Old Style Funerals In Muskoka; Redmond Thomas

Redmond Thomas Q.C.

A PROFILE OF "OLD STYLE FUNERALS," BY REDMOND THOMAS, FROM HIS BOOK OF "REMINISCENCES"

1969 HISTORY, PUBLISHED BY THE FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS

     If you've been a regular reader of this blog (column), you will remember my previous reference, to having an interest in funerary collectables. Yes, I did once own a portable embalming machine, and I loved having at our former shop, in Bracebridge, as a matter of some irony, in a storefront built onto the former W.W. Kinsey home, on upper Manitoba Street. Mr. Kinsey, of course, being one of two undertakers at the turn of the 1900's, in Bracebridge. When customers asked what the contraption was, they'd jump back, when I told them it was an embalming machine, that could be taken to any site, to perform the pre-funeral preparations. Well sir, it always got a hands-off reaction, that's for sure, although I was surprised by how many people did ask questions later, about the device, while, of course, standing well back; much as if there was still a spirit residue contained inside. I eventually donated it to my friend Dave Brown, a Hamilton teacher, who was planning to use it in an education display, for students, about early medical equipment, and how it was used.
     I also got a good deal on a beautiful spindle bed, circa 1875, made in Ontario, that was once the comfortable accommodation, on which the newly deceased were placed, for viewing, in the church manse, of the Alhambra United Church, in Toronto. We call it our death bed, but it isn't haunted. It doesn't levitate, or occasionally show up the form of one of those corpses, which had been laid out, prior to the coming funeral. It is however, a short bed, as from this period, folks were generally a little shorter than they are today. We sleep on it every night, and well, it's quite comfortable. You'd sort of expect we'd have nightmares or something, but honestly, it is quite benign in terms of paranormal anything. Suzanne was mad at me for buying it, but as I told her, being an antique dealer by itself, dictates that we are going to be handling possessions of the deceased constantly, in order to stay in business. Those folks didn't die in that bed. They were embalmed, and then placed there, for viewing. There are lots of antique beds, that were a lot closer to the precise moment of death, than this fine piece of Canadiana.
     I have a sea shell memorial cross, that was hand made, following a maritime boating accident, that is definitely creepy, in the Victorian style. I've turned down lots of funerary antiques and collectables, including a child's casket with a window, for public viewing, without needing the lid open. I've also had many photographs of the deceased, some appearing as if the subject of the photograph was just sleeping. I had to point this out to an antique clerk once, that a vintage photograph, they were advertising as a Victorian portrait, was actually a death image; the man lounging on a chair, had been situated that way, for purposes of this final photograph. This wasn't uncommon, and in the previous blog, regarding the folding casket, for Mr. R.B. Browning, it was created to appear as if a parlor couch, to make it appear the subject was only relaxing; not actually deceased. Death pictures do creep folks out, and of this, I feel much the same. But, it was done, and often, soon after the invention of the camera. I also owned, at one time, death images of children, painted with watercolors; each of the five portraits, given angel wings, and halos, via the artist's intent. These were painted in the early 1800's. Suzanne didn't like them whatsoever, and was glad when a gentleman insisted on making the purchase, against his wife's vehement protest. They got into an argument right in the hall of the shop, and she walked out on him, in the middle of the debate. Her concern was, that they would bring an unwelcome spirit, or group of spirits, into their happy home. As he had experienced the death of a sister due to a childhood illness, these portraits, in a way, reminded him, in a positive way, of her memorial tributes, that he remembered as a child himself. "What negativity could possibly come from these little angels," he said, as he thanked us for uniting him with this work of 'mourning' (memorial) art.
     "In my previous article, there was mention of the funeral of R.M. Browning, at which the horses, hitched to the hearse, plunged with such violence that the casket, broke loose from the fastenings, and crashed through the glass doors, at the back of the vehicle," wrote Redmond Thomas, in his popular book, "Reminiscences." "After publication of that article (in The Herald-Gazette circa 1967), it occurred to me that there are now many mature young men, and women, who have neither seen a funeral cortege, or horse-drawn vehicles; nor have heard about the very sombre trappings of death in such times.
     "Coffins had so nearly gone out of use by my earliest recollection, that I cannot remember ever seeing one, though I have seen the impression of the shape, of one, in the clay bottom of a grave, which had been opened to remove one. They were, generally speaking, form fitting, widening from the top downwards to the shoulders, and then tapering towards the feet. Caskets, now universally used, have in general appearance, changed very little within my recollection, except that no longer is seen the folding casket, such as the one to which Mr. Browning was buried; and gone also is the style in which, (until the casket was closed for the funeral) the face of the deceased could be viewed through a glass window, near the top of the casket. And no longer is affixed to the casket, a 'coffin plate' of polished metal, engraved with the name, date of death, and age, something which it seems to me, would be very useful if (as sometimes happens) bodies are moved."
     Mr. Thomas notes that, "Embalming was, when I first remember funerals, not in its present standard use. Of the two funeral establishments in Bracebridge, only the Kinsey one had an embalmer, namely Joshua L. Yeoman, who was a graduate of the Chicago College of Embalming, but in that establishment, embalming was optional. The other establishment, White's, had no embalmer, but if one was desired, would bring one from Gravenhurst. There was no funeral home. The two establishments engaging in undertaking, were basically furniture stores, and in fact, the Kinsey one, handled not only furniture but pianos, organs, and agricultural implements. A corpse was never taken to an undertaking establishment (even to be embalmed), unless the deceased had no home here, in which event, the body was placed in some secluded room, to await being sent away by railroad or being given burial here.
     "The bereaved household was a grim place. Crepe hung on the front door (and in case of a merchant, on the store door as well). Though the crepe was usually black, it was sometimes purple, if the deceased were very old, and was invariably white, if the deceased one was a young child. The door bell was muffled, until it gave apparently no sound. While in the room containing the casket, people spoke in whispers, or scarcely any louder. All the outer clothing of the woman, of the household, was dyed black, and many ladies added black borders to their white handkerchiefs. The men of the house wore black suits, and ties, and often had a black band of crepe sewn on an arm of the coat. The social stationary of the household, had black borders on note paper, and envelopes, hence a reference in an old song, to a letter edged in black. All this was 'full mourning' and lasted for a year. There were no sympathy cards. Friends wrote letters of condolence, and these in strict etiquette were of mourning (black bordered) stationary, though this strict rule was commonly ignored."
     The Herald-Gazette writer recollected that, "During the second year, after bereavement, the ladies wore half mourning which was a mixture of black and white. I have forgotten how (if at all) the men marked the second year.
    "Every pallbearer work a dark suit (preferably black) and a black tie. The undertaker provided him with black cotton or woollen gloves, and attached a bunch of long crepe, to whichever arm, was not to be used for carrying the casket. The undertaker wore formal attire, including black frock coat, and plug hat, and rode beside the driver of the (horse drawn) hearse. The hearse had large windows on each side, and the top of the vehicle was ornamented by metal imitations, of crepe-draped urns. (If the funeral to St. Joseph's Church, a cross was added to the top of the hearse). The horses pulling the hearse were a black team."
     Mr. Thomas adds, "Across the open grave were sticks on which rested the rough box, with its top removed. The pallbearers placed the casket in the rough box, to which the undertaker then fastened the cover. Using heavy straps of tug-leather, running from side to side, under the rough box, the pallbearers, three on each side of the grave, lifted the rough box until the sticks could be removed from under it, and then they lowered it to the bottom of the grave, after which those on one side, let go, and those on the other side, drew the straps up to the surface. The committal service, even in bitterest winter weather, was at the graveside, and all men present, stood bareheaded, hence the grim saying, that many a man got his death of pneumonia, while attending the winter-time funeral of a friend. I have been pallbearer at old style funerals in summer and winter.
     "As all horses in a funeral cortege proceeded at a walk, the progress was slow. If the deceased had belonged to a fraternal society, the members of the lodge walked at the front of the procession. When I was a small lad, before the motor age, I saw the two largest funerals every held in Bracebridge, and the like of which will never be seen again, or even approached in impressiveness.
     "They were those of Angus McLeod, M.P., from his home where the hospital now is, to the Methodist Cemetery, and of Dr. Samuel Bridgland, M.P.P., from his home, on the west side of McMurray Street, to the Anglican Church, and Anglican Cemetery. In fact, I rode with my father in a buggy, at Dr. Bridgland's funeral, which took place less than two weeks after that of Mr. Browning (yesterday's blog).
     "But I never saw a bang-up funeral, like the one described to me, many years ago, by an elderly gentleman, whom I met on a train. His early childhood had been spent in a remote rural part of Southern Ireland, where many old customs then remained, a century after they had gone out of use, in the more sophisticated parts of that land. He told me of the funeral of one of the gentry, whose elegant mansion was commonly called 'The Hall,' and who, because of his affability and generosity, was beloved by the poor people. So the poor folks decided to pay him every possible honor. Hundreds of them walked in the funeral procession, and among them was a group of elderly women who were known by a Celtic name, meaning wailers.
     "When the great Cortege (which included a vast number of carriages of the affluent), left the Hall, for the church, the wailers were much in evidence. All the way, they walked and shrieked at the top of their voices. One of them would scream, 'He was such a grand man,' whereupon the others would scream, 'and indeed he was,' and then the whole caboodle would shriek. The horses, in the cortege, did not take kindly to this display of feminine grief, and the steeds wanted to depart post-haste, to some quieter environment, in which desire they were restrained by only a most adept display of horsemanship by the drivers, whose arms were very tired by the time the church was reached; and the wailers quit their shrieks (as after the service, the coffin was placed in the family vault in the church yard). How did the bereaved family regard the wailers? Very appreciatively indeed. For the family knew that the wailers never appeared just because a deceased person was prominent. In addition to being prominent, he must have been beloved by those of humbler station."
     I have read a number of early Muskoka histories, that refer to the dreaded sound of the horses' hooves, clomping down on the hard packed rural trails, often late in the evening, with the undertaker and helper, at the reins. During the days of epidemics, it wasn't uncommon to have the hearses and sometimes just farm wagons, picking up the deceased from those homes, that had been particularly hard-hit by influenza, for example, amongst other outbreaks. What would happen, in these cases, is that the deceased, which could be as many as four family members in one night, would be picked up by courageous funerary staff, and taken immediately to the nearest cemetery for burial. They did not want any mourners, or sight-seers in attendance at these rush-funerals, for fear of contamination spreading. These homesteaders knew the sound of the wagon wheels, and the team of horses, that what was passing out front, had an omen attached; and these alerted folks, would take their lanterns out onto the road, to see what farm the undertaker and hearse were going to visit. An eerie scene unfolding. Just as much, to see the long weaving funeral processions, through the rolling countryside, with the casket (or earlier coffin), raised onto the pallbearers shoulders, on a footpath to the appropriate, or nearest cemetery, without a horse in the solemn parade, and no hearse as part of the transport of the deceased.
     I have to thank Redmond Thomas, for writing the column above, which contains a considerable amount of important heritage information, on a subject many of us would rather not think about. But it is none the less important to understand and appreciate, about what our forefathers and mothers had to content, when mortality was much higher than it is today; especially amongst children. There is a story in the Shea Family chronicle, of a deceased child, being carried from the hamlet of Ufford, to the churchyard in the hamlet of Falkenburg, just north of Bracebridge, a distance that would have taken two hours to walk, coffin on shoulders. When they got there, the open grave, dug in advance by cemetery caretakers, was full of water, and the family insisted it be drained dry, before the body was committed to the ground.
      Fascinating history. It really is!
      Thanks so much for visiting with me today. It was a hot day, but sitting out here tonight at Birch Hollow, is wonderfully cool with a nice breeze. Smells like the harvest. It smells like we've got a change of season coming.

Mr Browning's Funeral In Bracebridge and A Premature Exit; Redmond Thomas

THE CORPSE GOT OUT OF THE HEARSE TOO SOON - THE GOOD CITIZEN, MR. BROWNING

IN THE WORDS OF REDMOND THOMAS Q.C. - A FOLK HISTORIAN WHO TOLD A GREAT STORY, WITH LIFE INFUSED

     IT HAS BEEN A HUGELY BUSY DAY AT THE ANTIQUE SHOP, HERE ON MUSKOKA ROAD, IN UPTOWN GRAVENHURST. HERE IT IS, THE LAST HOLIDAY WEEKEND OF THE SUMMER SEASON, AND CLOSING IN ON THE START OF SCHOOL. THIS WILL MARK THE END OF THE FIRST FULL YEAR OF RETIREMENT, FOR MY BUSINESS PARTNER, SUZANNE, WHO FINISHED HER TEACHING CAREER IN THE SPRING OF 2013, AFTER 31 YEARS IN THE PROFESSION. I THINK SHE WORRIED AT FIRST, SHE MIGHT GET BORED, AND MISS HER STUDENTS, HAVING REGRETS ABOUT WHAT ADMITTEDLY, WAS AN EARLIER RETIREMENT, THAN WHAT SHE HAD FORMALLY ANTICIPATED; LIKELY BEING THIRTY FIVE YEARS INSTEAD. SO THERE WAS STILL SOME TREPIDATION, ABOUT RETIRING AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. UNTIL THAT IS, SHE STARTED RE-FASHIONING THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS, THAT SHE AND I OPENED IN THE LIVINGROOM OF OUR FIRST HOME, ON BRACEBRIDGE'S ONTARIO STREET, IN THE SUMMER OF 1986. IT WAS A SMALL HOUSE, AND IT REALLY COMPROMISED OUR LIVING SPACE, BUT IT GOT US STARTED ON WHAT WAS TO BECOME OUR RETIREMENT BUSINESS. THAT'S RIGHT. IT TOOK ALL THESE YEARS TO GET ALL THE WRINKLES IRONED OUT, SO THAT WHEN WE NEEDED IT TO KICK-IN FINALLY, ALL IT WOULD NEED WAS A LITTLE BOOST TO BE A FULL TIME ENTERPRISE. TODAY, INSTEAD OF THINKING ABOUT HAVING TO HEAD BACK TO THE CLASSROOM, NEXT WEEK, AT GRAVENHURST HIGH SCHOOL, SHE'S INSTEAD PLANNING OUT SOME RESTORATION PROJECTS, SUCH AS THE 1920 CIRCA, HOOKED, FOLK ART RUG, THAT WE PICKED UP LAST WEEK, IN ORILLIA, THAT HAS SOME HOLES TO CONTEND WITH; AS WELL THERE ARE THE DEMANDS OF A SUCCESSFUL KNITTER AND SEWER. THIS SUMMER SHE HAS SOLD A LOT OF HER HAND KNIT WINTER MITTS, SOCKS AND TOQUES, AND ESPECIALLY HER KNIT FINGERLESS GLOVES, THAT HAVE REALLY BEEN A HIT WITH MUSICIANS FOR SOME REASON. SHE HAS ALSO BEEN MAKING APRONS ON HER VINTAGE SEWING MACHINE, BEHIND THE COUNTER, AND THESE HAVE BEEN SELLING WELL. SHE MAKES GREAT APRONS FOR CHILDREN, AND THERE ARE ONLY A FEW LEFT FROM WHAT BEGAN AS A LARGE STOCK. SHE HAS BECOME THE SEWING MACHINE MAVEN, AS WELL, RESTORING NUMEROUS OLD SINGERS, WHICH WE NOW HUNT FOR ALL OVER GOD'S BEAUTIFUL HALF-ACRE, AND SO FAR THIS MONTH, SHE'S SOLD FOUR OF THE ONES SHE HAS RECONDITIONED. AS FAR AS MISSING SCHOOL START-UP, I DON'T THINK SHE'S THINKING TOO MUCH ABOUT WHAT NOW, ARE THE GOOD OLD DAYS. I SUPPOSE, IN HINDSIGHT, WE WERE A LITTLE OVERZEALOUS ABOUT GETTING THIS THING RIGHT, BUT THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS IS NOTORIOUS FOR SWALLOWING THE ILL-PREPARED, AND BANKRUPTING THOSE WHO MAKE THE MISTAKE, OF THINKING OF IT AS A BUSINESS ONLY, WHEN IN FACT, IT IS IN EVERY WAY IMAGINABLE, A LIFESTYLE IMBEDDED IN PAST, YET WITH ALL THE CONTEMPORARY TRAPPINGS. IT MIGHT BE SEEN AS A GLAMOROUS BUSINESS TO SOME, BUT TO THOSE WITH A LIFETIME'S EXPERIENCE IN THE PROFESSION, IT IS ONE OF THE MOST DIFFICULT PROFESSIONS, AND BUSINESSES TO MASTER. WE'RE NOT THERE YET. MAYBE WE NEVER WILL BE, BUT IT WON'T BE FOR A LACK OF TRYING OR COMMITMENT.
 
