THE ANTIQUE PORTABLE DESK ANDREW GAVE ME FOR CHRISTMAS - AND THE STORY I WANT TO WRITE ON ITS BEAUTIFUL WOOD SURFACE
NOW ALL I NEED IS MOTIVATION TO DO SO - AND NOT FALLING ASLEEP
A gift I was given for Christmas, carries an unspecified but helpful paranormal energy, but don't ask me why I think this! I've written a lot in the past about "enchanted" antique pieces, that may have arrived in the collector's domain, due to the settling of an estate via auction. Let me footnote, by suggesting, that if my family, after my demise, was to ever sell off my cherished personal possessions, like this livingroom chair for example, you bet my spirit will be sitting in it until eternity; and if you buy it, you're going to have to sit on me, like it or not. Same for the other stuff here at Birch Hollow that I've grown particularly fond; and like the item I am about to describe, have invested an unspecified, but hearty amount of time and spirit, in its deployment in my creative adventures. We have owned many such enchanted pieces, that were still, apparently, being held onto by the former owners, who by the time I had their possession, in my house, were well into their tenure pushing up daisies. There are thousands of stories about "haunted" or "possessed" antique pieces, and although I haven't called-in ghost busters just yet, I'm pretty sure that the fact I keep getting drawn to it, every moment I'm in its company, to use of course, reminds me of other pieces of a similar characteristic, that weren't compliant with our house rules. It's complicated to explain, and stranger to live with each day.
Son Andrew knows I have a thing for old wooden boxes and interesting antique trunks, from humpback steamers, to hide covered document boxes, and even those that are called bonnet chests, to carry and protect women's hats. When he found this centuries old folding wooden desk with original blown glass ink well, he knew in an instant, it was something dad would like for his collection. Better still, I have been slowly slipping into fiction-writing, and have been looking for something more inspirational to work on, than this electric cyberspace laptop unit, which, while certainly efficient, is plastic and offers me a white screen instead of the paper I'm used to, that was pushed up by a rubber coated roller, in the antique Underwood I seemed to be attached to, for most of my early years as a writer. This desk allows me to go old-school and take quill pen, which was also included, ink on its tip, and apply to pages of beautiful, inspiring white paper on the top; which by the way, opens on both sides to reveal compartments for storage. There are even small drawers to keep pen nibs and other essentials for a writer going off into Neverland in quest of a story-line. It's not exactly the kind of antique piece that can rival C.S. Lewis's magic wardrobe, leading to Narnia, but it is a rather enchanted little piece, that sits unfolded, perfectly on my lap.
The only think missing, outside of opportunity, is the fact I have been writing so much other general copy, that I've exhausted myself, such that even the thought of starting a new project gives me aches and pains, and even a bit of heartache. No writer wants to admit they're having a bout of "block" and can do little more than stare at the writing paper, so untouched and beckoning, and then look out the window, wondering when inspiration will flutter forth like a summer butterfly, and set the creative juices loose through these old gnarled arteries, from heart to brain. After rubbing the surface of the box, and playing with the lock, hinges, drawers, quill pen, wire glasses that make me look like an old bard, and fingering the old blue ink bottle, I come to the appreciation that I could perform this until, as they say, the cows come home, and never apply one speck of ink in meaningful creative enterprise. So I fold it up again, and resolve to return to the mission the very next evening; when truth be known, I will be just as tired, and written-out from the day in the studio, working on non fiction pieces. I have never, ever had a problem writing non-fiction, and this is from my newspaper training. I'm thankful for this, because it is my most important resource these days, and I'm getting a lot of new projects that look pretty exciting. A bout of writer's block (I even hate noting this, in case it happens to me again), in my day to day writing, would be near catastrophic because I've made a lot of commitment to readers; and those I've promised particular stories, and sundry other written promotions for local events. I have only had a few occasions in my writing career, when, for whatever reason (I really don't remember, which is horrible for an historian to admit), I missed a deadline, or had to crap-out on a writing project. Even today, as a budding senior citizen, for gosh sakes, I hate to break a promise, even if it's to myself. I'd rather quit writing altogether, than fall into a routine of shirking responsibility, and missing opportunities that, truth be known, push me where and when I need motivation. I get a little depressed at times, when I come to appreciate, during some project, that I'm not as quick and responsive as I was last year, or the thirty-nine years before that, working in this profession of creating stuff.
When I opened this gift from Andrew, it was as if an opening of a door that I knew existed, but had never got far enough down the dark hall, to visualize, and address in the physical sense. I wanted a folding lap-style desk, like one a commander, like my hero General Longstreet of the Confederate Army, in the American Civil War, would have used during his command, in his encampment tent, possibly at Gettysburg, to write in his journal of the battles fought, and the ones yet to engage. I remember studying this desk for several hours on Christmas Day, trying to imagine the many individuals who had used this desk to write letters and their memoirs, and where and when it was used at home or during world travel; in peacetime or during war? Maybe it was used by a British Naval Captain on one of the great sail warships of antiquity. It's probably not a full fledged, haunted lap desk, but to me, it is a paranormal adventure, just sitting with it on my lap; and imagining its storied existence. I want to tap into its heritage, yet there is nothing written or inscribed in the wood, or under the lid, to give me even the slightest hint where it has had service, before it came to reside here at Birch Hollow, and my lap, now warmed by the crackling fire in the hearth. It must be fiction that generates from the use of this enchanted bit of furniture, that looks fantastic sitting on a parlor table, of which we have numerous. It beckons me each day, when Suzanne and I arrive at Birch Hollow, and on each occasion, I might fondle it for awhile, playing with its drawers and hinges, but nary a word is printed on the paper it holds, awaiting an end to my indecision about what to create for the posterity of the moment.
