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| Scene near Huntsville (Photo by Fred Schulz) |
I HAD MOMENTS OF MEDITATION IN MANY OLD, ABANDONED FARMSTEADS
THE SOFT SPOT IN THE HEART, TO SAVE HEIRLOOM ANTIQUES
A FORMER GIRLFRIEND OF MINE, GAIL, HAD A WAY OF COAXING ME INTO THE WILDS. SHE LOVED TO CROSS COUNTRY SKI, AND HER FAMILY PROVIDED ME WITH AN EXTRA PAIR, SO THAT I COULD TRAVEL WITH HER THROUGH THE MUSKOKA COUNTRYSIDE. NOW TRUTH BE KNOWN, I WAS PRETTY GOOD, AS A YOUNG LAD, AS A FASTBALL FIELDER AND BATTER, A DECENT GOALTENDER IN HOCKEY, A RECEIVER IN MENS RECREATION FOOTBALL, AND A STEADY GOLFER OUT ON THE LINKS. BUT I WASN'T EVEN CLOSE TO ADEQUATE ON EITHER WATER SKIS, OR CROSS COUNTRY SKIS. GAIL WAS AN EXCEPTIONAL DOWNHILL SKIER AS WELL, AND IT WAS EVERYTHING I COULD DO, TO KEEP UP WITH THIS FLYING RED-HEAD, AS SHE WHIPPED DOWN THE ICY HILLSIDES, AS IF SHE WAS BEING PURSUED BY THE BAD GUYS IN A JAMES BOND MOVIE. I WOULD COME FLYING DOWN THE SAME HILL, VEER OFF, AND TUMBLE DOWN OVER THE EMBANKMENT. SHE WOULD RACE BACK, HAUL ME OUT OF THE SNOW-DRIFT, AND ACKNOWLEDGE THE OBVIOUS FACT I WAS OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE, CLUMSY, AND ACCIDENT PRONE. I WAS GOOD WITH THAT, SEEING AS I WASN'T INTERESTED IN QUALIFYING FOR THE OLYMPICS ANYWAY.
GAIL WAS ACCOMPLISHED AT SO MANY DIFFERENT RECREATIONS, IN HOUSE, AND IN THE FIELD, AND SHE WOULD REFER TO ME, WHEN WE MET HER MATES, AS "TED IS MY POET BOYFRIEND." BEFORE WE BROKE UP, SOME YEARS LATER, SHE HAD BEEN REFERRING TO ME AS BOTH, "MY HISTORIAN BOYFRIEND," AND "THE ANTIQUE DEALER I GO OUT WITH." WITH THE "ANTIQUE" REFERENCE, SHE WOULD DROP MY NAME ENTIRELY. SHE LIKED ANTIQUES, BUT SHE FELT TOO YOUNG AND VIBRANT, TO BE HUSTLING AROUND WITH A GUY, OLD BEFORE HIS TIME. SHE FELT THAT ANTIQUES WERE FOR SENIOR CITIZENS, AND THAT I WAS TAKING ON TOO MANY CHARACTERISTICS OF THE CENTURY'S OLD PROFESSION. MAYBE I WAS. HONESTLY, I REALLY DIDN'T CARE ABOUT HER THOUGHTS ON THE MATTER, WHICH EXPLAINS WHY I MADE NO PRE-EMPTIVE EFFORT TO SAVE OUR RELATIONSHIP, PROVING TO HER THAT EVEN ANTIQUE DEALERS COULD BE "HIP" AND HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN TO WOODSTOCK. "SURE YOU WERE….." SHE'D SAY. "WOODSTOCK, ONTARIO!"
WHAT GAIL DID FOR ME, WAS ACTUALLY QUITE EXCEPTIONAL, AND A LIFE-LONG ADDICTION OF SORTS. ON ONE OF THESE BACK-TO-NATURE OUTINGS, WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWENTY-ONE, I BELIEVE, WE WERE FLYING DOWN THIS HILL, AS IF FLUNG FROM A CATAPULT; MY SKIS RIPPING OVER THE ICE, AND MY HEART RISEN TO A SAFE HAVEN BENEATH MY TONGUE…..WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, I WAS HIT WITH A BRANCH TRAIL THAT SOMEHOW CAUGHT MY SKIS, AND DRAGGED ME TO THE RIGHT INSTEAD OF GOING STRAIGHT DOWN THE SLOPE. GAIL WAS LONG GONE DOWN THE HILLSIDE INTO THE VALLEY BELOW THE FORESTED TOPOGRAPHY WE HAD JUST RACED DOWN. I DIDN'T FALL, BUT THE TRAIL WAS ENCROACHED UPON BY SCRUFFY EVERGREENS THAT HIT ME IN THE FACE FOR ABOUT A QUARTER MILE. WHAT DIDN'T SLAP ME IN THE FACE, HIT ME IN THE GROIN, WHICH WAS INTERESTING. FOR ALL THE HITTING AND STUFF, I SEEMED TO PICK UP SPEED INSTEAD, AND ALL I COULD MANAGE WAS TO STAY UPRIGHT. IF I FELL, WELL SIR, GAIL WAS GOING TO HAVE TO EMPLOY HER KNOWLEDGE OF FIRST AID TRAINING, BECAUSE THERE WERE GOING TO BE BROKEN BONES, ETC.
