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| Hobgoblin or birch bark; this apparition or natural wonder was seen in the bog last evening and would have been about six feet tall if we had been at its side. As it turned out it was a case of peeling birch bark. Rob Currie photo |
THE TRUE "MUSKOKA" LIFESTYLE WE ARE IN DANGER OF LOSING - AS DEVELOPMENT INTERESTS INCREASE THIS COMING DECADE
WHAT THE CITY WILL BRING TO THE COUNTRY, IF OUR ELECTED REPRESENTATIVES RELENT
THERE ARE LINES OF A ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON POEM THAT READ, "OVER THE BORDERS, A SIN WITHOUT PARDON; BREAKING THE BRANCHES AND CRAWLING BELOW, OUT THROUGH THE BREACH IN THE WALL OF THE GARDEN, DOWN BY THE BANKS OF THE RIVER WE GO."
THEY ARE TAKEN FROM A SMALL LEATHER-BOUND BOOKLET, ENTITLED, "IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF R.L.S." THAT I HAVE HAD ON A SHELF IN MY OFFICE, SINCE I PUT UP THE BOOK SHELF, MORE TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO, AT OUR GRAVENHURST HOME, BIRCH HOLLOW. IT IS PASSAGE THAT REMINDS ME OF MY OWN DREAD OF CONFINEMENT, AND LIFE-LONG INTEREST TO EXPLORE THE HINTERLAND. I GET SOMETHING FROM NATURE THAT I CAN'T EASILY DESCRIBE, OTHER THAN TO SAY, I NEVER COME BACK FROM A HIKE THROUGH THE WOODS, OR AROUND THE LAKE, THAT I DON'T FEEL FULFILLED AND INSPIRED BY WHAT I'VE WITNESSED. I WAS A LOVER OF NATURE, AS A CHILD, LIKE STEVENSON, AND I HAVE NEVER CHANGED, WITH THE EXCEPTION I AM MUCH SLOWER IN MY AMBLES ALONG THE FOREST PATHS, AND MUCH MORE PATIENT TO WATCH AND LEARN.
I DREAM OFTEN OF THAT RUSTIC, SIMPLY CRAFTED CABIN, IN WHICH HENRY DAVID THOREAU LIVED AND WROTE, WHEN HE WASN'T WANDERING AROUND THE WOODS, OR LABORING IN PEACEFUL HARMONY, AMIDST THE WILDLIFE OF WALDEN POND. I DOUBT THAT HE WOULD BE TERRIBLY IMPRESSED BY THE SAME SCENE, HERE NOW, OVERLOOKING THIS LOWLAND, OF THE BOG, I BELIEVE TO BE SO PRECIOUS. IT IS HARDLY IN THE LEAGUE OF WALDEN POND, YET WITH THIS, BEING AN URBAN NEIGHBORHOOD, HAVING TWENTY ACRES OF UNTOUCHED WETLAND MAKES IT PRECIOUS TO WANDERERS LIKE ME.