     AS YOU KNOW BY NOW, I'M A SUCKER FOR A GOOD STORY; A GRAND TALE, SOMETHING SPUN RIPE WITH EMOTION, AND EXCITEMENT, WHILE NOT SURRENDERING THE STANDARDS OF A TRUE HISTORIAN. BUT REDMOND THOMAS, Q.C. WAS BOTH A STORY SPINNER, A TALL TALE WEAVER, AND A PRETTY FAIR HISTORIAN AT THE SAME TIME. NOT EXACTLY A CHARLES DICKENS TYPE, OR WASHINGTON IRVING MODEL, OF THE SHORT STORY, REDMOND THOMAS, WAS HOWEVER, AN HISTORIAN OF DISTINCTION AND CHARACTER. HE CAREFULLY APPLIED, AS IF HAND TINTING A VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPH, THE COLOR ONTO THE BLACK AND WHITE OF ACCEPTED HISTORY. AND WHY NOT? WE CAN'T POSSIBLY GET BORED BY STORIES, HE WROTE, LIKE THE ONE I WISH TO PROFILE TODAY, ENTITLED "CORPSE GOT OUT OF HEARSE TOO SOON." IT'S A BRACEBRIDGE CLASSIC. IT'S ONE OF THE STORIES, IN COLUMN FORMAT, HE WROTE FOR THE BRACEBRIDGE HERALD-GAZETTE, IN THE LATE 1960'S, AFTER RETIRING AS A MAGISTRATE. HIS FRIEND, ROBERT BOYER, CONVINCED HIM TO TURN SOME OF THIS COLUMNS INTO A BOOK, "REMINISCENCES," PUBLISHED BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE IN 1969. IT WAS AN IMMEDIATE HIT, AND WHAT SOLD FOR ABOUT FIVE BUCKS, IN THE EARLY 1970'S, CAN NOW SELL FROM BETWEEN FORTY TO SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS, DEPENDING ON CONDITION. I JUST ACQUIRED THE TEXT, FROM A RARE AND ANTIQUE BOOK DEALER IN OTTAWA, FOR FORTY DOLLARS PLUS SHIPPING. TO ME, WELL, IT'S A BARGAIN, BECAUSE IN THIS CASE, CONTENT IS WORTH DOUBLE TO TRIPLE, AS A MUSKOKA RESOURCE. THAT'S OUR BUSINESS AFTERALL. AND AS MUCH, I SUPPOSE, OUR ENDURING HOBBY!

"NOT YET MR. BROWNING!"

    Is it a macabre story? Not really! But it does have a macabre element for sure, depending on the nitty gritty, of what actually spooked the horses, on that day, just as they were set to pull the hearse onward to the Anglican Church Cemetery, north, on the extension of Manitoba Street. Young lads with a sling-shot? A voice from the great beyond, unsettling the steeds? Please read on!
    "Very few of the Bracebridge people who see the R.M. Browning Memorial Hall (now gone), or hear the Anglican Church bell, have ever heard about (let alone known), the gentleman to whom both are memorials, which were presented to that church by his widow, who herself, is now dead 56 years." Redmond's column was published on August 10th, 1967, in The Herald-Gazette.
     "He was Mr. Robert Mortimer Glover Browning, who was known as R.M. Browning. The family, of whom he was one of the members, was a promimant Muskoka pioneer one. Among them was A.H. Browning, who owned the island in Lake Muskoka, still called Browning Island. Also among them was J.B. Browning, lawyer, Anglican lay reader, and amateur astronomer, who lived on the west side of Manitoba Street, just north of the Queen's Hill, at the location of the present federal building (current post office), and of whom my father was friend. (Within the Browning family connection there was no love lost between Mr. J.B. Browning, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. R.M. Browning.)" writes Mr. Thomas.
     "Mr. R.M. Browning was survived by no child of his own, but left one step-child, Harriet Louise (Louie) Mitchell, who when I knew her, was the wife of the Rev. J.A. McClearly, Rector of a Protestant Episcopal Church in Paterson, New Jersey. Now dead 47 years (as of the date 1967), she lies beside her mother and step-father in the Browning family plot. Her only child Jeanette, who on visits to Bracebridge, used to play with a group of kids of whom I was one, died tragically in childhood, at Paterson, when her dress ignited from a bonfire."
     Redmond recalls, "Though my recollection of Mr. R.M. Browning is confined to one occasion, I have often heard of him from oldtimers (including my parents), who were among his friends. As far back as the village days of 1879, he was a member of the Bracebridge Council. Partly by his own achievements, but chiefly through inheritance he became the richest man in Bracebridge. He had a big income from investments, and also, he was a notary public and fire insurance agent. He owned the land stretching along the south side of Ida Street, from James Street, to Manitoba Street. His fine brick residence (since remodeled and somewhat enlarged) still stands on Ida Street, at the corner of James Street. His office was at the opposite end of his land, and was a wooden building which faced Manitoba Street, and to the door of it, some steps led from the wooden sidewalk, along the east side of that street. The place where it stood, forms part of the site of the present Wells Motel.
     "My clear recollection of him relates to a Saturday, in the spring, in which he died. I had waded too far into a puddle of snow water, in front of his offices, and my rubber boots filled. Mr. Browning was standing on the office steps, enjoying the mild, sunny day, and with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, which I have been told was a characteristic stance. Chuckling, he said, 'Come here Redmond,' and when I went over, he pulled off and emptied my boots, and then took me into the office where the box stove was burning, and beside which I sat until dried out. On Monday night, April 27th, 1903, when he was aged 58, he died suddenly, at his home, from an injury received in the bathroom, where he slipped, and in falling, struck his head on the wash basin. He was placed in a folding casket, which opened out in such a manner, that the deceased seemed to be reclining on a couch, a style then favored among some affluent families. He is buried in Bracebridge Anglican Cemetery, in a plot (near its front and a short distance south of the entrance driveway) on which stands the largest monument in that graveyard. The plot was the site of the pioneer Holden cabin, on the homestead, of which the cemetery had originally been part."
     As Redmond continues about Mr. Browning, he notes that, "when he died, the present brick Anglican Church was in use, but the old wooden one was still standing, on the north side of Mary Street, at the west corner of James Street. It was used for some church activities, but in daytime, of every week day (except Saturday) was used by Miss Wollard's Private School, of which most of the pupils were just a trifle, under the public school minimum admission age (which was higher than now, and there was no kindergarten). Private School pupils (of whom I was one) were kept steadily at the basics of the '3 R's' and there was a tall conical dunce-cap for inattention. With money donated by Mrs. Browning, for a memorial to her husband, the old church was pulled down and replaced by the handsome R.M. Browning Memorial Hall, which was designed by an architect, and built by Mr. H.O. (Hank) Appleby, a contractor whose residence, was almost across Mary Street, from the east end of the new building. As a further memorial, Mrs. Browning gave to the Anglican Church its present fine big bell, to house; which the congregation replaced the brick porch, by building the present (bell) tower."
     I lived in the former home / medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on Manitoba Street, and I could see the bell tower clearly from my second floor balcony. The church was on the corner, one building removed from the former McGibbon property. It's another of the heritage buildings in the community, which add that rich, small town character, thanks to the architects and builders of past times. And of course, the generosity of such families as the Brownings.
     "The old white-painted wooden church (built in 1872 to supersede the original one at the cemetery) faced east with its length paralleling Mary Street. It had a sharply pitched roof. All the windows, regardless of size, were narrow in proportion to height, and were peaked. At the west end was a square tower, in which was the main door. High in the front, and each side of the tower, was a small window. The tower was crowned by an arched belfry, surmounted by a graceful spire. (The bell was still there in my time, but no longer used, as it had broken). From the east end of the building, the vestry jutted south, and its outside door was close to the wall of the main building. (In this description, memory is sharpened, by a picture which hangs in my home, because of family association with the old church in its heyday)
     "Mr. Browning's funeral was large and impressive, as befitted his standing,' wrote Redmond Thomas. "But that it was also spectacular was quite unintentional. After the service had been conducted, in the present brick church, by its Rector, Canon (later Archdeacon) Burt, the pallbearers placed the casket in its place, and closed the (then) glass doors. Then suddenly the horses hitched to the hearse, plunged with such violence, that the casket broke loose from the fastenings, and crashed through the glass doors. The pallbearers had not yet turned away, and they and Mr. Yeoman grabbed the casket, and saved it from falling to the crushed-stone road. All those present could see that. But only the small group of gentlemen, close behind the hearse, could hear what was said in a low voice, by one of the pallbearers; Mr. J. Ewart Lount, Registrar of Deeds, a noted wit, 'Oh no, Robert - You don't get out yet'!"
     You might remember the young Mr. Lount, from a previous blog, when he was first staying at the pioneer hotel, known as the Victoria, on Methodist Church Hill. The story was "The Tale of the First Tail's Worn in Bracebridge." To refresh your memory, the young man, coming to Bracebridge, to work with his father, C.W. Lount, was invited by the hotel proprietor, to enjoy a party in the parlor that night. When the younger Lount, figured that must have meant a society-event, he donned his finest formal attire, with tails. When he heard the fiddle music, that night, and decided he would make a formal entry, down the hotel stairs, he was met with the glares of the lumberjacks, and their ladies, and immediately lifted from the stairs onto their shoulders, and brought to the center of the room, where he was stripped down to his underwear, to more suitably join the party. Then the fiddles caught fire with this new electricity in the room.

AND THEN, THE STORY OF "SKELETONS NOT IN A GRAVEYARD"

    Redmond Thomas had an anecdotal way of dealing with death and its aftermath. While other historians prefer not to delve into the funerary side of our heritage, Redmond found it quite fascinating, and figured a way of handling these stories without committing any disrespect to the departed. In his May 18th, 1967 column, headed "Skeletons Not in a Graveyard," he handles the matter of some loose bones, in the community, with some historical explanations.
     "A couple of Bracebridge skeletons are not in a closet - or in a graveyard either. One lies behind the Legion Hall, the other behind the Court House. The land on the west side of Muskoka Road, in the Fourth Ward, where stands the Legion hall), built in 1907 as the Fourth Ward School, was originally the Primitive Methodist Cemetery, belonging to the church of that denomination, on the north side of Quebec Street, which now in remodeled form, is the First Baptist Church. About 1896 the bodies were removed to the Methodist (now United Church) Cemetery. The late Joshua Yeoman, who for many years was in charge of the undertaking part of the W.W. Kinsey business, has told me that when the removal was in progress, one coffin was fond to be so extremely heavy, that the workmen and Mr. Yeoman, thought the body must be petrified; but the deceased's relatives refused permission to have the coffin opened, and hence the correctness of the belief, could not be checked. (Mr. Yeoman told me, of one Muskoka cemetery, in which a body was definitely known to have petrified, but I cannot recall where it is, except that it is not near Bracebridge.)
     "However, at least one body was missed, in the removal, as was proven by the fact, that while digging for waterworks, for the (then) Fourth Ward School, workmen grazed the edge of a coffin, which they left undisturbed and which is there yet, its occupant unknown."
     Redmond writes, "The other skeleton is that of George Cyr, a young man of Chaffey Township, who was buried in the yard of the old District Jail, after having been hanged in that yard in 1922, following conviction of having, at that township, in 1921, murdered (with a revolver), a farm labourer, while Cyr was fleeing from the farmhouse, which he had burglarized. (After that conviction, on a charge of having, during the burglary, murdered the farm owner's wife, (Lena Solave), was not proceeded with). The old District Jail is now long gone (and the Ontario Provincial Police building, which replaced it, is gone too) but the Warden's residence, which was attached to the front of the jail, remained until pulled down, to make way for a new addition to the Court House, which at the time of writing, in 1967, is not yet completed. As long as that residence served as a landmark, I could pretty well pinpoint the location of the skeleton (of poor George), or whatever was left of it, as the corpse was put into a rough box, which was then filled-in with quick-lime), but now all I know about the location, is that it must be very close to the northeast corner of the new addition to the Court House."
     "George Cyr had no money, and when he asked me to be his counsel, I took on the very hard task, as a charity case. (That was before the Province began to pay a moderate fee to a barrister, defending a poor person, if the charge was murder - the first step which led up to the present widespread 'legal aid.' From the accused's point of view, the trial was the law equivalent of what people unfairly kid medical doctors about, as being called a successful operation, even though the patient later dies. After the jury of the Assizes had deliberated three hours, but returned with a verdict of guilty, the presiding High Court Judge (the Honorable Mr. Justice Middleton, whom lawyers reckon one of the greatest in the history of this province), thanked me for having given free to the penniless accused, what His Lordship termed a thorough and able defence, and then the judge proceeded to sentence the accused to be hanged. No appeal was entered, as the only disputed point of law, which was one as to admissibility of a dying declaration, by the victim, had been decided by the judge in favour of the defence."
     Cyr's counsel, Mr. Thomas, reports that, "after the trial, I continued to visit George at Castle Dunc (as the District Jail, was commonly called, because it was governed by Warden Duncan MacDonald) and take him presents of cigarettes. The evening before the execution, I happened to meet the hangman, who always went by the alias, 'Ellis', but even then was still using a different alias under which he posed here as the expert, sent to build the scaffold, and have it ready for the hangman; whom he said would not arrive until the midnight train just just before the execution. The hangman invited me to go with him to see the scaffold, so we went into the jail yard, which was permanently surrounded by a white-washed high wooden wall. Within the yard, stood the wooden scaffold, which had been specially built for the execution, and the hangman took me up the steps to its floor, and gave me an expert explanation of how a hanging is carried out. But I was not there to see poor George meet his fate, early next morning." It was known, that Cyr could hear the construction work on the gallows that would herald his demise. There are also conflicting facts, about where George was jailed, prior to the execution. It is stated in some newspaper accounts, that he was under police guard, in the rock basement of The Herald-Gazette building, at 27 Dominion Street. Redmond Thomas refers to the civic lock-up, or Castle Dunc as it was known.
     In another newspaper column, not published in the book, Redmond Thomas indicated that before Cyr was executed, he had confessed to him, that he was indeed guilty of the crime of murder. He also gave Redmond directions to find the murder weapon, the handgun, Cyr had hidden after the shootings. I'm not sure whether Redmond retrieved it or not, following his client's execution.
     There were two hangings, in Bracebridge, the first being the execution of another murderer, by the name of Hammond, many years prior to the 1922 hanging of George Cyr. It has long been rumored, without substantial fact, that Mr. Hammond's body was buried in the courthouse basement, under a thick layer of poured cement.
     Later, on June 22, 1967, Redmond Thomas added some details to his earlier column about "skeletons not in cemeteries," under the heading, "More Rattling of Bones."
     He adds to the story, by noting that, "In The Herald-Gazette, of May 18th, an article by me, dealt with two skeletons lying buried in Bracebridge, but not in a graveyard; one being that of an unknown person, which still lies behind the Legion Hall. As to it, I am able to give some additional information. The information has come to me in a letter from Viola Thompson (now Mrs. Reynolds, of Talbot Drive, Oakville) who is the younger daughter of the late Robert Thompson. He is well remembered by me, and many other Bracebridge residents, as having been a prominent citizen of this town, who served many terms in the town council. So far as it concerns the skeleton, her letter is as follows." 'Dear Redmond: I read one of your articles in the Bracebridge paper. I was quite interested in the fact of the skeleton, still in the Fourth Ward School grounds. My father was putting in the septic tank for the school at the time, and came across it. I remember dad going up town for the Coroner, and when he came to the school, the doctor decided to put the legs back in what was left of the coffin, and dad cemented the wall, and closed the opening. I do hope you keep on with your articles."
     Thanks so much for joining today's blog. It's always nice to have you drop in for a visit; and today, I've been visiting with Redmond Thomas, Bracebridge's well known story teller.
     Much more to come.

