A Victorian Christmas In Bracebridge That Was Splendidly Haunted
By Ted Currie
For much of the past year, Woodchester Villa, prominently situated, on the hillside overlooking the Muskoka River, and the south end of Bracebridge's main street, has been undergoing extensive renovations. The Bracebridge Museum, housed in the octagonal home, of former Bracebridge Woolen Mill owner, Henry Bird, was found to have major architectural deficiencies, and the Town of Bracebridge voted in favor, of carrying out the necessary and expensive renovations.
The plan was to bring the building back up to its former grandeur, from when, in the early 1980's, it was officially opened, with considerable celebration, as the town's first community museum. This is a Christmas season tribute, to the museum's better times, entertaining the citizens of Bracebridge and area. Our annual Victorian Christmas social, was one of our favorite museum programs of the year. Decorating the 1880's estate was a joy, and it brought out the spirits of the place. In more ways than one.
At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the snow-clad landscape, above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe.
I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines, became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. I'd awake with a start, sometimes hearing a sharp knocking at the door. No one was ever there, when I raced to open the porch door. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.
One Christmas, the year before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind.
This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.
On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.
It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.
It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.
I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off.
Woodchester Villa and Museum, for us, was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.
The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.
I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.
I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like. I think it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.
From My Christmas Archives
From My Christmas Archives
FATHER HEFFERNAN TAUGHT US A THING OR TWO ABOUT GOODWILL AND COMMUNITY - ON THE GRID IRON - THE RINK AND THE PLAYGROUND
THE CALL ON CHRISTMAS EVE
THIS IS A TRUE STORY. A NICE SEASONAL FOLK TALE, THAT I MAY BE ACCUSED OF EMBELLISHING FOR THE SAKE OF AN AUDIENCE. THIS IS FAR FROM THE TRUTH. BUT IT IS, WITHOUT QUESTION, FOLKISH IN ITS RE-TELLING, AND OF THIS I OFFER NO APOLOGY.
I HOPE HE DOESN'T MIND THE REFERENCE. FORGIVE ME FATHER. I'VE BEEN BORROWING THE NAMES OF HOLLYWOOD CHARACTERS, FOR YEARS AND YEARS, TO COMPARE LOCAL NOTABLES, TO THOSE WELL KNOWN ACTORS OF THE SILVER SCREEN. I HAVE BEEN HOPELESSLY BUT WILLINGLY CAPTIVATED BY OLD MOVIES AND TELEVISION, SINCE I WAS A CHILD. IT'S AN HONOR, AT LEAST IN MY MIND, WHEN I OFFER THESE COMPARISONS AND PARALLELS, IT'S ALWAYS WITH KIND INTENT. YOU HAVE TO BE CAREFUL COMPARING FICTIONAL CHARACTERS WITH THOSE OF FLESH, BONE AND SPIRIT.
SINCE I WAS SNOTTY-NOSED STREET URCHIN, WITH THE KNEES TORN OUT OF MY PANTS, FROM ROUGH PLAY IN THE SCHOOL YARD, AND ALWAYS BLEEDING ELBOWS FROM FRICTION AGAINST LIMESTONE AND PAVEMENT, I EVEN COMPARED MYSELF TO MOVIE-LAND CHARACTERS. I WAS AS TOUGH AS ALAN LADD, WHO STARRED IN THE MOVIE "SHANE," AND AS RUGGED, YET KIND, AS HOSS CARTWRIGHT, OF THE TELEVISION SHOW, "BONANZA," PLAYED BY ACTOR DAN BLOCKER. IF I HAD OWNED A STETSON, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN A WHITE ONE, LIKE ALL THE GOOD COWBOYS WORE. FROM AN EARLY AGE, I HAD A GOOD, WORKING IDEA, WHAT A HERO LOOKED AND ACTED LIKE, VERSUS SOMEONE WHO WANTED TO BURY ME IN A SNOW BANK ON A LARK.