ONE OF MY FAVORITE PIECES OF OLD AND DEAR MUSIC, THAT COMES TO MIND, EACH TIME I CAREFULLY STEP MY WAY THROUGH THE BOG, (CLICK-ON ABOVE), IS "BONNIE KELLSWATER," AN IRISH FOLKSONG, PERFORMED BEAUTIFULLY, BY JOE MILLAR, OF "THE IRISH ROVERS," WHICH HAS ALWAYS REMINDED ME OF MY YOUNGER DAYS, CLIMBING THE ROCK AND PINE HILLSIDES OF MUSKOKA; DOWN ALONG THE THICK EVERGREEN SHORELINES, OF SPARKLING LAKES, POKING AROUND ABANDONED HOMESTEADS, IN OVERGROWN PASTURES, WITH THEIR WEAVE OF STILL-VISIBLE RAIL FENCES, AND POSTS, WHERE VENERABLE CROWS SIT TO WATCH THE TRANSITIONS OF THE DAY, AND THE SEASON. AS MUSKOKA WAS SETTLED EARLY-ON, BY IRISH EMIGRANTS, MY WIFE'S FAMILY BEING PART OF THE EXODUS FROM IRELAND, I AM SURE MANY OF THESE FOLKS SONGS COULD BE HEARD, IF A TRAVELLER WAS TO LISTEN CAREFULLY, WHILE PASSING A HOMESTEAD, AT DUSK, ON SUMMER DAYS LIKE THIS. I WOULD HAVE THIS SONG IN MIND, WHEN I TRAVELLED THE AREA, AS A DELIVERY DRIVER, FOR A LOCAL LUMBER COMPANY; THE MIST-ENHANCED, HILLY TERRAIN, THAT RISES AND FALLS UPON THE MOTORIST, MILE UPON PICTURESQUE MILE, THROUGH THE OLD VILLAGE OF UFFORD, IN WATT TOWNSHIP, WHERE SUZANNE'S FAMILY, THE SHEAS AND VEITCHS, SETTLED AS FAR BACK AS 1862. IT HAS AN OLD-COUNTRY APPEARANCE, ESPECIALLY AT SUNRISE AND SUNSET, GIVING THE APPEARANCE OF A STORIED PLACE IN IRELAND, AS THE SONG "BONNIE KELLSWATER," AND JOE MILLAR, REMIND ME EVEN TODAY; NOW WHEN I ENJOY A LITTLE SOLITUDE OVER IN THE BOG, WHERE, ON HOT SUMMER NIGHTS, THE FIREFLIES OVER THE WETLAND FERNS, AND TALL, WILLOWY GRASSES, MAKE IT A VERY HAUNTED BUT REMARKABLE PLACE, THE GOOD MR. STEVENSON MIGHT HAVE FOUND ENTICING.
"LET THE BLOW FALL SOON OR LATE, LET WHAT WILL BE O'ER ME; GIVE THE FACE OF EARTH AROUND, AND THE ROAD BEFORE ME." R.L.S.
A FEW REASONS TO BE CAREFUL WHO YOU VOTE FOR
I heard a neighbor of mine, in private conversation once , (I was passing the fence at that moment) tell a house-guest, about the quirks of the "environmentalist" next door. This was after we had fought for two months, to save the neighborhood wetland, across the road, known today as "The Bog." I have never considered myself an environmentalist, but I have known some, like my author friend, Wayland "Buster" Drew. His book, "Superior; The Haunted Shore," and "Brown's Weir," which he wrote with his wife, Gwen, are two of my favorite books, when I'm feeling at a low point of inspiration. That summer, quite a few years back, I depended on those books, to muster the tenacity that was going to be required, to stop the Town of Gravenhurst in its tracks, from attempting to sell the wetland off, for residential lot development. While concerned citizens were able to stop the project, it still reminds me how close we came, to losing this magnificent twenty acre, urban green belt. A wetland, that by the way, filters a large volume of urban runoff water, before it drains into Muskoka Bay, where water quality has been an issue for decades. There are councillors at present, who were part of that former council, that supported listing the land as surplus, and potential for public sale. What galled me, and still does, is that these councillors, weren't entirely sure what this property represented, before they were willing to proceed with a plan to sell it off. I tried to get them to agree, to at the very least, let me conduct a walking tour for them. Only one councillor did agree to a guided tour, but generally speaking, the indifference we saw, was a sad state of affairs. And we saw up close, how a careless council decision, could have changed environmental heritage, and increased water quality problems, without having any real idea what their actions, might have imposed on the community for the coming century. Trying to talk to them about the collateral damage they would be causing, by bulldozing this land, was as pointless, frankly, as seeking the support of other environmental groups, who basically considered The Bog, a minor concern. I don't know who I was more upset with, honestly, because it meant we had to shoulder all of the responsibility, and potentially the cost of defending it, on our own dime. Fortunately, it never got to this stage, because a compelling case was made, early in the process, and when the Muskoka Bay Association contacted us, to offer support, council knew when to cease and desist. It's why I have offered warning to the Bay Association to remain vigilant, and get involved in the upcoming municipal election, because it's to be expected, the next term of council, will have to deal with the sale of the former Muskoka Centre property on Muskoka Bay. They were the cavalry for us, and I'd like to help them, if opportunity presents. It will however, at least in my opinion, require a more environmentally sensitive council, than what I sense of the present governance.