Redmond Thomas; The Really Big Bang On Manitoba Street

THE REALLY BIG BANG: "THE TOWN WAS ALL SHOOK UP!" WRITES BRACEBRIDGE COLUMNIST, REDMOND THOMAS

FOLKISH STORIES FROM THE 1969 MUSKOKA HISTORY, "REMINISCENCES"

     AH, THE GREAT OLD FOLKTALES OF OUR TOWN AND OUR DISTRICT.
     THE MOST DANGEROUS THING I EVER DID WITH EXPLOSIVES, WAS QUITE ACCIDENTAL. IT WAS APPROACHING THE VICTORIA DAY WEEKEND, AND BEGINNING ON THE FRIDAY EVENING, THE HUNTS HILL GANG DECIDED TO INVEST OUR ALLOWANCE MONEY INTO A STASH OF FIREWORKS. BACK THEN, FIREWORKS WERE AVAILABLE FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS DURING THE YEAR, AT LEAST HERE IN THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA. TODAY YOU CAN GET THEM YEAR ROUND, AND BELIEVE ME, WE'VE GOT SOME FOLKS IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, IN GRAVENHURST, WHO WILL USE JUST ABOUT ANY OCCASION, TO COMMENCE LIGHTING UP THEIR ROCKETS, FOR THE BIG BANG. IT CAN GET UNSETTLING, YOU KNOW, WHEN FOR EXAMPLE, YOU'RE OUT FOR A WALK LATE IN THE EVENING, AND SOME FIREWORKS' ENTHUSIAST, STARTS LETTING THEM OFF IN HIS, OR HER, DRIVEWAY, WHICH FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, SOUNDS A LOT LIKE GUNFIRE FROM A VARIETY OF WEAPONS. I MEAN HONESTLY. WHY IS A WEDNESDAY EVENING, OR SUNDAY EVENING, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MONTH, WHEN THERE ARE NO DESIGNATED HOLIDAYS, OR INTERNATIONAL FESTIVALS ON THE GO, SPECIAL ENOUGH TO WARRANT BURNING UP A COUPLE HUNDRED BUCKS, LETTING OFF THESE PARTY SIZE BOMBS. SUZANNE TELLS ME, THAT IT MAY BE AS SIMPLE AS THE RECOGNITION OF A BIRTHDAY OR ANNIVERSARY, MAYBE EVEN A JOB PROMOTION. WE USED TO TOAST THE MILESTONE WITH A GLASS OF WINE, OR HAVE A BIG BIRTHDAY CAKE WITH ICE CREAM TO CELEBRATE A SPECIAL DAY. NOW APPARENTLY, HONKING BIG EXPLOSIVES ARE IN VOGUE, ALTHOUGH I WISH THERE WOULD BE A LOT LESS OF THIS EXPLOSIVE FESTIVITY NEAR OUR HOUSE. YOU'LL APPRECIATE THIS, IF YOU HAVE A CAT OR TWO, ENJOYING THE CHANCE TO CURL UP ON YOUR LAP, WHILE YOU WATCH TELEVISION. A COUPLE OF THESE MISSILE EXPLOSIONS, AND BY GOLLY, YOU HEAD TO THE MEDICINE CABINET FOR ANTISEPTIC CREAM, FOR THE CLAW TEARS INTO THE FLESH, OF YOUR LEGS AND ARMS, MARKING THE DIRECT PATH THE CAT TOOK, IN ORDER TO ESCAPE ARMAGEDDON.
     IT WAS ON THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, OF THE VICTORIA DAY WEEKEND, AT A TIME WHEN THERE WAS A COMMUNITY FIREWORKS DISPLAY AT JUBILEE PARK, ON WELLINGTON STREET. SO WE GOT OUR BIG BANG THAT WEEKEND, FOR A SMALL DONATION AT THE PARK. THUS, WE COULD FIRE OUR JUVENILE EXPLOSIVES OFF, IN THE HOURS LEADING UP TO THE TOWN DISPLAY, WHICH MANY LOCALS TOOK ADVANTAGE OF, AS IT WAS COST EFFICIENT; VERSUS PAYING FOR BOXES OF FIREWORKS FROM THE LOCAL FIVE CENTS TO A DOLLAR STORE. I BOUGHT MINE AT EITHER LIL & CEC'S VARIETY STORE, ON TORONTO STREET, OR ONE BLOCK EAST, AT BAMFORD'S STORE, WHERE FRED AND MARY ALWAYS STOCKED THOSE LITTLE BURNING SCHOOL HOUSES I LIKED.
     I HAD PURCHASED A TIGHT WEAVE OF SMALL FIRECRACKERS, THAT IF LIT CORRECTLY, WOULD SET OFF ABOUT SIXTY TO A HUNDRED MINI-EXPLOSIONS. YOU LIT THE CENTRAL WICK OF THE WEAVE, AND THEN TOSSED IT INTO A DRIVEWAY, OR, WELL, THE HALL AT THE SCHOOL. THAT, BY THE WAY, WAS AN AUTOMATIC EXPULSION, IF NOT THE JUSTIFICATION FOR A RIDE IN THE BACK SEAT OF THE LOCAL SQUAD CAR, DISPATCHED FROM THE POLICE STATION.ON THIS OCCASION, US YOUNG LADS, WERE PLAYING WITH OUR FIREWORKS UP IN THE SAND-PIT, ON THE BACK SLOPE OF THE WEBER APARTMENTS, ON ALICE STREET; WHICH WAS THE PERFECT PLACE TO FIRE-OFF THESE EXPLOSIVES, BECAUSE OF THE PREVALANCE OF SAND. IF THE SPARKS SET THE FIELD GRASS ON FIRE, ALONG THE UPPER RIM OF THE PIT, IT COULD POTENTIALLY DESTROY ABOUT A HALF DOZEN HOUSES IN THE UPPER NEIGHBORHOOD. WE WERE REASONABLY CAREFUL IN THIS REGARD. IN SOME CASES, WE JUST MADE ERRORS IN JUDGEMENT, AND THAT'S WHEN WE'D GET BURNED OURSELVES.
    THERE WERE, FOR EXAMPLE, LOTS OF QUICK-WICKS, AND WHAT THIS MEANT, IS THAT THE SPARKING LENGTH OF THE FUSE WOULD SUDDENLY RACE AT TWICE THE SPEED, FROM WHEN IT BEGAN, AND THE CRACKER WOULD EXPLODE IN OUR HANDS. MY MOTHER WARNED ME THAT I COULD LOSE MY FINGERS THAT WAY, BUT I'VE STILL GOT THE TEN I WAS BORN WITH, AND I HAD A LOT OF HAND-HELD DISASTERS. IN MY TIME AS A JUNIOR EXPLOSIVES EXPERT. YOU JUST YELL OUT, WHICH WAS USUALLY THE LORD'S NAME, AND TRY TO PUT THE FIRE OUT IN THE PALM OF YOUR HAND. WE DID GO THROUGH A LOT OF BURN OINTMENT.
     FIRST, I HAVE TO EXPLAIN, THAT PART OF THE ATTRACTION OF THESE FIREWORKS, IS THAT THEY PLAYED INTO OUR WAR GAMES. WE WOULD SET UP ELABORATE BATTLEFIELDS IN THE SAND-PIT, AND THEN TREAT THE FIRECRACKERS AS IF THEY WERE HAND-GRENADES. SO THE IDEA, WAS TO HANG ONTO THEM AS LONG AS POSSIBLE, BEFORE THROWING THEM INTO THE GATHERING OF ENEMY SOLDIERS. YOU ALSO HAD TO TOSS THEM AS IF THEY WERE GRENADES, WHICH WAS PART OF THE DANCE AFTERALL. WHEN YOU GOT A QUICK WICK, AND MISJUDGED HOW FAST THE WICK WOULD BURN AWAY, THERE WAS A FIFTY-FIFTY CHANCE, YOU WERE GOING TO BE RUNNING HOME IN A MOMENT, WITH SIGNIFICANT BURNS TO THE FLESH OF YOUR HANDS. WHICH IS WHAT WE WANTED TO AVOID, BECAUSE OUR PARENTS DISLIKED THE FACT WE BOUGHT FIREWORKS IN THE FIRST PLACE.
     I HAD EXPERIENCED SOME VERY CLOSE CALLS, IN MY FIRECRACKER-THROWING DAYS, BUT I WASN'T SO LUCKY WITH THE STRING OF MINI CRACKERS, THAT I MISJUDGED BADLY THAT AFTERNOON. I LIT THE MAIN FUSE, AND WATCHED THE SPARKS FLYING UP, WAITING UNTIL THE LAST POSSIBLE MOMENT, BEFORE TOSSING THEM AMIDST A HUNDRED OR SO ENEMY SOLDIERS, AL HILLMAN HAD LINED-UP IN FRONT. WE HAD ALL KINDS OF PLASTIC SOLDIERS BETWEEN US. WE ALSO HATED TO GET DUDS, AND THE STORES WOULDN'T TAKE THEM BACK, THINKING WE HAD DAMAGED THEM OURSELVES. WE WOULD THROW DUDS, ONES THAT THE WICKS HAD MALFUNCTIONED, INTO SMALL FIRES WE SET, IN THE HOLLOW OF THE LARGE SAND-PIT. WHEN THE SPARK OF MY FIREWORKS CLUSTER, APPEARED TO EXTINGUISH, ON ITS OWN, CEASING TO SMARK AND SMOKE, I WAS MAD. THEY COST QUITE A BIT OF ALLOWANCE MONEY AFTERALL, AND IT RUINED MY HAND-GRENADE SIMULATION.
     I PICKED UP THE CLUSTER, EXAMINED THE WICK, (OR FUSE), AND DETERMINED THAT I HAD PURCHASED A DUD. I WAS SO CONFIDENT THE WICK HAD EXTINGUISHED, THAT I PUT THE WHOLE BUNCH IN MY BACK POCKET, FOR LATER USE. I WAS TALKING TO AL AND RICK HILLMAN, AND DON CLEMENT I THINK, ALL CHARTER MEMBERS OF THE HUNT'S HILL GANG, WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, I COULD FEEL THIS BURNING SENSATION, ISOLATED ON MY LEFT CHEEK. I PUT MY HAND BACK INTO MY POCKET, SUSPECTING THAT IT WAS SOMETHING BEING GENERATED BY THE CRACKERS. THE MOMENT I SLID MY HAND INTO THE BACK POCKET, THE CLUSTER OF FIRECRACKERS STARTED TO EXPLODE IN SUCCESSION. I WAS ON FIRE! ONCE THIS HAPPENS, IN SUCH A CLUSTER, IT'S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE, WITHOUT IMMERSION IN WATER, TO STOP THE RAPID FIRE OF THESE EXPLOSIVES DETONATING. MY HAND WAS BURNED, AND THE BACK FLAP OF THE POCKET WAS ON FIRE, BY THIS POINT, AND I HAD DROPPED TO THE GROUND, HOPING THE PRESSURE AGAINST THE SAND WOULD QUELL THE FLAMES AND HALT THE EXPLOSIONS. THIS MOVE, JUST KEPT THE REPEATING EXPLOSIONS CLOSER TO MY ASS, AND I'M TOLD, THAT IT WAS QUITE A SCENE, WATCHING ME, LIKE A DOG SCRATCHING ITS ARSE ON A CARPET, AS I MADE THE SAME SEAT-CRAWL ALL OVER THE SAND-PIT, WITH SMOKE AND SPARKS WREATHING ME LIKE I WAS THE FIREWORKS NOVELTY. I WAS LITERALLY BLOWING-UP CRACKER BY CRACKER. THE LADS TRIED TO HELP ME, BUT IT WAS MUCH THE CASE, THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE WHAT TO DO, ONCE THE CARNAGE HAD BEGUN. I WAS DROPPING AND ROLLING ALL OVER THE PLACE, AND YET THERE WAS STILL A FLAME COMING OUT OF MY POCKET. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE THOSE GUYS FOR TRYING TO SMOTHER ME WITH SAND, WHEN IT WAS MY ASS ON FIRE. I CAN FORGIVE THE LAUGHING AND HOWLING, BUT NOT THE SMOTHERING THING. THE FLAMES HADN'T REACHED MY HEAD YET, SO WHY WERE THEY DUMPING SAND IN MY HAIR. BOZOS!
     WHEN THE RAPID FIRE EXPLOSIONS FINALLY STOPPED, AND THE FLAMES HAD BEEN EXTINGUISHED BY THE COATING OF SAND, THE PAIN SET IN LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE. IT TOOK WEEKS, FOR THE PAIN TO SUBSIDE, AND NEW SKIN TO GROW BACK. I WAS THE TALK OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD THOUGH, SO I SUPPOSE THAT WAS MY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME. "HOW'S YOUR ASS TED," MY MATES WOULD ASK, EACH TIME WE MET, ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL. I DIDN'T SIT TOO WELL IN CLASS EITHER. I WAS EXCUSED FROM PHYSICAL EDUCATION CLASS, AND THE TEACHER ALLOWED ME TO SIT ON AN ANGLE AT MY DESK. BACK IN THOSE DAYS, WE COULD GET A DETENTION OR RAPPED KNUCKLES, FOR NOT SITTING STRAIGHT IN OUR DESKS. SO THIS WAS AN ACT OF CHARITY AND MERCY, TO ALLOW ME A FEW WEEKS OF OFF-KILTER SITTING.
     THIS MAY SEEM LIKE A FAR-OUT INTRODUCTION TO TODAY'S STORY, BORROWED FROM THE BOOK, "REMINISCENCES," BY FORMER MUSKOKA MAGISTRATE, REDMOND THOMAS. THE BOOK WAS PUBLISHED IN 1969 BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS OF BRACEBRIDGE, AND HAS BECOME ONE OF THE REGION'S MOST POPULAR FOLK HISTORIES. THE STORY BELOW, IS ONE OF THE REASONS, IT HAS BECOME SO POPULAR, AS LOCAL HISTORIES GO! AND YES, IT HAS TO DO WITH AN EXPLOSION. A REALLY BIG ONE ON MANITOBA STREET. THE HEADING OF THE STORY, WHICH WAS ACTUALLY A COLUMN IN THE HERALD-GAZETTE, PUBLISHED ON SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1967, UNDER THE HEADING, "THE TOWN WAS ALL SHOOK UP." REDMOND THOMAS SETS THE STAGE FOR THIS RATHER REMARKABLE TOWN EVENT, THAT COULD HAVE BEEN CATASTROPHIC, WITH GREAT LOSS OF LIFE. GOD WAS LOOKING OUT FOR THE TOWN ON THIS PARTICULAR SUMMER EVENING. HERE'S HOW IT ALL UNFOLDED.
    "It was a warm Saturday evening, of early summer. All the stores, barber shops and other business establishments (except the bars), were open, and would not close their doors until eleven o'clock. A host of shoppers were down town, and so were many other people, who were there simply to chat with friends in groups. No inconvenience to passersby, was caused by such groups, as the wooden sidewalks on both sides of Manitoba Street, were about one-third wider than the present cements ones. Then a public school boy, I was looking out an open window, in the back of The Thomas Company store, in the Hunt Block (later burnt in the great fire of 1908, and replaced by the present Sibbett Block, east side of Manitoba Street, just south of clock tower), and was gazing at the yards of the Grand Trunk Railway, where shunting was being done by one of the old small locomotives, with a tall straight smoke-stack, and big box-shaped coal oil headlight. Just as the engine moved north out of view, behind the Sander livery stable, on the south side, of Thomas Street, the Hunt Block shook violently and there was a very loud bang, followed immediately by a great crash of glass, and the shrieks of women.
     "My first thought was that the boiler of the engine had burst, but then I heard people shouting, 'earthquake.' Because San Francisco had been almost completely destroyed, by an earthquake (and resulting fire) earlier in that year, the subject of earthquake naturally came quickly to people's minds. But it was no earthquake. It was (or until that instant had been) the powder house."
     As Redmond Thomas explains, "The powder house was a flimsy wooden building, standing at the big rock through which was then being blasted; the present road leading from Ontario Street, to the road running down to the present wharf, which was at the foot of Dill Street. (There had been some strong opposition to the building of the New Wharf and those opposing it often referred to it as the Thomas Dock, because my father had been leader in the movement to establish it). At the time of which I write, the dredging of the big sandbar in the bay, had not yet been done, and so the New Wharf was used by only steam yachts, and gasoline launches, as motor boats were then called. The Old Wharf was still used by the steamboats of the Muskoka Navigation Company, and by the many steam tugboats. Until the present road from Ontario Street was blasted through the big rock, the New Wharf was reached from Manitoba Street by a road running between buildings, of the Birds Woolen Mill, and then under the railroad bridge, to the top of the road leading down to the river.
    "On the warm Saturday evening, of which I write, two of the workmen in the construction, of the new road took a 'busman's holiday,' by walking down to the scene of their labors. After they got there, they discovered that the powder house was on fire. They did not linger. Shouting, 'Fire! Fire! Fire!,' they took their departure, at a speed which rivaled that of Dan Patch, the Minneapolis steed, which was then the world's fastest harness race horses. They had just reached the corner of Manitoba and Ontario Streets (where the Waite Block now stands, but there were then, two small brick residences) by the time the fire works occurred - the powder house blew up."
     The young Mr. Thomas, reported that, "On both sides of Manitoba Street, every pane of glass in the main floors and upper storeys, of all the buildings, was shattered, except where there was an open window, or door, at each end of the premises; as for example, in the Hunt Block, there was no glass broken in the Thomas Company store, as the front door and a back window were open, but all the glass crashed out of the windows, of the law office of Mr. (later Judge) T.E. Godson, which was directly above that store. In the fine home of Dr. J.F. Williams (whose land included what is now the Texaco Service Station property, and Old Highway 11) absolutely everything fragile was broken.
     "Though the whole town was shaken up; the main force of the shock ran in two courses, apparently following basic rock formation. One course ran north up Manitoba Street. The other went northwest and broke nearly every window in the old British Lion Hotel, at the northwest corner of Dominion and Ontario Street. Except to that hotel, all damage of any consequence was confined to Manitoba Street. In spite of the size of the crowds down town, there was, so far as I remember, no personal injury from falling glass, and this was doubtless mostly due to the fact that chatting groups habitually stood at the outside edges of the very wide sidewalks. Nor can I recall any serious run-aways by horses. (There were no automobiles owned here at that time.)
     "Of the powder house, no trace remained but a scorched place on the rock. Probably pieces of it showered down on Falkenburg, Ziska, Muskoka Falls and Stoneleigh. Not many of the present residents of Bracebridge lived here in 1906, when the town was really 'all shook up'."