AS FOR FATHER BERNARD HEFFERNAN, AND I TOLD HIM SO ONE CHRISTMAS EVE, I ALWAYS THOUGHT OF HIM AS OUR OWN "FATHER O'MALLEY," PLAYED BY BING CROSBY, IN THE ICONIC MOVIES, "BELLS OF ST. MARYS," AND "GOING MY WAY." I MET HIM ON THE GRID-IRON OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, IN MY FIRST YEAR AFTER ARRIVING HERE, FROM BURLINGTON, ONTARIO. HE KNOCKED ME DOWN ON A NUMBER OF OCCASIONS, EXPLAINING AT LEAST ONE RIPPED KNEE IN MY NEW PANTS, AND ANOTHER ELBOW BURN. HE PLAYED COMPETITIVELY, AND ROUGHLY, ESPECIALLY ON THE HOCKEY RINK, BUT HE WAS THE FIRST ONE TO REACH UNDER YOUR ARMS, TO PULL YOU UPRIGHT, AND BRUSH OFF THE STONES AND DIRT, OR THE ICE CHIPS, IF WE WERE PLAYING HOCKEY. HERE'S HOW I MET FATHER HEFFERNAN, AND WHAT HE CAME TO MEAN TO ME, SINCE I WAS HASTILY INTRODUCED TO HIM, ONE SCHOOL-DAY, DURING THE HEAT OF BATTLE, BACK IN ABOUT 1966 OR SO.
FIRST OF ALL, AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT NUMEROUS TIMES, IN MY NEWSPAPER COLUMNS, DATING BACK TO THE EARLY 1980'S, I CAME TO BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, WITH "CITY KID" ARROGANCE WRITTEN ALL OVER ME. FOR THOSE FIRST FEW YEARS, I HAD A TOUGH TIME PROVING TO CLASSMATES THAT I WAS THRILLED TO BE A "TOWN" KID. I STILL CAME OFF AS ARROGANT, I SUPPOSE, BUT IF THAT WAS THE CASE, IT WAS NOT INTENTIONAL. I REALLY DID LIKE MY KNEW SCHOOL AND HOME TOWN. I JUST DIDN'T EXPECT THE SCHOOL OF HARD-KNOCKS WAS GOING TO LAST SO LONG, AND HURT SO MUCH. MY FIRST ENCOUNTER, WAS WHEN ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT OF STUDENTS, DECIDED ONE LUNCH-HOUR, TO IMPRESS THE LADIES, BY KNOCKING-DOWN THE NEW KID. WHEN HE CALLED ME OVER TO TALK TO HIM, I THOUGHT OF IT AS A BREAKTHROUGH IN RELATIONS. AS SOON AS I GOT CLOSE, HE THREW ALL HIS WEIGHT INTO ME, WITH A POWERFUL LUNGE, AND I FELL AWKWARDLY, HURTING MY LEG AND WRIST ON THE PAVED SURFACE OF THE YARD. OF COURSE THE GIRLS LAUGHED AT MY UNFORTUNATE SITUATION, WHICH ADDED TO THE ANXIETY OF THE MOMENT. EVERY TIME I WENT TO GET UP, THE BIG GOOF WOULD KNOCK ME BACK DOWN. I LEARNED THAT AT A SMALL TOWN SCHOOL, TEACHER SUPERVISION WAS AT A MINIMUM ALL THE TIME. BY ABOUT THE FOURTH TIME, OF GETTING ROUGHLY TUMBLED BACK TO THE GROUND, SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENED.
OUT OF NOWHERE, FLEW A MORE SUBSTANTIAL YOUTH, WHO STOOD BETWEEN ME AND MY TORMENTOR. THE BULLY TRIED PUSHING HIM OUT OF THE WAY, TO GET BACK TO THE BUSINESS AT HAND; BUT THE CHAP REMAINED ANCHORED TO THE SPOT, EVENTUALLY PUSHING BACK HARD ENOUGH, THAT THE INCIDENT ENDED AS STRANGELY AS IT HAD BEGUN. MY PROTECTOR, THAT DAY, WAS A FINE FELLOW NAMED PAUL DUFF, WHO AS IT TURNED OUT, WAS ALSO MY DEFENCEMAN IN YEARS OF MINOR HOCKEY PLAY.....AND ALWAYS THE ONE WHO WOULD COME AND HIT MY PADS AFTER A SAVE OR GOAL, TO GIVE ME CREDIT WHETHER DESERVED, OR JUST AS AN ACT OF KINDNESS.