When I stand out in The Bog, shortly after sunset, and watch the dance of the fairy lights, from the fireflies, in the cool, drifting mist, just above the fans of the tall ferns that thrive in the hollow, I think about that Irish Rovers performance of "Bonnie Kellswater," especially when, between the loon calls, and owl hoots, I can hear the tinkling of those tiny silver cataracts, invisible behind the mounds of matted grasses, and fallen poplars, making new diversions for the myriad creeks criss-crossing the thriving moor.
What makes it especially haunting and folkish, is when, occasionally, the traveller, along the encroached-upon pathways, will look out upon the same scene, at the final crest of dusk, and see some silhouette on the opposite shore, that looks as if a ghost has emerged from the thicket, as if to cross over the moor; but hesitates just a moment, to study upon the interloper, who has crossed its path. One can imagine the superstitious 1800's settler, witnessing such an apparition, on a lonely trail over this same Bogland, and wondering if indeed, it was a vision of a hobgoblin, springing forth from an archway of trees, black as the night.
Last evening, when coming home from the shop, son and budding photographer, Robert, spotted a white-gowned entity, on the far side of the hollow, set against the nightfall, as it infringed on the thick cluster of trees behind. It was the very definition of an apparition, and Robert got out of the car, and walked back along the winding path, closer to the basin, in order to get a better view of the specter; that appeared to be moving slowly toward The Bog, the closer he got. We followed him into the forest, and for about a half hour, looked at the ghostly form, from dozens of different angles, affording better angles. We all agreed, that it appeared to be a human form in a white shroud, the head and shoulders being quite clear. We did wonder, for a moment or two, if it was possible, we had come upon a human body in a shroud, that was tied standing upright. But after some magnification of the image, on his camera phone, and with binoculars retrieved, we determined that it must have been set up this way, by someone looking to frighten Bog hikers. When we took a closer look this morning, it was clear, the ghostly image, as you can see for yourself in the photographs above, was actually a birch stump shedding its bark. Its folkish interpretation? It looked like a ghost! Just one of those natural qualities and quantities that are the origin of many folk tales; possibly of the ghost child, searching for her family, but having perished in the wilds only to be seen, ever after, as a wandering spirit. Muskoka is full of these wonderful folk tales, inspired by Irish and Scottish legends, and Icelandic, Norwegian, Swedish, and German lore, brought to the lakeland of Muskoka, by the emigrants to Canada, in the 1860 and 70's.
I don't feel that I'm an environmentalist, by definition or accomplishment. I am not an activist, or even a tree hugger, when it comes down to comparisons with others, who hustle day in and day out for forest conservation. I look up to them, but I am not in their league, when it comes to the lengths and means they go to, in order to save wetlands and rain forests. I am more of a curious neighbor, by their standard of activism, who happens to adore nature, and wishes it could all be conserved for our common welfare. I do occasionally worry that the stresses of the urban jungle, to expand its boundaries, will impact us seriously, in the coming generation or two. The weight of this will fall onto the shoulders of this coming new council, and all councils that follow. They will be pushed and pulled, manipulated and tested as to their resolve, to keep Muskoka vibrant economically, but conserved environmentally; and despite the best intentions of present policy, there will be legal challenges ongoing, and planning manipulations, that will force councillors to be vigilant to each. These stresses will come from sources with considerable power and connectedness. There are examples of this in Muskoka at present, and even the casual observer, can see the signs. Literally. We don't know how, and when the policies will be challenged, but they will be. So when I occasionally jump-up on this soapbox, and write about the problems associated, building a solid group of councillors, sensitive to the environment, and wary of development demands, and whether they are in our best interests, I am worried, by experience, that we have the potential of electing more weak councillors instead. This will be our downfall as a community. This is a multi-million dollar corporation, and it requires a vast amount of experience to keep the proverbial even keel. There's a lot at stake, and a weak council, without these sensitivities, could destine us modest tree huggers, and low key environmentalists, to step-up our game, to meet any shortfall.
