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| Canadian Folk Art, original watercolour by Ruth Dick circa 1950 potentially of rural Ontario or Quebec, found in the Orillia area this past weekend |
ROSS YOUNG WAS IN THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE TRADE FOR THE FUN OF IT - MAKING A PROFIT WAS A BONUS
HE WAS SOMEONE TO LEARN FROM IN OUR PROFESSION, BUT I MET HIM TOO LATE IN LIFE FOR MY OWN GOOD
We lost a good friend and colleague last Wednesday, when Ross Young, of Huntsville, passed away from complications, of an out of control cancer, that had suddenly overtaken his body. Most of his colleagues knew he was failing, but you didn't dare bring up the subject, other than to say he was looking good, and had a noticeable spring to his step. Even in pain, he would give a little laugh, and suggest old age was a pain in the ass.
One day, when my antique hunter friend, dropped in to our Gravenhurst shop, for a visit, I invited him back to see the new room we had just opened that week. It's a long haul down the hall to the end room, and outside of our love for antiques, we shared another reality. We both had detectable limps. Halfway down the hall, me wobbling into him, and him brushing against me, both being slightly left of centre, he stopped, and asked me suddenly, with a smile on his face, if I was mocking his handicap by limping as well. I replied with a loud retort, "Jesus, you old bugger, I thought you were making fun of me." He then asked how I got my limp, and I told him it was the result of hard living. "Me too," he blurted deep into a resonating laugh, that then, by its happenstance, made me laugh as well. We then carried on down the hall, looking like the life-wounded, but having a good visit, stopping occasionally to rest our joints.
I told Suzanne, on a motor trip, a half decade back, that I would never, ever, agree to open up another antique shop. I was serious, and seeing as I'm usually the instigator of these kind of life-altering decisions, it was more likely the case, I was talking to myself, when the subject of antiques entered the conversation. To that point, I had run two antique shops, in Bracebridge, one in the 1970's, and the other in the late 1980's, to the mid 1990's. Business was so slow in the second shop, that I was able to write four manuscripts, a history for the Bracebridge Senior Citizens' Club, feature copy for the Muskoka media, including a weekly column for The Muskoka Advance. All from my lonely sales desk, through the four seasons. I'd opened my first antique shop with my parents, after graduating from university, and although it was in a lovely old house, on the main street, the effort never showed a profit, and my partners quickly got bored and found other more gainful employment.
The reason I'm giving this backgrounder, to what is supposed to be a memorial tribute, to a new but old friend of the antique profession, is that due to circumstance (of which I'm sure you can relate), I changed my mind on the store thing, two years later. Room became available at our sons' vintage music shop, on Muskoka Road, here in Gravnhurst, and seeing as we could hardly move in our house, due to the clutter of old stuff, a store seemed at that point, a viable solution to a lot of pressing issues. If you believe in destiny, and that "everything happens for a reason," and have occasionally wondered about those hair-raising coincidences, that keep popping up under strange circumstances, then the story I'm about to tell you, won't be all that surprising. As I have written volumes about my belief in the afterlife, and getting messages from those who have crossed over, if we are open to the possibility, well then, Ross Young may have played a role in the decision to re-open our antique shop, this time in Gravenhurst. If you have been reading my blogs over the past several years, you will appreciate that I never stop communicating with those who have passed, especially those who have been important mentors in my life and work; so it should be of no surprise, that I have just now, told Ross Young, that I'm going to miss his earthly visits to our shop, and that we'd have to go on that mortal / immortal grape-vine of sensory perception, to keep up our weekly routine of story sharing. And boy oh boy did we share stories.
If we hadn't opened up this present antique shop when we did, I might never have met and come to know, Ross Young.
