A Reminder From John Colombo's Mysteries Of Ontario

A REMINDER FROM JOHN COLOMBO’S BOOK, “MYSTERIES OF ONTARIO.”

     The blog entry, most recently,...... a work of fiction....a titch of biography, an abstract portrait of a struggling writer in a haunted residence......was re-introduced to me this week, quite by coincidence. Son Robert, on a trip to Ottawa, and while scouring a book shop, found John Colombo’s book, “Mysteries of Ontario,” released in 1999, and decided that because it had a photograph of dear old dad, he’d pick it up for the family archives. I wrote a piece for John, on a haunting at my former Bracebridge residence, and my mug is featured on page 53. The heading of the story is “McGibbon House,” named after Dr. Peter McGibbon, former Muskoka Member of Parliament, and one of the founding doctors of Bracebridge Memorial Hospital, back in the late 1920's. I appreciated Robert buying this copy, as my own signed first edition was loaned out and well.......my friend liked it so much, well, it was never returned.

     John was a great source of inspiration, when I began my own gathering of personal stories, about our family’s life-long encounters with the paranormal. As I have great respect for the huge amount of research John has done, in his amazing career as Canada’s most accomplished “hunter-gatherer” of tales of the supernatural, paranormal, extra terrestial, UFO encounters, legends and lore.....when he suggested I should jot my experiences down, as well, it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse. In fact, I was delighted when John offered to write an introductory column, to a ghosts of Muskoka feature series, I was preparing for The Muskoka Sun, some years back. It was a great honor to be associated with this important Canadian historian, and his enlightening work over many decades.

     I have included a graphic of the book’s cover. McGibbon House was certainly a component of the biographical art piece, I wrote this past winter. As a struggling writer, in those first years, wondering if it was in the cards or not..... I can so clearly remember sitting at my desk, overlooking Bracebridge’s Memorial Park, wondering what the future held in store for a young university graduate........while nothing was being tapped onto that huge white sheet of paper in the typewriter carriage. I’d start to fear writing, and the waste-paper basket was full to overflowing. When I did write something, I hated it before the ink had time to adjust to its new reality. I’d come up those attic stairs full of vim and vinegar, with ideas abounding. As soon as I’d get settled, the typewriter pulled close on the desk, and the view given a cursory glance, the big freeze would commence. I have no idea how I broke that spell of non-productivity, other than to say, what began as a standoff has merged, quite remarkably, with a hugely prolific span of authordom, and although I can’t show many books for my efforts, I’ve had thousands upon thousands of articles published in a wide assortment of publications, and have a solid audience today viewing these online blogs. I have five different blogs, on diverse subjects, that keep me hopping. I just love to write. Back then, the demons within, told me I couldn’t write. But I’ve never been one to follow instructions.

     The wee bit of fiction had its basis in two realities. I was living in a haunted house, and I was a writer looking for inspiration. Despite the perceived presence of demons in that house......came the unfettered appreciation that the demons were of my own creation.....not cast upon me as a curse, by my place of residence. While it was indeed a haunted house, if ever there was one, it was a friendly, kindly haunting, and with its history and view of uptown Bracebridge, it was an inspirational portal from which to watch out at the world passing. I adored writing from that house, especially the apartment directly below the attic, where I lived while editor of The Herald-Gazette.....the job I never wanted to end.

     I am still a prolific writer in residence. The McGibbon house was torn down quite a number of years ago now. Funny thing, my son Andrew attended a federally funded young entrepreneur’s course there, one fall and winter, after he graduated high school. He was in class directly below where his father used to write, day-in and day-out, and where there was once the sound of a regular footfall on the attic stairway.....from a resident unknown and unseen. I will never get that house out of my mind. On the other hand, why would I want that! It was the source of inspiration that has given me a lifetime in my chosen profession. And when I was about to quit altogether, it was the McGibbon House, and all its inmates, some visible, some not, that re-generated my interest in writing. I soon sat at that attic window typing like a madman, celebrating every minute of creation......and thanking the big old house for its many accommodations to the writer in residence.

Thanks Robert for reminding me my past wasn’t so bad. Just a little bit bad.

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca

Death Bed Wasn't Haunted

Gull Lake Postcard - Courtesy Of Fred Schulz

GHOSTS COMING WITH THE DEATH BED?

WE DON’T THINK SO -

THE FOLLOWING BLOG WAS WRITTEN SEVERAL YEARS AGO AFTER ACQUIRING A FUNERARY COLLECTABLE. IT HAS NEVER LEVITATED IN THE YEARS WE HAVE OWNED IT. THUS EVEN IN FUNERAL CIRCUMSTANCES IT DIDN'T ACQUIRE ANY LASTING BAD VIBES.

     As we have been working, for the six weeks, selling off a large quantity of historic books and paper, on behalf of a local estate, we haven’t had too much time for anything else other than business and subsequent "rest from business."

One of the prized acquisitions is what the family called the "Death Bed." It is a fairly modest, late 1800's wooden bed, owned by a Toronto Minister. The bed was used from the period of the First World War up to the 1940's, to rest the deceased at the Minister’s home, for families of lesser means to support a more elaborate viewing and funeral. For decades it was used in this capacity, and while it was a conversation piece, set up in a guest bedroom, in a Muskoka District residence, nobody ever slept on it for obvious reasons. For the most of its structural existence, the prior occupants of the bed, were those lodged in eternal slumber.

     Why would someone seek out such an item? Well, I love provenance, and I have great respect for the family we represented, and I suppose to also prove a point, stated on this site many times, that we haven’t met a ghost we didn’t like. If this piece has any patina, other than the aging of the wood, we’re quite prepared to get acquainted. It is well documented in paranormal history, that objects can carry with them the essences of the dearly departed. Cradles that rock themselves, rocking chairs without a mortal companion, organs and pianos that play by themselves, and in the case of Mackenzie House, in Toronto, (former home of the great Scot, William Lyon Mackenzie, a pivotal player in the Rebellion of Upper Canada, 1837), where it has been reported his newspaper press might be heard running in the wee hours unattended.

     There is nothing sinister about buying this bed or for that matter, residing upon it for a good night’s sleep, which I intend to pursue. Yet if anything was to be haunted, this might be a good vehicle, as it was at the center of great emotion and sadness for many parlor viewings of the deceased. Admittedly it’s a bed that most would find a macabre reminder of old days and simple ways, when on the other hand, I find it a fascinating piece of Canadian social / cultural heritage. Folks didn’t die in this bed afterall. They were placed upon it, instead of being positioned in a formal casket / coffin. They didn’t depart this mortal coil upon its kind mattress. It undoubtedly looked very peaceful, which I believe is the aura still attached. None the less, it is a kind of experiment, to see if we get an enhanced slumber or just a regular old sleep as we would benefit from any bedstead.

     When I told Suzanne I wanted to purchase the bed from the estate, she rolled her eyes, gave me "the look," but that eventually turned to a detectable half-grin, as it was pretty obvious I had been keenly interested after hearing the story. I assured her that I would never utter to friends and family that "My wife was on her death bed last night," or that she has "gone to her death bed," as obviously this would be in poor taste. In our collection we have many strange pieces that she has grown quite accustomed to by immersion. I usually drag the item home and it resides here a week or more before she finds it, and then she can’t resist my begging to keep it! I told her she would get the last laugh on this eccentric collector, when she pens my biography after I’ve also fallen from this coil of life. I can just imagine the adjectives she will use to profile my looney actions and reactions for all these years of married bliss. I plan to attach my spirit to quite a few of my favorite pieces, as you probably can imagine.

     I am constantly in quest of significant provenance that has a strong human-contact patina, and I imagine how central this humble, modestly appointed bed was, for those few days, intense moments, for those in mourning. Yet it was very much central to the celebration of life, and kinship known and appreciated. As it was a pedestal that brought an unfortunate reality to its prominence, it was the same platform of a spiritual reckoning, that the afterlife had begun, and peace and calm returned to a travelled soul, as before birth. Some have felt us mad for bringing such a piece into our own happy home, and my response remains, that it wasn’t purchased as a novelty, or as a means of inspiring another chapter in our own ghost associations. It is a piece of Canadian history regardless, and it deserves respect for the services it has rendered, to benefit many families by its comfortable embrace of loved ones.