Steam Powered Merry Go Round From Gravenhurst to Bracebridge On The Grand Trunk

These images are just two examples of Steam Powered Merry Go Rounds from the late 1800's

THE GREAT STEAM POWERED MERRY-GO-ROUND - AND THE MEDICINE SHOWS ON THE MAIN STREET OF BRACEBRIDGE

REDMOND THOMAS BRINGS THOSE HALCYON DAYS BACK TO FULL BRIGHTNESS - UNDER THE GLOW OF THE SILVERY MOON

     WE MORTALS, WERE GIVEN THE CAPACITY TO MAKE MEMORIES. WE WERE GIVEN IMAGINATION IN ORDER TO EXPLORE "THE FANTASTIC," OF LIFE AND BEYOND. EACH OF US HAS A PERSONAL ARCHIVES, FULL OF MEMORIES, AND ALL THE PRECEDENTS OF FAR FLUNG ENTERPRISES, OF THE IMAGINATION. IS IT THEN, SO FAR FETCHED, TO THINK OF OURSELVES INTIMATELY, AS ARCHIVISTS AND HISTORIANS IN OUR OWN RIGHT? RECOLLECTIONS, LIKE THE ONES PUBLISHED BELOW, ARE THE QUILTED TOGETHER SHREDS OF EXPERIENCE, AND SHADES OF CREATIVE THOUGHT, IMBEDDED IN FOND MEMORY, OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO HAVE BRACEBRIDGE, IN THIS CASE, AS A HOMETOWN. IT'S WHAT I HAVE USED, TO INSPIRE A MAJORITY OF MY COLUMNS, ABOUT GROWING UP IN BRACEBRIDGE; AND I AM SO PLEASED THAT I HAVE REMEMBERED SO MUCH, OF WHAT WAS AN AMAZING CHILDHOOD, AND EXCITING YOUTH SPENT IN WHAT REDMOND THOMAS, HIMSELF, WAS A HOMETOWN WITH BOUNDLESS POTENTIAL, AND NEIGHBORLINESS. HERE NOW, ARE SOME OF HIS OBSERVATIONS, ABOUT WHAT IT WAS LIKE, IN THOSE EARLY YEARS OF COMMUNITY-BUILDING, ESPECIALLY IN SOCIAL / CULTURAL ENTERPRISE.
     "THE GOOD SIZED FIELD," WROTE WELL KNOWN BRACEBRIDGE COLUMNIST, REDMOND THOMAS Q.C., "COMPRISED THE LAND OF THE PRESENT CARNEGIE LIBRARY, AND NEARLY ALL THE LAND OF THE SERVICE STATION, NOW SOUTH OF IT. IT WAS RENTED OUT FROM TIME TO TIME, TO SUCH VISITING ACTIVITIES AS THE MERRY-G0-ROUND, AND THE MEDICINE SHOWS."
     THIS IS ONE OF THE STORIES CONTAINED IN HIS 1969 BOOK, "BRACEBRIDGE, MUSKOKA REMINISCENCES," PUBLISHED BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS. HIS FOLKISH STORIES, ARE FROM THE HEART, AND BRING THE READER INTO HIS REMINISCENCES, SUCH THAT YOU MIGHT HEAR THE HAUNTING ECHO OF "MEET ME IN ST.LOUIS," THE CHUG OF THE STEAM ENGINE, THAT DROVE THE WHEEL ON ITS IRON TRACKS. YOU CAN SMELL THE BURNING COIL OIL FROM THE LAMPS AROUND THE FIELD, AND POSSIBLY HEAR THE SMOOTH-TONGUED BARK OF THE PROPRIETOR, FROM THE TRAVELLING MEDICINE SHOW, WHO HAS JUST PUT OUT HIS SIGN-BOARD TO ANNOUNCE THE COMING DEMONSTRATION. PEOPLE ARE GATHERING. IT IS ON THE MAIN STREET OF BRACEBRIDGE. MANITOBA STREET. WHAT A WONDROUS, FASCINATING SCENE, IS UNFOLDING IN FRONT OF OUR EYES. THANK YOU MR. THOMAS, FOR LEADING US DOWN THIS FAMILIAR PATH TO OUR PAST!
    IT SEEMS SUCH AN APPROPRIATE REVIVAL, TO PRESENT THIS STORY, AT A TIME IN OUR HISTORY, WHEN THE HISTORIC DOWNTOWN, IS IN THE MIDST OF ITS OWN REVITALIZATION FOR THE FUTURE.
    REDMOND'S ORIGINAL COLUMN, CARRYING THIS STORY, RAN IN THE JULY 1967, AND MARCH 1968 ISSUES, OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE.
    NOTE: THE FIELD THAT REDMOND THOMAS IS REFERRING TO, IS WHERE THE OLD STATION RESTAURANT IS NOW LOCATED, INCLUDING THE PROPERTY OF THE BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC LIBRARY AND THE CURRENT POST OFFICE.
    "ON THAT FIELD I HAVE RIDDEN ON THE BIG STEAM-POWERED MERRY-GO-ROUND, WHICH RAN ON A HEAVY CIRCULAR STEEL TRACK, AS DESCRIBED IN DETAIL, IN ONE OF MY PREVIOUS ARTICLES. ANY MEDICINE SHOW WAS GIVEN (BY LIGHT OF COAL OIL FLARES), ON A WAGON, OR SMALL STAGE. THE USUAL SHOW WAS PUT ON BY AN ENTERTAINER, (GENERALLY, A BURNT-CORK COLORED MAN) WHOSE PROGRAM WAS JOKES, SONGS AND BANJO MUSIC, AND WHO WAS SOMETIMES ASSISTED BY THE SPIELER. BETWEEN THE NUMBERS OF THE SPIELER, HE GAVE HIS PITCH TO SELL HIS MEDICINAL PRODUCT - MAYBE A WONDERFUL OIL MADE FROM HIS OWN SECRET FORMULA, GUARANTEED TO BE THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD FOR HUMANS, HORSES AND HARNESS. THOSE SPIELERS WERE MARVELS OF SMOOTH LOQUACITY."

JULY 13TH, 1967, THE BIG ATTRACTION

     Redmond Thomas was fond of attending these community events. It was a big deal, when the train arrived with something special on board. It was for the entertainment of the local citizenry, and reportedly, it came courtesy a fine fellow from Gravenhurst.
     "Nice merry-go-rounds now come to Bracebridge but, though more glittering, none of them is nearly as big, heavy, or spectacular as the old steam-powered one. It was built in North Tonawanda, New York, but was owned in (or at any rate managed from) Gravenhurst. It was a feature in itself, and was not accompanied by any other amusement device, or any kind of game. It was in Bracebridge every summer, usually twice and for a week each time. Its arrival and departure were on a Grand Trunk Railway freight train, with a steam locomotive."
    Mr. Thomas paints a picture for the reader. What a tantalizing one it is, such that we wish to see it, spinning in the moonlit summer night. "The merry-go-round was located at several places on land, which was then vacant, but its chief and final location, was on the north side of Thomas Street, where now stand the bowling alley building, Muskoka Trading Company Store, but which, in those days, was vacant land, except that far back from the street, there was the Storey wagon-shop, and closer to the road, was a rusty boiler on its stone foundation, remains of a planning mill, which had burnt before my time." The land referred to, by Redmond Thomas, was behind the former Queen's Hotel (which became the Patterson Hotel), a building still standing on the corner, and the former Albion Hotel, adjacent to the train station. This was a much easier haul, from the station, where the ride was unloaded, and moved in pieces to the site; versus when it had to be brought up a steep length of the Queen's Hill, to upper Manitoba Street.
     "The big merry-go-round revolved on a heavy circular steel track, of which the rails were almost square instead of the shape of those used by the railroads. The track was laid in a shallow trench, and great care was taken to have it absolutely level. The heavy body of the machine, rested on numerous heavy steel wheels, which had flanges on the inside much like those of railroad cars. One of the wheels was under every pair of animals, and every seat, and the individual motion of the animals, was provided by eccentrics from the wheels," wrote Mr. Thomas.
     "The merry-go-round had a broad lower deck, of heavy slatted wood and passengers stepped onto it, in the spaces between the pairs of hand-carved wooden horses, lions and other animals, or the sets of wooden seats - then the passengers climbed to the upper wooden deck, from which they took their places for the ride. To collect tickets, the conductor made a circuit of the upper deck, while the ride was in progress. The centre of the machine was an open circular area, in which suspended from a pole, were the big coal oil flares, which provided the light at night, which was about the only time the machine was in use. The top of the merry-go-round was of rather flattened conical shape, and was made of canvas with scalloped edges. (When not in use, the sides of the machine were closed by canvas curtains.)"
     He writes that, "receiving its power from one of the wheels was a melodious organ, which the conductor cut in as soon as the merry-go-round was nearing full speed. Some distance behind the merry-go-round stood a powerful stationary steam engine, with an upright boiler. The engine operated from a drum, from which (through a series of fixtures containing pulleys), a heavy wire cable ran into a deep groove, in the outside edge of the lower deck, and caused the merry-go-round to revolve; on the same principle as an old fashioned top, which was spun by rapidly pulling a string, which had been wound around it. There were, in Bracebridge, no automobiles or moving picture show - and, of course radio, and television had not been invented."
     "So the merry-go-round, was a centre of attraction for a throng of spectators, as well as for the patrons. Not only children but grown-ups (especially young men with their girl friends) were customers, and so were some older people. Some of those of rather mature years, who rode, claimed that they were doing it solely to look after their small children, or grandchildren aboard. Once I saw a sedate middle-aged businessmen, fall off the outside, one of a pair of animals, because he became dizzy, while his young daughter, had been expertly riding the inner one of the pair - fortunately he suffered only a shaking up."
     "Tickets for a ride were small dark-blue, oblong pasteboards, with rounded corners, like milk tickets of those times," writes the master story-teller, Redmond Thomas. "They were five cents each, or six for a quarter, regardless of whether for use by a child or an adult. (But in those days the little silver five cent piece, would also buy a loaf of bread, or a quart of milk) The ticket seller was a man who had a satchel, suspended from a strap over his shoulder, and who stood on the ground sufficiently close to the merry-go-round, to be within the circle of light cast by its big flares. After having later been collected by the conductor, the tickets were sold again, just like the milk tickets were used again and again."
     Redmond concludes, "To start or stop a ride, the conductor blew a whistle of the kind used by sports referees, and this was acknowledged by two toots on the whistle of the steam-engine. A ride was really spectacular. After the whistle by the conductor, and the two toots from the engineer in answer, the engineer gradually opened the throttle, and the merry-go-round, in its mellow glow, began to revolve with gathering speed, while from those aboard, came the delighted shouts of the kids, and the rippling laughter of the young ladies. Soon the conductor cut in the organ which forthwith, gave out the very latest popular tunes. A few years ago, the nice song 'Meet Me In St. Louis,' had a revival of popularity, because of the splendid motion picture of the same name, and then whenever I listened to it, there came to mind the first time I heard that piece - from the merry-go-round organ, when I was a very small schoolboy, in the summer of the St. Louis World Fair of 1904."