I travel all over Muskoka, throughout the four seasons, in the misty mornings, and the snowy afternoons of February; the rain, of late spring, and the bright sunshine of painted autumn mornings, when the sky is so incredibly blue, that it takes the breath away. I have canoed on Lake Rosseau, into the fire-glow of the setting sun, and I have awoken with the sound of ripples, washing against the rocky shore of Lake Joseph. I have marveled at the urban landscape, of Bracebridge, at sunrise, and tried to imagine what it would have been like, in the hamlet's first years, for settlers to navigate those huge hillsides, of which the settlement has many. I used to sit on the hillside known as Gray's Rock, on old Highway 11, in Bracebridge, looking down at the old farm pastures, so beautifully appointed, at harvest time, and found myself a mossy cradle in which to sit, along the banks of the North Branch of the Muskoka River, at Bass Rock, and thought there was no finer place on earth. Just as I now look out from my office window, onto the lowland of The Bog, that we nearly lost to a weak council's poorly thought-out plan, for the future, I am again reminded of the importance, of electing councillors who appreciate, there is a place for the urban jungle; and it isn't at the compromise of the hinterland.
If I should decide to run for one of numerous council positions, in the upcoming municipal election, in October, you now have a few firm planks of my platform in advance. I would weaken the reference of "activist" if I casually referred to myself as such. I am but a citizen of a magnificent rural region of Canada, that is vulnerable to the shift and expansion of urban interests; one who believes stewardship is the way forward, and that may or may not require a trace amount of environmental activism; rather, sensible proportion. The wealth of our region is as much, in what we don't have, as what we do!
Thanks for joining today's blog.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
SUPERSTITIONS AND FOLKLORE ON THE MUSKOKA FRONTIER
SETTLERS BROUGHT FEAR AND LOATHING FROM THE OLD COUNTRY - BELIEFS IN HOBGOBLINS, TROLLS, LEPRECHAUNS AND ASSORTED BANDY-LEGGED WEE BEASTIES
I DON'T LIKE GIVING LECTURES, AND I DON'T LIKE SITTING-IN ON THEM EITHER. DID THIS AT UNIVERSITY AND HATED EVERY MOMENT. YES BUT DID I LEARN ANYTHING? INDEED. THAT I DON'T LIKE LECTURES!
