CHRISTMAS IN GRAVENHURST -

TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL? HAVE YOU HAD ANY PARANORMAL EXPERIENCES? ANGELIC VISITATIONS, VISIONS….FEEL YOU HAVE A GUARDIAN ANGEL?

ON THE ADVICE……A LONG, LONG TIME AGO, FROM RESPECTED CANADIAN AUTHOR, GHOST SLEUTH, JOHN ROBERT COLOMBO, WHO HAS MANY BOOKS ON THE PARANORMAL TO HIS CREDIT, I HAVE BEEN COMPILING MUSKOKA THEMED STORIES FOR A FUTURE PUBLICATION. SO FAR, I'VE BEEN USING A BLOG SITE AS THE REPOSITORY FOR THE ACCUMULATION OF STORIES GATHERED OVER A LIFETIME. MOST ARE ASSOCIATED WITH OUR FAMILY, AND SOME HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED PREVIOUSLY IN INTERNATIONALLY AVAILABLE BOOKS. ANDREW, MY SON, AND MY PARTNER SUZANNE, HAVE HAD THEIR ENCOUNTERS WITH THE PARANORMAL PUBLISHED IN BARBARA SMITH'S BOOK OF ONTARIO GHOSTS, AND I'VE BEEN INCLUDED IN JOHN COLOMBO'S BOOK ON CANADIAN GHOSTS. BARBARA SMITH'S BOOK IS AVAILABLE IN MANY GROCERY STORES TODAY, AND FOUR OR FIVE TIMES EACH YEAR, SUZANNE WILL HAVE SOMEONE COME UP TO HER, ASKING IF SHE'S THE SAME SUZANNE CURRIE FROM THE GHOST STORY ABOUT THE "LOST BOY NAMED HERBIE." ANDREW IS INCLUDED IN THIS STORY. I DID THE COMPOSITION OF THE STORY FOR THE AUTHOR.

I HAVE JUST BEGUN A YEAR-LONG PLUS SERIES, ON THE PARANORMAL, THE THIRD MAJOR SERIES IN PRINT (THE OTHER BEING IN CURIOUS:THE TOURIST GUIDE, AND BEFORE THAT, IN THE MUSKOKA SUN) IN A PUBLICATION KNOWN AS THE "GREAT NORTH ARROW," A GREAT LITTLE PAPER CENTERED IN DUNCHURCH, ONTARIO, WITH A GROWING READERSHIP…..EVEN OUTSIDE OF THE AREA, AND BY INCREASING CIRCULATION, WHICH IS PLEASING EVERYBODY CONNECTED. SUBSCRIPTIONS ARE AVAILABLE. I HAVE RE-PRINTED THE FOLLOWING COLUMN I WROTE FOR THEM, WHICH IS ALSO ON MY MUSKOKA AND ALQONQUIN GHOST SITE. THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN A DEVIATION TO THE USUAL POLITICAL NATTERING, I FIND MYSELF ROUTINELY PRE-OCCUPIED. THEY ARE ALL TRUE STORIES……AND IF YOU KNOW ME AT ALL…..I DO NOT ENGAGE OFTEN IN THE PRODUCTION OF FICTION. I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO PEN SHORT STORIES BUT NOT OFTEN. EVEN THE THOUSANDS OF OLD BOOKS I OWN, ONLY ABOUT TEN OF THEM CAN BE CONSIDERED FICTION……WASHINGTON IRVING AND CHARLES DICKENS. THAT'S IT! SO HERE IS SOME NON-FICTION FROM BIRCH HOLLOW.

YOU CAN FIND MY GHOST BLOG SITE BY CLICKING ONTO http://hauntedmuskoka.blogspot.com/

HAUNTED BY AN ANGEL WHO GOT HER WINGS!

BY TED CURRIE

Most of us, in a gentle, invigorating traverse of a still lake, can claim to having heard the mysterious paddle-wash of phantom canoeists, coming along behind, on those haunted, smoky days of late autumn. In the manifestation of paddle, vessel and echo off the rocky shoreline, there is a simple explanation for the apparent ghost canoe. Then again, ghosts for all intents and purposes, may be considered the supernatural of nature itself.