I WAS SO DAMN MAD BY TIME I FINALLY SLOWED DOWN, AND PICKED THE PINE NEEDLES OUT OF MY BEARD, THAT I VOWED TO WALK THE TRAIL BACK HOME. IT WAS SHAPING UP TO BE A HECK OF A YELLING MATCH BETWEEN GAIL AND I; ME ACCUSING HER OF LEAVING ME TO THE WOLVES, AND HER CALLING ME A CRY BABY, EVEN WITH BARK EVIDENCE, OF MISADVENTURE, STUCK IN MY TEETH. I WAS MUSTERING THE COURAGE TO BEND OVER, TO SNAP THE SKIS OFF, FEARING I WAS GOING TO TAKE OFF DOWN THE REST OF THE SLOPE, WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, I CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF A BEAUTIFUL OLD FARMHOUSE, ON TOP OF A LITTLE KNOLL STRAIGHT AHEAD. IT WAS OBVIOUSLY ABANDONED, AND THE ROCK CHIMNEY HAD TOPPLED DOWN ONTO THE ROOF THAT WAS STILL UPRIGHT. A BACK PORTION LOOKED THEN, TO HAVE COLLAPSED UNDER THE WEIGHT OF SNOW. I GOT THE SKIS OFF, AND SET ASIDE, PLANNING A HIKE UP TO THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. THERE WAS A SNOWMOBILE TRAIL RUNNING IN FRONT, AND IT WAS OBVIOUS SOME SKIERS HAD HIKED UP TO THE TOP, MAKING A DECENT TRAIL TO WALK-ON UP THE SLOPE.
FROM THE MOMENT I ARRIVED AT THE DOORWAY OF THAT WONDERFUL OLD FARMSTEAD ARCHITECTURE, I WAS ENAMORED INTO SILENCE, WITH THIS HISTORICAL ACTUALITY. I COULD SO EASILY IMAGINE WHAT IT MUST HAVE BEEN LIKE A CENTURY EARLIER, BECAUSE IT WAS OF THAT VINTAGE. WHAT STORIES IT COULD TELL. HERE I WAS, CROSSING THE THRESHOLD BETWEEN THE MOST FRIGHTENING SKI ADVENTURE EVER, AND THE HISTORY I'D BEEN QUESTING AFTER AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER. THE HOUSE WAS FULL OF INTERESTING RELICS. OLD CHAIRS AND TABLES, CUPBOARDS AND DRESSERS, DISHES ON THE CABINET COUNTERS, EVEN OLD TORN QUILTS COVERING OVER BROKEN CHAIRS; ALL LEFT TO ROT INTO THE GROUND FROM WHICH IT WAS BUILT, LATE IN THE VICTORIAN ERA. THE AURA INSIDE WAS HUGELY POWERFUL AND INFLUENTIAL, AND I FELT THE SPIRITS OF MANY FAMILY MEMBERS, TO HAVE ONCE CALLED THIS PLACE THEIR HOME. I'M NOT A MEDIUM, OR CLAIRVOYANT, BUT I'VE HAD ENOUGH EXPERIENCES WITH THE PARANORMAL IN MY LIFE, TO BE ABLE TO DISTINGUISH PLACES THAT ARE OCCUPIED, FROM THOSE ONLY HARBORING DUST BUNNIES AND LONG SHADOWS.
I FOUND WHERE I BELONGED, IN THAT SHORT, MEANINGFUL, HAPPENSTANCE VISIT
Gail had begun skiing back to where we had parked the car, wondering where I'd gone. She got all the way into the hollow, about a kilometer and a half from where I veered off onto the secondary trail. With a lot of finger wagging, and a few frozen tears, she told me of her worry I'd fallen off the trail somewhere down the hillside, and injured myself. So apparently, she had stopped at intervals all the way back up the hill, calling for me, and looking for any place I may have slid out of control, into either rocks or chunky pines at trailside. "Why didn't you answer me, you jerk," she queried. I didn't answer. I just went on looking through all the rooms of this neat old dwelling place, studying the remaining furnishings, sad to see so many heirloom pieces destroyed by porcupine gnawing, and weather-related damage. But as I was walking through the house, very slowly, trying to take it all in, I knew at the same time, Gail and I were never going to be a married couple. I loved her dearly, and we'd had a lot of fun together over five years, but my passion for history outweighed everything else. It's not like this one incident was the game-changer as they say, but it emphasized to me, that unless she was as excited about the adventure in history, that I was, our lives could never intertwine, as I felt would be necessary for a good "history-encumbered" life together. I needed a kindred spirit. She needed a boyfriend who could ski downhill and not scream out for help. I was intoxicated by this immersion into the regional history of our district. She was pissed off at the delay I was causing in our all day excursion. I have been like this ever since, and yes, I've paid many visits to abandoned homes and farms, and I've written about each and every one of them, in dozens of feature articles, when I was an assistant editor with The Muskoka Sun.