     I will duly advise if anything particular or peculiar develops from our new Birch Hollow bedstead. And should it prove a haunted piece, we trust it will be an enhancement like all the others, and be friendly toward us, as we will be respectful of its unique heritage.

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca

The Spirits At Work and Play With The Collector

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."

More adventures to come. Please join me.

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca

The Antique Dealer And The Possibilities We've Lived Before

A FEELING OF HAVING BEEN REINCARNATED - FROM THE ANTIQUE DEALER OF ONCE, LONG AGO

A FEW ANTIQUE DEALERS WONDER ABOUT THIS - BASED ON THEIR LOVE FOR CERTAIN PERIODS OF HISTORY

     WHEN YOU HAVE HAD AN INTIMATE AUDIENCE WITH A GUARDIAN ANGEL, NOTHING ETHEREAL AFTER THIS SEEMS PARTICULARLY STRANGE. ACCORDING TO CONSIDERABLE RESEARCH I'VE DONE ABOUT THESE EARTHLY ENCOUNTERS, WITH THE SO CALLED "ANGEL-KIND," YOU BECOME SO ENLIGHTENED, AND RESOLVED ABOUT THE EXISTENCE OF AN AFTERLIFE, THAT YOU CAN'T EVER AGAIN SHRINK BACK TO THE SAME OLD, SAME OLD. YOU ARE NOT CAPABLE OF PROFOUND, DEBILITATING IGNORANCE, ABOUT THE EXISTENCE OF THE SOUL. YOUR WHOLE BELIEF STRUCTURE…..WHAT YOU KNOW AND WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW, IS CHANGED IN A MATTER, OF WHAT MAY, HAVE ONLY BEEN A FEW SECONDS OF DREAMLAND ENVISIONING. WHEN I WAS IN A FEVERED STATE, DURING ONE TERRIBLE CHILDHOOD ILLNESS, AND DREAMED OF BEING IN THE PRESENCE OF AN ANGEL, WINGS AND ALL, I BECAME AN INSTANT BELIEVER IN LIFE AFTER DEATH. NO, REALLY! BUT IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH PERSONAL CONVICTION. IT WAS IMBEDDED. RIGHT INTO THE SOUL. THE ANGEL, AS SWEET AND EFFERVESCENT AS SHE WAS, GAVE ME MY OPINION. THERE WASN'T AN OPTION FOR DISBELIEVING. BUT IT WAS SO COMPELLING AND AMAZING, THAT FREEDOM OF OPINION DIDN'T MATTER. DEMOCRACY WASN'T IMPORTANT. MY ALLEGIANCE WAS TO THIS MESSENGER FROM GOD. THE RELEVANCE OF BEING ABLE TO CROSS OVER, WAS ALL THAT MATTERED…..AND YET, I WAS JERKED BACK, AFTER I HAD EXPERIENCED THAT BEAUTIFUL, COMFORTING LIGHT. HONESTLY, I THOUGHT I WAS A GONER. I FELT HORRIBLE, AND I KNOW MY PARENTS WERE PLANNING TO SEND ME TO HOSPITAL THAT NIGHT, IF THERE HAD BEEN NO IMPROVEMENT, ESPECIALLY, A DECREASE IN MY FEVER. BUT DURING THOSE HEAVENLY MOMENTS, I FELT RELIEVED OF ALL DISCOMFORT….WHICH BY THE WAY, HAD BEEN SO NASTY, IT HAD ENTERED MY DREAMS. THIS WAS THE ONLY RELIEF I HAD EXPERIENCED IN ABOUT TWO WEEKS, AND WHEN I AWOKE, THE FEVER HAD SUBSIDED. MERLE TOLD ME HER PRAYERS HAD BEEN ANSWERED. I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT A PRAYER WAS, BUT I KNEW GOD WAS INVOLVED SOMEHOW, AT LEAST AS FAR AS MERLE WAS CONCERNED. I NEVER, AT ANY POINT, TOLD MY PARENTS ABOUT THIS WEE VISIT WITH AN ANGEL.

    I DIDN'T COME FROM A RELIGIOUS FAMILY AND THE ONLY REASON I WENT TO CHURCH, WAS OUT OF CURIOSITY. BUT THE EXPERIENCE I HAD, WHICH WAS AMAZING BY THE WAY, CREATED A FLAME IN ME, AS A BELIEVER IN THAT HEAVENLY LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL. THIS DREAM ENCOUNTER HAPPENED BEFORE I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD. I'M FIFTY SEVEN, AND I CAN RECALL THAT DREAMLAND EXPERIENCE AS IF IT HAS JUST HAPPENED. MUSIC WITHOUT THERE BEING A MUSICIAN. AN UNEARTHLY PERFUME THAT I IMAGINED, BUT HAVE NEVER SMELLED AGAIN. UNEARTHLY IS EXACTLY HOW I WOULD DESCRIBE IT. FEELING A SENSE OF PEACE AND TRANQUILITY, WHILE LEVITATING IN HER PRESENCE, BUT BEING UNABLE TO MOVE MY ARMS OR LEGS. A LIGHT ABOVE HER THAT WAS WHITER THAT ANY LIGHT I'VE SEEN BEFORE, YET IT DID NOT HURT THE EYES. SENSING SOMETHING ABOUT DEATH, AT A TIME IN LIFE, WHEN I REALLY DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE ABOUT WHAT THE END MIGHT BE LIKE. I HAD THE RECKONING I WAS ON THE VERGE OF THE ABYSS, BUT I WAS PULLED BACK FROM DEMISE BY THE POWER OF THIS ANGEL, WHICH I HAVE LONG ASSUMED WAS MY HEAVENLY GUARDIAN. SO WHY DO I RE-TELL THIS STORY, I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MANY TIMES BEFORE? I'M GOING TO PUT IT IN PERSPECTIVE, OF THE ANTIQUE DEALER I'VE BECOME.

REINCARNATION ISN'T SO FAR FETCHED

     I remember, one morning, quite a few years ago, scrounging through my archives looking for some documents I had mislaid. I was writing one of my regular columns for that week's issue of Muskoka Today, and I suppose, that day, I was suffering from an absence of story-line. Son Andrew had left me a couple of classical records to play on his portable, which seemed like a nice diversion. I don't write anything these days, with any music playing, because I did find out that it was changing my mood, and seriously affecting the content of the subject editorial. But on this occasion, suffering from a total lack of creativity, I cleaned off a record of Elizabethan music, and sat down at my desk, staring at my typewriter, while the music took me on an enjoyable sojourn for twenty minutes or so. Maybe it has happened to you, when for no particular reason that you can identify easily, or obviously, you can feel a strange, eerie trepidation, as if all of a sudden, your senses were picking up a vibe that was more haunting than entertaining. As if you accidentally stumbled, like Alice in Wonderland, onto a hidden portal to some other life you may have once been associated. The soul-regenerating sounds of this music, was causing a big guy like me, to tremble, and feel somewhat as I had, in the company of my angel guardian, during that childhood illness. I sensed this music was calling me home, to a place my soul had been witness, in a previous life. It was as if I could see my place in that English scene, and feel myself walking down a cobbled lane, through some city quarter……possibly taking my walk to the antique shop I may have operated even then. They might call it a feeling of deja-vu, and leave it at that, without any attached explanation, as to why these feelings are so pervasive, and usually unexpected.

     I listened to that record a half dozen times, that morning, and did write a column all about the strange sensations I experienced, as if a not-so-subtle message, that "yes Ted, these were the days of your past life." The feeling had a definite sadness attached, that like standing in front of an angel, even for this well travelled wordsmith, would be hard to write about, such that it would make sense to you. All I can offer, as an explanation, is that it felt as if I was hugely homesick, for a place, time, and kinship, I must have had in a previous life. Now for people who believe in reincarnation, my story isn't exceptional and all that interesting, compared to what they may have gathered as research, to support their feelings about having lived before. It's not that I had never heard Elizabethan period music before this occasion, in my archives, but it was clearly the first time, the message was aggressive…..as if it was being made clear to me, by something ethereal, that I needed to appreciate just how long my mortal coil has been, from one century to the next. It seemed, at that moment, imperative that I understood what it all meant, to have a soulful link with the ages.