Ross Young reminded me of a lot of characters I've come to know in my years, toiling in the antique trade. Colorful characters, who used to show up at my shop counter, at times when I was so bored, I had begun gnawing at my fingers; and then engage me happily in kindly and stimulating conversation. I'd soon have a pulse again, and could call off the undertaker. I wanted these antique industry chums to regale me in stories, of antique hunting adventures, and major coups out on the hustings; because frankly, I felt trapped behind the counter. Like Jack Kiernan, of Baysville, who used to show up every week, sometimes twice, while his wife did the grocery shopping. I think she used to dispatch Jack, because he grumbled a lot, about having to be in such a place, as a grocery store, God forbid, when he could be chewing the fat with Ted up at Birch Hollow Antiques. I learned a lot about vintage Dinky, Corgi, Matchbox, and Lesney cars and trucks, from Jack, who had, in many ways, the dream retirement, playing with his toys. We sold them for Jack on consignment. But it was Jack's enthusiasm that helped inspire me, through many down times, when the only profit, was by cheating; meaning I would occasionally close the shop a half hour early, so I could get home a little sooner.
Ross and Jack had a lot in common that way, because both seemed to know exactly when I wanted to box all the stuff, and close up shop. Antique dealers are notorious for their obsessions, and in mood swings, after a bad day or week, wanting to lock the door and either sell online thereafter, or from an unmanned booth, at someone else's antique mall. Shortly after we opened the shop here, at the back of the boys' music business, there was one particularly quiet day, I remember well. It was almost unsettling, because of its burdensome silence, as if I was deceased yet didn't know the full extent of the situation. The only sound, other than the ticking of a clock, above the counter, was coming from around the corner of my room. I heard this shuffle of feet, coming down the hall, toward our first of two rented rooms. It was Ross, who walked with considerable distress, and it made a shuffling sound on the carpet. I knew that he had been in the shop the week before, when I wasn't in, because Andrew told me about the elderly gentleman who bought five of our vintage barometers. He had actually come to help the customer, who said he felt a little wobbly, and didn't want to reach them off the wall by himself. Now we don't sell many barometers in a year, so I wanted to meet this man, because I had dozens more in storage.
Ross looked like a Karsh portrait that suddenly, and without warning, had come to life, and stepped out of the photograph for a visit. He was a slight man with knobbly knees, and wobbled noticeably as he shuffled down the hall, but always with a strong sense of direction and commitment to the task at hand. He set his sights on the destination, and usually because he spotted something he wanted, sitting on a table, or leaning against the wall, far off in the distance. He wore a hat like Canadian writer / historian Peter C. Newman, and he had a radio voice that was stunning, with perfect enunciation of his words, coming from a modest hundred and twenty pound frame. He was craggy and gnarled, like a venerable oak tree, and he had a resident gruffness that took a while to get used to, but then, as far as antique dealers go, at least the oldtimers who tutored me, he was about average in terms of his take on the profession. Let's just say, if he had ever made his whistle-stops here, a little more substantial, and agreed to let me write down some of this antiquing tales, bordering on yarns, I would have been able to compile a manuscript the length and breadth of "War and Peace."
Ross Young was, like me, a former media staffer, with the Toronto Star, if memory serves, and we both nearly killed ourselves with drink, back in what we considered our halcyon days of living life to the fullest, with a flask of liquor in one hand, a glass in the other. Work. We'd get around to it. We'd often carry a conversation well past our antique adventures, and occasionally we'd twist into a laughable remembrance, of former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, or "Rimmer," as most of us knew him. Admittedly, we would both agree eventually, that our respective media experiences, and failings, in the steps of urban legend, weren't so far off the exploits Rimstead wrote his columns about. Such that he might have also penned us into one of his accounts, as his drinking buddies; that is if he'd known us better, and we'd o course, been sitting across the table from him, at one of his favorite watering holes.
Ross loved Rimmer's writing capability, especially his unique way of making fun of himself, while still maintaining a strong, unfaltering story-line. Ross, as well, was a good judge of newspaper quality. He didn't have much good to say about the modern press locally or nationally, and recalled the time he went and protested this watering-down of coverage, to a local publisher, who then died suddenly the next day. He confided in me later, that he felt terrible about this, believing he had added to the publisher's stress, contributing to his demise. I assured him, he had played no significant role in the man's death.
Ross used to critique my editorial work in "Curious; The Tourist Guide," and in "The Great North Arrow," especially if I had written about something he found insightful about our industry, on a subject he had been unfamiliar with until that point; but all he would say, with a trace of sarcasm, was "I can't believe how much you write Ted." That's it! But I know he hated what we call "fluff" writing, which means way too many words, and too many of them that have no real purpose, other than to bulk-up the ink to fill a space between the ads. I assured him that as a news writer, I was far more frugal with my expenditure of ink. But I kind of think that if he had owned a budgie, he would have put the page, my column was printed on, in the bottom to catch the droppings. We just didn't go too deep on this subject. So we'd shift direction and start discussing what was wrong with the antique profession, and lesser opportunities to get the good stuff anymore.