You stop, listen, swear that another canoe is approaching, but when you turn to catch a glimpse of the companion vessel, there is nothing but a rippling wake through the fog. A spirit canoe? The re-engagement of some lost paddler's daily ritual, to traverse this haunted lake, autumn after autumn, as it did in life. It has been claimed, by some fairly reputable folks, that Canadian Artist, Tom Thomson's ghost, still paddles Algonquin's Canoe Lake these late autumn days. Thomson may be looking to find the person(s) who murdered him back in 1917.

Nonsense, you say? Well, there are definitely more folks who would deny a ghostly encounter than admit one. Or at least this is the way it has been, to this point. Times are changing.

Today it's not so socially precarious to admit to seeing or experiencing a ghost. In some pockets of the "curious", in our population, you'd be quite an attraction, telling about in-person, spirited encounters. When I wrote my first published feature article, (early 1980's) about a ghost visitation I'd experienced, in a house I was residing, in Bracebridge, Ontario, the cards and letters in response, painted me as pretty much a grade-A "nutter" who certainly shouldn't have had care and control of the community press. I'd published it in the paper I was editor, at the time, and Herald-Gazette readers were pretty conservative, not just in politics, but in everyday life and times. If they'd sat down and had lunch with a ghost, and played a couple of hands of euchre, after dinner, they wouldn't have admitted it, for fear of public ridicule. In fact, they'd make every attempt to discredit anyone else, who may have had a ghostly encounter.

So when, in the early 1980's, I promoted this substantial feature, on ghosts and their kindred spirits, it was definitely a "coming-out," for the writer, unafraid of a future, admitting to accepting and communicating with those who had crossed over. While I am an enormous fan of medium John Edward, well known for his former television show, "Crossing Over," and many best selling books, I have been exchanging with the "other side" for as long as I can remember.

I've been having spirit encounters since childhood but never once felt any significant fear in their presence. I've never once claimed to have psychic capabilities, not even a molecule of clairvoyance, or that I could, in any way, connect the living and the spirit world. I have no interest in becoming a medium or psychic anything, and there's not a dime of profit received for telling these stories. I have an unyielding belief however, in the existence of spirits somewhere, that can and will respond to our own willingness to initiate communication. I will explain this in more detail, later in this series of feature columns on the paranormal. I have a great deal of personal evidence that validation of the existence of the "other side," does remove the barriers that have for most, blocked any affirmation of the potential to communicate. Of this I heartily agree with Mr. Edward, that validation is the key. I've been talking to dead people for decades, and getting some pretty interesting responses. I stress again, I'm not psychic, just a believer.

I'm not overly religious, and I attended church for only one week in my entire life. My parents were moderates about everything, and offered me a taste of religion, for morality's sake but not a steady diet of Bible instruction. They were both believers, and Christians as far as they were concerned, and only referenced "hell" if I got in trouble at school…..or The Maple Leafs lost another game.

As an example of this moderation, you'd only ever hear a plaintive "For Christ's Sake" in our house, when my mother would drop a freshly rolled cigarette into the toilet. She wasn't supposed to be smoking, for health reasons, so she'd sneak some tobacco and a paper into the bathroom, for a wee drag or two. While my mother was from a God-fearing family, and had been brought up in those days where folks might attend two services, on an average Sunday, she never imposed binding insights about religion on her only son. Still, it was clear, she believed in God and in a heavenly reward. I hope she and my father got it, as both passed recently. But it's not really what got me talking to the deceased, wafting somewhere in the realm of what I could only think of as "heaven." Heaven wasn't to my left or right, but when my mother brought up the subject, during one of my trademark trouble-sprees, she always tilted her head, as if to look upward to Heaven for strength. I still think of it that way, even if I'm talking on a parallel, to some old friend I'm suddenly reminded of…..who has passed. I suppose I do eventually tilt my own head and stare at the ceiling….and beyond, as if to connect with the positioning of heaven from an earth perspective.

My turn-on to the realm of heavenly possibility, came at a young age. I think I was about seven or eight years old (just not sure about this), and I'd been suffering from a wicked bout of influenza. It went into my lungs, and while it never reached full pneumonia, every time I coughed I subsequently vomited. I had to sit upright in a chair for more than a week, to avoid choking to death on my discharges. I had a pail at my side constantly. I didn't know much at all about death but the suffering over this period, made me wish for it several times, while raising my head out of the bucket, and feeling the million needles stabbing from inside my chest. I was fevered most of a week. During this period, they found out I was allergic to penicillin. So I had few options other than to ride-it-out, as my parents used to say, while hovering over their sick child.

