MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD CHRONICLES AND GHOSTS MET ALONG THE WAY
THE MOMENT I CONCLUDED THIS BLOG, LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MEANING THE FINAL PERIOD OF ALL THE PERIODS, WHILE WORKING ON THE VERANDAH HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, A RAIN STORM BLEW IN SO FAST, I WAS QUICKLY PINNED AGAINST THE WALL, TO KEEP THE LAPTOP FROM GETTING WATER DAMAGED. ON VERY FEW OCCASIONS, DOES THE RAIN BLOW SOUTH INTO THE VERANDAH. TODAY IT WAS A FLOOD FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES. I DON'T KNOW, BUT THE TIMING WAS WEIRD. MAYBE THAT OLD SPIRITED FARM FAMILY, I WAS JUST WRITING ABOUT, TOOK OFFENCE AT THE WAY THEIR HOMESTEAD WAS BEING REPRESENTED. I CERTAINLY DIDN'T INTEND TO OFFEND THEM. ACTUALLY, THE EXACT OPPOSITE IS THE CASE. IT WAS A MOMENT OF ILLUMINATION, FOR WHAT HAS BECOME A LONG, LONG CAREER AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN. I WANTED TO KNOW ALL I COULD ABOUT THE HOMESTEAD LIFE AND HARDSHIPS, AND WELL, I WAS GIVEN A LITTLE EXTRA TUTORIAL, FOR MY INVESTMENT OF TIME ON THE ABANDONED FARM PROPERTY.
I COULDN'T SEE THE CHILD'S FACE. YET IN MY MIND, I KNEW SHE HAD BLUE EYES, AND WAS NAMED CHRISTINE. SOMEONE AT THAT MOMENT WAS CALLING OUT THIS NAME, AND I REMEMBER SEEING HER LOOK BACK, WHILE STILL RUNNING ALONG. HER FACE WAS OBSCURED, BY HER HAIR, BLOWING SIDE TO SIDE IN THE WIND, AND THE SHIFTING, VIOLENT MOVEMENT OF HER BODY, AS SHE RAN DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE PASTURE TOWARD ME. I TRIED TO FOCUS, BUT IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE. I COULDN'T IDENTIFY THE FACE OF THE LARGER YOUTH RUNNING DIRECTLY BEHIND. EVEN THE DOG'S FACE WAS OBSCURED BY THE WAY THE TALL, YELLOW FIELD GRASSES, WEAVED BACK AND FORTH AS THEY RAN ACROSS THE PASTURE. I COULD SEE THEIR WHITE DRESSES AS IF THEY WERE GROUNDED KITES, ROLLING AND TUMBLING THROUGH THE YELLOW FIELD, BENEATH A DEEP BLUE SEPTEMBER SKY. I COULD HEAR THEM LAUGHING AND THE DOCK BARKING, AND SOMEONE FROM THE HOUSE YELLING AFTER THEM, BUT THE CLOSER THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN, TO ME ON THAT DAY, THE FURTHER AWAY THEY'D GET, UNTIL I AWOKE, WITH HEART POUNDING, WONDERING IF I HAD JUST SEEN GHOSTS.
THERE WAS A WELL KNOWN AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER, WHO ASTUTELY CAPTURED THE FINAL YEARS OF STEAM LOCOMOTION, ON THE RAIL LINES OF HIS STATE. HIS NEGATIVES ARE WORTH MANY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS. HE WAS ABLE TO PROFILE A GREAT CHANGE IN TRANSPORTATION, OVER A NUMBER YEARS, AS DIESEL POWERED TRAIN ENGINES, GRADUALLY ANTIQUATED THE STEAM POWER OF THE OLD IRON HORSE. FOR ME, ALTHOUGH I ALSO LOVED THOSE BELCHING, PUFFING OLD STEAM ENGINES, THEY WERE LONG GONE BEFORE I WAS OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW WHAT HAD COME BEFORE DIESEL WORKHORSES. I DID HOWEVER, BY MY LATE TEENS, POSSESS A GENUINE INTEREST IN KNOWING AS MUCH ABOUT MUSKOKA'S PIONEER PERIOD AS I COULD, SOME LEARNED FROM TRADITIONAL ARCHIVES RESEARCH, THE REST FROM ON SITE VISITATIONS WHEREVER I HAPPENED UPON AN ABANDONED FARMSTEAD; DATING BACK TO THE 1860'S AND 70'S FREE LAND GRANTS. I VISITED EVERY ABANDONED FARM HOUSE AND LOG CABIN I COULD FIND ON MY TOURS AROUND RHE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, STARTING IN THE MID 1970'S. I CONSIDER MYSELF FORTUNATE IN THIS REGARD, BECAUSE NOT LONG AFTER I BEGAN WRITING ABOUT THESE PIONEER FARMS, THE OUTREACH OF DEVELOPMENT, WAS BULLDOZING WHAT WAS LEFT OF OUR TRUE HOMESTEAD HERITAGE. BETWEEN THE MID-1970'S, AND THE LATE 1980'S, I HAD SATISFIED MYSELF, A DECENT SAMPLING HAD BEEN TAKEN, IN ORDER FOR ME TO WRITE ABOUT THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD, WITH SOME BENEFIT OF ACTUALITY; HAVING STOOD ON THOSE EARLY HAND HEWN TIMBERS, AND ROCK FOUNDATIONS, SET DEEP IN THE PASTURES AND WOODLAND FRINGES, OF WHAT WE THEN CONSIDERED, VERY RURAL MUSKOKA, EVEN BY LOCAL STANDARDS. MANY SUBDIVISIONS AND NEW HOUSES HAVE BEEN BUILT ON THESE OLD, MODEST CABINS AND FARM HOUSES, BARNS AND OUTBUILDINGS, THAT ONLY SHOW UP NOW, ON OLD SURVEYS AND MAYBE A PICTURE OR TWO, IN OBSCURE PHOTO ALBUMS THAT OCCASIONALLY COME TO LIGHT.
