Woodchester Villa in Bracebridge To Get Restoration Funding

WOODCHESTER VILLA RESTORATION WILL HIT A MILLION BUCKS - AND IF I HAD TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN? I'D PROBABLY DO IT ONCE MORE!

CONTRACT AWARDED, OCTAGONAL BRACEBRIDGE MUSEUM WILL BE SPARED

     I GUESS MY LITTLE SERIES ON THE HEALTH AND WELFARE, OF BRACEBRIDGE'S WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS PRETTY TIMELY, CONSIDERING THE NEWS TODAY, THAT THE RESTORATIONS, TO GET UNDERWAY SOON, WILL COME IN AT JUST SHY OF A MILLION BUCKS. HOW IS THIS AFFORDED? IS THIS A JUSTIFIED EXPENSE? I LOVE THE OLD HOUSE, BUT I KNOW HOW TOUGH IT MUST BE, FOR THE MUNICIPALITY……AND THE TAXPAYERS GENERALLY, (PROBABLY SOME GRANTS AND LOANS FROM OTHER LEVELS OF GOVERNMENT), TO COVER THESE COSTS, OF A MUSEUM, THAT FROM THE BEGINNING WAS UNDER-ATTENDED; AND CERTAINLY, UNDER APPRECIATED. IT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PUT A MUSEUM, AS FINE AS IT WAS, ON A MAJOR RIVERSIDE HILL, WITHOUT A SHERPA TO GET YOU TO THE TOP.

     THE FIRST MEETING FOR THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, WITH THE MISSION STATEMENT, TO SAVE THE BIRD HOUSE (WOODCHESTER VILLA), WAS HELD IN THE ATTIC OF THE FORMER HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET, OPPOSITE MEMORIAL PARK. IT WAS IN THE WINTER OF 1978. IT WAS ATTENDED BY ONE OTHER PERSON, BUT THE NOTICE OF THE MEETING, ATTRACTED THE ATTENTION OF A CHAP, (UNAVAILABLE ON THE MEETING NIGHT), WHO WOULD BECOME NOT ONLY A GOOD FRIEND, AND MENTOR, BUT THE FORCE BEHIND THE FORMATION OF THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND THE EVENTUAL ACQUISITION, RESTORATION, AND OPENING OF THE HOUSE AND RESTORED PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, TO BE KNOWN THEREAFTER AS "WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM." WAYLAND "BUSTER" DREW TOOK OVER WHAT I COULDN'T ACCOMPLISH ALONE, AND AFTER SOME GENTLE ARM TWISTING, WAS ABLE TO GATHER TOGETHER THE FIRST BOARD OF DIRECTORS. I WAS ELECTED TO THIS BOARD, AS WAS GIL SCOTT, WENDY WILSON (SCOTT), RALPH MELVIN, AND WAYLAND DREW, AS OUR FIRST PRESIDENT.

     IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF AN ODYSSEY, THAT'S FOR SURE, FOR ALL OF US. INVOLVEMENT WITH THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY HAD MANY INTENSE MOMENTS, AT THIS TIME, AND THOSE WHO GOT INVOLVED, SPENT MANY LONG DAYS AND NIGHTS, WEEKENDS INCLUDED, FUNDRAISING FOR THE MUSEUM; ACQUIRING ARTIFACTS FOR DISPLAY, LOOKING FOR FURNISHINGS FOR THE BIRD FAMILY HOUSE, AND BANGING HEADS AT TIMES, AT COMMITTEE MEETINGS THAT INTRUDED ON THE WORK, AND FREE TIME OF VOLUNTEERS. IT WAS A LITTLE BIT CRAZY, BUT THEY GOT THE JOB DONE, AND WE HAD A FINE COMMUNITY MUSEUM…..TWO BUILDINGS AND BEAUTIFUL GROUNDS TO OFFER GUESTS. THIS OF COURSE, BECAME THE PROBLEM, ESPECIALLY DURING MY TERM AS MANAGER, IN THE LATE 1980'S. WE LOOKED GREAT BUT ACCESSIBILITY WAS A MAJOR FACTOR IN OUR DECLINING VISITATIONS.

     YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK OVER THE PAST FOUR DAYS, TO READ MORE ABOUT THE EARLY YEARS OF WOODCHESTER VILLA. I REMEMBER ON MY LAST DAY AS MANAGER, STANDING OUT FRONT FOR ABOUT A HALF HOUR, FOLLOWING THE THANKSGIVING SUNDAY CLOSING. I HAD SPENT ALMOST TWO HOURS, TRYING TO PLANE THE DOORS OF THE VERANDAH, SO THEY WOULD CLOSE FOR THE WINTER SEASON. EVEN THEN THE VERANDAH WAS SAGGING AND SHIFTING, AND THE DOORS HAD TO BE WHITTLED DOWN TO CLOSE SECURELY. I HAD GIVEN MY NOTICE, THAT I WAS LEAVING THE MANAGER'S POSITION, FOLLOWING THE HOLIDAY WEEKEND (WHICH WE HAD STAYED OPEN FOR) AND I TRIED TO DRINK IT ALL IN…..THINKING BACK TO MY FIRST FORAY TO SAVE THE HOUSE, BACK IN 1977, SHORTLY AFTER MOVING BACK TO BRACEBRIDGE, FOLLOWING UNIVERSITY. OUR YOUNG FAMILY HAD SPEND THOUSANDS OF HOURS ON THIS PROPERTY, AND RUNNING TOURS THROUGH THE TWO MUSEUM BUILDINGS; AND ALL KINDS OF HERITAGE THEMED PROGRAMS IN THE SUMMER MONTHS. WHEN I STOOD OUTSIDE, AND LOOKED UP, I ALWAYS BELIEVED THERE WAS SOMEONE LOOKING OUT, AND IT WAS NO DIFFERENT ON THIS AFTERNOON. IT WAS GETTING LATE, AND THE SUNLIGHT WAS GREATLY DIMINISHED, BUT I SENSED THE SPIRIT OF THE HOUSE…..AS I HAD SO MANY TIMES PREVIOUSLY; BUT THIS TIME I WAS FEELING BAD ABOUT LEAVING THIS ENCHANTED, SOULFUL PLACE…..AND IT WAS AS IF THE HOUSE UNDERSTOOD THIS. I DON'T GET MISTY EYED OFTEN, BUT THERE WAS A LOT OF HISTORY I WAS LEAVING BEHIND, AND MUCH OF IT, MY OWN. I WAS LEAVING WITH MANY WONDERFUL MEMORIES, AND A LOT OF REGRETS, FRANKLY, BUT I WASN'T ABLE TO MANAGE IT PROPERLY FROM GRAVENHURST, WHERE WE HAD RECENTLY MOVED, AND AS I WAS A HOUSE FATHER, WITH TWO LADS, IT WAS JUST TOO MUCH TRAVELLING AND CONFLICTING SCHEDULES, TO LOOK AFTER ITS MANY NEEDS. IT HAD QUITE A FEW EVEN IN 1990, INCLUDING THE SECOND FLOOR DECKING, WHICH COLLAPSED SEVERAL WINTERS AGO, UNDER SNOW LOAD.

     I HAD ENDURED MANY LATE NIGHT INVESTIGATIONS, WITH THE ONTARIO PROVINCIAL POLICE, WHEN WE HAD TO ANSWER BURGLAR ALARMS AT TWO AND THREE IN THE MORNING, ONLY TO FIND, THAT SQUIRRELS HAD ONCE AGAIN DINED ON THE ALARM WIRES…..WHICH WE WERE TOLD, TASTED, (TO THEM) LIKE LICORICE. EVEN AFTER THE SEARCHES, THE CONSTABLES WOULD LEAVE, BEFORE I CLOSED UP, AND I'D OFTEN SIT IN THE PARLOR FOR A FEW MOMENTS, TO GATHER MY THOUGHTS, AND RELAX FROM THE RIGORS OF A ROOM TO ROOM SEARCH. I KNEW EVERY NOOK AND CRANNY IN THAT HOUSE, BY DAYLIGHT AND FLASHLIGHT.

     THE LAST TIME I MET WITH WAYLAND DREW, BEFORE HE PASSED AWAY, WAS AT A WRITING COMPETITION AWARDS CEREMONY, WHERE HE WAS THE SPECIAL GUEST OF THE EVENT. I WAS ONE OF THE READERS, THAT AFTERNOON, AND THE PIECE WAS ABOUT "PAUL RIMSTEAD," TORONTO SUN COLUMNIST; AND I REMEMBER WAYLAND AND I HAVING A LAUGH, AT THE END, ABOUT THE LEGENDARY ANTICS OF "RIMMER." HE CONGRATULATED ME, AND I CONGRATULATED HIM, AND WE KIDDED FOR A MOMENT, ABOUT THE EARLY DAYS OF WOODCHESTER…..AND HOW MUCH OF OUR SOULS WERE STILL ATTACHED TO THE OLD PLACE. I KNEW HE WAS VERY ILL, EVEN THEN, AND IT BROKE MY HEART TO SEE HIM HOBBLE BACK TO HIS CHAIR. BUT I WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HIM AS THE HALE AND HARDY WRITER - ADVENTURER, CANOEIST, HISTORIAN, WHO GAVE A KID A CHANCE TO SHINE…….AND I HOPE HE KNEW HOW MUCH IT MEANT TO ME, TO BE INCLUDED ON THAT FIRST HISTORICAL SOCIETY DIRECTORATE. HE WAS TO BE, "THE PROFESSOR," AND I HUNG OFF HIS EVERY WORD……WHICH THANKFULLY, AS INSPIRATION, I CAN STILL SO CLEARLY RECALL AND ENJOY IN RETROSPECT.