ON THE SAME AFTERNOON, THAT I MET A BULLY, AND A LIFE-LONG FRIEND AT THE SAME TIME, WE WERE ALL BECKONED TO THE PLAYING FIELD, WHICH WAS ACTUALLY COVERED IN LIMESTONE, BY ONE OF THE STUDENT'S FATHERS. FOR MOST OF THAT FIRST YEAR, THIS IS WHAT I ASSUMED, WHEN THE LADS YELLED OUT, "COME ON EVERYBODY, FATHER IS READY TO PLAY FOOTBALL." I JUST DIDN'T KNOW WHOSE FATHER HE WAS. ONE DAY HE CAME OVER WITH HIS COLLAR VISIBLE, AND I FINALLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT "FATHER" MEANT. HE WAS CONNECTED TO ST. JOSEPH'S CATHOLIC CHURCH NEXT TO THE SCHOOL. THAT'S WHEN I STARTED THINKING OF HIM AS FATHER O'MALLEY FROM THE MOVIES. MY MOTHER LOVED BOTH THOSE MOVIES, AND SHE USED TO REFERENCE BING CROSBY AS FATHER O'MALLEY, TO COVER A THOUSAND DIFFERENT MORAL ISSUES, SHE FELT NEEDED TO BE ATTACHED TO MY PYSCHE. AS SHE NEVER FORCED ME TO ATTEND CHURCH, WHICH WAS LIBERAL OF HER, AND SOMEWHAT CONTRADICTORY FROM HER OWN BELIEFS AND UPBRINGING, SHE LIKED TO DRAW FROM THE MOVIES WHEN IT CAME TO THE "HIGH ROAD," OF OPINION. THE ONLY HERO BIGGER, IN HER MIND, THAN FATHER O'MALLEY, WAS ALAN LADD'S PORTRAYAL OF "SHANE," WHICH ALSO DEEPLY IMPRINTED ON MY APPRECIATION OF GOOD GUYS AND BAD. FATHER HEFFERNAN WAS A GOOD GUY. AND HERE'S WHY!
SEVERAL YEARS AGO, I WAS AWARDED A SPECIAL VOLUNTEER AWARD, BY THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, FOR MY WORK WITH THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, AND THE SPORTS HALL OF FAME EXHIBIT AT THE ARENA. SUZANNE ATTENDED WITH ME, AND THE AUDITORIUM HAD A LARGE ATTENDANCE THAT EVENING. I'M NOT GREAT UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES, AND I'VE BEEN KNOWN TO FREEZE AT THE MICROPHONE, EVEN OFFERING A SIMPLE "THANK YOU." EVERY AWARD RECIPIENT WHO GOT ON STAGE TO ACCEPT THEIR PLAQUE, GAVE A SHORT ACCEPTANCE SPEECH. I HADN'T EXPECTED TO GIVE ANYTHING MORE THAN A MODEST GRIN, A NOD, AND A HANDSHAKE TO THE PRESENTER. SO I STARTED TO PANIC. I ASKED SUZANNE FOR A PEN AND PAPER, SO THAT I COULD AT LEAST JOT DOWN A FEW NOTES, SO THAT I COULD OFFER A PARAGRAPH OR TWO TO ACCOMPANY THE WORD "THANK YOU." SHE FOUND A BIT OF PACKAGING, AND A DULL PENCIL, BUT I WAS ABLE TO JOT DOWN ENOUGH TO CALL IT A BRIEF ACCEPTANCE SPEECH. THEN I WAS CALLED TO THE STAGE, AND MY PREPARATIONS WERE JAMMED INTO MY POCKET WITH A SWEATY PALM, AND NEVER RETRIEVED THAT NIGHT. I DECIDED TO "WING-IT," EVEN THOUGH SUZANNE WARNED ME AGAINST DOING IT, BECAUSE OF PAST DEBACLES OF STAGE-FRIGHT. I HAD A SECRET WEAPON THAT NIGHT, AND YES, IT WAS THE LOCALIZED STORY OF FATHER HEFFERNAN.....AN UNSUNG HERO OF MY PAST.