Ross Young will never make it onto the antique dealers' hall of fame plaque, if there even is one somewhere out there. He couldn't have cared less about this, because he knew the antique profession as a deeply personal, intimate experience, of "hunter" and "the hunted." He might have had wonky knees, but to get to a piece he suspected of being a semi holy grail, his limp disappeared, and he had a mountain goat-like nimbleness to make it, whatever it was, his prize of the day. He loved to talk about his silver finds, and one of his hobbies, get this, was polishing his favorite pieces. Now how many of you would wish, on a Saturday night, to whip out some tarnished silver, to fulfill a recreational pursuit. But we, in the antique trade, are all a little bit odd this way. So I did understand Ross. I also understood clearly why he would lecture any dealer, who admitted to melting down sterling silver, to sell, instead of listing them in their shops, with the added antique value attached. He was a purest in this regard, and he'd often bring in pieces, such as a rare silver cigarette caddy, with regal provenance, to show Suzanne and I, as proud as if he was hauling along the bounty of the crown jewels.
He had a passion for any well made furniture constructed from teak, his wood of choice, and he had a particular fondness for vintage cigarette collectables, such as silver lighters; but he also knew good quality art when he found it. Yet he'd often talk about misadventures buying and selling art, and he admitted, with resignation, that while art was inspiring, he wasn't sure enough of himself, buying paintings at auctions any more. He did confess to buying a three dimensional piece, a while back, from a local silent auction, and being offered a substantial amount from a dealer friend in Toronto. But this was where Ross shined. He was, in many ways, the poster-boy (guy) for networking, and could have taught a college course, on how to connect, for fun and profit, with dealers and collectors, without anything more elaborate than a plain jane "land-line" phone. Ross was old school, not because he was reluctant to use technology to do business more efficiently, but because he was someone who was remarkably humane, in that he believed the antique profession, was best suited to face to face deal-making. It was a tradition of the business, dating back centuries. So he thought of himself as a traditionalist, and always made his business a face to face enterprise. He was like Charles Dickens' character, Old Fezziwig, from the story "A Christmas Carol," in the sense, he felt that business was as much, a commitment to a cherished way of life. It wasn't you see, just about making money. There was much more to the life of an antique dealer, than a big wad of bills in hand. Part of his enjoyment, was not just making a deal for some interesting piece, or collection, but having a visit. For us, hearing his old shoes brushing against the fibres of our carpet, meant the world was still on its correct axis, and time was moving ahead as it should, because Ross had cheerfully, once again, made his weekly visit.
Ross, truth be known, was lonely at times. It's part of the reason he adopted a cat a few years back, which he treated like royalty. Suzanne never failed to ask him how his furry friend was doing, and he always seemed delighted to offer updates. But his true happiness, every day, was visiting with all of us, a little at a time, (in order to fill his week); his antique chums, and of course family, of which he often referenced, especially about his future plans. He had his friends and family close by, especially dealer colleague, Wendy Maynard, his trusted confidant in so many ways, who runs a popular shop, "The Antique Cellar," on the main street of Huntsville, where he had a booth full of interesting collectables. Wendy was at bed-side for her friend's last moments of life, but despite the sadness associated with such a parting, she recognized just how grand it had been, knowing and working with him for all that precious time. With his demise, we lost an unsung legend in this curious profession, of buying and selling old things.