    I did on that occasion, draw back to my guardian angel, as I have on many occasions since. I don't think it was a voluntary remembrance. As I clearly recall, staring into the light of an angel's heavenly glow, I was being reminded, you see, of the importance of enlightenment in perpetuity……possibly because it was assumed by the higher-ups, that I was forgetting too much, too soon, about the meaning of life, as it had been presented to me, that night on my sick-bed. So not only did I write this rather strange column about my new belief in reincarnation, which was a little bit like hacking down a corn field, to build a baseball diamond, like in the movie, "Field of Dreams." I needed to be so convinced of this, that I would be willing to take the ridicule of readers for my "coming out" about my belief in "many lives lived." I never had one call, or letter calling me a nut-bar. I had about a dozen readers, who claimed to feel validated, as they had experienced similar paranormal events……but hadn't spoken of them, for fear of criticism. I understand this, but when I wrote this particular column, it was as if there was no option. It was pre-determined it was going to be written. It was the reason my son gave me two classical records, earlier that day, and why he left his record player out for me to use. Maybe it wasn't for my own enlightenment, as such, but rather, for one of those readers, that week, who would come to face some life-altering circumstance, and need their faith in that eternal light, to guide them, to the other side. Who knows? The point is, I have had thousands of deja-vu experiences in my life, which frankly, I believe began with that visiting angel; and the sensation of homesickness prevails often, under the right circumstances, and can be triggered by morning light, a setting sun, seeing an illuminated lamp in a window of an old farmhouse, a picture of an English moor, or a picturesque castle…..or the hauntingly familiar music that a Queen might find soothing yet inspiring, in a more historic time.

     The reason I have written this blog, which I suppose, as a sort of, second "coming out" on the issue, of my personal belief in reincarnation, is that it does parallel my interests in both history, antiques and writing about both. I have long believed in life after death, and the ability of those who have crossed over, to communicate with the living. I am a faithful but ever-questioning admirer of Medium John Edward, because I know what he means to validate friends and family who have passed. I was doing this years before I knew anything about John Edward, who had a well viewed television show, early in this century, called "Crossing Over." I often talk to the deceased, and I could write my own book, on the messages they send back. There isn't one thing eerie or haunting about it, but believe me, there is great personal contentment, having my communication with them, validated routinely, in some very strange ways. So for me to believe in reincarnation, isn't much of a stretch for a guy who admits to talking to dead people, and who has been within arm's reach of an angel. I'm one of the most conservative people on earth, and as far as being rational, well, even my wife…..who believe me, has seen it all, will vouch for the fact, I don't drink, take drugs, lick mushrooms for a buzz, or have any ulterior motive, for making these claims. I have no church affiliation, and the only time the name "Christ" was used in my parents' home, was when Ed toppled over the Christmas tree……by making one last adjustment to the star; every year of my childhood. So I have no religious gain to make. Just a story to spin, and another chapter of biography to publish, for my boys and grandchildren down the road. Will they think poppa was a nutter? Probably. But that doesn't matter. The story does!

     I have some stories upcoming, that hopefully will better illustrate my claims, by offering some validating examples, and occurrences, that seemed rather unearthly…..at the time, and even in retrospect…..more than just a little odd. Here's a little gem right now. The other day, Suzanne accused me of breaking a tiny music box, she had bought at a second hand shop the Sunday before. The round blue container, with lid, is exactly like what my mother Merle had, sitting on her dresser, when I was a kid. When my father passed away, and we were responsible for cleaning out their apartment (my mother had died a year earlier), I commented to Suzanne that it was odd, the old music box was missing. I loved lifting the lid on the music box, and I remember it played "Blue Danube." So when Suzanne purchased this similarly designed container, it did bring back my recollection of Merle's keepsake, and I could visualize it on the top of her high green dresser. Anyway, a customer had wound the one Suzanne had bought, too tight, and it took a lot of lubrication and patience to get it working again. Even then, it would stick at the halfway point, in winding-down. I sat in the shop for an hour trying to fix it, and finally, I said to my mother, "Merle, I need your help. If there is truly life after death, please show me, by fixing this music box, so it can play through the entire song." I held it in my palm, lifted the lid carefully, to release the plunger slowly, and immediately, the music began to play. In fact, it played completely through, until there was no tension left in the spring. I told Andrew and Robert what I had done, and what result I had just witnessed, and in the hubbub of a busy retail operation, that day, they both nodded, "That's nice dad. Is Merle in this room?" "Well, if she was, she'd make you pick up the mess," I quipped, while winding the box up again, and repeating the process one more time for good luck. That's when, again, I confirmed my belief in the actions and reactions of those who have crossed over. The darn think stuck again, and even when I shook it, and rapped on the bottom with vigor, it refused to play. Yet only a few moments earlier, it had played at the right speed, and all the way through; after being jammed tightly and unable to unwind. So was there some kind of divine intervention? If I was looking for validation, in my opinion, based on thousands of similar events, I got it that morning.

     Back in the spring of 1974, I travelled with a school band to England, to play a series of concerts, at schools in communities north of London. We actually stayed for a few days in Nottingham, and I got to run around Sherwood Forest, and Nottingham Castle, and I was even introduced to the Sheriff of Nottingham. I stood on the base of the statue, depicting Robin Hood himself, and heard the amusing anecdote, that the reason he didn't have his arrow positioned in the bow, was that American tourists kept swiping it as a souvenir. During my several week stay in England, I knew I was home. I couldn't explain the sensations, and it was a long time yet, before I knew much about the dimensions of reincarnation, and its implications to the well travelled soul……as far as random deja vu events, and questions of familiar haunts…..that honestly, in England, left me feeling as if I had re-discovered roots…..some of them buried in the centuries' old cemeteries. It was beyond familiarity, and was quite unsettling, as if I knew where everything was in London, without ever having been there before, or having consulted a city map. You see, and I have kidded about this with Suzanne, that I might have been an antique dealer in different bodies, throughout British history. I might have even been the character Charles Dickens modeled "Old Joe," after, in his story, "A Christmas Carol." Who knows. But my trip to England was easy. My withdrawal from its embrace, at the end of our trip, was heart breaking. My soul appeared to be rebelling, against going back to the colony.

     In the antique trade, many dealers have strange feelings of deja vu, when handling estates, and visiting other countries around the world. Possibly these feelings of having well travelled souls, does influence us, to collect antiques from certain periods of time, that for some reason, offers unspecified, undetermined interest and inspiration. It has often been said, that antique dealers have old souls to go along with their old stuff. Join me again, for a wee retrospective at what spirit-play, has contributed, to the making of an antique dealer.

     Thanks so much for joining this little biographical blog today. It's always nice to have you over for a visit. If you have a particular interest in the subject of reincarnation, the paranormal, angels, and well, old souls, you will want to make a return visit over the next week, as I take you for an ethereal vacation from status quo. Fare Thee Well! God speed.

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca

Lots Of Treasures In Those Mysterious Boxes, Bins and Drawers

THERE ARE SOME IMPORTANT PHOTOGRAPHS AND DOCUMENTS IN THOSE NEGLECTED BOXES AND BINS

IF YOU ARE COLLECTING FOR HISTORIC AND MONETARY VALUE, HERE'S WHAT YOU'RE MISSING

     I'VE NEVER MET A COLLECTOR OR DEALER YET, WHO WOULD DENY BEING ON THE BRINK OF TINKLING IN THEIR PANTS, UPON FINDING A HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT PHOTOGRAPH OR DOCUMENT AT A SALE, OR IN A SHOP. EVEN IN ANTIQUE SHOPS. I CAN ALWAYS FIND "SLEEPERS," IN MY COLLEAGUES' STORES, THAT FALL INTO MY AREA OF EXPERTISE, AND THEY CAN DO THE SAME WITH ME. IT'S KIND OF FUN ACTUALLY. A LITTLE FRIENDLY COMPETITION. OF COURSE, WE LEARN FROM WHAT OTHER DEALERS BUY OFF US, BECAUSE IT'S A SURE BET, THEY'RE GOING TO FLIP WHAT EVER THEY PURCHASED, FOR A HUSKY PROFIT. MOST OF US JUST EXTEND A COURTESY DISCOUNT, A TRADITION BETWEEN DEALERS, AND PROMISE TO MAKE A RETURN TRIP TO THEIR SHOP IN THE NEAR FUTURE.