I ACCEPTED THE PLAQUE, SHOOK THE TOWN OFFICIAL'S HAND, AND TURNED AND WALKED TOWARD THE MICROPHONE. I LOOKED OUT AT ALL THE EYES STARING AT MY HAIRY FACE, AND I THOUGHT BACK TO THE DAY I MET "FATHER" AT BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL. I REMEMBERED HIS POWERFUL AURA, AS HE STOOD AT CENTRE FIELD, YELLING FOR ALL THE STUDENTS TO COME AND PLAY A GAME OF FOOTBALL. YES, BACK THEN, IT WAS MALE DOMINATED BUT FATHER WOULD NEVER HAVE TURNED DOWN A FEMALE COMPETITOR, HAD ANY WISHED TO PLAY. FATHER PULLED THE BULLIES, WHO USED TO STAND AGAINST THE WALLS, AND THREATEN THE REST OF US WITH ICY GLARES, INTO THE MIX WITH THE PUBLIC SCHOOL SCHOLARS AND PACIFISTS, WHO WEREN'T REALLY SPORTS INCLINED. WHAT HE DID, WAS EQUALIZE US ALL, IN RECREATIONAL PLAY. THE BULLIES WERE NO BETTER, OR WORSE THAN THE KIDS WHO WORE THICK GLASSES, AND HAD NEVER EVEN TOUCHED A FOOTBALL, BEFORE IT WAS HANDED-OFF TO THEM, BY THE QUARTERBACK OF THE DAY. SO WHEN I STOOD AT THE MICROPHONE, THINKING I MIGHT FAINT INTO THE AUDIENCE, OR ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING OF NOTE, IT WAS THIS RECOLLECTION OF SPORTSMANSHIP AND COMMUNITY, THAT GAVE ME LOTS TO TALK ABOUT. I SAID IT WAS PEOPLE LIKE FATHER HEFFERNAN, WHO TAUGHT ME ABOUT THE POWER OF INCLUSION, AND THE GOODWILL OF FRIENDLY COMPETITION. HOMETOWN VALUES. I POINTED OUT, THAT RECREATION HAD THE CAPABILITY OF OVER-RIDING BULLYISM, POLITICS, WEALTH, POVERTY, RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES, CULTURAL DIVIDES, AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE THAT WORKS TO KEEP PEOPLE APART....FOR NO GOOD REASON. LIKE PAUL DUFF, WHO SAVED ME FROM A SCHOOL-YEAR OF TORMENT, BY ONE BOLD INTERVENTION; FATHER HEFFERNAN INSPIRED GOOD CITIZENSHIP ON SO MANY FRONTS, FOR SO MANY STUDENTS, THAT IT IS STILL A CHERISHED MORAL, DEEP INTO OUR ADULT LIVES.
SO I HAD LOTS TO TALK ABOUT, THAT NIGHT, AND MY BUDGET OF TIME AT THE MICROPHONE TOO SHORT.....AND IN FACT, I NEVER HAD A TIME IN MY LIFE, IN THE PUBLIC EYE AS A WRITER, THAT I RECEIVED SO MANY KIND COMMENTS AFTERWARDS.....AND AS YOU MIGHT GUESS, A LOT OF THE QUESTIONS WERE, "HOW IS FATHER HEFFERNAN THESE DAYS." OR, "I USED TO PLAY SHINNY WITH HIM OVER AT THE ARENA.....WE USED TO CALL HIM 'ELBOWS HEFFERNAN' BACK THEN." "YEA, HE USED TO WRAP HIMSELF AROUND YOU, IF YOU TRIED TO SKATE PAST HIM WITH THE PUCK,... JAM HIS STICK UNDER MY SKATE BLADE, BUT YOU KNOW, HE WAS ALWAYS THE FIRST TO HELP YOU UP OFF THE ICE.....AFTER HE KNOCKED YOU DOWN. 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT', HE'D SAY, GRABBING YOU BY THE SWEATER TO MAKE SURE YOU WERE ABLE TO GET BACK INTO THE ACTION."