THE TALE OF THE FIRST "TAILS" WORN HERE (FROM A COLUMN WRITTEN BY REDMOND THOMAS, IN THE APRIL 27TH ISSUE, OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE)

     "This tale, of the first tails work in Bracebridge, is brief, but so was the wearing of them. It was told to me more than once by the gentleman who wore them. Mr. J. Ewart Lount, who as long as I knew him, was Registrar of Deeds, and at whose funeral I was a pallbearer. In 1868, the first Ontario Government, under Premier John Sandfield MacDonald, appointed C.W. Lount (a Toronto Barrister, related to Samuel Lount, who was hanged for being a leader of the 1837 Upper Canada Rebellion), to be Muskoka's first Division Court Judge, Stipendiary Magistrate, Registrar of Deeds, Crown Lane Agent, etc. Leaving his family in Toronto, Judge Lount came to Bracebridge, and put up at the Victoria Hotel, of which Alex Bailey was the proprietor, and which stood on the west side of Muskoka Road (the pioneer colonization road) at the top of Free Methodist Hill. Shortly afterwards in that year, his eldest son, Ewart, then barely out of boyhood, came here to help in the Judge's work, as Registrar of Deeds and Crown Lands Agent; and Ewart alighted from the stage in front of the Victoria Hotel, and, like his father, put up there. It chanced that a ball had been arranged for that night at the hotel, and shortly before it was due to begin, the landlord invited young Ewart Lount to participate in it. Ewart, being fresh from the refinements of society life, in Old Ontario, went upstairs, unpacked from his trunk, his suit of formal evening clothes, and donned them. As soon as he heard the fiddles, he began to descend the stairs, to the main room of the hotel, which was then a ballroom, but stopped in amazement, when part way down. A square dance was in progress."
    Redmond writes, "Many of the dancers were shantymen, dressed in rough clothes, and wearing heavy boots with soles studded with corks (calks). The apparel of every such man, included a brightly colored sash around his waist, with a long end, adorned by a tassel, hanging down. The women wore very plain attire. One of the men, who had been 'tamaracking'er down,' caught sight of Ewart, and stopped in amazement at the sight. This stalled the shindig and everyone followed his gaze. It was a time of general amazement. Ewart Lount was amazed. The dancers were amazed too - but not for long. The shantymen 'let out one roar,' (as Mr. Lount used to say in telling of it), and they rushed up the stairs, grabbed Ewart, and carried him down into the ballroom, where they tore off his suit and left him standing in his underwear. According to Victorian etiquette, the genteel thing for the ladies to have done, was swoon. But not so the belles of Bracebridge. They just roared with laughter."
     Thank you so much, for visiting with me today. Tomorrow, we will once again, re-visit the old town, as Redmond Thomas saw it, from earlier in the 1900's, from his popular and revered book of stories, "Reminiscences."

Redmond Thomas QC, One Of Muskoka's Amazing Story Tellers; Cannon Fire From Memorial Park and The Story Of Boney

Redmond Thomas Q.C.

THANK YOU PATRICK MCGAHERN BOOKS INC., FOR REUNITING ME WITH REDMOND THOMAS - AND HIS BRACEBRIDGE, "REMINISCENCES"

A TOWN HISTORY I CAN'T WORK WITHOUT - SO THIS TIME, I SWEAR, I WON'T SELL IT

     ABOUT A DOZEN YEARS AGO, I SUCCUMBED TO TEMPTATION. SUZANNE KNEW, THAT ONE DAY, I WOULD SLIP, AND MAYBE EVEN FALL. SHE WAS PREPARED FOR IT, I THINK, AND WHEN I FINALLY MUSTERED THE COURAGE TO CONFESS MY SINS, I COULD TELL SHE WAS DISAPPOINTED. IT WAS IN HER EYES. A DISTINCT LOW LUSTER TWINKLE. I HAD BROKEN A PROMISE. I SAID I WOULD NEVER DO IT AGAIN. BUT I DID. AND I ENJOYED EVERY MINUTE OF IT TOO! I DIDN'T TELL HER THAT PART, BUT THE SMILE ON MY FACE KIND OF GAVE IT AWAY. OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I'M A BEAST OF A MAN. I FELT ASHAMED FOR A MINUTE AND A HALF. HEY, I GAVE HER THE MONEY FROM THE PROCEEDS.
     GOSH, DID YOU THINK I HAD CONFESSED, TO HAVING AN AFFAIR? NO WAY! IT WASN'T ANOTHER WOMAN. I SWEAR.
     I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'D THINK I WOULD DO SUCH A THING. I WAS REFERENCING HOW I BROKE A PROMISE ABOUT SELLING OFF MY MUSKOKA COLLECTION OF HISTORIES. WE NEEDED THE MONEY. AND MUSKOKA HISTORIES SELL VERY WELL. IT MARKED THE THIRD TIME THAT I HAD DECIDED TO UNBURDEN MYSELF, OF ALL THE MOST IMPORTANT REGIONAL BOOKS IN MY ARCHIVES CABINET. AT THAT POINT, I HAD NOTCHED A HAT-TRICK OF BROKEN PROMISES, AS RELATES TO MY, "OUR", MUSKOKA COLLECTION. EACH TIME, IT'S BEEN ABOUT MONEY, AND THE FACT WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY. SO WHAT HAPPENS, IS THAT I SUDDENLY, AND WITHOUT WARNING, GET A SURGE OF NEW INTEREST IN MUSKOKA HISTORY, AND GREATLY DESIRE TO ONCE AGAIN, WRITE ABOUT IT FOR REGIONAL PUBLICATIONS. IT'S A WRITING CONUNDRUM MIXED WITH AN ANTIQUE DEALER'S FOLLY, OF ALWAYS LOOKING TO BUY SOMETHING, JUST SO WE CAN SELL IT AGAIN. THEN I STARE THROUGH THE GLASS OF THE FLAT-TO-THE-WALL CUPBOARD, WHERE I KEEP MY HISTORIES, AND FIND THE SHELVES HAVE CRYSTAL SUGAR BOWLS, CHINA CASSEROLE DISHES, AND WINE GLASSES, INSTEAD OF BOOKS LIKE "REMINISCENCES," WRITTEN BY REDMOND THOMAS, AND "A GOOD TOWN GREW HERE," BY ROBERT BOYER. USUALLY, THE SEVERAL THOUSAND DOLLARS GAINED, FROM THE SALE OF MY MOST IMPORTANT BOOKS, ISN'T SPENT YET, WHEN THE SYMPTOMS OF PROFOUND REGRET COMMENCE; LIKE THE WITHDRAWAL FROM BOOZE, ALL OF A SUDDEN THE MIND RECOGNIZING, THAT ALL IS NOT WELL. I WILL SOON, THEREAFTER, START THE ACQUISITION PROCESS ALL OVER AGAIN. I SOMETIMES WONDER, IF SUZANNE WOULD HAVE LESS CONCERN ABOUT MY SANITY, IF I CONFESSED TO INFIDELITY, VERSUS TELLING HER ONCE MORE, I'VE GOT THE HISTORY BUG AGAIN. OR THAT I'M SELLING OUT, AFTER GETTING A LARGE OFFER.
     THANKS TO PATRICK MCGAHERN BOOKS INC., OF OTTAWA, I'VE NOW COMPLETED MY BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA ARCHIVES FOR THE FOURTH TIME SINCE 1979. THE BOOK SHOP WAS ABLE TO PROVIDE ME WITH A NICE, CLEAN, WELL CONSERVED COPY, OF THE 1969 HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS PRINTING OF THE TOWN HISTORY, "REMINISCENCES," BY REDMOND THOMAS Q.C. I'VE PROBABLY HAD A DOZEN OF REDMOND'S BOOKS IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, BUT THEY SELL INCREDIBLY WELL. THE DEALER-IN-ME SHOWS NO MERCY TO THE HISTORIAN-ME. REDMOND HAD A VERY FOLKSY WRITING STYLE, AND TELLS SOME GREAT STORIES, THAT VERY FEW OTHER HISTORIANS HAVE DARED TO WRITE ABOUT. FOR ONE, HE HANDLES THE TRADITIONS AND ADORNMENTS OF OLD STYLE FUNERALS. VERY FEW HISTORIANS TACKLE THIS KIND OF REKINDLING. HE WRITES ABOUT SKELETONS FOUND IN UNUSUAL PLACES, A PUBLIC HANGING, A STEAM POWERED MERRY-GO-ROUND, R.M. BROWNING'S CASKET, FALLING OUT OF THE HORSE-DRAWN HEARSE, AND A SHORT BIOGRAPHY OF A FELLOW, KNOWN BY THE NICKNAME "BONEY," AND HOW ONE DAY, IN A HAPPENSTANCE PARADE, "HE RODE HIS OWN COFFIN." ALL MY KIND OF HISTORY. THE STORIES THAT REMIND US, HISTORY DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THE BLACK AND WHITE, HARD CORE, FACT ON FACT TEXT, WITHOUT REPRIEVE. REDMOND THOMAS, AN ASTUTE HISTORIAN, WASN'T PREPARED TO IGNORE THE MORE FASCINATING SIDE OF OUR CHRONICLE. IN COMPANY WITH THE OTHER MORE FORMAL, UNBENDING HISTORIES, "REMINISCENCES" IS A JEWELL. IT SHOWS A BIT OF HUMOR, YET A SERIOUS RESPECT, FOR THOSE ASPECTS OF HISTORY, THAT ARE IMPORTANT FOR SOCIAL / CULTURAL REASONS, MORE THAN, FOR EXAMPLE, THE DATE A CORNERSTONE WAS CEMENTED IN PLACE AT THE LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL; WHEN A NEW MAYOR OF THE VILLAGE WAS SWORN-IN, OR THE FIRE-HALL BURNING DOWN. THE ONLY WAY I CAN SENSIBLY PRESENT THE DIFFERENCES, IN THE TWO SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT, ABOUT HISTORICAL PRESENTATION, IS TO QUOTE SOME OF THE WORK I HAVE FOUND SO REMARKABLE, AND DIMENSIONAL, TO WHAT WE KNOW OF THE TOWN BACK THEN. IT'S PRETTY NEAT STUFF. I HOPE YOU AGREE.

AN INTRODUCTION TO REDMOND'S BOOK, FROM HERALD-GAZETTE PRESS PUBLISHER, AND MUSKOKA M.P.P., ROBERT BOYER

     "The opportunity to bring to mind and to paper, many personal reminiscences, of the interesting past, can be given fullest scope, when one reaches a time of leisure. A few years ago (late 1960's) when Redmond Thomas, Q.C., retired from his responsibilities as Magistrate, for the District of Muskoka, he was asked about his plans. The wish was expressed to him, that he would give his mind to preparing articles for publication, based on his knowledge of the community, and records he had kept. A little time went by, and then Mr. Thomas showed his agreement, with the suggestions, by submitting for publication, in The Herald-Gazette, Bracebridge, the first few of several articles on earlier times, in Bracebridge and Muskoka, under the heading 'Reminiscences.' His writings are much enjoyed, and highly valued by the weekly newspaper's readers, who trust they will long continue," wrote Mr. Boyer.
     "Mr. Thomas comes from one of the families which has been long in the land, in Muskoka, a family of prominence in Bracebridge, in merchantile publishing, municipal and legal activities. He began in his legal career, as a youngster in the office of the late Crown Attorney, Thomas Johnson. He interrupted his university career later, to enlist, and resumed it, to be able to be called to the Bar of Ontario, a few years after World War I. In addition to his legal practice, he was associated with the publishing of the former Bracebridge Gazette. Keenly interested in sports, for several years, he wrote accounts of lacrosse and hockey games, before beginning to write for publication on other subjects of wide interest. At first his appointment as Magistrate, permitted him to continue some of this work, until such time as his court work increased, and he was asked to assume the duties of Magistrate, on a full time basis."
     The Publisher, Mr. Boyer, writes of his friend, "One easily, accepts, then, the special qualifications of Mr. Thomas, to take on the responsibilities of the 'Recollector,' of events and developments, belonging to the yesterdays of Bracebridge. On behalf of his many readers, and friends, it is my privilege in this brief forward, to thank him for having written his reminiscences of so many people, and events, in this interesting manner."
      He concludes by noting, "It is my belief, that a good community spirit depends to a large degree, on an understanding of how the community developed, and the kind of people that aided in promoting its earlier progress. With respect to Mr. Thomas's native town, one may gain a good part of such an understanding, from the pages which follow." It is signed "Robert Boyer M.P.P. Muskoka."
     One historian to another. I look up to both these men, as the true "Recollectors" of Bracebridge history.

THE OLD CANNON ON THE PARK (ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ON JUNE, 1967)

     "The two muzzle-loader cannon on Memorial Park (Bracebridge) - one at the apex of that triangular tract, and pointing north towards the intersection of Manitoba Street, and Kimberley Avenue, and the other at the base-line of the area, and pointing south - have been in their present location for six decades (meaning they were placed there in 1907), which is longer than they are remembered by most of the present inhabitants of this town, but not as long as the park has been there. It was in 1907 that the cannon were placed on the park, but when I first remember them, they were stilly lying on the ground behind the old town hall; how long they had been there I don't know," wrote Redmond Thomas.
     "Each of the cannon has cast into it the initials 'GR' and when initials appear on government property, the 'R' stands for one or other of the Latin words 'Rex (King), or Regina, (Queen),' and the other initial indicates the names of the sovereign. As King Edward the Seventh, was reigning, when the cannon were put on the park, the guns must have been cast not later than the reign of King George the Fourth, who died on the 26th of June, 1830. The Town of Bracebridge does not own the guns - they are Dominion Government property, as they were loaned, not given, to the town."
     I played on those cannon when I walked to and from Bracebridge Public School, back in the mid 1960's. I leaned on them, in my teenage years, when out for a stroll with my girlfriends; looking as if I was the kind of chap who could fire one of these iron monsters. Maybe win a war with one well aimed cannon ball. When I lived across the road from the park, in the former home / medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon, in the early 1980's, I'd see those shining black cannons every morning, when I'd sit out on the second floor balcony having my coffee. I used to walk through the park, with our young lads, Andrew and Robert, waiting for their mom to be finished work, at the High School, and both loved to sit up on the barrel of the big gun; a few minutes at the north end, and then reversing, for a tad, to the south end cannon. I remember picking up Robert from my parents' apartment, one afternoon, and being shocked to find a goose-egg on his forehead. As my mother explained, with sincere apology, Robert, under her watch, slipped on the cannon, midway up, and fell onto the great iron piece, hitting his head. I've had a little history myself, with these 1830's circa cannons, guarding both ends of the Manitoba Street park.
     "Firing the cannon was a favorite Hallowe'en prank, of the boys of Bracebridge High School, prior to World War I. Though the touch-hole of each gun had been plugged, the muzzle of each was open - as is still the case with the north one - and the lads from the seat of learning, used to ram a paper bag filled with rifle-powder, down the muzzle. and rig up a fuse leading from it to the ground. After lighting the fuse they would hide in some place from which they could enjoy the explosion. The north cannon was the one nearly always chosen for the event."
     Redmond writes, "The roadways were surfaced with coarse crushed stone, and during the summer, small boys amused themselves by trying to thrown some of these stones into the muzzle of each cannon, especially the north one, (aimed onto Manitoba Street because of the angle of the park at this point) - and often succeeded. Consequently, when on Hallowe'en, the bag of powder was shoved as far as possible down the muzzle into the bore, the stones were forced back almost to the breech. The explosion would hurl the stones back against the breech and they would rebound out the muzzle like a cannon ball. Furthermore, in those days, the north cannon had not tilted down a bit, as is now the case, nor was there any tree in front of it, as is at present. Consequently, stones shot from that cannon landed onto Manitoba Street, and would be something of a danger to anyone, who then happened to be using that thoroughfare."
     I know this as fact, because I had a chance to talk, at some length, with one of the fellows who routinely participated in this unauthorized cannon-fire, towards upper Manitoba Street. I won't reveal his name, but he did explain how they tried to get the biggest bang, and the most projectiles into the air, and that involved increasingly larger amounts of gunpowder. He said that on one occasion, the explosion was so great, that it seemed to rock the cannon itself, and sent a thunderous amount of debris into a nearby house.
     "One time the amateur cannoneers, used more powder than had been usual. The explosion was a thriller," notes Mr. Thomas. The ground was shaken so violently, that glass in some windows, in the vicinity were cracked. The stones were shot clear across Manitoba Street, and they had kept travelling until they crashed against a wall of a big wooden house (now long gone), on the east side of that street. The students had thoughtlessly failed to keep a good look-out for traffic, of which ordinarily there would be none. But just after the fuse was lit, a wagon hauled by a team of horses, came up Manitoba Street, and the volley of stones whizzed across the road, only a few feet in front of the noses of the steads. The driver and his team, came pretty close to having crushed stone embedded in their ribs, like an emerald in a gold ring. The horses needed no urging to depart rapidly - very rapidly indeed. How many complaints were lodged with the police? Nary a one. Folks in those days had more toleration - or resignation."
     By the way, both muzzles are now sealed off, to prevent similar events from ocurring again.