WHEN I'VE BEEN ASKED TO GIVE PRESENTATIONS, IN THE PAST, I ALWAYS AGREE AT FIRST, BUT HATE THE IDEA IN RETROSPECT. IT WAS BEFORE SUZANNE TOOK OVER MANAGING MY PUBLIC PERFORMANCES. I'M NOT A BAD PUBLIC SPEAKER, SO I'M TOLD, BUT LIKE FLYING, I STEW ABOUT IT FOR THE WEEKS AND DAYS LEADING UP TO THE ENGAGEMENT. THE FIRST THING THAT SUZANNE DID FOR ME, AS MY MANAGER / AGENT, WAS TO INSIST ON AT LEAST A MONTH'S NOTICE OF A SPEAKING GIG, AND MOST IMPORTANT, THAT I BE ALLOWED TO SELECT THE TOPIC. I WON'T BUDGE ON THIS. I'M MORE COMFORTABLE CHATTING ABOUT THOSE AREAS OF REGIONAL HISTORY, I'M MOST FAMILIAR. WHEN THE MUSKOKA LAKES MUSEUM CONTACTED ME, ABOUT A PRESENTATION THEY WANTED ME TO DO FOR THEIR WEEKLY "LECTURE SERIES," I REFUSED TO DO WHAT THEY WERE MOST INTERESTED IN……..(NOT SURE WHAT THAT WAS), AND INSTEAD TOLD THEM I WANTED TO DO A LECTURE ABOUT LOCAL FOLKLORE, HOMESTEAD SUPERSTITIONS AND REMINISCENCES OF PARANORMAL ACTIVITIES HERE IN THE HINTERLAND OF ONTARIO. THEY WEREN'T SURE ABOUT THIS, BUT I INSISTED. WELL, IT TURNED OUT TO BE A REMARKABLE EVENING, AND WE TALKED WITH GUESTS FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR AFTER THE TALK. IT'S THE REASON I'VE KEPT UP ON PARANORMAL TALES, AND FOLK LORE, AS DOCUMENTED BY HISTORIANS AND STORY-TELLERS THROUGHOUT OUR REGION. I FIND IT COMPELLING.
WE MUST UNDERSTAND, FIRST OF ALL, THAT THOSE WHO EMIGRATED TO CANADA, AND TO THE MUSKOKA REGION IN THE 1860'S ONWARD, BROUGHT OLD-COUNTRY SUPERSTITIONS TO OUR DISTRICT…..CULTURAL FOLKLORE FROM ICELAND, NORWAY, GERMANY, SCOTLAND, IRELAND, ENGLAND AND DENMARK, TO NAME A FEW COUNTRIES, WHERE EARLY SETTLERS CAME FROM, DURING THE YEARS OF THE FREE GRANT AND HOMESTEAD ACT; GUARANTEEING 100 ACRE PARCELS TO PIONEER FARMERS. IT WAS, IN MOST CASES, A WICKED CONTRAST OF ENVIRONS, FROM THE URBAN AREAS OF EUROPE WHERE THEY HAD LIVED, ONLY MONTHS EARLIER, BEFORE FACING A BLEAK SCENE IN THE HEAVILY FORESTED MUSKOKA OF THE 1860'S AND 70'S. THERE IS ONE OF THESE FOLK STORIES, OF WHICH I AM PARTICULARLY FOND, AND ONE THAT I USED IN MY LECTURE, AT THE MUSEUM IN PORT CARLING. IT'S CONTAINED IN THE FIRST BOOK, WRITTEN BY FAMILY HISTORIAN, BERT SHEA; "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS AND BIRTH OF A TOWNSHIP," AND INVOLVES THE INTER-ACTION BETWEEN IRISH PROTESTANTS AND CATHOLICS, LIVING SIDE BY SIDE, IN THE UFFORD / THREE MILE LAKE AREA, OF THE PRESENT TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES. THE PROTESTANTS BEING THE SHEAS, WELL KNOWN MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL ORANGE LODGE, AND THE LOVELYS, AN IRISH, ROMAN CATHOLIC FAMILY, SETTLED IN THE MIDST OF "ORANGE" AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE. HERE NOW IS BERT SHEA, PROFILING THIS SCENE, CIRCA 1865, (BASED ON FAMILY STORIES) IN THE HILLY, PICTURESQUE COUNTRYSIDE OF UFFORD, TITLED AFTER A BRITISH NAMESAKE.
"THE COMING OF THE LOVELYS"
"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrating to Canada, and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to the County of York, where he traded twelve pairs of men's handmade boots for the one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railroad Station, who from there, having heard the call of free grant land in Muskoka, with his young wife and family of small children, joined in the great move northward; their destination Watt Township and the Three Mile Lake settlement of Ufford," penned Bert Shea, about the coming of this hopeful, enterprising young family.