IN THE MID 1980'S, I USED TO WRITE A COLUMN FOR THE NOW DEFUNCT, "MUSKOKA ADVANCE," ENTITLED "BRACEBRIDGE SKETCHES," WHICH WERE A COLLECTION OF NOSTALGIC STORIES FROM MY YOUTH, GROWING UP IN OUR SMALL TOWN. ONE OF MY COLUMNS, THAT PARTICULAR FALL, HAD BEEN ABOUT FATHER HEFFERNAN, AND RECOLLECTIONS OF THOSE SCHOOL-YARD FOOTBALL GAMES. IT WASN'T CHRISTMAS-THEMED IF MEMORY SERVES. AND FOLKS, I'M NOT MAKING THIS UP. I WAS CLOSING OUR ANTIQUE SHOP, LOCATED ON THE BOTTOM FLOOR OF MARTIN FRAMING, ON MANITOBA STREET, AT ABOUT FOUR O'CLOCK ON CHRISTMAS EVE. THERE WAS A HUGE STORM-FRONT MOVING OVER THE AREA, AND YOU COULD HARDLY SEE THE CARS PARKED IN THE STORE LOT, THROUGH THE DRIFTING SNOWFALL. I HAD JUST FINISHED PUTTING ALL OUR OUTSIDE DISPLAYS BACK IN THE SHOP, AND WAS PREPARING FOR THE WHITE-KNUCKLE DRIVE BACK TO GRAVENHURST. I SAID GOODBYE TO BARB MARTIN, PROPRIETOR OF THE FRAMING SHOP, BUT I DIDN'T GET TO FINISH MY CHRISTMAS GOOD WISHES, WHEN THE PHONE RANG UPSTAIRS, AND SHE HAD TO RUN TO ANSWER IT. I JUST WAVED FAREWELL AND HEADED OUT INTO THE STORM. AS I WAS CLEANING OFF THE CAR, AND SCRAPING AWAY THE ICE, SHE YELLED AT ME THROUGH THE HALF-OPENED DOOR, THAT I HAD A PHONE CALL FROM A FATHER HEFFERNAN. NO KIDDING. A LITTLE LIKE FATHER O'MALLEY OR WHAT? HERE IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE, IN A SNOWSTORM, AND I WAS ALL NOSTALGIC CLOSING UP THE NICELY DECORATED SHOP FOR THE HOLIDAYS. IT WAS LIKE A MOVIE SCRIPT, BUT THIS WAS REAL LIFE. IT WAS A PRETTY REMARKABLE WAY TO START CHRISTMAS.
A FRIEND OF FATHER HEFFERNAN, FROM BRACEBRIDGE, HAD SENT HIM A COPY OF MY COLUMN, AND HE FOUND CHRISTMAS EVE A GOOD OPPORTUNITY TO CALL, IN ORDER TO EXPRESS HIS GRATITUDE FOR MY KIND WORDS. HIS FRIEND ONLY KNEW WE HAD A SHOP ON THE LOWER LEVEL OF "MARTIN FRAMING," AND THAT CONNECTED HIM, AND THEN ME, THROUGH BARB MARTIN. BUT AS ALWAYS, HE WAS VERY HUMBLE. AS HE EXPLAINED, HE WAS JUST DOING WHAT ANYONE WOULD HAVE, UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCE. THIS IS WHERE HE WAS WRONG. THERE WAS NO ONE, EVEN THE PAID STAFF OF THE SCHOOL, WHO OFFERED TO DO ANYTHING WITH US AT RECESS, OTHER THAN OBSERVE FROM AFAR. HE WAS A CATALYST OF ADVENTURE, WHENEVER HE SHOWED UP. I WANTED HIM TO KNOW THIS, AS HUMBLE AS HE REMAINED, THAT HE HAD IMPACTED THE LIVES OF A LOT OF WAYWARD KIDS, BY BEING A SOURCE OF RECREATIONAL INSPIRATION. AT THIS POINT, HE ACCEPTED THE GENERAL ASSESSMENT, THAT HE WAS TRULY "A NICE GUY." NO HALO. JUST A FELLOW WHO TOOK TIME TO SHOW A GROUP OF STUDENTS, STANDING AROUND, HOW TO USE SPORT TO DEMONSTRATE THE POWER OF CO-OPERATIVE EFFORT.