ANTIQUES THAT HOLD THEIR SPIRITS - I'VE HAD A FEW OVER THE YEARS
Even as a kid, trundling home from school, there were things I found along the way, that I couldn't resist scooping up as found-treasure. I'd arrive home to our Burlington apartment, with pockets full of this and that, leaving my mother Merle to figure out, when I wasn't looking, how to free our abode of toads, grasshoppers, old bits of metal, some shiny rocks, and chestnuts in various stages of decomposition. She threw out three quarters of everything I collected, from broken hockey sticks, to neat old bottles found down in the ravine of Ramble Creek.
I was attracted to certain things by forces unknown. At least that's what Merle used to tell the neighbors when she saw me coming up Harris Crescent with pockets bulging and overflowing, while swinging a ball bat, or old hockey stick I found alongside the road. Strangely though, she was right about some things, about those early acts of acquisition. There was something that "made me do it," and it wasn't a voice in my head, directing my actions. It was a feeling then, just as it has always been throughout my collecting life. I will encounter a relic, an antique or collectible in a shop, at a yard sale, or at an auction, that I'm drawn to for more than the capital value. As an antique dealer I do operate on a for-profit basis, even though my wife, the accountant, questions this frequently, when I come home with something else truly bizarre, to what we normally acquire to refurbish and re-sell.
One of most poignant recollections, of a childhood experience, where I truly felt in the company of the spirits, came in a most casual, spontaneous way, making me feel on that particular day, as if I was being urged by something unknown, to visit an old house in the neighborhood, only a few days from being crushed by earth movers. It was to make way for the construction of a large apartment tower amidst some wonderful late Victorian architecture. The old estate, on Torrance Avenue, that looked so storied and charming amidst the wreath of venerable old hardwoods, and the ever-popular chestnut grove bordering the road, was facing its last few days as prominent architecture in our neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario. Which was a short hike to the shore of Lake Ontario, and a place that was often brushed by thick morning fog, and the muted sound of fog-horns from huge freighters passing somewhere on the bay. It was a little bit Hollywood, in scenery, perfect for a ghost story, but at this time of my young, impressionable life, I didn't have much knowledge of spirits or their ilk. I was just a curious little snot, usually with the arse ripped out of his pants, and a tangle of torn knee patches on both legs, with pockets-full of interesting livestock etc.
On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, and daring before we decided to muster the bravado to challenge what our parents had instilled in us about private property, and no trespassing, and see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time when old house and kid exchanged glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, to make a friendly visit. Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was. My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.
The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak.
Once inside that door, it was a treat for the senses. It was quite dilapidated by this point of its forced-decline, and there had been doors and built-in cabinets ripped from the walls, corner cupboards unfastened, leaving ugly holes in the wall. Even the mantle was gone and everywhere there was evidence of home-wreckers having swung their hammers and prying bars. There were broken Christmas ornaments strewn on the floor, and pages from old magazines and newspapers crumpled in corners and in doorless closets. There were dishes on an old table, and drinking glasses on the remnants of a kitchen counter. As we chums wandered slowly, in awe, from room to room, we picked up little keepsakes from the floor, that attracted our darting and weaving span of attention, in the lowly lit environs of what had once been, a truly magnificent home.
What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle in echo through the empty rooms. Then I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, then sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race, as if my soul had met something ominous I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie within a short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en dressed up with a sheet with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way.
Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the feel of an occupied house and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura of the human / structure relationship, that attempts to warn and advise us about the prevailing circumstances, or what has happened in the past. I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and the occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.
When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects. I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets, ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold.
I would like to, in coming blogs, illustrate this point more clearly, by profiling some experiences I've had over the decades, as an antique dealer, frequently attracted to pieces that may or may not be haunted…..somewhat as I felt strangely compelled to enter an old house, on the off chance, of finding something neat to scoff. While it's a stretch, obviously, to compare an old cedar trunk, with provenance, to an historic estate, my exposure to the sensation of occupation, as a child, has inspired a great awareness as a collector…..that some pieces, strange or not, have an attraction that goes well beyond the patina of the wood, or the feel of the fabric. Truth is, I can feel something extra, as if the essence of the item's builder, or former owner….a child, possibly, is still somehow connected. There are many stories told of cradles rocking without an occupant or attendant, rocking chairs moving of their own accord, and organs playing without the slightest touch of mortal hand. My stories aren't quite so compelling and interesting, but we've had a few unusual events attached to certain acquired pieces. Nothing fearful or disturbing. Just curious in a paranormal context.
Maybe you have felt the same at times. Feeling it necessary to stop at an antique sale, to examine a piece that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think twice about acquiring. What made you stop for a second look? Did your grandmother have something similar? Could it be a sign from someone who has crossed, trying to remind you about a favorite quilt or cushion, old rocking horse or cradle, that you used to play with when visiting. For those who validate the existence, in spirit form, of those who have crossed over, few would deny the possibility, that sentiment and emotion are routinely tweaked by forces unknown, to make us aware of our past…..and our future; if we only had a few moments to ponder the associations, and signs apparent. I wander around, most of the time, with this openness to suggestion….willingness to entertain even the slightest remembrance, that puts me in mind of those friends and family who were so important to my well being. When my wife hears me laughing at something, while on an antique shop walk-about, she recognizes immediately, Ted's had a poignant reminiscence…..quite out of the blue. Always in the strangest, and most obscure of places in the shop, it seems. But I know, as soon as I enter, like my feeling of all buildings, something is going to tap me on the shoulder, or peak my curiosity, and moreso than a for-profit purchase, I will likely be hauling something home that, I love saying to my wife, "spoke to me!"
I don't see dead people as such. I feel them though. I sense them, and quite enjoy the feeling and enthralling allure of a limitless universe of possibility, where there are no rules of engagement. As some folks say, "you just go with the flow."
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