I'd had one really bad day, toward the end of my bout with this illness. I'd stopped vomiting but was burning up with fever. I was in and out of sleep, soaked with sweat, battling chills and those aches and pains that provide such misery and discomfort. At some point, in the wee hours of the next morning, during one of these hit and miss sleep-periods, I had the most vivid, incredible, enchanting dream-encounters of a lifetime thus far. In fact, it has held with me for an entire life, as a dream like no other. It happened like this.

I found myself, as strange as this may read, in the laundry room of our Burlington, Ontario apartment. It was on the bottom floor of the three story complex. It was as real and sensory an experience as one encounters every waking moment. I could see clearly, smell, feel and hear this dream. When I arrived through the laundry-room door, (I always enjoyed helping my mother on laundry days), I didn't find anything extraordinary, except the fact that it was incredibly bright in that typically low-lit environs. I remember looking up at the lights, but not seeing them on at the time. When I got down the staircase, and firmly planted on the concrete floor, I turned to my left side, and was overwhelmed by the all-consuming, stunningly beautiful brilliance, emanating from the corner; something admittedly, even after all these years, still very difficult to describe in human terms. On examination, there was a specter in front, hovering in the alcove, well above me in the high-ceiling room. I don't recall yelling out "you're an angel," but I'm pretty sure, in my dream-trance thought process, I'd made a similar affirmation to what was hovering, with wings, above my head. I stared. I couldn't move. I do remember this sensation, of being compelled to stand silently, motionless, as if my feet were encased in concrete, yet strangely, feeling the nirvana, the sheer ecstasy of being weightless and unburdened of my sickness.

There was a definite sweet scent, an unearthly fragrance, attached to the experience, just as there was a feeling of misty coolness, as if one was, all of a sudden, without needing a plane, passing through a cloudscape. It was definitely a female member of the angel-kind, and I have never forgotten her face in nearly a half century. How long have you held onto the experiences of a dream? I stood there, looking up, feeling relieved of my illness (for those micro-moments), and I knew she was communicating with me, but no words were being spoken. In her gentle, soothing company, she was comforting me with a sense of liberation from worldly, mortal fetters, such that I can confess to having experienced nirvana without need for drugs to get there. I eventually felt myself hovering as well, and being able to move freely, from what had seemed like a statuesque position at the specter's feet.

I will never forget the dreamland encounter, and the compelling tranquility of those precious moments, whether I'd been in the company of an angel, or just experiencing the delusion caused by fever. It was a delusion I would never, ever fear experiencing again. When I awoke back to this mortal coil, my mother and father were looking down on me, as if l was being operated on "in-theatre," and I remember Merle removing the ice-pack off my forehead, and the sound of it being refreshed from a bowl of cubes on the table beside. Every sound was acute. Every molecule of my body was tingling, it seemed, and there was a clarity to all that was around me. I won't call it being heavenly enlightened, saved, or renewed of religion, at that moment, because I didn't know much at all, about the nuances of religious experience. What I did know, at this awakening, is that I felt so much better than I was before my latest period of unconsciousness. I could hear Merle telling my dad the fever had broken, and that he must go and get a dry pajama top for me out of the dresser drawer. I was alive. As much as I knew, as a seven year old, about earthly realities, I had pulled through a lengthy period of illness. And during my recovery, which was speedy after this point, I had a new respect for the words, "the fever has broken." I used to say that a lot when our sons were on the outside edges, of their own battles with colds, and the annual flu making the rounds. And I have always, in these situations, asked help from my "Guardian Angel." I can't help it. Actually, for those who have had angel-experiences, there is said to be this life-long enlightenment, and I suppose entitlement, to believe in their capabilities to inspire calm in difficult times. I wasn't all of a sudden a Christian warrior because of my experience, but I have never once doubted the spiritual connectedness to the other side. What I saw and experienced that day, was something so magnificent and soothing, it couldn't possibly have been the sole property of delusion. A dream of that detail would have to have some foundation in the mind. I was too young, my mind and learning too untutored, to create what I witnessed.