I STOOD AT BARB'S DESK FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES, OF PLEASANT CONVERSATION, WITH FATHER HEFFERNAN, THAT SNOWY CHRISTMAS EVE, QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK. I MUST ADMIT, TO BEING A LITTLE CHOKED-UP, BECAUSE OF THE RARE CIRCUMSTANCE, THAT HE WAS CALLING ME ON THIS DAY BEFORE CHRISMAS, WHEN FRANKLY, I WAS A LITTLE DOWN ABOUT THE ECONOMY, AND WHAT I HAD BEEN ABLE TO AFFORD FOR OUR BOYS, AS GIFTS FROM SANTA. I WASN'T SURE OUR CAR WAS EVEN GOING TO MAKE IT HOME, BECAUSE OF ITS FAULTY EVERYTHING (OR SO IT SEEMED), AND THE CALL JUST CAUGHT ME SO OFF GUARD.....I DIDN'T REALLY NO HOW TO RESPOND. SO I JUST LISTENED TO HIS GENTLE VOICE AND FELT THAT OLD TIME INSPIRATION COMING OVER ME.....AND AS CLICHED AS IT MAY READ, THAT NIGHT, AND FOR THAT CHRISTMAS SEASON, HE HAD BEEN MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. THINGS WEREN'T AS BAD AS I HAD THOUGHT. WE A LOVELY CHRISTMAS, AS HUMBLE AS IT WAS, AND I HAD LOTS OF TIME TO COMTEMPLATE THE WORDS OF FATHER HEFFERNAN; YUP, THAT REMINDED ME OF FATHER O'MALLEY AND CHRISTMAS AT ST. MARY'S.
IT MAY APPEAR TO SOME READERS, LIKE I'VE HAD A LOT OF BRIGHT BEACONS IN MY LIFE, BECAUSE I'M ALWAYS PAYING TRIBUTE TO ONE OR THE OTHER, FROM PAST ENCOUNTERS. ALMOST AS IF THEY WERE HUMAN CRUTCHES, ALWAYS POPPING UP AT THE MOST CRITICAL TIMES, WHEN I WAS FALTERING OR IN DEEP DISTRESS. I CAN ONLY EXPLAIN THIS, AS IT RELATES TO WRITING, AND WHAT I WANTED TO PRESENT TO THE PUBLIC, READING MY COLUMNS. THAT I WAS AS TOUGH AND ENDURING AS WERE MY MENTORS. I HAVE NEVER ONCE CONSIDERED MYSELF A SELF-MADE MAN. I HAVE DEPENDED ON THE KINDNESSES OF STRANGERS. I HAVE HAD TIMES IN MY LIFE, WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW WHETHER TO TOSS MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE, INTO THE WHITE WATER BELOW, OR FACE-UP TO THE SEA OF GRIM REALITIES. WHEN I HAD, AT TIMES, SUFFERED FROM A LACK OF INSPIRATION, OR AN UNEXPECTED BOUT OF DEPRESSION,.... MAYBE A SUDDEN FLURRY OF ANXIETY, AND NOT BEEN ABLE TO PRODUCE EDITORIAL COPY, I HAVE RECALLED MANY, MANY TIMES, THE WARM SOULS WHO HAVE GIVEN ME REASON TO SOLDIER-ON; DESPITE ANY MISTAKEN PERCEPTION THAT THE ROAD AHEAD WAS IMPASSABLE. WHEN I TURNED TO DRINK FOR QUICK INSPIRATION, WHEN NOTHING ELSE SEEMED TO WORK, I'D WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, SICK AND DISGUSTED WITH MYSELF, BELIEVING I WOULD NEVER FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE. WHEN THERE WAS NO BOOZE LEFT, I HAD THE NECESSITY TO REKINDLE WHATEVER WAS LEFT OF FORMER MOTIVATIONS, JUST TO HAUL MYSELF BACK INTO THE NEWSROOM TO MEET YET ANOTHER DEADLINE. I SO OFTEN FOUND WHAT I NEEDED, THINKING BACK TO THE PERILESS JOURNEYS OF MY FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, WHO HAD SHOWN ME THE WAY IN THE PAST. WITHOUT THEM KNOWING IT, THEIR MORAL CHARACTERS, AND KINDNESSES YEARS EARLIER, DID BECOME MY BEACONS. FATHER HEFFERNAN WAS, AND REMAINS, ONE SUCH GLOWING BEACON, I NEEDED GREATLY, PARTICULARLY ON THAT STORMY CHRISTMAS EVE; WHICH BECAME ONE OF MY MOST MEMORABLE. I WROTE A LOT THAT HOLIDAY SEASON, ESPECIALLY ABOUT MY FAMILY AND THE JOYS OF A MUSKOKA CHRISTMAS.