Get this one. I was so familiar with the inside of old houses and barns, in our district, (all abandoned by the way), that I could write about them without needing to enter……you know, to pick up the ambience. As editor of The Herald-Gazette, at that point, I had planned a feature series on the "Old Barns of Muskoka," for a center spread in a coming edition. I researched barns generally, and local ones specifically. I sent one of my staff photographers out to get a sampling of local historic barns to be used in the news feature. We had about twelve good shots to use, and I think we pared it down to seven or eight for the spread. I wrote the copy to bind them all together, in part, based on my years wandering through the Muskoka wilds, looking for such architectural treasures. And it all began on that fateful ski trip with Gail. I was hooked on old buildings.
At about noon, on the day the paper was published, with the center spread, the assistant publisher got a phone call, from the owner of one of the barns in the photo study. The chap, a well known dentist in town, said he was going to sue me for trespassing, and the newspaper, for whatever he could, to attain justice for the perceived violation. He said he had evidence I'd been writing my work inside his barn, and he had the cigarette butts to prove it. The receptionist tried to argue that "Ted doesn't even smoke sir," but it made no difference. I was in a lot of trouble. Fortunately, the assistant publisher knew the dentist from childhood, and that he was prone to lipping-off about things before he had any real proof, his property rights had been violated by such an intruder. He was a little strange this way, and had accused others of trespassing. I was the first writer to be scolded and threatened with criminal prosecution. Over time, the publisher convinced the barn owner that it couldn't have been me, because I did all the writing of the feature story, sitting in the office attached to his own. Basically he lied to get me off the hook. Sure I could have been in that barn but I didn't need to be in his, to know what to write about, in tribute, to farm architecture.
As God is my witness, about five years after this accusation surfaced, I found myself as a celebrity guest at a curling bonspiel, sitting for dinner, across the table from the dentist who had wanted me keel-hauled for my unwelcome intrusion. I knew who he was, but I figured time had put the incident out of mind. Then came the after-dinner drinks and social get-together, before the awards were to be handed out. The dentist turned to his right, and asked the curler beside, who I was…..loudly enough that they could have heard it at the front of the room. We were at the back. I warned Suzanne what was going to happen next. Boy was I bang-on. The guy turned to look at me, scrunched up his face, a little red by this point, and blurted for all to hear, "You're the son of a bitch who was smoking in my barn!" You know, as a wordsmith, I could have retaliated. It wasn't really convenient to type out a reply in a timely fashion. But in the heat of the moment, with my wife now centered out, I had no honorable way of avoiding some sort of verbal confrontation. If I begged out of the debate early, it was going to appear as if I had been guilty of trespassing. If I had replied gently, calmly, the guy would have buried me with robust counter-point, as he had with my publisher earlier. No matter how I tried to calm the dentist down, and assure him I had never been in his barn, he was playing this up for the whole crowd in that room. Suzanne was flustered, and getting defensive, and I was just thinking about my job with the press…..and how this may have been my last day of work.
Finally, when nothing else seemed to work, I borrowed a few tricks, but with curling reference, from my years being a hockey goaltender, on occasions when trying to get an opposition player out of the crease. I stood up, with my bulk of humanity, and put my arms down on the table in front, such that I was so close, I could have bitten off the end of his nose, and whispered softly, but directly, that unless he wished to cease his accusations, I would throw him down the ice and sweep him right through the house. He sat back, as if awaiting the curl down the ice, and for a split second, I could see he was genuinely concerned I might follow through. He actually had inhaled so deeply he almost stopped his own heart. That's when the sponsor of the bonspiel took the side of his old friend, the angry, misguided dentist, and suggested I leave the event entirely. "With pleasure," I retorted, directing one last comment at my dentist foe. It started with the words, "If I ever……" This is when Suzanne, grabbed my arm, and pulled me away from the table, and out the door of the clubhouse. "I know you weren't in his barn Ted, but he's never going to say the same." You know something. I loved barns. But I haven't written a parallel feature ever since. I feel bad about that. Seeing as the dentist is no longer a part of this mortal coil, I can finally confess and not fear retribution. My photographer did take a picture of his barn, from the roadway below. And I was never in that barn. Period. End of story.
I still like them, those wonderful countryside barns, but they make me nervous.
Thanks for dropping by today for a little visit. How about you? Visited any good barns and old homesteads? Good for you!
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