    I'VE SEEN A LOT OF DEALER-PROFITING FROM COLLEAGUE RELATED TRANSACTIONS, AND I'VE HAD "SLEEPERS" PULLED FROM MY STORE, AND SOLD IN ANOTHER AREA OF THE PROVINCE, FOR UP TO QUADRUPLE THE PRICE THEY PAID IN OUR SHOP. HOW DO I KNOW THIS? DEALERS ARE VERY SHARING WITH INFORMATION, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES TO BUYING AND SELLING PROWESS….AND SO CALLED "BIG SCORES!" I HATE THAT EXPRESSION BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS! WE PROBABLY SHOULD BE MORE SECRETIVE ABOUT IT, BUT WE LIKE TO BRAG A TAD, AT THE OTHER'S EXPENSE. BUT WE'VE BEEN GOING BACK AND FORTH THIS WAY FOR DECADES, CENTURIES EVEN, ALL OVER THE WORLD. DEALERS NETWORKING WITH DEALERS. NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS, EXCEPT WHEN ON OCCASION, THE "SLEEPER" (WHICH ARE UNDER VALUED ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES) TURNS OUT TO BE A MAJOR PIECE OF ART, OR SILVER RELIC WORTH THOUSANDS MORE THAN THE ASKING PRICE FROM AN ASSOCIATE DEALER. THAT'S WHEN IT CAN GET SNARLY OUT THERE. ON ONE OCCASION, A CAMERA COLLECTOR, WHO DABBLED IN THE BUY AND SELL, PURCHASED AN UNDERWATER CAMERA FROM ME FOR FIFTY DOLLARS. I WAS HAPPY WITH MY PROFIT, AND THAT THE CAMERA WENT TO SOMEONE WHO WAS A PHOTOGRAPHIC EXPERT. A FEW WEEKS LATER, I MET HIM IN A LOCAL COFFEE SHOP, AND HE HANDED ME ANOTHER FORTY DOLLARS, SAYING THAT HE HAD SOLD THE CAMERA FOR A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT MORE, THAN HE HAD ORIGINALLY ESTIMATED, AND FELT HE SHOULD OFFER ME SOME OF THAT EXCEPTIONAL PROFIT. MY SON ANDREW FINALLY HAD TO TELL ME TO PUT THE MONEY IN MY POCKET, AS I JUST STOOD THERE, WITH MY MOUTH HANGING OPEN, WONDERING IF I HAD EXPERIENCE SOME SORT OF SEIZURE, AND IMAGINED THE WHOLE SCENARIO. THIS BY THE WAY, WAS THE FIRST TIME, AND LAST TIME, TO THIS POINT, THAT IT HAS EVER HAPPENED, THAT AN ASSOCIATE DEALER HAS BEEN SO AMAZINGLY GENEROUS. WHAT USUALLY HAPPENS, IS THAT WE HALF EXPECT, THAT WHEN WE SHOP IN A COLLEAGUE'S ANTIQUE SHOP, THE GOOD FORTUNE THAT THEY'VE HAD, FLOGGING ITEMS THEY'VE PURCHASED FROM US, WILL ENCOURAGE THEM TO BE A LITTLE MORE FLEXIBLE ON ASKING PRICES, ON ITEMS WE'RE PLANNING TO PURCHASE. DOESN'T HAPPEN THAT MUCH, BUT IT HAS OCCURRED, ALONG WITH THE STANDARD TEN PERCENT DISCOUNT, WHICH IS AN IMBEDDED TRADITION DATING BACK MANY MORE YEARS THAN I'VE BEEN AN ANTIQUE HUNTER.

KEY AREAS TO FIND SLIP UPS IN VALIDATION AND VALUATION

     There will be a few crusty antique dealers out there, who don't like the idea of educating the masses, about the way we hunt and gather out on the hustings. Sort of like the code, magicians follow, of never revealing the secrets of their tricks, many dealers feel, with some justification, that it's not prudent for business, to help create experts amongst our clientele. Basically, if we educate them (customers) by showing them how to make big finds on their own, they won't need us in the future. The reality is, today, that many more reality shows and antique identification programs, have already been doing this, so by refusing to participate in this initiative of education sharing, we'd only be shutting the barn door, long after the horses had galloped free. So as yard sale season kicks off for another year, (in Muskoka, it is most definitely the beginning, when Baysville has its community-wide garage sale Saturday) here are a few tips for those with a general interest in making significant finds, from furniture to vintage glass, pottery, books, photographs, documents and art. I'm not going to give away all the secrets of our profession. Just a few. But they're good ones.

    If you do the antique shop, mall, flea market, church sale, estate sale, and garage sale circuit, looking for some obvious treasures, why not try a different strategy. I don't ever have this (obvious antique detection syndrome) as a limiting influence, when I head out on the daily hunt for antiques. Just because it looks amazingly old, doesn't mean it is. So I don't allow myself to get side-tracked from the real job at hand. I expect to have a tough search ahead, and plan on exploiting every opportunity a vendor offers me…..with or without knowing it. For example, a lot of naive sale-goers, watch antique dealers they know, and in some ways show a certain amount of unhealthy envy. They see them carting off harvest tables and pine buffets, boxes of china, church pews, radio cabinets, and old crocks, and wish they had the moxie to have arrived before daybreak, and rapped on the sale host's door, as a full fledged (and annoying) early bird. I would offer these disgruntled sale-goers, who feel they've been out-performed by dealers, who seem to have snagged the best pieces, at respective venues, the sage advice, that many dealers make mistakes in judgement. Many simply run out of money, early in the sale-going, and have to leave behind pieces as a result.

     First of all, our family of antique hustlers, always look in the least obvious places, and the most obscure pile of boxes, some stuffed under tables instead of being located in an area of higher visibility. This happens a lot, at garage and yards sales. It happens in flea markets and thrift shops, and even in antique shops. These compromised boxes and bins, can hold some amazing stuff, if you are truly interested in being a history sleuth / archivist in training, as a companion to being a general antique enthusiast. Take for example boxes of vintage photographs, you will often find stuffed in boxes and old albums. On one day, I might come across thousands of Victorian era images. Some later images with promise, as well, often suffering from a failure of a former owner, or photographer, to identify the subject, the location, the scene, and anyone in the image. Why it pays to be attentive to these random piles, is that certain images, with historic relevance, can be worth many thousands of dollars to collectors. As an example, any Civil War related photographs are almost always desirable to those who collect pieces related to military engagements. I have heard of major portraits, of Civil War generals, selling for oodles of money, yet when they were originally offered for sale, the asking price from the astute owner, was very modest. They were found in Muskoka by the way. The profit was exceptional, and every one of the half dozen sold individually, to one Civil War collector, who knew full well, that even the price he paid, was small compared to what they might sell for, eventually, at a war memorabilia, or photographic auction. Out of a hundred customers through an antique shop, how many would stop to look through a box of old photographs. I am going out on a limb here, to suggest maybe one out of the hundred patrons, would spend the time to check them out. It other words, if those same Civil War photographs, were imbedded in that box of images, stuck in a gloomy corner of the antique shop, all but one of the customers missed making their discovery…..a big investment for a few bucks. Even if you don't collect Civil War memorabilia, there are thousands upon thousands of options for selling them, to those who do collect this vintage. It's what dealers do every day. Buy antiques and collectables based on profit margin, and market potential. Why wouldn't you consider the same profit potential? Buy them, if you determine they're the genuine articles, and then list them on Ebay! Maybe you win, maybe you break even, and possibly you could lose. The more you educate yourself, the more likely you're going to know how to profit from all good finds. You don't have have an antique shop, to be an antique speculator. But you do need to be well tutored to avoid making major mistakes.

   General antique dealers make mistakes in valuation all the time. I cherry pick photographs and documents in these shops regularly, and while it doesn't mean they don't know they've got good pieces, they probably don't know how historically significant they are……to someone who knows how to network them to collectors and historians in the field. This is done all the time. Every day. Antique hunters with shopping lists, for collectors, who want the best of the best, and are prepared to reward those hustlers who make the major finds for them.