"See you next week darling," was the last farewell Ross offered, to Suzanne, who had just finished telling him, to make sure to look after himself. He liked a well made, decently proportioned corned beef on rye. On that last visit, Ross admitted he hadn't felt much like eating, which was a serious warning to Suzanne, because he loved to have his lunch in one of the local eateries she had recommended. "I got some fish and chips the other day, and all I could eat was the fish," he said, and she immediately felt, that with some of his other physical complaints, he was in real danger. For one thing, he was too slight, to lose any more weight, and not endanger himself. But he was such a tough bloke, that even after a coughing jag, that would leave him breathless, he wouldn't want to impose upon us, to beg a drink of water, or a seat on our studio couch. We'd have to impose our values, and tell him that he would offend us, if he didn't accept a bottle of water, and a brief respite to regain his composure. Suzanne would just frown at him, when he'd then say, he needed a cigarette, as he was all stocked-up, after a trip to Rama for his monthly provisions. We didn't know Ross well enough, to tell him that smoking was bad for his health. It was like telling Rimstead that he drank too much. Ross deserved his luxuries, how ever he found them, and what ever he spent on them. I think when he met up with God, at the pearly gates, he would have offered him a smoke as a gesture of friendship.
In the antique profession, there is no learning curve. It is a straight-up situation, because we can never know too much about what makes our business tick. Ross was just like a rookie, some times, when he'd get a chance to learn something he didn't know previously. Like the time Suzanne handed him a battle-worn, "American Medical Officer's presentation sword," from the Civil War, and he just stood there, analyzing the whole piece, from handle to tip, reading the inscription carefully, and taking in the history as if by osmosis, drinking it all it; the sign of an experienced treasure hunter, who always feels the connection to be providential; as if the meeting of human and inanimate object was meant to be. He was of all things, one of those passionate antique and collectable lovers, who others, outside of the profession, gossip about as being "one of those," meaning someone who finds pleasure in hoarding. Ross would tell Suzanne, that when he would grow weary of looking at something he had acquired, and couldn't seem to find a buyer, he "put it out to auction," which usually got him some money back from his original investment. "I still have a lot of stuff to get rid of," he'd confess, but then it would be hard to find an antique dealer anywhere in the big old world, who wouldn't admit the same.
When Ross spun his stories, about his antique shop days back in the city, he seemed so excited by the fact, that a crusty guy like me, across the counter, was interested in his tales of yore. I explained to him, that I loved to hear these stories about the industry, because they were from the same time-frame, I was apprenticing, before opening my own first shop. After I got used to his sense of humor, and we got the age sensitivity thing down to a chortle or two, because we both agreed that getting old sucked big time, I said to him on one of his late morning visits, that there had just been breaking news from a team of divers, still searching through the wreck of the Titanic. He seemed interested, and asked what all the fuss was about. "Ross," I said, "they found your wallet in the ship's vault." I really regretted causing him to laugh so hard, that he began choking. We'd keep a bottle of water handy, behind the counter, just in case.
But for the stalwart, tough, aggressive dealer he seemed, at first, to portray, his eyes offered a different character altogether. I watched his eyes tear-up on many occasions, especially if he was talking about his parents, especially his mother, who had meant a great deal to him. Behind the bluster, of his shallow storm, was a gentle, kind man, who would sit for hours with a cat on his lap, reading, and planning out his next day's trip. He was like W.C. Fields, when it came to a love for the motor-car, and his lengthy trips on a whim, where he'd let the open road, and the pleasures of the day, dictate how far he would travel, and with who, he would like to end his day. Sometimes it was with us, before heading back home to Huntsville. He used to confess, how much he enjoyed heading up to Rosseau for weekend sales, and having a bite of lunch with his dealer friend Mike Beasley. I said to him one day, that he was a "gad-about" if ever there was one, and he just grinned, as he went out the door, telling me his next stop was to get his "smokes," from Rama.
I only knew Ross for three years. Then why did it seem I'd known him my whole life? Well, it had to do with his casual nature, and his ability to make friends easily, and quickly. Have you ever had a meeting with a stranger, you, for no apparent reason, wanted to hug, with no other outcome expected, than a sudden warm sensation of unknown kinship. His familiar, gentle way, made him grand-fatherly, in one sense, a cousin, or brother as the conversation changed. I could have learned a lot more from this generous chap, who shuffled into our lives so gently, and left as he came, with a farewell that will stay with us, in fond recollection, for a long, long time. "See you later!"