WHEN I WROTE THE ROUGH DRAFT FROM MY ORIGINAL SERIES, "THE HOMESTEAD CHRONICLES," IN THE EARLY 1980'S, FOR THE MUSKOKA ADVANCE, I USED, AS A TEMPLATE, A LONG ABANDONED HOMESTEAD PROPERTY, ON GOLDEN BEACH ROAD, NEAR BANGOR LODGE. IT WAS SEVERAL HUNDRED YARDS OFF THE ROAD, AND WELL HIDDEN BY THE GROWTH OF PINES ALONG WHAT HAD BEEN THE OLD LANE TO THE FIRST LOG DWELLING. IT WAS ALSO USED AS A WORKING MODEL FOR A NUMBER OF STORIES I WROTE IN MY FIRST BOOK, "MEMORIES AND IMAGES," WITH WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA PHOTOGRAPHER, TIM DUVERNET. THOSE STORIES ABOUT MUSKOKA HISTORY, AND THIS PARTICULAR HOMESTEAD, MADE IT ALL THE WAY TO A BOOK LAUNCH, AT UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO'S HART HOUSE, WHERE TIM'S MOTHER, SYLVIA HOSTED A PARTY FOR INVITED GUESTS IN THE SPRING OF 1983 I BELIEVE. SUZANNE CAME WITH ME ON THAT OCCASION, AND IT WAS PRETTY IMPRESSIVE, FOR A COUPLE OF ROOKIES LIKE TIM AND I, TAKING A STAB AT THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY. I REALLY CHERISHED THE FACT THAT MUSKOKA HISTORY WAS BEING HIGHLIGHTED IN TORONTO, WHERE I FELT OTHER HISTORIANS WOULD TAKE NOTICE. OTHER THAN HAVING A GREAT EVENING, THANKS TO THE DUVERNETS, THE OTHER HIGHLIGHT WAS THE FACT MY AUTHOR FRIEND, WAYLAND DREW, GAVE US BOTH A POSITIVE REVIEW, OF THE BOOK, AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, THAT IT GAVE US A WHACK OF CONFIDENCE, WE HAD DONE SOMETHING POSITIVE WITH OUR TIME AND MONEY. IT WASN'T A LANDMARK BOOK FOR MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD PRESERVATION, OR THE PUBLICATION, THAT GAVE TIM AND I OUR STARS ON THE CANADIAN WALK OF FAME. WHAT IT DID ACCOMPLISH, AS WAYLAND POINTED OUT, WAS THAT IT BROKE THE ICE, IN A FIELD WE WANTED TO EXPLORE FURTHER. THIS WAS A PROFOUND, ALMOST PROVIDENTIAL REVIEW, AND ALTHOUGH TIM AND i DIDN'T PRODUCE ANOTHER BOOK TOGETHER, HE AND I, FROM THE OLD DAYS OF THE MUSKOKA SUN, AND THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ARE STILL REPRESENTING, AND PROFILING THE GOOD GRACES OF THIS MAGNIFICENT DISTRICT OF ONTARIO, IN 2014. TIM'S AN EXCEPTIONAL FREELANCE PHOTOGRAPHER, BEST KNOWN FOR HIS IMAGES OF VINTAGE WOODEN BOATS, BUT IN OUR BOOK, HE PROVED HIMSELF A HIGHLY SKILLED LANDSCAPE PHOTOGRAPHER AS WELL. BUT IT WAS THIS FORGOTTEN HOMESTEAD, JUST WEST OF THE UBRAN AREA ON BRACEBRIDGE, THAT STARTED IT ALL OFF, CERTAINLY FOR ME, AS A WRITER, HISTORIAN; MOST INTERESTED IN THIS PARTICULARLY DIFFICULT TIME, OPENING UP THE DISTRICT FOR SETTLEMENT. THERE WAS A LOT OF MISERY ASSOCIATED WITH THESE HOMESTEADS, AS ILL-PREPARED SETTLERS ARRIVED HERE, AS URBAN REFUGEES FROM EUROPE, BEING TOTALLY UNFAMILIAR WITH AGRICULTURAL, AS A MEANS OF SURVIVAL AND ECONOMY. MANY HOMESTEADERS LEFT MUSKOKA AS DESTITUTE AS THEY HAD ARRIVED, UNABLE TO FULFILL THEIR HOMESTEAD OBLIGATIONS; GIVING UP THEIR LAND VOLUNTARILY, OR SELLING IT OFF TO THE EARLY LAND SPECULATORS, WHO FED OFF THESE FAILURES. THERE ARE MANY SETTLER GRAVES DOTTED ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE, ONE DAY TO BE FOUND WHEN A HOMEONWER DECIDES TO INSTALL A SWIMMING POOL OR OUT-BUILDING, AS MANY DECEASED PIONEERS WERE BURIED ON THEIR OWN HOMESTEAD CLAIMS.