     As for items like historic documents, known in the industry as ephemera, most antique dealers would rather not have the responsibility of handling them, as by their own admission, they're not historians as such…..which means that they will try to spread the items they know little about, to those antique hunters who do…..and who have clients for specific heritage items. If you find the right documents, or a bag of letters from an estate, that may be considered war-time, it is well worth your while to assess quickly, the heritage significance, against the asking price. As I am an easily identifiable antique dealer, as are the members of my family, a freelance shopper, can usually get a much better deal, than when I ask the price. If they know me as a dealer, I guarantee you, I will be asked to pay more, because they assess by the sparkle of my eyes, that there's a lot of profit going to be reaped, from this particular item of interest. I have experienced it all, at yard sales, believe me, and have come home with historic regional photographs, especially of Muskoka resorts, that can sell for a king's ransom. I have found historic documents that should have been donated to a museum. I'm sort of a museum curator, so a lot of documents are kept in my own archives, for research work, to support feature articles I still write for Ontario specialty publications.

     The long and short of it, is that the best finds are not always what they appear to be. It might look like the harvest table being loaded in the back of a truck, was the most valuable item at the sale. It may be that the biggest find, remained to be detected, and was in, of all places, a box of records going for five dollars for the lot. As my lads are sharks in this department, I can attest to hundreds of times, watching them pull one record from a box of hundreds, being worth as much as the harvest table on the back of that truck. They know their records, and to their advantage, many people haven't got a clue. If you were to approach them  at their place of business, and ask if they were interested in purchasing a small collection, they would be obligated to identify any record of exceptional value. It's the way our family has always done business. But on the road, and at sales, we will pay the price marked, or will await your decision on the yard sale price. The fact that we possess knowledge in these areas of the collecting spectrum, gives us a huge advantage, and we use it every outing, to improve our financial odds. It's why, even if we arrive late at a sale, just prior to packing up for the day, we can do a quick walk-about, and find an undetected gem, that makes the visit entirely worthwhile. A lot of people, dealers included, are in too much of a hurry to get to the next venue, and in their haste, they continue to miss significant opportunities…..that if they had been patient, and methodical about their quest, they would have stumbled upon, and been able to profit from on a giant scale. Just one photograph of a steam locomotive, at the right platform, in the right vintage, would be worth all the effort expended. A snapshot of a Muskoka resort, or steamship? Those are easy to sell, and for a fairly nice profit.

     Each of us in this family, has an area of specialty, the others can't compete with…..thus, we are constantly directing traffic at these events, when we find something the other will know more about. We've been traveling as a battalion for years now, and I can't tell you, how much we've benefitted by being specialists in our fields. Recently, I have been particularly successful in the acquisition of paintings, and certain other collectable prints, enhanced by the fact, I had provenance on the artists responsible. A lady, at a charity shop, was vexed by the fact I bought three large landscapes, that she had just finished mounting on a wall. I did excuse myself, as I unleashed my patented, "boarding house reach," which was a sort of over-the-shoulder move, beating out another customer's advance, on the other side of the clerk. She got so excited by the painting windfall, that she hauled me aside to see another painting, she assumed I wanted. It was a naive depiction of sail boats. I explained to her that it wasn't about the art, in this case, but because of the artist……a Muskoka painter by the name of Bill Anderson, who I knew from childhood as "the painting barber of Manitoba Street." The paintings have a pretty fair value, but not in the league of other major Canadian painters. But there is a large group of admirers, like me, who knew him back in the sixties, and his studio /barber shop, in a corner space of the former Patterson Hotel.

     As I wrote about some time ago, education in the antique and collectable field, is never-ending, especially if you have designs on being highly successful at the enterprise of buying and selling old stuff.

     Thanks for joining me today. There are a couple of interesting sales out there on Saturday morning, including the Baysville Community garage sale, which I believe begins at eight a.m. and continues until 1 p.m. Going to these sales, and all the other enterprises that sell vintage-ware, always provide us with a great opportunity to make discoveries, and improve our business inventory. Most of all, they offer us the chance to enjoy this beautiful region of Ontario…..and as I've written many times before, the adventure is just as much a mission of discovery through the countryside, as it is in the shops and at the sales. So if you're joining the parade, drive carefully out there. There are a lot of deer, moose and bear on the move these days, so be alert when driving through the spring hinterland.

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca

The Grim Reaper After Me and my Antiques

EVEN ANTIQUE DEALERS AND COLLECTORS ARE SNAPPED BACK TO THE REALITY - WE'RE MORTAL EVEN THOUGH WE FEEL IN A SPECIAL CATEGORY

SO WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT ANYWAY - SEEING AS WE CAN'T TAKE THIS STUFF WITH US?

     HONESTLY, THESE DAYS, EVERY TIME I GET BAD NEWS ABOUT SOMEONE PASSING AWAY, WHO I HAVE CHUMMED WITH, OR CONSIDERED A CLOSE COLLEAGUE, I GET KIND OF WEIRD AND WITHDRAWN, AND ON EVERY ONE OF THESE OCCASIONS, I START QUESTIONING WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT ANYWAY. DON'T YOU? I DON'T THINK IT'S A PARTICULARLY EXTRAORDINARY REACTION. IT'S JUST ONE THAT PRICKS US A LITTLE HARDER, WHEN A DEATH HAPPENS IN OUR BALLIWICK…..REMOVING SOMEONE FAMILIAR WHO WE HAVE COME TO EXPECT…..TO ALWAYS BE THERE, SO AS NOT TO UPSET THE NORMALCY OF OUR LIVES. I NEVER SAID WE WEREN'T A SELF ABSORBED GROUP OF PROFESSIONALS. WE LIKE CHANGE TO HAPPEN TO SOMEONE ELSE, IN SOME OTHER LOCALE, IF IT HAS TO HAPPEN AT ALL. YET OUR PROGRESS IN ACQUISITIONS, VERY MUCH DEPENDS ON THIS SAME CYCLE OF LIFE WE LOATHE TO ACKNOWLEDGE…..IN CASE IT'S OUR NAME ON THE "NEXT TO HARVEST" LIST. THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION IS ONE STEP BEHIND THE GRIM REAPER, AND I HATE LIKE HECK TO ADMIT THIS. I HAVE HUNDREDS OF PIECES TO REMIND ME, THAT MY GOOD FORTUNE, AS THE NEW OWNER, CLEARLY DEPENDED ON THEM SUCCUMBING FIRST. OTHER THAN THAT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EITHER A TRANSACTION IN LIFE, OR OTHERWISE, THAT WE HAD BROKEN INTO THEIR HOMES, AND STOLEN WHAT WE WANTED. OF COURSE WE'RE NOT LIKE THAT! WE'RE PATIENT. THUS, THE ESTATE THING IS OUR BIGGEST SUPPLIER OF WHAT WE COLLECT, BUY AND SELL. WE LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS OPPRESSIVE NEGATIVISM, AND THINK OF OURSELVES AS CURATORS OF HEIRLOOM PIECES, LEFT FOR OUR SAFE HANDLING.

     IT DOESN'T HELP THAT I'M A WRITER AND HISTORIAN MIXED IN WITH ANTIQUE DEALER. A LOT OF FOLKS THINK THAT YOU HAVE TO BE ECCENTRIC TO BE AN ANTIQUE DEALER ANYWAY. THOSE SAME FOLKS BELIEVE WRITERS ARE A LITTLE LEFT OF CENTRE, AND HISTORIANS ARE ALL "POINDEXTERS," WITH THEIR FACES BURIED UP TO THEIR THICK GLASS RIMS, IN A MOUNTAIN OF RESEARCH MATERIAL……ALL THE TIME, EXCEPT FOR EATING, AND GOING TO THE WASHROOM. SO BEING CONSIDERED AN ODD DUCK HAS BEEN MY LOT IN LIFE FOR DECADES NOW. MOST OF THE TIME, I USE IT TO SCARE OFF DOOR TO DOOR SALES TYPES, AND RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS WHO SHOW UP HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, TO MAKE A SALE OR SAVE A SOUL. "I'M A TERRIBLE THREESOME OF PERSONALITIES," I LET THEM KNOW AT THE THRESHOLD, WHILE LOOKING WILD-EYED. THEY USUALLY TURN AROUND WHEN THEY HEAR "WRITER," BECAUSE WITH MY OPEN SHIRT TO MY NAVEL, THEY ASSUME I MUST PEN PORNOGRAPHY. IF THEY GET PAST THAT, THE HISTORIAN USUALLY TROUBLES THEM, ESPECIALLY WHEN I'M WEARING MY OLD BEAVER SKIN TOP HAT, THAT I SAVE FOR SPECIAL GUESTS.