IT WASN'T SO LONG AGO, THAT I READ ABOUT FATHER HEFFERNAN TAKING OVER DUTIES AT ST. PAUL'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, HERE IN GRAVENHURST. I RAN INTO HIM FIRST, AT A COMMUNITY CONCERT, HELD AT THE GRAVENHURST OPERA HOUSE. HERE HE WAS, WALKING UP AND DOWN THE OPERA HOUSE AISLES, SHAKING THE HANDS OF PATRONS, AND WAVING TO THOSE WHO WERE CALLING TO HIM. HE SEEMED TO KNOW PERSONALLY, MOST OF THE PEOPLE IN THE AUDIENCE. I HAD TO RE-INTRODUCE MYSELF, WHEN HE GOT TO MY ROW. "FATHER," I YELLED, WITH AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND. "I'M TED CURRIE....I WROTE A COLUMN ABOUT YOU....AND." I NEVER GOT TO FINISH MY SENTENCE. "TED, IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU," HE SAID, REACHING FOR ANOTHER OUTSTRETCHED HAND, FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE ROW IN FRONT. "MAYBE WE CAN GET TOGETHER SOME TIME LATER." I WAS EVER SO PLEASED HE REMEMBERED ME, AS IT HAD BEEN ALMOST TEN YEARS SINCE WE LAST TALKED. BUT YOU KNOW, WE NEVER DID GET TOGETHER, BECAUSE HE LEFT ST. PAULS SHORTLY AFTER THE CONCERT, AND I HAVEN'T TALKED TO HIM SINCE. IT WAS NICE TO SHAKE THE HAND, OF A MAN WHO GAVE ME REASON TO WRITE-ON AND THRIVE......AND IT ALL CAME FROM GAMES OF PICK-UP FOOTBALL IN THE SCHOOL YARD, OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, IN THE SEPIA HAZE OF THE 1960'S.
AS I DO EVERY DAY, WRITING THESE CHRISTMAS SEASON BLOGS, I COME UP WITH A THEME AFTER I SIT DOWN AT MY KEYBOARD. NOT BEFORE. TODAY, FOR WHATEVER REASON, AND SOURCE OF INSPIRATION, IT BECAME IMPERATIVE TO WRITE ABOUT MY CASUAL BUT POIGNANT FRIENDSHIP WITH FATHER BARNARD HEFFERNAN. AND SHOULD HE FEEL, ONCE AGAIN, THAT I HAVE GIVEN HIM TOO MUCH CREDIT FOR HIS KINDNESSES, I WILL REMIND HIM, THAT WITH THE SAME GRIT AND PROWESS, HE SHOWED US, ELBOWS CONNECTING WITH JAW, AND STICK POKED BENEATH SKATES, IN HIS COMPETITIVE VIGOR, I WILL STICKHANDLE THIS MESSAGE "DOWN-ICE" REGARDLESS.....TO PRAISE HIS MODESTY....A PUCK IN THE NET FOR ME. MERRY CHRISTMAS FATHER HEFFERNAN AND THANKS FROM ALL US WEE LADS, WHO CAME TO UNDERSTAND THE TRUE BREADTH AND DEPTH OF SPORTSMANSHIP, ON YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT.
THANKS SO MUCH FOR JOINING THIS CHRISTMAS SEASON BLOG. THERE IS LOTS MORE TO COME, TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA.
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