     THERE WERE MANY TALENTED AND DEDICATED CITIZENS FROM SOUTH MUSKOKA, WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THE SUCCESSFUL OPENING OF WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, INCLUDING OF COURSE, THE ROTARY CLUB OF BRACEBRIDGE. I HOPE WHEN THEY ARE READY FOR A RE-OPENING CEREMONY, THE TOWN WILL REMEMBER ALL THOSE WHO GAVE GENEROUSLY TO THOSE FIRST YEARS OF MUSEUM FOUNDING AND OPERATION…….AND THERE ARE MANY NAMES THAT COME TO MIND.

     I AM PLEASED THE RESTORATION HAS RECEIVED ITS FINANCIAL COMMITMENT, AND I WISH THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE WELL ON THE PROJECT. AS I HAVE PREVIOUSLY, I SHALL OFFER ONCE AGAIN…….THAT SHOULD THE TOWN REQUIRE A FUTURE BOARD MEMBER, TO ASSIST IN ANY WAY WITH THE PROJECT, OR THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE OPERATION, I WILL WITHOUT RESERVATION, BE AVAILABLE TO ASSIST, AND ADVISE, ABOUT THE OLD HOUSE I'VE KNOWN INTIMATELY, FOR LONG AND LONG. TO SOME (ACTUALLY, MANY) IT WAS JUST THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. BUT IT WAS A LOT MORE THAN THIS………AND I WORKED HARD TO CONVINCE THOSE WHO DID VISIT, EVEN A FEW COUNCILLORS, THAT WOODCHESTER WAS SOMETHING WONDERFUL TO EXPLOIT. IT JUST NEVER HAPPENED THE WAY THE FOUNDERS HAD HOPED, IN THOSE EARLY YEARS, BUT SO MUCH HAD TO DO WITH THE SHORTAGE OF MONEY, ELIMINATION OF GRANTS, AND INCREASING COSTS OF MAINTENANCE. HOPEFULLY, A NEW MANAGEMENT STRATEGY WILL BE IN PLACE, FOR THE REFURBISHED BIRD HOUSE.

     I KNOW WE'RE A LONG WAY FROM CHRISTMAS, BUT THERE'S A SEASONAL STORY, RELATED TO WOODCHESTER, THAT I WANT TO SHARE WITH YOU…….BECAUSE OF THIS MOST RECENT ANNOUNCEMENT, THAT A COMMITMENT TO RESTORATION HAS BEEN MADE. ONE OF MY FONDEST MEMORIES OF WOODCHESTER, CAME DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD, WHEN WE'D HAVE OUR SPECIAL OPEN HOUSE. AS I'VE MENTIONED PREVIOUSLY, FRED SCHULZ CAPTURED ONE OF THOSE SEASONAL MOMENTS, IN THE DOWNSTAIRS KITCHEN, WHEN ANDREW AND I WERE MAKING CHRISTMAS CRAFTS…….AND ACTUALLY ENJOYING IT!  SO I ARCHIVED BACK AND FOUND ONE STORY THAT WRAPS UP OUR FAMILY'S ATTACHMENT TO THE BIRD HOUSE…..WHERE WE HAD MANY VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS. DECORATING THAT HOUSE WAS A REAL THRILL, AND SEEING SNOW-DUSTED VISITORS, COMING UP THAT LANE TO THE VERANDAH, IN THE LAMPLIGHT…….WELL, IT WAS A PAGE OUT OF BRACEBRIDGE'S HISTORY, AS ACTUALITY. SINGING CAROLS IN THE PARLOR, WITH A FESTIVE PUNCH……ENCHANTING.

     THANKS FOR JOINING TODAY'S BLOG, WITH RETROSPECTIVE. THE REASON, BY THE WAY, THIS PART OF OUR FAMILY HISTORY IS IMPORTANT…….HONESTLY, IS THAT WE RUN OUR GRAVENHURST ANTIQUE SHOP EXACTLY THE SAME…..EXCEPT YOU CAN BUY THE PIECES EXHIBITED WITHIN. WE'RE STILL ACTING LIKE TOUR GUIDES, AND WE GIVE HISTORICAL OVERVIEWS CONSTANTLY……ABOUT MUSKOKA GENERALLY. SO IT IS A RETAIL SHOP BUT WE RUN IT WITH A LITTLE EXTRA YOU MIGHT SAY…..AND IT SEEMS TO BE GOING OVER PRETTY WELL, THUS FAR. SOME PEOPLE DO LOOK AT US, AS IF WE'RE A TAD ODD……. BUT WE AGREE, AMONGST OURSELVES, THAT WE ARE BY ALL ACCOUNTS, VERY ODD, AND HAPPY TO BE SO. WE'RE ENTERTAINERS AS MUCH AS WE ARE HISTORIANS, AND ANTIQUE DEALERS. THIS IS THE LIFE WE HAVE CHOSEN. WE DON'T HAVE ANY CHANGES PLANNED.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE-CHRISTMAS AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR OWN MUSEUM IN GRAVENHURST

WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM GETTING SOME ATTENTION FROM THE TOWN - A FUTURE - AFTER A BLEAK COUPLE OF YEARS CLOSE TO THE PUBLIC

THE WINTER SEASON SNOW STORM THAT TOOK DOWN THE VERANDAH AT BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSEUM, WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS THE SAME ONE THAT STOPPED ME FROM GETTING TO MY FATHER'S APARTMENT. WHILE IT WASN'T A DIRECT RESULT OF THE STORM'S WEIGHT UPON FAILING OUTDOOR FIXTURES, IT WAS WHAT STOPPED US FROM VISITING ON THE SAME DAY AS HE HAD A STROKE…..WHICH EVENTUALLY LED TO HIS DEMISE. DURING THE SAME SNOW EVENT, MY SON AND HIS MATE WERE TRAPPED ON HIGHWAY II NEAR THE BRACEBRIDGE FAIR GROUNDS, AND IF THEY HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET BACK INTO TOWN, THEY WOULD HAVE STAYED AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S APARTMENT THAT NIGHT…….STRANGE THING THAT……BECAUSE THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE AS HE SUFFERED HIS STROKE, AND BEEN ABLE TO GET MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SOONER. HE LIVED ONE BLOCK FROM THE HOSPITAL. WHAT IS CURIOUS, MAYBE A LITTLE IRONIC….IS THAT ALL OF THE ABOVE HAD SOMETHING OR OTHER TO DO WITH WOODCHESTER VILLA. I WAS ONE OF THE FOUNDING DIRECTORS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND A DIRECTOR AND MANAGER OF WOODCHESTER. ANDREW AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER ROBERT, USED TO RIDE THEIR TOY CARTS AROUND THE MUSEUM GROUNDS WHILE I WAS WORKING THERE; MY MOTHER AND FATHER WERE VOLUNTEERS DURING MY TENURE…..MY MOTHER ACTUALLY BEING EMPLOYED AS A TOUR GUIDE FOR ONE SUMMER. ANDREW AND HIS MATE WERE FORCED TO FOLLOW THE SNOW PLOWS SOUTH DOWN THE HIGHWAY, HOME TO GRAVENHURST, LATER THAT FATEFUL EVENING, INSTEAD OF BEING ALLOWED BACK ONTO TOWN STREETS. IT'S JUST HOW FATE WORKS.

OUR FAMILY SPENT MANY CHRISTMASES AS WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, THROUGH THE EIGHTIES, AND WE HOSTED AT LEAST FIVE OPEN HOUSES DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD. IT IS NO SECRET THAT WOODCHESTER HAS BEEN AN ALLEGEDLY HAUNTED ABODE, AND I AM JUST ONE OF THE PERPETRATORS OF SUCH INFORMATION…..BY EXPERIENCES ENOUGH TO WRITE A BOOK. BUT NEVER ONCE, IN MY LONG RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS OCTAGONAL BUILDING, AND ITS RESIDENT SPIRITS, WAS I EVER ONCE UNSETTLED BY OCCURRENCES, OR FRIGHTENED. IT WAS AN OLD AND DEAR DWELLING FOR ALL OUR FAMILY, AND AT CHRISTMAS, IT SEEMED MOST CONTENT. I HAVE RECENTLY WRITTEN A CHRISTMAS REMEMBRANCE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA FOR ANOTHER PUBLICATION, BUT I WANTED TO SHARE IT WITH THOSE INTERESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE HERITAGE. I WAS PLEASED TO READ ABOUT A NEW INITIATIVE TO EXAMINE THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE THIS COMING WINTER SEASON, TO DISCUSS WHAT PURPOSE IT MIGHT BETTER SERVE THE COMMUNITY IN THE FUTURE. OF THIS, I WHOLE HEARTEDLY AGREE. AND I HOPE ONE DAY, THEY WILL FIND THE FUNDS TO RE-BUILD THE GRAND VERANDAH OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTIFUL LAWNS, AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER BELOW. THIS LITTLE CHRISTMAS TOME, IS A RESPECTFUL TRIBUTE, TO A WONDERFUL PLACE, I LOVED TO WORK AND VISIT…..PARTICULARLY SO AT CHRISTMAS…..WHERE WE ALL MADE RATHER MERRY.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY

The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)

A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.

At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.

I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.

I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.

One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.

On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.

It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.

It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.

I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.

Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.

The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.

I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.

When I write in this column series, that I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like, well, it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.