   BUT GETTING BACK TO THE POINT OF THIS TOME, I OFTEN GET TO THE PINNACLE OF EMOTION, WHERE I LOOK AT OUR COLLECTIONS, AND OUR SHOP, AND LIKE THE SONG GOES, SING QUIETLY TO MYSELF, "IS THAT ALL THERE IS." I LOVE OLD STUFF, AND ALWAYS HAVE, BUT THERE ARE TIMES WHEN THE LOSS OF SOMEONE I KNOW, COMPELS ME TO ASK OUT LOUD, "WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING COLLECTING ALL THIS STUFF, WHEN ONE MORNING, WE COULD GET UP AFTER COFFEE AND A BRAN MUFFIN, AND HAVE THE 'BIG ONE.' RIGHT THERE ON THE SPOT. POTENTIALLY CRASHING INTO THE GREEK URN, OR TAKING OUT THE SET OF TRILLIUM CHINA YOUR PARTNER HAS BEEN BUILDING FOR CLOSE TO AN ETERNITY. HONESTLY, I HATE GETTING LIKE THIS, BUT EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, YOU DO NEED TO BE REMINDED JUST HOW BRIEF OUR STAY IS, AND AFTER ALL, THE STUFF WE OWN, HAS BEEN THROUGH MANY OWNERS…..SOME WHO HAD TO PASS-ON, FOR US TO BE ABLE TO BUY IT FROM AN ESTATE OR AUCTION. YUP, WE ARE THE KEEPERS OF THE MATERIALS LEFT BEHIND BY OTHERS. IT GIVES YOU KIND OF A CREEPY FEELING AT TIMES, SITTING ALONE, CONTEMPLATING HOW MANY PREVIOUS OWNERS, SAT UP AT NIGHT, TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THEY COULD BE BURIED WITH THEIR POSSESSIONS….AND ACTUALLY HAVE THAT MAKE SENSE. EVEN THE MOST REALISTIC ANTIQUE DEALER, GETS THAT LITTLE PANG, OF PANIC, WONDERING HOW ANY ONE ELSE COULD EVER BE TRUSTED WITH THEIR POSSESSIONS. THAT'S WHEN PLANS OF ACTION ARE DRAWN UP, AND WILLS FINALLY PENNED, TO ENSURE THAT THE COLLECTED TREASURES ARE LOOKED AFTER PROPERLY, BY APPOINTING STEWARDS IN THE LINE OF SUCCESSION.

DAVE BROWN HAD A WILL BUT HE NEVER THOUGHT IT WOULD BE REQUIRED

     My old book collector friend, Dave Brown, of Hamilton, was a smart cookie. He did prepare a will, and certainly understood the dire consequence of the news he was given; that he was within a whisker of death, the result of leukemia. Dave was well versed in science and botany, and it is my contention, as his friend and biographer, that he knew the end was coming, years before he had it positively identified. I can remember, in the mid 1990's, Dave being spry, and going on huge canoe trips by himself, and working on demolition jobs with some of his Hamilton cronies. We knew when it took Dave three times as long to get to our verandah, from his truck in the driveway, there was something going on, more than just being tired. He was turning down some of Suzanne's cooking, which was the sure sign his body was talking to him loud and clear. It still took him a long time to actually go to the doctor, to get a diagnosis. Even when Suzanne talked with him, the day he was given the bad news, he confessed to having had a suspicion it was going to be bad news…..which ironically, was his same opinion about five years before this. He knew! But he didn't want it confirmed. As long as it was his little secret, he was prepared to go down with the ship. The only reason he let us know what was going on, had to do with the fact, I was writing his biography at the time. I had to be in the loop.

     Getting back to my original question, and how it pertained to Dave Brown, it was very much the case, the antique and collectable enterprise, he got up to, every day of his life (after retiring from teaching), was his source of strength and inspiration to carry on. There are some who were close to Dave, who share this opinion, that he might have even stretched out his life expectancy, because he was controlling his mind, and challenging himself to carry on, and not dwell on things like "feeling crappy," and hurting all over. There are others who wished he had received his diagnosis years earlier, if that was possible, because he could have started treatments; that may have potentially extended his life. Truth is, Dave wouldn't have taken the treatments anyway. So he traded treatment for "old book hunting." It preoccupied him in the most positive way, at this point, and sitting next to this guy, on the deck, talking about the next collecting conquest, or estate sale, you'd well expect the man had the health of a twenty year old body builder. He was slower, admittedly, but he seemed more interested in his books than I'd seen in the decade before. He had so many places he wanted to visit, such as his friends in the City of Washington, and the books shops he loved in Chicago. He probably believed that his positive thinking, would by itself, restore his health. He may have felt the hand of death, at points, but he wasn't bashful of responding, "Not yet, I've got work to do!" Dave you see, was not a dawdler. He was a thinker, a plodder, a buccaneer at times, when there was a cache of books he knew about and wanted.

     I think about Dave a lot, and how short it was, between the time of his official diagnosis, and prognosis, to when he actually gave up and went to his eternal reward. But get this. It's my favorite Dave Brown story. A very few days before his demise, his friends came to spring him from hospital, to take him to one of his favorite restaurants in St. Catharines. It was his favorite, not just because of the good food served there, but the fact there was an old book shop just around the corner he used to visit when in the city. He went to the shop, found a book he liked, and when he arrived back at the restaurant, to meet his friends, he held out the bag with the book in it, and said, with a wee upturn of his cheek, "You never know when you're going to need a good book." With my intimate knowledge of the good Mr. Brown, I would say, that without a doubt, he lived longer not knowing about his illness, than if he had found out three to five years earlier, he was in the early stages of the disease. He would have largely given up, and refused any medical intervention to rob nature of its claim on his remains. Dave was better off not knowing, and this may confuse some people reading this, because it doesn't seem a sensible protocol. Yet for Dave, who was imbedded in nature, even in his outdoor education classroom in Hamilton, death wasn't such a big deal……"It's a fact of life, that we all have to die……" and I remember this, because it was a line he used on a Hamilton television station's talk show, where he appeared frequently as a guest, talking about oddities of nature. He was showing a skeleton of a raccoon I think it was, that day…..and was matter of fact, for the youngsters watching, about the cycle of life, and the truth that all life forms have life expectancies. Even outdoor educators.

     I don't really think my imbedded and enthusiastic relationship with antiques and collectables will extend my life. But unless I trip over a Medalta crock, or fall into a spinning wheel while on a late night trip to the bathroom, I don't really believe that my life will be shortened by this quirky obsession of mine. I do know what Dave was talking about, at the end, about never knowing when you're going to need the company of a collectable. There's a power of focus and pre-occupation, that affects most of us in this trade, to withdraw somewhat from the status quo of the real world. It's an intimacy that is hard to explain, but it's not difficult whatsoever, to explain why I'm a lot happier in the midst of my collection, than sitting in the same room, with nary a collectable piece to be found. There is a rare dynamic in the antique profession, that may be enhanced and even enchanted by the fact most of what we consider antiques, has been passed on to us, as a direct result of the grim reaper's scythe. So when we look at it, of course we get the sense, (especially on certain pieces), that a previous owner has still got that plan, to take the subject piece to the other side……when he or she figures out how to sneak that one past God. It's why antique dealers often sense that a piece carries a little spirited energy with it, as the former owner refuses to let go. So it's not like we don't think about the day we have to leave all this behind; it's just that when we lose some of our mates, and kindred spirits, we ponder momentarily, what we've been doing this for, over so many decades. We answer our own questions quickly. We know why we surround ourselves with old stuff. We're old souls, who may have, at some point in history, been a part of those earlier times….. but most likely in different professions. If we get real morbid about it all, we then take great measures, to itemize all our neat possessions, in the last will and testament, with accompanying rules of conduct and material maintenance, for the next generation to obsess over.

     I made the right choice when I opted to become an antique dealer…..I'm that strange folks, that this all makes sense to me. I know that my own pre-occupation with history, in all its shapes and sizes, qualities and quantities, has kept me keenly aware of both the past and future……and I'm of the mind today, to make sure my boys know how to handle the burden, of a (my) life time spent collecting. These days I'm hearing about more of my cronies crossing over…..and it makes even the death-defying antique dealer, think about the odds….if Nick the Greek was still calling them.