I never told my parents about my dreamland encounter with an alleged angel. Even though my mother would have been receptive to the idea, from her own religious background, I felt it had only been a dream, and that it really wasn't all that special. At least when it came right down to the day to day stuff of a modern family in a progressive world. It was a sickness induced vision / dream thing, that ended better than it started. The clarity and personal significance has never left me during this half century, since that brief encounter in the deluded mind of a sick child. And whether it was, while attending the deathbed of my mother, some years back, or at the side of the hospital bed, as my father lived his final moments, it was that long ago dream encounter with an angel, that came to the forefront at my time of grief. Just as it has repeated when my son Robert was diagnosed with epilepsy, and we gathered at his hospital bed, worried about his future. It is that peace found, as a child myself, that has always prevailed upon me, during these periods of mortal anxiety, offering that subtle, invasive tranquility, looking a lot like the touch of heaven on earth, for us fearful human-kind……, ever-questing for answers about the meaning of life.

When I have heard the mysterious sounds of a footfall on a forest path, coming behind me, I have, as you may have also reacted to a similar encounter, stopped to look back in case there was a body connected to the audible steps. Like the phantom paddler, traversing in your wake, you might cease paddling, for a moment, to look back to see if your perception has been correct. And whether on a path through the smoky woodlands, or down the misted-over lakeside, you will see nary a hiker, or canoeist, despite what you sensed. Is it a guardian angel following your path? A wayward spirit? A lost soul, that had some history with these same environs? Forgive me, as one who has had many spirited visitations over fifty-six years, for believing the senses are more honest than our analysis, based on known realities. Maybe I'm still delusional after all these years, but as one who has always felt it acceptable to communicate with those who have passed, I'm likely to respond with a hearty "hello" to whatever comes gently across my path.

Possibly my encounter with an angel, before I knew what an angel represented, gave me the gift of enlightenment. The message, from that visitation, was in my mind now, an assurance that my life was to be spared for some future purpose. It was what removed "close-mindedness" before it had time to occupy a youngster's outlook. It allowed me to experience the true magic of life without pre-conceptions about everything. It may be why I don't believe in malevolent forces, in the spirit world, and that I can confess honestly, that I have never once, met a ghost or similar apparition, I didn't like….or felt was out to hurt me or my family. I may have felt their circumstance was tragic, and wondered why they walk the earth after death, but valued the experience none the less, as a believer more than a naysayer.

During the run of this feature series of columns, on my experiences with the "alleged" paranormal, much will radiate from this column, and the revelation of my angel-on-earth experience, as I believe it relates to much of what I've encountered in the past half century. These are not scary stories for the campfire, although some may get the hair on your neck standing. The conclusions will always relate the sense of well being, and comfort of spiritual connections, versus the feeling of fear and loathing Hollywood has long inspired about paranormal interactions. Please join me for a less-sensational, but interesting walk down that proverbial woodland path, where spirits are following me.

And when, in the meantime, you hear those haunting footfalls, somewhere behind, turn and bid a "good day," and enjoy the company.

Shortly after finishing this month's column, I immediately wrote a landscape piece, that without intending to do so, was directly proportional, to the essence of the above paragraphs. So I shall conclude my column thusly, will this little actuality, experienced later the same morning that I penned this column.

"I felt a hand slip into mine, this afternoon, on a slow, meandering hike down the forest trail. It was much like the experience of walking a child, hand in hand, on that mission of discovery, when you finally come upon the hollow of land, where the cattails are still coated in frost, and the whole world appears as such an enchanted environs of endless possibility.

I had taken my own boys, now grown-up, on many country walks, down similarly winding trails, bordered by ferns and venerable old pines, the arch of its branches bringing us a respite from the sun, in the summer; and the provider of windsong, as the autumn gusts sing through the needles. In the winter they will be burdened down, closer to our passing toques, and then in the spring, the strong sun rays will dance in shimmering diamond-light, onto the forest floor enhancing our travels. And voyeurs will feel that this is an enchanted, haunted place, and enjoy the hike.

I felt this little hand enter mine, and when I looked down, there was nothing at all to cause the sensation. I returned the hearty squeeze, affirming good company, and we walked together, this spirit and me.

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