"Journeying by rail as far as the Iron ran, then on foot, carrying their belongings, stopping somewhere within the boundary of Muskoka for a night's lodging. And in conversing with others, someone inquired where his destination lay, to which Pat answered, Watt Township. 'Ah,' says his friend, 'I would advise you to stay away from there: in that Three Mile Lake settlement, they are a bunch of savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place in known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. And Ufford is the centre of it. On your way in you will come over Bogart's Hill and before you is the place known as the Devil's Den, and the next big hill you look down is Smalley's Hill, and that is the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. They will poison your cattle, they will burn you out. You will never get along; you are Irish Roman Catholic and they are all Orangemen."
NOTE: Did you think I was fooling, in an earlier blog, when I noted that Bert Shea is my wife, Suzanne's uncle, and her grandfather, John Shea, had the farmstead in Ufford, the epicenter of the Wolves activities. One day recently, a customer came into our boys' music shop, on the main street of Gravenhurst, and started talking to them about her particular stake in local history. I'm not sure how it came about, but the customer mentioned the community of Ufford, and both boys perked up, and Andrew said, "Maybe you've heard of my family?" She asked who they were, and Andrew very proudly said, "I am a descendent of the Three Mile Lake Wolves." The customer stepped back, chin on chest, shocked these two young men knew about such a thing. It turns out, the boys found a distant cousin of the wolf den……and they shared some other family anecdotes. The Wolves (Sheas), used to visit Bracebridge monthly, and it was common for them to lock arms, and walk down the centre of Manitoba Street, looking for any local citizen, to challenge their authority…..and their fighting prowess. They beat a waiter at the Queen's Hotel, as they say, "to within an inch of his life," because he made the mistake of stepping on Old Shep's (their dog) tail, while they were enjoying their lunch. Suzanne scoffs at the idea she is a modern day carry-over of the family tradition, yet I have often thought, deep in the shadows of the moonlit night, I saw her wandering the woodlands, and heard the faint howling of a latent wolf-kind. Don't you dare tell her to read this blog. Or I'll be living in the woodlands. So if and when you meet our wee lads, in their music shop, beware of their family roots. Let us continue with uncle Bert's re-telling of this pioneer story.
"A blast like this to a man on his way to a new home, among strangers, a law-abiding citizen and a young family, was a terrible dampener to his inspirations. Pat stood silent and motionless for a short time in deep thought. Then turning around facing the direction of his journey, in a low voice and Irish accent say he, 'I'm going anyway.' Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skidded across the sky, borne on the northwest wind. Darkness creeping down as he travelled over Bogart's Hill and through the Devil's Den. And over Smalley's Hill into the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves, to the centre of the valley. And wending in the darkness up the brush trail to his little shanty on the hillside of Lot 15, Con.4, the naked limbs clashed in the wind overhead, low whirling blasts swirled the dead leaves around, the little shanty door creaked, as he swung it open to admit the good wife and children. In the dim light of the little lantern, he started a fire on the hearth, that brought light and cheer. This was their home."
Bert Shea records that, "It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of the wind or the night, moaning of the trees and the clashing of the gads. And above all, the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts or feelings that may have reigned in the heart and mind of Pat Lovely; prayers were said and all was left in the keeping of the Good Saint and the little family slept, as only they of clean conscience and weary from their travel. The morning broke. Pat and the good woman were astir, the children's voices were heard and little feet pattered about the shanty. Then suddenly from the cover of thick bush walked a tall black whiskered man. He walked directly to the cabin door. Pat met him at the step, and an Irishman whose face bore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to within arm's length of Pat, and stopped looking the Irishman in the eyes, extending his hand saying, 'I'm Bill Shea; I believe you are Pat Lovely.' 'It's Pat Lovely I am,' says he, as he slowly accepted the outstretched hand as a female voice from within the shanty proclaimed, 'May the Gods in mercy give us peace'."