     Sorry that this blog reads a little on the morbid side. Most just call it, a smack-down of reality, when no one invited it (the nasty truth) to the party. See you again soon, "heaven willing," as my mother used to say, when I'd say "goodnight, and see you tomorrow."

Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca/

Harry Ranger Hall Of Fame Rink Rat Goaltender

HARRY RANGER WAS THE KING OF THE RINK RAT HOCKEY CLUB

THE POOR GOAL-KEEP WAS DESTINED TO GAME AFTER GAME OF "HE SHOOTS HE MOSTLY SCORES"

     WHAT COULD YOU SAY, TO THE SMILING WEE LEPRECHAUN OF A MAN, LOOKING UP AT YOU WITH THAT PUZZLED LOOK THAT SAID, WITHOUT THE NEED FOR A SINGLE SPOKEN WORD…., "WHAT? I DIDN'T DO THAT!" FOR THE RECORD, YES HE DID! HE DID THESE KIND OF THINGS ALL THE TIME. BUT ONLY TO THE PEOPLE HE REALLY CARED ABOUT. TRUTH IS, WE KIND OF LOOKED FORWARD TO HIS HORSE PLAY, BECAUSE IT WAS ALWAYS IN GOOD FUN.

     YOU COULD HAVE RESTED YOUR ELBOW ON THE TOP OF HIS HEAD, IF YOU HAD WANTED TO…..AND HE WOULD HAVE LAUGHED IT OFF.  BASHFULLY GLANCING UP AT YOU, WITH THOSE DEEP, TWINKLING EYES, IT WOULD COME AFTER HE HAD JUST GIVEN YOU A "WET WILLY?" WHICH OF COURSE WAS A WET FINGER….. HIS FINGER, HAVING BEEN IN HIS MOUTH, BEFORE BEING STUCK IN YOUR EAR. THAT'S ONE OF THE FIRST MEMORIES THAT CAME TO MIND, WHEN BRANT SCOTT READ MY EMAIL THIS MORNING. HIS REPLY BACK THIS EVENING, WAS AS A FORMER TEAM-MATE AND PRINT-INDUSTRY COLLEAGUE, WHO HAD PUT UP WITH THESE PRACTICAL JOKES EVERY DAY FOR YEARS. I HAD LET BRANT KNOW THAT OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, RINK RAT HALL OF FAMER, HARRY RANGER, HAD PASSED AWAY EARLIER THIS WEEK, AT HOME IN BARRIE. 

     SO HERE'S A HOCKEY STORY TO HEAD-UP THIS LITTLE MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO A FALLEN RINK RAT.

    WHEN HERALD-GAZETTE COLUMNIST, BRANT SCOTT, ("A WEE BISCUIT" WAS ALWAYS MY FAVORITE OF HIS COLUMNS), CAME INTO THE NEWSROOM, TO SEE ME, ALL ENTHUSED THAT WE HAD JUST GOT A HOCKEY GIG FOR OUR NEW MEDIA TEAM, I WAS AGHAST, BUT DIDN'T WANT TO SHOW MY FRIGHT RIGHT AWAY. IT COULD WAIT. I KNEW THE TEAM HE WAS TALKING ABOUT, AND THEY WERE JUST SHY OF N.H.L CALIBRE. I LISTENED IN AWE, BUT MOSTLY FEAR! HE WAS TELLING ME, WHAT HE THOUGHT WAS GOOD NEWS, THAT WE HAD A HOCKEY GAME REQUEST, TO PLAY UP IN THE VILLAGE OF MACTIER; WITH A TEAM SO HUNGRY, IT ATE THE COMPETITORS WHOLE. NOT EVEN ANY LEFTOVERS FOR THE MINOR TEAMS TO FEED OFF. MY FIRST JOB AS A CUB REPORTER, WAS FOR THE GEORGIAN BAY-MUSKOKA LAKES BEACON, IN UPTOWN MACTIER. I WENT OUT FOR A GAME OF PICK-UP WITH THE SAME TEAM, IN THE EARLY WINTER OF 1979, AND PLAYED THREE PERIODS OF NET. IT WAS A SIXTY MINUTE HORROR THAT UNFOLDED THAT NIGHT, WITH FOUR MAN BREAK-AWAYS ALL THE TIME. I WAS BLACK AND BLUE ALL OVER, FROM SLAP SHOTS FROM EVERY ANGLE ON THAT SHEET OF ICE. WHEN THEY ASKED ME OUT FOR A SECOND NIGHT OF HORROR, I POLITELY DECLINED. I WASN'T HEALED FROM THE FIRST EVENING OF HOCKEY-RUGBY. 

     I IMMEDIATELY RESPONDED, "THAT'S GREAT BRANT, BUT HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET HARRY UP THERE? I'M NOT PLAYING NET AGAINST THOSE GUYS, EVER." IT WAS BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S. WE HAD JUST ORGANIZED A NEWSPAPER SPONSORED HOCKEY TEAM, AND HONESTLY FIGURED WE KNEW WHAT WE WERE DOING. HARRY RANGER KNEW HOW BAD WE WERE, BECAUSE AS IT WAS SAID OF HIM, IN THOSE DAYS, "HE HAD MORE RUBBER LANDING ON HIM THAN THE RUNWAYS OF TORONTO'S AIRPORT." THAT WAS TRUE. BUT YOU KNOW, AFTER THE GAMES WE GOT POUNDED, A FEW BEERS LATER ON, ALWAYS SEEMED TO EMPOWER US, TO MAKE BIGGER AND MORE DARING CHALLENGES. THE PROBLEMS ASSOCIATED WITH THIS, WERE THAT A FEW OF OUR BETTER PLAYERS, REALLY DIDN'T LIKE BEING HUMILIATED EVERY GAME WE PLAYED. SO WE WERE FORCED TO LIE TO THEM, IN ORDER TO GET A FULL TEAM OUT. SO BRANT AND I, IN THE MIDDLE OF A WORK DAY AT THE NEWSPAPER, TRIED TO FIGURE A WAY OF SOFT-SELLING IT TO HARRY, SO HE WOULD AGREE TO MAKE THE TRIP. HE WAS OUR GOALIE AND NO ONE……AND I MEAN NO ONE, WOULD VOLUNTEER TO STRAP ON THE OLD PADS. I WAS A CAREER GOALIE AND I EVEN REFUSED. I WOULD RATHER HAVE BEEN A HALF ASS FORWARD THAN A BEAT-UP GOALIE. SO MUCH FOR HARRY.

     WE CONVINCED THE KINDLY, GENTLE, DIMINUTIVE OLDTIMER, THAT THE MACTIER CLUB WAS GOING TO LEND US A FEW PLAYERS, AND HE WOULDN'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE NORMAL RINK RAT FARE, OF BEING PUMMELED ALL GAME LONG. IN RETROSPECT, AND BY THE WAY, I DID APOLOGIZE FOR LIEING TO HIM…., HARRY DID COME WITH US, AND HE BELIEVED OUR COVER STORY RIGHT UP UNTIL THE PUCK DROPPED, AND HE COULD CLEARLY SEE THE RINK RATS WERE SPORTING THE SAME WAYS, THE SAME INCOMPETENCE, AND THAT WAS NOT GOOD FOR HIM.