BONEY ROAD ON HIS COFFIN (ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE HERALD-GAZETTE IN MAY 4TH, 1967

     Here is another of Redmond's unique stories, that weren't hard-news enough, to make the formal histories of the region, but thank goodness he conserved this gem of folk history for future generations.

     "He was rarely called anything but Boney, and he was a town character in Bracebridge. He spent the nights in a sawdust pile at the Shier sawmill, as long as the weather permitted him to sleep outdoors - and that was most of the year, as he was almost impervious to cold. Probably in bitter winter weather, he slept in the stable of the mill. He must have been a non-smoker, or he would have not been allowed to be around the mill property. He got the nickname 'Boney' because on foot, and carrying a sack, he used to prowl the town looking for bones, empty beer bottles, and other discarded things, which he could turn into a few cents. His real name was of so little consequence, that though I once knew it, I have forgotten it, except that I have a vague recollection that his first name was George. To the townspeople he was just Boney. Though he was harmless, he was of such unkempt appearance, that we small kids were afraid of him."
     Redmond Thomas spins the tale so beautifully, you feel in touch with the day Boney got his revenge on death. "Before my time, or at least recollection, my uncle Jim Thomas, who had been a clerk in my father's store, the Thomas Company, here, had been sent to manage a store which my father had opened under the same name in North Bay, and which uncle Jim eventually bought. While in Bracebridge, my uncle Jim had, of course, known Boney.
     "It chanced that later, Boney betook himself to North Bay to dwell. Perhaps he thought the citizenry of the Nipissing capital, were more affluent or more prodigal, than those of the Muskoka capital, and thus the pickings would be better; or perhaps he went just because there were more people there anyway, as North Bay, now a city, was then a town about one-third more populous than Bracebridge. On arriving in North Bay, doubtless on a freight train, of the Grand Trunk Railway (now CNR), Boney greeted Uncle Jim as a long-lost friend, and began the practice of going to him for a little hand-out of cash, when things got tough even for Boney. The last time (about 1905) I saw Boney, was in North Bay. I was still a young lad, and was in the Thomas Company store there, when in he walked. Uncle Jim, who was very comical, said 'Redmond, I guess you remember my old college chum.'
     "While at North Bay, Boney figured into an historical episode. He lived alone in a shack on the outskirts of town. One bitter winter day, some people from that neighborhood, came down town, and reported that Boney was dead. As for some time, they had seen no smoke coming from the stovepipe, sticking through the roof of his shack. They had peered through the dusty window, and seen Boney lying stark still, and showing no signs of life. As Boney had become a town character, in North Bay, the businessmen chipped in enough money to give Boney a decent burial."
     Redmond, and I can see the smile on his face, as he wrote this piece, reported that, "So accompanied by a police officer, an undertaker went out on an open sleigh, on which was a casket inside a rough box. The officer forced the door of Boney's shack, and he and the undertaker entered the interior, which was bitterly cold. Thereupon the 'corpse,' sat up, and wanted to know what the trouble was. Boney, who, as already mentioned, was almost impervious to cold, had simply been in a sort of temporary hibernation. When Boney learned that he was 'dead' and that his coffin was outside, he thought it a great joke, and got permission to ride down town on the sleigh. Soon the folks on the Main Street, saw an enthralling sight. Down the street came the sleigh, driven by the undertaker, beside whom, on the seat, was the police officer; while on the back of the sleigh, was the rough box, upon which was perched, the dead man, who was laughing, and using the rough box as a drum, on which, with his fists, he was beating a tattoo. It is now long ago, since Boney and a coffin took a second ride together - but not with Boney on the outside."
     Tomorrow, my favorite story of the Steam Powered Merry-Go-Round coming to Bracebridge, circa 1905. See you then.

Ghost Hunters Get Lost; Find Your Own Ghosts, Cause These Are Mine!

TWO PAINTINGS, FOUND OUT ON THE ANTIQUE HUNT - FOLK ART AND THEN SOME!

     THE PAINTINGS PUBLISHED ABOVE, ARE TWO OF SIX PANELS, I PICKED UP THIS WEEKEND, WHILE TOURING IN THE HURONIA AREA OF THE PROVINCE. THE FOLK ART PAINTING OF THE HARBOR, IS ACTUALLY A VERY RECENT CREATI0N, BUT DONE IN A BEAUTIFULLY NAIVE, FOLKISH STYLE, WITH BRIGHT COLORS, AND SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF MARITIME FOLK ARTIST, MAUD LEWIS, GOD REST HER SOUL; I THINK SHE MIGHT HAVE APPROVED OF THE MARINE DEPICTION. IT IS PAINTED ON MASONITE, AND SIGNED A. COLIN.      .
     THE SECOND PAINTING, FRAMED UNDER GLASS, IS MY FAVORITE. IT'S AN ORIGINAL SIGNED WATERCOLOR, BY WELL KNOWN CANADIAN ILLUSTRATOR, ARTIST, GEORGE MENENDEZ RAE, 1906-1992, FORMERLY OF MONTREAL, WHO BECAME BEST KNOWN, DURING THE YEARS OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR, AS THE CREATOR OF THE COMIC-BOOK CHARACTER, "CANADA JACK," PRESENTED FOR THE FIRST TIME, IN THE 1943 ISSUE OF "CANADIAN HEROES;" WHICH WAS USED AS AN EDUCATIONAL COMIC FOR THE SCHOOLS, TO PRESENT WAR NEWS IN A MORE PALATABLE FORMAT.
    GEORGE RAE WAS BORN IN NEW YORK CITY, BUT SPENT MOST OF THIS LIFE, LIVING IN CANADA. HIS HEYDAY WAS DURING THE 1940'S AND 50'S, WORKING AS A FREELANCE ILLUSTRATOR, FOR COMICS, MAGAZINES, BOOKS AND FOR PERIOD TRADING CARDS. HE BECAME THE PRESIDENT OF THE ART CLUB OF MONTREAL. HE WAS SPECIALLY RECOGNIZED, WITH THE JOE SHUSTER AWARD, AS A CARICATURE ARTIST; SHUSTER, OF COURSE, BEING CONNECTED TO THE CREATION OF THE SUPERMAN COMIC. IT IS A WONDERFULLY NOSTALGIC DEPICTION, MOST LIKELY FROM A SCENE IN RURAL CANADA. IT HAS THOSE GREAT SCENE COMPONENTS TO REMIND US OF YESTERYEAR; A STEAM LOCOMOTIVE, A YOUNGSTER, DOG, AND A HORSE REARING UP AGAINST THE PLOW AND PLOWMAN, IN THE FIELD TO THE RIGHT. THERE'S A LOT OF MOTION IN THIS SCENE, AND TO ME, IT WAS ONE OF MY BEST FINDS SO FAR THIS SUMMER. REMINDS ME A LITTLE OF OUR OWN ILLUSTRATOR, ARTIST, FRANK JOHNSTON, FORMERLY OF GRAVENHURST. THERE ARE MANY SIMILARITIES. YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO SEE SOME OF FRANK'S WORK THAT I'VE PUBLISHED IN THE PAST THREE MONTHS OR SO.

GHOST HUNTERS, GHOST TOURS, AND PARANORMAL SLEUTHS -

I WRITE ABOUT GHOSTS AND PARANORMAL ENCOUNTERS - I DON'T GET PAID FOR MY EFFORTS - OR SELL MERCHANDISE OFF THE BACKS OF THE DECEASED

     Gads, I'm all about free enterprise. I buy and sell antiques, art and books, afterall, in order to pay for the electricity to run this laptop contraption; and occasionally afford a nice meal at one of our area restaurants. In reality, I don't get a pay cheque for writing these blogs, and unless I'm contracted to write a biography, or company history, I don't pull in a single dime of profit. This is my choice, to forfeit a pay cheque in return for creative freedom. I gave up writing for publications, that beat their writers into submission, shackled to their hundred pound codes of conduct. I constantly felt muzzled by publishers and editors. Seeing as it is hard to restrain me, and I've tangled with a few editors who no longer want to see my face at their window, I've maintained a longstanding relationship with the "free" lance aspect of writing. Yup, I write for free. And every time I get on this machine with a keyboard and glowing screen attached, it's like I'm either Peter Fonda, or Dennis Hopper, in the movie "Easy Rider," and I travel, unencumbered to wherever I want, when I want. I can't tell you how liberating it is, to just be able to create without an overseer, leaning over my desk, telling me I've written too much, too little, or an article without bite. I contributed a heritage column to a local publication, two years ago, as part of a weekly commitment, and I pulled it after the first week, when I found the editor had butchered it, and removed one of the key paragraphs of the piece. When I asked why my copy had been seriously altered, I was told in no uncertain terms, that as editor, "it's the way the cookie crumbles. Get over it!" So I quit the publication after one column insert, with the advisory, "You shall never butcher me again!" I find it hard to read this publication any longer. But it reminded me again, why it's so pleasant, doing this writing thing, without having to worry about outdated and ridiculous media protocols, that restrain creativity, rather than encourage it!
     The only problem, these days, is when folks feel entitled to borrow my ideas, to claim as their own, and I might add, for profit. If you've been a follower of this blog, for any more than a month or so, you'll realize that I never use any reference material whatsoever, without giving full disclosure, as to where the material came from, and all those who may be connected to its content, or source of origin, including manuscript ownership and publisher. If I didn't write it, I have to let you, the reader, know who is responsible for the content. I don't have a bibliography running after each blog, but I make reference to source material in the first section of these heritage columns; because it's a legal responsibility. I have great respect for the authors I quote, in this blog, and most recently, Johnny Moon, from his diary, the original document being in the hands of its stewards, the Town of Bracebridge. I want to re-introduce these authors back into the contemporary scene, to take their rightful place amongst modernist historians. It's just the right thing to do. As I mentioned yesterday, that I have just recently acquired a book, written by Redmond Thomas, formerly of Bracebridge, it is my intention to re-introduce his outstanding stories about the old home town, that are just as important today, if not more, than they were when it was originally published. But don't think for a minute that I'm getting rich doing this, because even though I'm on a recognized Google blog site, and I'm close to achieving 250,000 views since I began three years ago, there hasn't been any money earned as a result. But then again, I wasn't looking for that elusive pot of gold anyway. I just wanted the extra exposure, and this is exactly what I got.
     About four years ago, I asked my son Robert, the technical wizard around here, about concerns, my "ghost" and "paranormal" stories were getting poached by sundry interlopers, who were taking it past the "reading for enjoyment" aspect, and using what I wrote, in part, to bolster their editorial copy, in "for-profit" books. I was concerned about copyright, and intellectual property, and that's when he started to laugh at me! I laugh at him, and he laughs at me! It's a fun relationship. That's our father-son thing in a nutshell. "Then why don't you set up a blog, to publish all your ghost columns together, under a heading like 'Muskoka and Algonquin Ghosts'?" What he meant by this, was that I would actually be registering the exact time, day, month and year, the piece was published, so that to prove copyright, I'd be able to hit-back at some folks who've been borrowing ideas and material, from work I've been publishing, in a variety of newspapers and magazines since the 1980's. Seeing as I've written a lot of new material, in the past three years, it has certainly made sense to publish these blogs, as a sort of archives registry, so I can fight back when poaching occurs.
     I wrote about this awhile ago, but I want to repeat it once again. I was in a second hand book shop, and Suzanne handed me a book of paranormal related tales, some regional, and sure enough, I was quoted; the material being taken right from my blog-site. No permission was given. The author didn't write or call, to let me know some of my material was going to be used; and asking whether I would give permission to use the subject copy. By the way, I've never turned down a request like this, and never once asked for a penny in return. A credit is fine. But I'd still like to be respected enough, to be asked before I find it, in a for-profit publication. What really ticked me off about this inclusion, that I wasn't aware of previously, is that it was exactly why I had asked Robert about the blog in the first place; and how I could protect my work from poachers. The same author I had been trying to stop-up from using my work, had just been out shopping, and took what was desired, to support the case. If I had been asked to do an interview, nicely, and with respect to my stake in the actuality of the ghost-event, I would have been quite willing to participate. Now, not so much, or for any other project from this individual. Actually, I have a number of ghost hunters on my poo-poo list, which brings me to the point of today's blog. Methinks I'm about to be poached once more, and I'm making a pre-emptive strike back.
     Every writer or artist, song-writer, creator in any field, will have justifiable concerns about material and idea poaching. My losses are a lot less than if it was corporate poaching, for product manufacturing. It's not like I'm being infiltrated for a secret recipe for my world famous burgers of fried chicken. But as my body of work, is one of my most significant possessions, to hand off as inheritance, to my sons Andrew and Robert, I get a little sensitive about what might be left of intellectual property, long before I make that heavenly climb toward the bright light; presuming of course, this is where I'll be headed, according to God's plan for me. So I guess, in order to preserve a little for my boys, to manage appropriately, for their gain sometime in the future, I need to smarten up, and protect what should to be protected. I suppose I've been a little too trusting for my own good, but what can you do? I live in a sort of permanent spiral of yesterdays. Everything it seems is retrospective for me; including wondering if I brushed my teeth this morning? I'm pretty sure I did.
     I'm one of the earliest Muskoka writers, in the contemporary sense, to seriously address the issue of paranormal activity, in some of the old buildings in South Muskoka. It was about 1982, when I took an enormous risk, running a full page feature story, in The Herald-Gazette, about local haunts, and ghosts generally. The manager of the paper thought I was nuts, and told me our advertisers were going to be unhappy about this "ghost" story thing, and inevitably pull their ads from the very next issue. As it turned out, I was right and he was wrong. It was one of our best newstand weeks. It wasn't a sensationalist ploy, to get readers, because it was pretty low-key when it came down to presentation. Staff photographer, Harold Wright, set up a magnificent time lapse photograph, of a little girl, crossing a room, and it was just a perfect amalgamation that week. I didn't even get a single phone call of objection about the full page story. I did, as a direct result of this feature story, become connected with Canadian ghost-sleuth, and well known writer, John Robert Colombo; and I participated with a small story of my own, for inclusion, in one of his national publications, about Ontario hauntings. It was John Colombo who told me to get cracking on a book of Muskoka ghosts, in the 1990's, and he agreed to write the opening column, for a 24 issue feature series, I was writing, about regional hauntings, for The Muskoka Sun; just before the turn of the new century. So excuse me, but I've kind of marked my territory.
     Since then, I've had ghost and paranormal related feature stories published in "Curious; The Tourist Guide," over eleven issues, and twelve parallel columns, written for "The Great North Arrow." I've probably written a hundred or so blogs about paranormal events, and sundry other ghosts, in the past five years; intensively so, in the past three years. If I seem a little impatient with my contemporaries, it's with just cause. Andrew most recently, had to inform an author, on one of these sleuthing missions, that he wasn't interested in co-operating on a particular segment of local ghost research, because, "My dad handles all our ghost stories himself." Not the greatest testimonial, I've ever heard, but it shook the interloper off his shoe. Apparently, using my name as a "cuss-word" acts like bear repellent. Anything to do with me, up close and personal, turns them off their mission. I kind of like that. So today, I'm just bouncing this familiar ball around my court, on news that the paranormal investigations around here, are once again, bounding to the forefront, in the almighty quest for publicity; but it just better not be at my expense. It's my experience that these ghost hunters aren't very good at picking up the "vibes," as they say, because mine are pretty strong, like the reverberation of a depth charge dropped onto a submarine. I want to be consulted before content and ideas are borrowed for someone else's material gain. It's not about the money, but it is about the validation. I don't like surface skimmers; meaning those who poach the work of others, who aren't interested in conducting full scale, no holds barred research, to qualify their work as scholarly, or even close. As a long term historian, I will work with anyone who shows an interest, and a trace amount of respect, for what I've spent a lot of my life researching.
     As I was thinking about a topic for today's blog, Andrew let me know about a new group of paranormal activists, and well, the steam started belching out my ears, like the George Rae painting, of the locomotive, pictured above. Well, I got my column idea, as a result of this message from my son, who showed me the corresponding video. Which is all fine and dandy, until the day I watch this media exposure, and find myself an unwilling participant. This may read as if I am a "horn-blower" of epic proportion, and stingy with my resources. You know this isn't true, right? The problem, however, is quite the opposite. The reality is, I've always been modest about accomplishments, and seeing as I don't sell my material, except if I've been hired under contract, my work apparently is seen as having grown wild, and free to harvest. It's my fault, for not creating greater safeguards, in the past, but this is being built in at present, because I have no choice; if that is, I want to be able to offer my boys a shred of half decent inheritance, that they might one day, put into a sort of Currie Compendium; which you never know, might find a buyer or two locally. And even afford them a glass or two of bubbly to toast the old man.
     I have a lot of paranormal stories in reserve. I just haven't published them at this point; but they're coming down the pike. They're going to be anchored in this blog, and I'm going to be watchful of any snitching going on.
     I should clarify one important difference, between my take on the paranormal, ghosts and the spirit kind, and what is usually the whole nine yards of hunting them for sport. I don't believe spirit encounters are entirely happenstance. I believe they are signs from those who have crossed over, and have a purpose with the individual thusly exposed. Every contact I've had with the angel kind, and with apparitions, has carried a message I have come to understand. I didn't clue in as fast as I should have, but eventually I got the message. They reminded me of something else, and each one had an impact on my perception of where I was living, what I was doing with my life, who I was associating with, and what important points about life, I was missing, and needed to upgrade. As a believer in the philosophies of well known medium, John Edward, who had the television show "Crossing Over," (among many books on the subject of spirit connections) I validated all these so-called spiritual experiences, as signs from the other side; and that I should pay attention to what they might mean; if anything more than a sort of courtesy call from a loved one, to check up on how our family is doing. When I think back on most of my alleged paranormal experiences, there is only one that falls outside the bounds, of what I consider a message from the other side, to help me, not scare me half to death. This is the story published below.