Ross died last week, after a short stay in Huntsville Hospital. His friends are pretty sure, he knew in advance, that he had a maturing affliction, with fatal consequence, because he was no stranger to the medical community. He was undoubtedly told of the prognosis after visiting a specialist several months earlier in Orillia. He just didn't make a fuss about it, until it became obvious, he was in the final hours of life, and had limited choices to make. Even then, he would have rather stayed home with his cat, and expired without bothering anyone, including to the medical community. He really didn't want to be "a bother." Well, I never considered him as such, and Suzanne used to get a big grin on her face, every time she heard him shuffling in for another visit.
When I write about antiques and collectables, I do so, as a matter of routine and subtle provenance, include references to my cronies, who have since passed. Not only were they nice folk to share some down-time at the shop, but they so generously shared their knowledge with both Suzanne and I, and each of them, had attained almost professor status, in their chosen area of collecting; so believe me, we listened to these mentors whenever they regaled us with their antique adventures. Whether it was my old book friend, Dave Brown, historic paper sleuth, Hugh Macmillan, or Jack Kiernan, I never got tired of hearing about their conquests, and their follies, that sometimes, paralleled our own misadventures. Ross was part of that inner circle of advisors, and it gave us great pleasure to listen and learn.
I told him, in thought, a few moments ago, that he has to haunt our shop, on those days each week when he used to visit, because, son of a gun, he still has a store credit. We will always think "Ross would like that," whenever in the future, we come upon a nice piece of sterling silver. But Ross would not want us to mourn for him. Just remembering him as a friend would be enough.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
Folklore and traditions brought to Muskoka by settlers -
Part of Muskoka heritage most often forgotten - neglected - dismissed as unimportant
One of the first major research projects I undertook as a fledgling regional historian, was an in-depth examination of the Icelandic settlers arriving in the Muskoka district during the early 1870's.......homesteading in vicinity of the hamlet of Rosseau, on hilly and rough terrain they called Hekkla, also the name belonging to a legendary volcano in Iceland. It has never really been explained to me whether or not this was a reference to a miserable place to settle or it was just a comfortable namesake from the home region. Considering the damage done by the volcano over the centuries to Iceland, it’s somewhat hard to imagine it being an entirely complimentary reference. Possibly it was the case that if a volcano could be dealt with in the homeland, this treed and rocky terrain could be equally accommodated by adjustment and industrious pursuit.
The settlers landed here with very little understanding of the english language and they arrived in a region known for its particularly dense forests. Unfortunately this was not presented to them ahead of arrival. As Iceland’s climate and active volcanoes limited the number of trees in their country, one might imagine their chagrin arriving in the Canadian woodlands in the cusp of a winter season......and seeing vast stands of pine where they had expected clearings and arable farmland. They had been duped by immigration and steamship-line agents, as many significant promises were broken......from provision shortfalls, to non–existent employment opportunities, and claims of large tracts of good farmland.....somewhere beneath those towering pines and the massive web of roots over a thin layer of rock. Some settlers decided to leave, shortly after arriving, but those who stayed created a strong and neighborly hamlet still alive and well after all these years. They used the forests to their advantage and built log cabins and barns, and gained concessions from the government for clearing timber off planned roadways through the region.
Muskoka had many European settlers arrive here in those early years and a walk through some of the pioneer cemeteries will reveal just how many cultures have been represent in this part of rural Canada since the first settlers of the late 1850's onward. What is often neglected by regional historians is that these settlers brought their beliefs and traditions with them, and while they may have been somewhat diluted from the home country, it is obvious when examining the earliest pioneer accounts, that cultural identities, tradition and religious beliefs brought from the so called "Old Country," were important and most definitely part of every day life and times.
And they brought their superstitions, fears, concepts of ghosts, hob-goblins, witches, the devil, fairies, sprites, leprechauns, ogres, trolls.....the list goes on and on. When you seek out a cultural profile of Muskoka you really do have to consider how it all began and although it’s true there has been a decade by decade diluting of those early cultural differences due to generational influences and modern times, it’s important to appreciate how these beliefs and traditions survived in those early years, making the new arrivals to the region feel they had successfully established "home."