     AT ONE POINT IN THE FIRST PERIOD, WHEN HE COULDN'T SEE BECAUSE THERE WAS SO MUCH SWEAT DRAINING INTO HIS EYES, DRIPPING DOWN THE LEATHER OF THE MASK, HE SAID TO ME, IN A SHORT HUDDLE IN THE CREASE…."CURRIE, YOU SON OF BITCH. YOU LIED TO ME AGAIN."  LIKE THE RINK RATS WERE FAMOUS FOR, WE STARED INTO THE DRAGON'S DEN, LAUGHED AT ADVERSITY, WHACKED OUR STICK SHAFTS AGAINST HARRY'S TORN PADS (THAT ALWAYS SHED HORSE HAIR ON THE ICE) AND SAID, WITH CONVICTION, "HARRY, WE'RE MOUNTING A COME-BACK. HANG IN THERE." AS WE WENT BACK INTO THE NEXT FACE OFF, HARRY COULD BE HEARD MAKING SOME PACT WITH GOD, OR FOSTER HEWITT, TO SURVIVE LONG ENOUGH TO GET BACK INTO THE LOCKER ROOM…..FOR THE BEER HE MAY, OR MAY NOT HAVE HAD, TUCKED INTO HIS SHOE FOR MORAL SUPPORT. AT ONE POINT IN THE THIRD PERIOD, WE SAW ALL THESE MACTIER LADS DOING CARTWHEELS, AND PIROUETTES BEFORE FALLING TO THE ICE. HAROLD SHER, A FIGURE SKATING STAR ON HIS OWN, TOLD HARRY TO STOP TRIPPING THEM, OR THEY'D BEAT THE REST OF US UP. "I'M NOT TRIPPING THEM," HARRY YELLED AT HAROLD, "IT'S THE DAMN HORSE HAIR AND STRAW COMING OUT OF MY PADS. IT'S ALL OVER THE FRONT OF THE NET." HEY, IT WORKED FOR US, AND IT'S HOW WE SPRUNG HAROLD FOR OUR ONLY GOAL IN THE GAME.

     I THINK HE LOST TEN POUNDS THAT GAME, AND YOU KNOW, THE LITTLE FELLOW STOPPED AT LEAST HALF THE SHOTS ON NET, AND ALTHOUGH ARGUABLY THE SCORE WAS A LITTLE BIT LIKE, WHAT YOU'D SEE IN BOLD LIGHT, ON A FOOTBALL JUMBOTRON, WE RINK RATS GAVE OURSELVES A LOT OF GOODWILL POINTS, FOR JUST MAKING IT TO THE FINAL BUZZER, WITHOUT HAVING TO RAISE THE WHITE TOWEL OF SURRENDER. "I'LL NEVER BELIEVE ANOTHER THING YOU TELL ME CURRIE," SAID THE WHIPPED RINK RAT NETMINDER, AS HE MADE A BEE-LINE FOR THAT FLASK OF COLD ALE. BREEZING PAST THE REPORTER, ME, WHO WAS ALSO COVERING THE GAME FOR THE HOMETOWN PRESS. THE HEADLINE WOULD READ, "MACTIER LIONS EAT RINK RATS FOR GOOD CAUSE." I KNOW. I DROPPED THE "B." HEY, IT WAS A FEATURE COLUMN IN GOOD FUN, ALTHOUGH HARRY WAS TRYING TO LAUGH IN THE DRESSING ROOM, NOTHING WAS COMING OUT, BUT A SPITTING, SPUTTERING DIATRIBE THAT SOUND LIKE, "YOU BASTARDS!" HIS LONG TIME FRIEND AND NEIGHBOR, ALISTAIR TAYLOR, WHO MAY HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO AT LEAST FIVE OF THE THIRTY GOALS, BY ACCIDENTALLY CLEARING THE PUCK INTO OUR OWN NET, WAS TRYING TO CAJOLE THE TWO INCH SHORTER "HARRY" BUT NO PROMISES WERE HAVING ANY IMPACT, EXCEPT WHEN HIS PRAYERS WERE ANSWERED; "FOR GOD'S SAKE MAN, GET ME ANOTHER BEER."

ALWAYS A CHEERFUL FORMER GOALIE

     As regular visitors to this blog site will recognize, my heart never left its position with the old Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge. It was my dream job. My friends were there, and that included Harry and his wife Sheila, who worked in our printing shop, then known as Muskoka Graphics; tucked into the dank, ink-scented rear part of the familiar thin, white, two story building, on Dominion Street; looming so pure and historic, at the intersection with Quebec Street. It was a job I looked forward to, each morning, and I didn't mind staying late. I would spend part of each day chatting with the printing staff, including Jimmy Wright, another master of the machines, and one of the Rink Rat founders. I was mesmerized by the printing machines, and Harry would patiently describe the process, and what they were working on, at the time. He had a smile and an anecdote every time we visited, and honestly, and conveniently, he could play me like a cheap violin. He had a great sense of humor, and he loved to play practical jokes on me, (and Brant) and I was a "sucker," taking the bait every time…..only to look around, and notice all the other staff killing themselves laughing. I may have reminded him of this cajoling, when I had that goal-crease meeting with him, in MacTier. "Hell if you can't take a joke Harry," I probably uttered, in one of about fifteen retreats, trying to convince him to stay in the game. I told the lads on the bench we might have to duct tape him to the posts, because he was talking about pulling himself for a sixth attacker. And this was only the first period. I told him that night, that even if he was to expire in the middle of the game, we would have to fake-it, and prop him up against the cross-bar until the final buzzer. "Currie, I'm quitting this team," he'd mumble, as I skated away laughing. You could hear him hitting the goal-posts with his stick, and I knew those chops were for my benefit. He was thinking of my shins at the time.

     My proudest moment, was when I was asked to attend a Loveable Losers Hockey Tournament, in the late 1990's, a tournament still run by the Rink Rats in Bracebridge, and was asked, during the opening ceremonies, to come out to centre ice for a special presentation. There I was, side by side my two great Rink Rat chums, from the original Herald-Gazette years, Ed Kowalsky, and Harry Ranger. We were there to receive our official retirement sweaters, with names on the back, and a rousing testimonial by Gord Dawes and Ed Renton, for our years of service to fundraising in the community, and hopefully good sportsmanship toward others. I looked down at Harry's little bald head, wrapped my arm around it, and whispered, "I'm sorry you old fart, for hauling your ass to MacTier that time." He looked up, with a huge smile, and very softly, replied, "God will get you one day Ted….and when he does……"

     God got Harry first. My old hockey and work buddy, passed away on Monday evening, after a brave battle with lung cancer. On Monday night, I actually thought about Harry, and the Rink Rats, for no apparent reason, yet I think now, he was letting me know he had moved on from this mortal coil, ready for the next challenge of existence. As I do very much believe in the after-life, and our ability to communicate with those who have crossed over, I'm talking to him already, and well, begging him to go lightly on me, when it's my turn to head heavenward. He'd relish the idea that I'd be worrying about this…..sensing that even in heaven, there can be a little hell going on…..and that even God likes the occasional practical joke; within reason of course. He might lose that heavenly finger, or be sent back to earth as a porcupine, if he tries a wet willy on the big guy.

     Harry used to love telling me that he was related to Toronto Sun columnist Paul Rimstead, from up Sudbury way, and therefore, having him and Rimmer up there, means God's got a full compliment of jokesters to make the heavenly experience even more heavenly.

     I wish to extend my heartfelt sympathy to the Ranger family. Harry had an amazing life force within, and a goodness that I felt in my heart, even after many years of being distant from one another. That was the aura of Harry Ranger, and it was as infectious as it was beautiful. I have known a lot of characters in my day, who influenced me in my writing career, but very few have had the impact of Harry Ranger…..a good sport through and through. A kindred spirit who gave more than he ever received…..but he was happy to do so.

     I even helped Harry and Sheila, and the residents of Balsam Chutes, save the old Stephenson Road bridge, back in the 1980's, that had once been the bridge over the rapids at Bird's Mill in Bracebridge. After it had been replaced, it was rebuilt over the Muskoka River, on the Stephenson Road. It was a beautiful old bridge but it was in structural distress, and neither Huntsville or Bracebridge had an appetite for paying for the repairs; as it was a town-line structure in a sparsely populated area. It was only a couple of football field lengths from Highway II. If the bridge was closed, it would have meant a much longer drive out to Highway II7, and then north and south on Highway II. It was done this way in the winter because the hill on the highway side, across the bridge, was a monster that couldn't be plowed in the winter season. Well sir, little Harry and his team of Save Our Bridge residents, fought the good fight, and saved the old bridge. Even though it was serious business, we had a lot of fun working on it together. You just couldn't work with Harry, even for a minute and a half, and then say the experience was unremarkable.

     We are all better, kinder humans for having known Harry Ranger, goaltender extraordinaire!

     A Note to an Old Friend: Thanks Karen. It was nice talking to you again after all these years, and hope to see you sometime soon. Balsam Chutes was always a special place to visit, and you were always a wonderful host...who we, the noisy guests never thanked as we should have.

 Please visit my other blog at http://muskokaaswaldenpond.blogspot.ca