there were reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way. I knew we were being watched by something. I've had this sensation many times in the past, and it has always linked to some paranormal encounter…..always as inadvertent as it was then…..right in the middle of a great and memorable childhood adventure. Ghosts hadn't been on our minds. I know I was imposed upon that day but it had nothing to do with fear or loathing of spirit-kind. It was as if I was being asked for help save this doomed Victorian estate. I felt as if I was being exposed to a message that wasn't quite connecting. I still miss more of these than I pick-up, on my modern day adventures.
Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the aura of an occupied house, and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then, we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura, the remnant patina of the human / architectural relationship, forged beneath these old timbers. Sensory attempts to warn and advise us, about the prevailing circumstance, of what has happened in the past.
I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use, and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and all the life and death occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.
When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects.
I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets; ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold. A parallel experience, might be if you were to suddenly appear at a former abode, you spent your childhood, and sense part of your spirit still dwelling within…..the ghosts of your past wandering through the same rooms and halls, up and down the stairs, as if nothing at all was different…..except of course, the belongings now, laid-out beneath this roof, from another resident family reminding, eerily, sadly, that time has passed…..but not been forgotten. It has been said that a little of our soul is spread over the places we have lived and miles we have travelled, and that when our spirit finally leaves our human life, it re-traces all of these places we once occupied…..even for a short while, as a sort of paranormal retrospective.
I would like to, in some future blogs, illustrate this point more clearly, by profiling some experiences I've had over the decades, as an antique dealer, frequently attracted to pieces that may or may not be haunted…..somewhat as I felt strangely compelled to enter an old house, on the off chance, of finding something neat to scoff. While it's a stretch, obviously, to compare an old cedar trunk, with provenance, to an historic estate, my exposure to the sensation of occupation, as a child, has inspired a great awareness as a collector…..that some pieces, strange or not, have an attraction that goes well beyond the patina of the wood, or the feel of the fabric. Truth is, I can feel something extra, as if the essence of the item's builder, or former owner….a child, possibly, is still somehow connected. There are many stories told of cradles rocking without an occupant or attendant, rocking chairs moving of their own accord, and organs playing without the slightest touch of mortal hand. My stories aren't quite so compelling and interesting, but we've had a few unusual events attached to certain acquired pieces. Nothing fearful or disturbing. Just curious in a paranormal context.
Maybe you have felt the same at times. Feeling it necessary to stop at an antique sale, to examine a piece that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think twice about acquiring. What made you stop for a second look? Did your grandmother have something similar? Could it be a sign from someone who has crossed, trying to remind you about a favorite quilt or cushion, old rocking horse or cradle, that you used to play with when visiting. For those who validate the existence, in spirit form, of those who have crossed over, few would deny the possibility, that sentiment and emotion are routinely tweaked by forces unknown, to make us aware of our past…..and our future; if we only had a few moments to ponder the associations, and signs apparent. I wander around, most of the time, with this openness to suggestion….willingness to entertain even the slightest remembrance, that puts me in mind of those friends and family, who were so important to my well being. When my wife hears me laughing at something, while on an antique shop walk-about, she recognizes immediately, Ted's had a poignant reminiscence…..quite out of the blue. Always in the strangest, and most obscure of places in the shop, it seems. But I know, as soon as I enter, like my feeling of all buildings, something is going to tap me on the shoulder, or peak my curiosity, and moreso than a for-profit purchase, I will likely be hauling something home that, I love saying to my wife, "spoke to me!"
I don't see dead people as such. I feel them though. I sense them, and quite enjoy the feeling and enthralling allure of a limitless universe of possibility, where there are no rules of engagement. As some folks say, "you just go with the flow."
I will leave today's blog, with one final story that I have never come to understand, or identify as having been true, or simply a figment of an over-active child's imagination. It was after school one afternoon, that I was wandering along the rocky, overgrown shore of Ramble Creek, not too far from Lakeshore Boulevard, and the bridge just before the wider view of Lake Ontario. I came through a clearing and could hear a rhythmic creaking of what sounded like a swing set. I came out into a small clearing along the embankment of the creek, and I could see a girl swinging back and forth in the yard of a house I hadn't seen before. I didn't know the girl, and even though I'd come this far many times before, this house was new to me. When the girl, about my age at the time….seven or eight, spotted me, she jumped off the swing and beckoned me to cross over the limestone pads that formed a bridge. I did so, and she took my hand immediately, to lead me back to the swing set. I can so clearly remember swinging side by side that sunny spring afternoon. When the sun started to weaken, I told her it was time for me to leave, for the hike back home. She took my hand again, and walked me to the shore, and the trail of stones across the fast, shallow water. When I looked at her, I saw tears streaking down her pale face. She did not want me to leave. She insisted I return again, to play on the swings, just as we had that afternoon. I felt heartsick about leaving her. I wanted to race back over those limestone pads and hug her. It was as if I'd known this girl from another life, as we had such a strange connection I didn't understand. I couldn't have understood at that age.
I made many trips back along that winding Ramble Creek, and never saw her again. Nobody I asked knew who she was, yet there was a swing set, out in the yard, exactly where it had been on that day. I remember her telling me, this was her house, and that she went to the same school as I did…….but apparently, not on the same plane as I occupied. Had I been swinging with a ghost? As a matter of irony, it was adjacent to the old house I have been writing about, on Torrance Avenue. I can still hear that swing, as if it was at my side this very moment….just as I can see her tear stained face, and the blue eyes that begged me to stay. What if I had remained? Might I also, have become a ghost of Ramble Creek?
Thank you for joining my blog. More adventures to come. Please join me.
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