Consider as well that the Town of Bracebridge, in the summer of 1864, was named after a book written by American author Washington Irving, creator of such memorable characters as Ichabod Crane, the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle. The book was called "Bracebridge Hall," and is an intertwining collection of stories generated in part from the grand estate of Squire Bracebridge, the steward of Bracebridge Hall.....this being a follow-up book to the original Sketch-Book of 1919, when the Bracebridge family was introduced into the collection of stories stretching from British soil to the Haunted Hudson of New York State. A Canadian Federal Postal authority in the 1860's, William Dawson LeSueur, (also a well known literary critic and historian in his spare time) borrowed the name as a tribute to Irving who had recently passed away, and gave it to the fledgling community informally known as North Falls, situated on a major cataract of the Muskoka River. As for stories of mystery and legend, Bracebridge got a literary bonus being tied to one of the most famous authors in history......and entitlement to this writer’s curious characters such as the good Mr. Crane and the headless horseman......still celebrated by a few loyalists each Hallowe’en. It has only been in recent years that the connection between Irving and the Town of Bracebridge, has been more thoroughly cultivated and celebrated, with annual Bracebridge Hall Christmas dinners being held as fundraisers for the local theatre.....in honor of this international literary legacy. While the connection has been known for many decades, and Bracebridge Hall dinners have been held previously, the connection between author and town has never been a focal point or of much interest. As author of a book on the subject in 2000, I intended to change this apathy and inspire a more thorough appreciation of what such a connection can bestow upon a willing and interested community. While there are still no Irving festivals being planned, there is a gradual opening-up to the possibilities of this important literary association.
There are several historic references to the fears and superstitions brought to Muskoka from abroad, as contained in a number of important early books that I would like to share with readers. The first is a story of fear for the surroundings and this was quite understandable. As I noted with the Icelandic settlers, the Muskoka vista was one of dense bush, deep, dark and threatening. If you happened to believe in the wee beasties and hob-goblins that dwell in such untouched, mysterious places, Muskoka was loaded to the hilt with the stuff of legend.
Consider as well that many pioneers were from well populated centers in Europe, some having never lived or even visited a rural area in their own country. Arriving in what was frequently called "a God forsaken" region, it’s logical that many were not going to survive......and would either flee to the urban landscape, a new "lesser-treed" region, or perish as the government anticipated well in advance of welcoming these new Canadians to the land of adventure. There is clear evidence that the Agricultural wing of government, even by the 1880's, knew full well there would be many personal tragedies in the homestead grant districts, when they decided to open new lands for settlement, and had as much budgeted for "acceptable loss"of homesteaders......only hoping only that there would be more who stuck-it-out, than those who quit or perished. The outcome would determine if this Muskoka district experiment could work in other harsh environs.....where settlers would overcome almost insurmountable odds to build modest farmsteads. Out of exhaustion and trepidation for a hostile environs, brewed a horror for some......in this particular case, a husband and wife (mid 1860's) who had become lost in the haunted woods, as told by author Thomas McMurray, in his book "Muskoka and Parry Sound. Now imagine if you can the outright terror of being swallowed up whole by the wilderness, where settlers were miles removed from one another.....and rescue was only a slight possibility.
Consider the lost couple’s religious and cultural beliefs.......and what else did they imagine was hunting them through the inhabited woods.....other than the obvious flies, wolves and bears.
"Lost in the Woods.....The following was written some years ago (prior to 1870), on the occasion of Moses Richardson and his wife getting lost in the woods; Draper township was then but thinly settled, and the sensation it created in the settlement was intense; I (Thomas McMurray) happened to be one of the part who went in search of the missing ones. Persons unacquainted with the bush should be careful not to penetrate too far into it, unless provided with a compass. ‘What means this blowing of horns, firing of arms, and the off-repeated Hoop, whoo that greets the ear and arrests the attention of every settler?’ A man and his wife are lost in the woods is the prompt and excited reply. How sad is every countenance, how agitated every breast, how anxious every neighbor! The unhappy pair had gone in search of their cattle, mistaken their way, and got lost in the dense forest; with wild desperation they are forcing their way through the thicket of swamp, or ascending the rugged mountain’s brow, or climbing over logs vainly in search of the home they left; but alas they are totally bewildered and every step they take leads them farther from the dearest spot on earth....home sweet home.