SO HERE'S AN ORIGINAL, TO SHOW WE HAVE TRUST IN ONE ANOTHER -

WHOEVER OR WHATEVER WAS CHASING US, CAME TO US ON A MOONLIT AUGUST NIGHT

     Back when our family lived up on the east end of Alice Street, deeply inset on the plateau of topography, we knew as "Hunt's Hill," named presumably after the pioneer banker of the same name, our lawn was a gathering place on such summer nights, particularly those of late August; the smell of ripening backyard gardens permeating the still-warm air. The sound of voices and visuals of so many patio lanterns like a Kim Mitchell song.
     The Hunt's Hill lads, of which I was one of the founders, used beautiful nights like this, to ride our bikes with reckless abandon, and stopping only, to catch our breath after a foray through a neighbor's yard, or to play a practical joke on an unsuspecting home owner. On these warm August evenings, there would always be a small gathering of apartment residents on the lawn, in a half circle, with pints of ale, cocktails starring Tom Collins and Harvey Wallbanger, and maybe some late night barbecued wieners for the kids to enjoy. We'd set up our own chairs, or blanket on the lawn, to lay and stare up at the universe, all twinkling and alluring, qualifying, what some of our other friends were calling us at the time. "Space cadets." We were good with that!
    On this particular evening, four of us lads, had been lounging in the front yard, in one corner, our elders in the other, beside the stunted pine tree. We decided to go over to Lil & Cec's corner store, for some pop and chips before closing, and we took our time walking the half block there and back. That's what we did mostly in those days; dawdling, lounging, pondering and wandering. On our bikes we were a different species of youth. Wild and crazy guys. But on this night, we were just talking and laughing, and playing jokes on each other, enjoying the last few days of summer before school start-up, that dreaded first week of September.
     We were coming back from the store, with our purchases, tucked neatly in bags for easy carrying. There were voices of other folks in the neighborhood, sitting in their backyards beneath the glow of patio lanterns. I'm pretty sure we had entered the 1970's, when this event occurred. We had walked halfway up the street, before hitting the intersection with Alice Street, when we heard what sounded like a raging, snorting bull coming up from behind us. First of all, being mouthy and getting into trouble, made us targets all over the place in those days. I think at first, we thought it was a rush on us, being perpetrated by a few of our late-teen adversaries, as payback for hitting their crappy hot-rods with eggs, and or any of the other stuff we could be held accountable. Like in all the other cases of retaliation, we did what came natural. Ran like hell. But there was nothing coming from behind, except the clear, frightening sound of running, pounding feet on the tarmac.
     I have been having paranormal encounters for most of my life. I suppose that's what happens, when you've had an audience with an angel, in your youth, as I experienced during a lengthy illness when I lived in Burlington. (You can archive back to find more out about this angel visitation). So I was always keenly aware of weird occurrences like this, and from a young age, I had accepted there was more to life than what met the eye, day to day. I suppose then, I was more open to experiences like this, than my mates, who were pretty scared at that moment; as could be determined by the speed which we were travelling to head back to our safe haven.
     What we couldn't figure out, was how the sound was manifesting behind us. What marvel of sound projection, was allowing someone to send Washington Irving's "Headless Horseman," after us, possibly as Ichabod Crane had suffered, to then get hit with a flaming pumpkin tossed by said horseman. Whatever it was, that was chasing us, was definitely invisible. It wasn't a silhouette in the moonlight, or a vaporous apparition, moving with fervor. It was definitely the sound and intensity of pursuit. One that we cold only presume, was of injurious intent. Like I said, we had a lot of enemies in that town.
     We were neck and neck making that run for what we believed, was the family "hallow" ground of the Weber Apartments. When we rounded the corner onto Alice Street, and still being a fair trot from the front yard, the sound of the foot fall (by this point, definitely not the sound of hooves), we were pretty sure, that any second, we would be pulled from behind and knocked out of the group by our invisible pursuer. We could hear heavy breathing from behind; almost like the snorting of a horse in a big race. A few of us confessed that we could feel hot breath on the back of our necks, but this almost certainly was the act of a stimulated imagination, bringing up all kinds of horrible scenarios.
     The hot pursuit lasted around the corner, and it went through our minds, that the pursuer was actually about to pass us, by the sound of the footfall, and the judged distance, and speed, directly behind our fleeing foursome. When we looked ahead, to the lamplight shining on the front lawn, we noticed it was a lot darker than when we left, and that the outdoor lamps had been turned off, obviously because residents had retired indoors by this point. Gosh, we had no one on the lawn to help us out. No defenders. We were all alone to face whatever was chasing us on this night.
     I had pretty much resigned myself, at this point, to the fact at least one of us was going to be caught, and given a good thrashing, for reasons unkwown. But this realization, by itself, didn't slow us down. We'd been beaten up before, and we'd survive this one as well. It could be said with considerable honesty, even by our parents, that we deserved in return, what we dished-out by our actions, and pranks around the neighborhood. If this was a prank, it was one of the best retaliations I've ever experienced.
     For some reason, we jointly thought, that once we hit the grass of the front lawn, in front of the apartment, we would have been protected by our peers. Saved by parents and guardians, sitting in that half-circle on the lawn. They weren't there. We were left to fend for ourselves, from whatever our pursuer intended. We just kept running flat out, refusing, by this point, to even look back in case we saw the devil himself, in track shoes, hunting for our souls.
     We hit the grass at full speed, and the sound of thunderous footfall didn't let up, except the sound changed, as if adjusting to the impact of running feet hitting a soft cushion. It was definitely still behind us, even onto the grass. On the approach, I was trying to figure out, how we could get the front door of the apartment open fast enough, to avoid breaking the glass, thusly killing the first kid through, and dodging our adversary coming up fast behind.
     Well, I have no idea how we managed, to get that door open, without crashing through it, and all four of us, made it safely inside the apartment foyer, in only seconds. Each of turned to see what was going to crash into the now-closed door. We all stood there gasping for air, as the door rattled with a significant thud, as if something had hit the outside, closing it tightly against the framing of the doorway. There was no image attached to the sound. No apparition. No strange curling mist, no devil's face, hobgoblin, vampire or martian invader. What the hell had been chasing us for that block from the corner store? If only we could have put a face to our pursuer, we would have felt better. Unless it was the face of a werewolf. Now that wouldn't have been pretty.
     We stayed in the foyer for quite awhile, speculating on whether the unidentified creature of the night, was still lurking out in the darkness, waiting for my mates to head to their homes. And as I said to them, on the way to our apartment, "Guys, good luck." They took their sweet time, and it may have even been the case, I armed them with baseball bats from our locker, and some hockey gear, in case they took any body blows from the headless horseman, or whoever. The event ended as quickly and strangely as it had begun. None of us had a clue, what had almost overtaken us, but it really wasn't the case of four over-active imaginations. We had all heard the heavy footfall behind us, and we had every reason, initially, to beat a hasty retreat. Was it a practical joke via some loudspeaker, from somewhere close, giving us the impression we were being chased to our doom? No one ever took credit, if that indeed was the case.
     Possibly then, it was a spirit of some neighborhood bully, from years before our time, who on moonlit nights like this, used to play similar pranks on punks like us. All I do know, is that we were chased by something large, and with considerable determination to teach us a lesson, about our own local misconducts. It never happened again, in that ballywick, but it was something we never forgot; but we kept it to ourselves for a lot of years, fearing it might be used against us, as being cowards of the night!

Ghost of the Archives

SPEAKING OF WEIRD FINDS - LOOKING THROUGH EPHEMERA FILES, I FOUND MY 1982 "STORY ABOUT GHOSTS"

I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THIS PAGE FOR YEARS - SO I ASKED DAVE BROWN TO HELP ME OUT

     IT'S TRUE. I WRITE ABOUT GHOSTS A LOT. SOME PEOPLE PLAY WITH ELECTRIC TRAINS. I KNOW FRIENDS OF MINE, WHO STILL (BUT WON'T ADMIT IT) COLLECT HOCKEY AND BASEBALL CARDS. I DON'T MAKE FUN OF THEM, AND I CERTAINLY HAVEN'T TOLD THEM ABOUT MY OWN CLOSET, THAT IS FULL OF HOCKEY CARDS. MY WEAKNESS, IS THAT I ENJOY MY RESEARCH WORK, LOOKING AT THE HISTORY AND LEGACY OF GHOSTS. I HAVE HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE, OF MARRYING A GAL, WHO NOT ONLY BELIEVES IN GHOSTS, BUT HAS HAD NUMEROUS ENCOUNTERS SINCE CHILDHOOD. JUST AS I HAVE. SO I NEVER HAVE TO FEAR BEING RIDICULED BY FAMILY, AT LEAST. FOR ME, AT LEAST IN PRINT, MY RELATIONSHIP WITH THE PARANORMAL, OFFICIALLY BEGAN, IN PRINT, BACK IN THE EARLY SPRING OF 1982. I'VE HAD REASON TO RE-VISIT THAT OCCASION TODAY, FOR PURPOSES OF THIS BLOG. HOPE YOU WILL FIND SOME OF IT INTERESTING. IF YOU FIND ALL OF IT INTERESTING, THEN YOU'LL LIKE SOME OF THE WORK TO FOLLOW.

     SO I ASKED MY DECEASED BOOK BUDDY, DAVE BROWN, IF HE COUJLD SPARE ME SOME EARTHLY TIME. I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS "TALKING TO DEAD PEOPLE" THING, SINCE HE PASSED AWAY BEFORE THE TURN OF THE PRESENT CENTURY. HE DOESN'T REACT QUICKLY, BECAUSE THERE ISN'T ANY URGENCY ON THE OTHER SIDE, TO GET TO WORK. IF THERE'S A BOOK I CAN'T FIND, OR A DOCUMENT THAT'S MISSING FROM A FILE DRAWER, I CASUALLY ASK MR. BROWN, IF HE MIGHT BE ABLE TO SHOW ME WHERE I DEPOSITED IT OTHERWISE. NO KIDDING. THE LONGEST DAVE HAS EVER TAKEN TO FIND WHAT I NEED, WAS ABOUT TWO WEEKS. I THINK THAT WAS BECAUSE I'D BEEN MISSING HIS SUBTLE SIGNS. AS I NOTED BEFORE, WHETHER OR NOT THE SPIRIT-KIND ARE HELPING ME OR NOT, I'M RESULTS ORIENTED. IF I HAPPEN TO FIND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR, FRANKLY, I DON'T CARE HOW MY BOOK OR DOCUMENT CATCHES MY ATTENTION, AS LONG AS IT DOES EVENTUALLY ARRIVE ON THE SCENE. SOMETIMES THIS WILL EVEN INVOLVE THE COLLAPSE OF A PILE OF BOOKS, OR LANDSLIDE OF DOCUMENTS OFF MY DESK. OOPS, THERE IT IS! IF DAVE WASN'T RESPONSIBLE, I CAN ACCEPT THAT. IF HE WAS THE BOOK FINDER IN FACT, WELL THEN, "GOD BLESS THE OLD BIBLIOPHILE," WHO USED TO SPEND TIME AT OUR HOUSE. SO TO GET TO THE POINT, I ASKED IF DAVE COULD HELP ME FIND A NEWSPAPER FEATURE I WROTE, IRONICALLY, ON GHOSTS, WAY BACK IN APRIL 1982. I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT THIS FEATURE SEVERAL TIMES ALREADY THIS WINTER SEASON, WHILE DISCUSSING SOME OLD HAUNTS. I JUST HAVEN'T HAD THE ORIGINAL NEWSPAPER. SO I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE PRUDENT, TO FIND THE ISSUE, AND BORROW SOME OF THE RESEARCH MATERIAL THAT WENT INTO THE MULTI-PAGE FEATURE ARTICLE. SO HERE IS HOW THESE THINGS MANIFEST, AND HAVE BEEN MANIFESTING FOR YEARS AND YEARS. LIKE I WROTE EARLIER, I SWEAR BY RESULTS, AND I KEEP GETTING THEM. DAVE, THE CLERK GHOST? I DON'T THINK SO. I JUST THINK HE'S NOT FINISHED WITH OUR WORLD JUST YET.