The historian, Mr. Shea, writes, "What else was said, we do not know, but from that day on, the Lovely's and Sheas were the best of friends. This friendship extended from neighbors to neighbors, till Pat became the Irish seasoning in a mixed community. But as time went on, he became regarded by some in a very serious way. As one who possessed certain powers that were mysterious, which he could use in different ways. One most talked of, especially by the young people who declared to be true, that Pat had the power to put himself in a 45 gallon oak barrel with both ends closed, the only opening being the two inch bung out of which he would talk to them. (He could throw his voice). Pat was a good neighbor and had good neighbors, but sometimes neighborly good nature will wear threadbare. In this particular case, Wm. Kay had a very fine black boar that was hard to keep in his pen; a log enclosure and when free, took a particular liking to the flavor of Pat Lovely's potatoes. Pat continued to fix the fence and chase the boar out till at last his potato crop was going to be ruined. This, to an Irishman, was sufficient reason and justification for retaliatory actions; so he openly pronounced a curse on Kay's pigs for a duration of twenty years. The writer is not adding to or taking away, when he related that it was acknowledged by Wm. Kay that he had trouble raising pigs for some years. After the pronouncement of Pat's curse, and not until the elapse of the years of its duration did he enjoy the measure of satisfaction that eventually became his in later years. The following account is a true happening and known throughout the neighborhood. Though years have passed since its time, the writer has often heard the aged of the community relate this marvelous affair."
He writes, of the near tragic mishap, that "A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had gotten seriously cut and was bleeding to death. The bed was soaked with blood. All efforts to save the boy seemed to be a failure; he could not last much longer. The father walked out of the house, leaving the mother and the boy alone, as he stood there before the door, the thought came to him. He immediately called the younger son, a boy of perhaps nine years old, saying 'Go over and tell Pat to come over quick, your brother is bleeding to death.' The young man fleet as the wind, lost no time on the run and delivered the message. As the father of the bleeding boy stood on the door yard waiting to see Pat's sturdy body coming hurriedly over the fields. But not so; he appeared from the door of his own house. Before the door, he stood looking over to this troubled neighbor for a short time, in whose interval the mother of the bleeding boy rushed out the door to the father saying the blood has stopped. The writer heard the father, when an old man, declare the truth of the whole affair, saying, 'Pat didn't need to come over. He could stop the blood from where he was, and the boy got better. Pat, as others, gave his time and energy to the rolling back of the frontier, and bringing in an era of development to the community. He built the first frame house in the Three Mile Lake settlement. The writer would question, the thought; at that date it could be the first frame house in the township, as at that date there was a sawmill at Lot 8, Con. 4, to cut the lumber. This house was lath and plastered, the lath having been made by hand. The man who did the plastering and carpentry, his name has passed from the memory of the writer. And at this date there are some remaining to ask, but this home has since been remodeled and is in a state of good repair."
This is a good story of tolerance….. most of the time, except for the black boar incident. A story of the Green and the Orange living side by side in a new country, and actually getting along. Is it possible that Pat Lovely had such power of prayer, that he could stop a child's bleeding? It's a folk tale. It's just one of thousands, a majority of these remarkable stories having been lost over the centuries. It is thanks to family historians like Bert Shea, who have saved this important tale, for enjoyment by a modern, new century audience.
Thanks for joining me today, for this historical blog. There are so many wonderful regional and family histories, contained in the respective Muskoka Collections, of our district libraries. Go and have a look for yourself. Today when we travel frequently, looking for antiques and collectibles, in virtually every nook and cranny in this district, we appreciate the ghost towns and forgotten hamlets, the less travelled crossroads and country lanes, as being the habitations and former caraways that opened up this region to settlement. We are reverent of all the things that have come before us……we are but voyeurs upon the work of so many others. Knowing the history of this region, as antique hunters, has always given us a big advantage over our competitors, especially when dealing with long-time citizens, who wish to share their memories of important heirloom pieces they wish to sell……many items tied in to those earlier days on the Muskoka frontier. We love to talk history.
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