"The neighbors now begin to collect from all points of the compass; they form themselves into companies, and decide what the signal shall be in case the unhappy wanderers are found. Animated by a noble philanthropy they start, cheered by the happy thought of saving the lost; for hours they pursue their difficult task; crossing deep gullies, ascending almost perpendicular heights, then going down steep precipices, they onward go; the sun begins to sink in the western sky, the shades of evening fall upon them, the dark curtains of night at length are thrown around them; to proceed further would be folly; in the dark they might pass the objects of their search; an eminence is sought and a fire is kindled, in order to attract the notice of the lost ones; the searchers gather around it; a little bread and pork, with some bright water from the brook that flows at the mountain’s base, form their evening meal; no levity characterizes their conduct; there is but one expression visible on each countenance, and that is sadness; hemlock brush is cut and spread that the weary searchers may rest themselves thereon; sleep is out of the question; their trouble is too deep to enjoy nature’s sweet restorer of balmy sleep. The solemn words, ‘Let us pray,’ for the first time are repeated in this dense forest; and, on the still evening air, prayer ascends to Him who came to save which was lost. (Prayers answered). Here, many miles from any human habitation, prayer for the first time is offered by white men to ‘The Great Spirit,’ the missing ones are not forgotten and earnest supplication is made that God would direct their steps. But what of the poor wanderers? They are weak and faint; hunger drives them to despair and death; death from starvation stares them in the face; the husband, as the only alternative, urges his wife to cut a slice from the calf of his leg in order to satiate her craving for food; but the faithful wife replied that she would rather willingly die with her husband.
‘Moments of anxiety pass, and the long-looked for morning dawns, and the sun begins to peep in the eastern horizon, and after partaking of some refreshment they again start on their mission of humanity; the burning sun beams upon them, they wipe the perspiration from their brows, and the flies from their necks, and uncomplainingly persevere over logs and swamps; now the coat of one of the party is caught on a snag and rent to shivers, while another man’s pants are almost torn from top to bottom. Hark! Hark! The report of firearms informs them of the fact that one of the companies has found the wanderers; all fire off their off their guns in ecstasy and run in the direction of the firing to catch a glimpse of Moses and his wife. Oh, what a sad sight was then presented to their gaze. Poor creatures, how sad their condition, how weak, how changed, what wildness in their eyes; they are mad with fright, and are starving with hunger, as one pipe of tobacco has been all that they have enjoyed for over 48 hours; the realization that they were lost, the fear of death, and the lashings of a guilty conscience for having gone out on the Sabbath-day in search of their cattle......they had been lost once before by disregarding the sacred precept.....remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy; together with their swollen limbs and bleeding forms, completed their misery and made the sight painful to behold; still there was joy mingled with sadness, every eye sparkles with delight, every countenance is lit up with a smile, all share in the triumph, men embrace each other and weep for gladness, while the forest fills with their shouting and rejoicings. A little nourishment having been administered to the sufferers, the friends form themselves in procession and take turns carrying the weak ones home; after reaching the log cabin and bidding them an affectionate farewell, they turn their steps homewards with a murmur, although they have travelled many weary miles by a burning sun, and as they proceed they inform every one they meet of the good news. ‘They’re found, they’re found!’.....and all join in a sincere and hearty ‘Thank God, thank God!’
One certainly gets the opinion after reading this that the Devil was lurking in those forboding woods for unsuspecting, naive, and vulnerable wanderers......who should have been more keenly observing the Sabbath instead.
In another reference, Thomas McMurray does make an observation that hasn’t been repeated in history.....or so as far as we historians know.....and as a mystery of our region, it is most definitely worth repeating. It happened in area of Muskoka Falls, just south of the urban area of Bracebridge, at a cataract on the Muskoka River known historically as the Great Falls.
"The Grand Muskoka Falls are always attractive to tourists, and much admired by the lovers of nature. In the spring of 1866 a scene of unusual interest presented itself. In former years the spray had formed an arch of the Falls but on this occasion it assumed the form of a cone with a crater, and from its mouth the spray came boiling forth in awful grandeur, ascending at least 100 feet. It might be compared to a mighty, massive silver fountain, sending forth its sparkling waters. Any one who has witnessed Vesuvius burning in his fury may form some conception of this grand site. As I gazed upon the scene a double rainbow spanned the Falls; countless icicles were hanging from the branches of the tall pines as they bent gracefully over the cataract, and I wished that the world might be privileged with the sight. I drove some distance in order to get an artist to take a negative but the spray was so great that a good picture could not be obtained."