     ALL YESTERDAY, I BEGAN THINKING ABOUT DOING A BLOG, ABOUT A COLLECTION OF EARLY 1900'S MINUTES BOOKS, FROM AN ODDFELLOW'S LODGE, IN TORONTO. I MAY HAVE EVEN WRITTEN A SMALL PIECE ABOUT THEM THIS WEEK, REFERRING TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THESE RECORDS, BECAUSE OF OBSERVATIONS THAT ARE OFTEN INCLUDED WITHIN. IN THESE FOUR BOOKS, PURCHASED FROM A LOCAL AUCTION, THERE ARE HISTORIC REFERENCES TO ECONOMICS IN TORONTO 1915 TO 1930), INFLUENZA OUTBREAKS IN THE CITY, THE DEATH OF MEMBERS, AND TIDBITS OF SOCIAL HISTORY, REGARDING ODDFELLOW SOCIALS. THERE'S ALSO QUITE A LOT TO BE GARNERED ABOUT THE HISTORY OF THE BUILDINGS THEY OCCUPIED DURIN THIS TIME. I KNEW THEY WERE STORED ON A SHELF BY MY LIVINGROOM CHAIR, AND I WAS GETTING THE URGE TO SEEK THEM OUT...BUT I HAVE MANY ITEMS AHEAD OF THE BOOKS, TO USE FOR STORY DEVELOPMENT. I WENT TO BED LAST NIGHT, THINKING ABOUT THOSE BOOKS, AND FIRST THING THIS MORNING, WHILE BRUSHING MY TEETH, I WAS ONCE AGAIN GETTING THE MESSAGE. "LOOK AT THE MINUTE BOOKS." SO AFTER FEEDING OUR LIVESTOCK, "THE CATS," I DECIDED TO HAVE A LOOK AT THE BECKONING BOOKS. SHORT VERSION. THERE WAS MY FULL PAGE FEATURE ON GHOSTS, FOLDED INSIDE THE FIRST BOOK ON THE PILE. I DON'T GET A SPOOKY FEELING WHEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENS. I JUST THANK DAVE, AND FEEL PRETTY GOOD THAT I'VE BEEN REPATRIATED WITH WHATEVER I WAS LOOKING FOR. SO THE ELUSIVE GHOST STORY WAS IN MY HANDS. NOW THE JOB WAS FOR SON ROBERT, TO TAKE SOME PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE PAGE FOR POSTERITY, IN CASE I LOSE IT ONCE AGAIN. WHICH BY THE WAY, IS GENERALLY THE CASE WITH A FILING SYSTEM LIKE MINE. SUZANNE SAID TO ME, SMILING EAR TO EAR, "YOU WOULD BE LOST WITHOUT DAVE, WOULDN'T YOU?"

    THE PAGE INCLUDES A REMARKABLY WELL EXECUTED PHOTOGRAPH, BY MY ARTIST-COLLEAGUE, AT THE TIME, HAROLD WRIGHT, AND WAS A STAGED PHOTO SHOOT, ON A LONG EXPOSURE, OF A YOUNG GIRL WALKING ACROSS A DINING ROOM, BEHIND A LARGE TABLE. HAROLD'S PICTURE GOT A LOT MORE ATTENTION THAN MY ARTICLE, AND I HAVE TO ADMIT, IT WAS A COMPELLING IMAGE; AND IN FACT, EVEN THOSE WHO RESEARCH AND DOCUMENT GHOSTS, SUGGESTED THAT IT COULD BE USED TO ILLUSTRATE MANY FIRST-HAND ENCOUNTERS, OF THOSE WHO HAVE COME FACE TO FACE WITH RESIDENT SPIRITS. FOR EVERY COMMENT I GOT ABOUT THE ARTICLE, WE GOT TEN ABOUT THE QUALITY AND DYNAMIC OF THE PHOTOGRAPH. MOST BELIEVED IT WAS THE REAL THING....AND I REALIZE IT WASN'T IDENTIFIED IN THE CUTLINE AS A STAGED PHOTO. OH WELL. BUT BOY WAS IT A GREAT COMPANION PIECE TO MY RESEARCH. THE SECOND PHOTO, WAS OF MY ATTIC WINDOW AT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF THE FORMER DOCTOR'S HOUSE, WHERE I USED TO WRITE NIGHTLY, FROM THE WINTER OF 1977 UNTIL 1979. IT LOOKED OVER THE PRESENT MEMORIAL PARK BANDSHELL, ON BRACEBRIDGE'S MANITOBA STREET, AND IT WAS WHEN I FIRST GOT TO KNOW THE RESIDENT GHOSTS THAT USED TO WANDER ITS AGED HALLS. THE BUILDING WAS TORN DOWN TO MAKE WAY FOR A NEW OFFICE FACILITY.

     THERE'S A SHORT PIECE, THAT I INCLUDED AS PART OF THE FEATURE, THAT A FRIEND WHO WORKED IN A SHOP, DOWNSTAIRS IN THE MCGIBBON HOUSE, RELATED TO ME, WHEN SHE HEARD I WAS DOING THE GHOST ARTICLE. I CHANGED HER NAME TO "ELIZABETH," BECAUSE, AT THAT TIME, IF YOU CLAIMED TO HAVE SEEN A GHOST, YOU WERE A NUT-BALL PLAIN AND SIMPLE. NOT BEING CONCERNED MYSELF, I WENT AHEAD WITH THIS FEATURE, EVEN THOUGH THE PAPER'S MANAGER WORRIED, I WAS GOING TO COST THE HERALD-GAZETTE SOME ADVERTISERS. SO MY DEAL WITH HIM, BASICALLY FOR MY JOB, WAS THAT IF WE LOST OUR ADS, OR READERS, I WOULD WANDER OFF INTO THE SUNSET. IF THE NEWSTAND SALES WERE UP THAT WEEK, THEN I WANTED A RAISE. NEWSTAND SALES WERE EXCELLENT, AND AS IT USUALLY TURNED OUT, I DIDN'T GET THE RAISE. BUT WITHOUT QUESTION, AT THAT TIME, RUNNING A FULL PAGE SPREAD LIKE THIS, WAS RISKY BUSINESS. BUT THEY TOOK A CHANCE THEN, AND ON MANY OTHER PIECES I WROTE DURING THE NEXT EIGHT YEARS OF OUR SOMEWHAT TURBULENT RELATIONSHIP. I'M A BIG "FREEDOM OF THE PRESS" ADVOCATE, AND OUR STAFF WRITERS, WHO WERE EXCELLENT AT WHAT THEY DID, LOVED TO PUSH THE PROVERBIAL ENVELOPE. THERE WAS NO STATUS QUO STUFF WHEN WE RAN THE HERALD-GAZETTE, EXCEPT THE "OUR YESTERDAYS," COLUMN, WRITTEN BY LONG-TIME EDITOR, ROBERT BOYER. WHEN BOB WOULD LOOK OVER MY COPY, WAXED AND ROLLED ONTO THE "FLATS" (WHICH WERE SENT TO THE PRINTER), HE'D CHEW THE END OF HIS CIGAR LIKE IT WAS A WAD OF GUM, AND SNORT A LITTLE, BUT NEVER ONCE DID THE MAN DISCOURAGE ME FROM TRYING NEW THINGS....WITH THE PAPER HIS FAMILY HAD FOUNDED. I LIKED THAT ABOUT BOB. DESPITE BEING OLD SCHOOL ABOUT THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS, IN HIS HOME COMMUNITY, HE DIDN'T TRY TO STOP THE CLOCK, OR WISH IN ANY WAY, TO OPERATE IN A STATUS QUO SITUATION. HE JUST DIDN'T WANT ME SCREWING WITH HIS WEEKLY COLUMN. WHEN I WENT TO WORK WITH BOB, AS AN ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THE MUSKOKA SUN, IT WAS THE BEST TIME OF MY YOUNG WRITING CAREER, BECAUSE BOB JUST WANTED ME TO WRITE, AND WRITE AND WRITE. IF I HAD PUT BYLINES ON EVERY STORY I WROTE, FOR THOSE MONSTER ISSUES, I WOULD HAVE HAD TWENTY TO THIRTY LARGE ARTICLES EVERY WEEK. I WANTED EXPOSURE, AND BOB GAVE ME A LOT OF WHITE SPACE BETWEEN THE ADS, TO FILL AT MY DISCRETION.

     GETTING BACK TO THE STORY TOLD TO ME BY ELIZABETH. IT DIDN'T HAPPEN IN MUSKOKA, BUT IT WAS THE FIRST TIME THE STORY HAD BEEN PUBLISHED. BY THE WAY, BECAUSE OF THIS FEATURE ARTICLE, I WAS APPROACHED BY JOHN ROBERT COLOMBO, ONE OF CANADA'S BEST KNOWN GHOST SLEUTHS, AND HE OFFERED ME A CHANCE TO BE A SMALL PART OF HIS NEXT BOOK OF GHOST STORIES. HE EVEN SUGGESTED I SHOULD WRITE A BOOK OF MUSKOKA GHOST STORIES, AT SOME POINT, AND I HAVE, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, DONE JUST THAT, BUT KEPT IT ON-LINE VIA THESE BLOGS....RATHER THAN KILLING TREES TO PUT OUT A BOOK INSTEAD. JOHN EVEN WROTE THE OPENING COLUMN, FOR A SERIES OF GHOST STORIES I WROTE, IN THE LATE 1990'S, FOR THE MUSKOKA SUN, WHICH CARRIED OVER 22 WEEKS THAT YEAR. MY ONGOING WORK AS A HOBBY GHOST SLEUTH, WAS DEFINITELY ADVANCED BY THE GOOD MR. COLOMBO, AND THE SUCCESS OF THE FEATURE ARTICLE, ILLUSTRATED ABOVE. IT WAS MY FIRST SERIOUS FORAY INTO THE SPIRIT WORLD, YOU MIGHT SAY, AND IT CARRIES ON THE SAME TODAY. SO HERE ARE A FEW SNIPITS OF EDITORIAL MATERIAL, FROM THAT SPRING ISSUE, OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HERALD-GAZETTE.

THE RECOLLECTION OF "THE ROOM"

     April 7th, 1982 - "In a recent interview with The Herald-Gazette, a young Bracebridge woman, talked openly about a ghostly encounter she had experienced, as a young girl, living in the Lanark County area of rural Ontario. Elizabeth, not her real name, has worked in Bracebridge for several years, and resides near the Village of Port Carling. She maintains the following story is true as she experienced IT, while living in an older home in Lanark County with her parents.

    "Growing up in our household, it was quite normal to accept the presence of a ghost or spirit. It was not unusual to hear our mother tell the air, after our inner kitchen door would slam against the wall, 'If you are friendly, come away in....if not, out you get!' Elizabeth tells of her early experiences.

   "My brother and sister always tried to out-scare the other, and always succeeded in scaring themselves instead. The house was the first stonehouse to be built in Lanark County. Its sturdy walls kept back the cold winds that winter would throw at her. On the back was an old fashioned summer kitchen, made entirely of wood and glass, very much neglected over the years. The last tenant appeared to have used it for storage, even though it was cooler in the summer for cooking, or so we thought. It was always intriguing to discover something new in it. The first couple of weeks after we had moved in, we explored the room above the back kitchen. The stairs were unusually well designed; a half spiral staircase that made definite creaks when we walked on them. Creaks we heard many times, working their way down, and into the back kitchen, while we were nowhere near.

     "It was always a very definite creaking; very deliberate. There was no wind to blame for the noises. I had, on numerous occasions, felt a strong presence in the room I nicknamed the 'studio.' There were personal belongings and photographs packed tightly away behind the aperture in the wall. Both my brother and sister thought it very amusing that I didn't like it in there. Somehow, I had always felt as if I was intruding. It was as if I knew that the room was occupied. To me, to have looked through the dusty old boxes, was an invasion of privacy that I wanted no part of. I guess I felt deep down, that if I respected the privacy of the past, it would respect mine."

BELIEVING IN GHOSTS, A MATTER OF HISTORY

     "Ever since the dawn of mankind, people have believed in ghosts. The fear of the unknown, the certainty that there was something, somewhere out there, bigger than life, beyond its pale, and more powerful than anything walking the earth, has persisted throughout the ages," wrote Catherine Buxton, author of "Haunted Houses," published in 1971. "What exactly is a ghost? In terms of psychic research, a ghost appears to be a surviving emotional memory of someone who had died traumatically, and usually, tragically, but is unaware of his / her death. Ghosts then, in the overwhelming majority, do not realize that they are dead. Those who do know they are dead are confused as to where they are, or why they feel not quite as they used to feel. When death occurs unexpectedly or unacceptedly, or when a person has lived in a place for a very long time, acquiring certain routine habits and becoming very attached to a premises, sudden, unexpected death comes as a shock. Unwilling to part with the physical world, such human personalities then continue to stay on, in the very spot where their tragedy, or their emotional attachment, had existed prior to physical death," notes Huxton.

    Thousands upon thousands of books have been written on the supernatural. Ghosts have inspired writers from literally, the "dawn of mankind," as Huxton continues. "Ghosts do not appear on command, and even spending the night in a haunted house might produce nothing more than a stiff neck or the sniffles. Then again, one might walk into a haunted house unaware of that fact, and might have an experience quite unexpectedly. Such is the thrill, and the uncertainty of following a ghost - one can never be sure what might transpire."

    Author Victoria Branden, in her book, "Understanding Ghosts," published in 1980, noted that "For the last hundred years or so, people have refused to take the subject of ghosts very seriously. The supernatural has been relegated to the occultists and crackpots, although a small group of parapsychologists, has striven doggedly to approach it scientifically and unsuperstitiously." Researcher Eileen Sonin writes, "There are several different ways that a ghost makes its presence known, and I think I have experienced most of them." Sonin, author of the 1969 book, "Ghosts I Have Known," suggests that "I have seen a ghost, heard a ghost, and touched a ghost, even smelt a ghost. It is a quite well-known phenomenon that sometimes when a spirit is near, the place is filled with an over-powering perfume. Sometimes almost sickly sweet, at other times it is a beautiful scent of flowers."

     Sonin includes a story about a house she lived in near Kensington Street in London, England, with her husband. The small cottage-like building was to be only a temporary residence, until final arrangements were made for a new house, they were intending to purchase. One room of the house, which she maintains seemed pleasant in appearance, made her feel unhappy and distressed upon entering. "I subconsciously tended to avoid it (room). It was so sad. Even if you were in a really jolly mood when you entered, five minutes later, you would feel deeply distressed and unhappy. No matter how hard you tried to shake it off, misery settled like a cloud around you. The only other feature of the cottage, that somewhere close by, was a child who cried continuously. It really upset me. I tried to find out where the crying was coming from, but could never pinpoint it in any of the neighboring houses."

     The intensity of Sonin's unhappiness increased. She and her husband decided to vacate the house and seek accommodations elsewhere. Upon telling the real estate agent, who had been looking after the cottage, the Sonins learned more about the house. The former owners of the house had had a little girl aged three. The parents used to leave the tiny girl alone for long hours and she would cry alone in the house for hours on end. "She was a sweet little thing he told me. One day she managed to climb to the window ledge of the upstairs sitting room. Her father, driving into the garage, saw her and called to her to climb down. Laughingly, she waved to him, over balanced and fell out of the window, onto the paved courtyard below. Her skull was fractured and she died instantly. The crying child, I murmurred to myself, and he nodded." The agent told them that other tenants of the house had heard the crying as well, and had felt the discomfort the cottage bred.

     According to Susy Smith, author of "Ghosts Around The House," there are four different types of ghosts. One type of ghost, she explains, is a "deceased human serving notice; the second is an hallucination - plain and simple; the third is an out of body experience, bilocation, being in two places at once; and the fourth is the veridical after image, poltergeist or telekonesis."     "Poltergeists are certainly the most unpleasant of all psychic phenomena. They suggest to the serious student of the occult that even on the other side, there are some kinds of malevolent entities, who seem to delight in persecuting, and at times injuring innocent unfortunates. There seems to be no reason for the childish rapping and the stupid throwing of all kinds of objects," suggests Victoria Branden, author of "Understanding Ghosts." "There is no doubt about it, ghosts are arbitrary, difficult, confusing, and befuddling. They are also very interesting," writes ghost researcher, Susy Smith.

     In the words of Shakespeare, through the mouth of his character Hamlet, saying of his dead father; "And we fools of nature, so horridly to shake our disposition, with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? To which I answer: Why is this? Because it actually happened to me. Wherefore? We do not know. What should we do? Keep an open mind."

     Thanks for joining with me today, for a little fireside chat about....ghosts. See you again soon