There was great reverence to the nature of Muskoka that came in a variety of forms, from what McMurray reported about the ice and steam of the Great Falls, to the story of the husband and wife lost in the treacherous woods.....as if the forest was a hungry, malevolent force looking for anyone who did not have God’s blessing to enter.
In another fascinating story of an early pioneer family, and the first significant reference to the paranormal, in this homestead era of Muskoka, circa the 1860's, family historian Bert Shea, in his book, "History of The Sheas and Birth of a Township," includes the following tale of one neighbor’s unexpected favor to another homesteader in distress: (The Coming of the Lovelys, circa 1865, page 70-71)
"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrated to Canada and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to County of York where he traded twelve pairs of men’s hand-made boots for one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railway 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. Journeying by rail as far as their iron run, 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, there area a bunch of human savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place is known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves and before you 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. 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 dampner to his aspirations. 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 says he...’I’m going anyway!’
"Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skudded 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 into his little shanty on the hillside, 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 fair home.
"It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of wind or the night moanings of the trees. And above all the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts of 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. The 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, he an Irishman whose face wore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to with arms 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.’
"What else was said we do not know but from that day on the Lovelys 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 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 also place curses if need be, as was the case with William Kay’s pigs that continually got into and destroyed Pat’s potato crop.....a curse that would last 20 years, and cause a decline in the subject pig population)
"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 marvellous affair.
"A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had got 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 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 here quick....your brother is bleeding to death.’ The young son 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 his 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 declared 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."
The stories collected by Bert Shea are some of the most significant cultural records in the district, and his two books contain many important references to tradition, folklore, cultural heritage and both family and regional history.
A Spiritual Place for Some
A well known writer of considerable acclaim told me one day that artists and poets have long found Muskoka a spiritual place. I must have, in some way offended her with rolled eyes or a look of disinterest, because she grabbed my arm and stated once again..... "This isn’t just my opinion.....it’s the opinion of many poets and artists who found this an inspiring location to work," because of some extraordinary spiritual connection you might say. Not wanting to offend her for a second time, I listened carefully to her explanation. There wasn’t really any tangible list of reasons why she believed in its spiritual effervescence but she finally said to me..... "You know what I mean as a writer yourself, don’t you?" I had to think about it for awhile then.....and in fact, it has been on my mind for the past several decades. In my own opinion she had a valid point but it’s just not easy to explain. I’ve always been particularly susceptible to things that abut or enter the paranormal including the sensation of being in a spiritually charged setting. As a self-proclaimed landscape writer, I have experienced many enchantments up close and personal in the past 30 years of hiking the woodlands of this region. While at the time she had caught me off guard, I did understand her reference to Muskoka’s spiritual ambience. If you’re a writer or artist, musician or philosopher, hobby or otherwise, who has sat along the lakeshore on a summer evening, you’ve known then the subtle, haunting heartsong of the angel’s harp, and the gentle ease by which the spirit rises from its mortal host......the subtle enchantment of solitude, and its gentle play on the creative disposition. Yes indeed, I have long known Muskoka as a spiritual place.....and in the coming blog entries over the next few months I would like to introduce you to some aspects of Muskoka’s artistic, paranormal heritage that is avoided by historians.......because it is by far more spiritual than factual......closer to paranormal than actual......and it doesn’t have a cornerstone mounted on the side with a time capsule insulated inside. The stories are just stories but no less important to the cultural heritage of our region of Canada.
Some of this will, in part, pertain to the curiosity and literary provenance of having Washington Irving’s name associated with the history of Muskoka......and as he examined the phantom ships on the Hudson River, a Headless Horseman and the disappearance of the good Mr. Crane, we’ll have a wee look at some of our own home grown phantoms, sightings, meetings, and other "passing in the night" events........a rail employee who was decapitated when he fell from a moving train north of Bracebridge....who may still be looking for his head, to a phantom lady in a Victorian gown who can’t get used to her final resting spot in a Milford Bay Cemetery.....and gets her hem caught on the fence trying to step out of the graveyard......to voices from a burial ground calling to passersby for their attention to their plight. They aren’t frightening stories but interesting tales worth re-telling.
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