I WOULD GET TO THE PROPERTIES IN THE LATE MORNING, AND WORK UNTIL THREE OR FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, DEPENDING ON WHAT I WAS FINDING OF INTEREST; WITH OR WITHOUT A DIGGING DEVICE WHICH WAS USUALLY A SALL GARDEN IMPLEMENT, VERSUS A SHOVEL. IF I WAS JUST POKING AROUND THE RUINS AND SEARCHING THROUGH THE STILL-STANDING CABINS AND FARMHOUSES, BARNS AND SHEDS, I MIGHT STAY A LITTLE LONGER, BENEFITTING FROM THE AUTUMN LIGHT; RECOGNIZING THE SUN WOULD BE SETTING SOONER, CLOSER TO THE DINNER HOUR. AS THE AUTUMN DAYS SHORTENED IN LATE SEPTEMBER, AND INTO OCTOBER, THE MOOD OF THESE FORGOTTEN PLACES CHANGED DRAMATICALLY, AND ADMITTEDLY THEY SEEMED MUCH LESS CONTENTING AS THE LEAVES FELL FROM THE HARDWOODS, AND THE SCENT OF AUTUMN BECAME MORE INTRUSIVE, WITH FEWER FULL SUN DAYS. I LOVED BEING OUT IN THE FIELD, IN THE AUTUMN OF THE YEAR, BUT THERE WAS A GROWING SADNESS THAT I FOUND HARD TO GET PAST; AND IT INFLUENCED MY OPINION OF A LANDSCAPE THAT WAS BRIGHT AND POWERFUL IN THE MID-SUMMER, BUT DEPENDING ON THE LIGHT, BLEAK AND FAILING IN THE MIDDLE TO LATE DAYS OF OCTOBER. ALMOST TO THE POINT OF BEING OPPRESSIVE. IT WAS THE MELANCHOLY OF THE CHANGING SEASON. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL IN ITS OWN WAY, BUT THERE WAS A FORBIDDING QUALITY TO THE COUNTRYSIDE IN THE LATE AFTERNOONS, THAT MADE ME FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE; AS IF AT THE BEDSIDE OF SOMEONE ON THE VERGE OF DEMISE. IF EVER THERE WAS A TIME, AN OLD HOMESTEAD PROPERTY SEEMED HAUNTED, IT WAS AT THIS LATE SEASON OF THE ROLLING YEAR. I DID DESIRE TO LEAVE EARLIER ON THOSE DAYS, TO AVOID WHAT FELT MILDLY OPPRESSIVE, BUT I CAN NOT EXPLAIN WHY I FELT THIS WAY. I HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN THIS REGARD. IT IS THE SEASON THAT HAS ALWAYS INCREASED MY DESIRES TO WRITE, YET, AT THE SAME TIME, FEELING OVERLY EMOTIONAL; WEIGHED ON THE SENSES, AS IF WEARING A BOAT ANCHOR AS A PENDANT. I FIND IT THE MOST MYSTERIOUS SEASON, SO MUCH MORE POWERFUL THAN SPRING, SUMMER AND WINTER. IT'S THE SEASON BETWEEN LIFE, DEATH AND REBIRTH; THE RECOGNITION OF THE FINALITY, IN ONE SENSE, OF THE NATURAL CYCLE, WHILE CELEBRATING THE CLEANSING OF THE AUTUMN, DURING THE FIRST SNOWFALLS OF LATE SEASON, AND THE EARLY DAYS OF DECEMBER.
I NEVER TRAVELLED TO THESE ABANDONED HOMESTEAD SITES, WITHOUT A NOTEBOOK. AFTER A LUNCH BREAK FROM DIGGING, IN THE PIONEER DUMP, I'D FIND A NICE SUNNY ROCK TO SIT UPON, OR A SECTION OF FALLEN TIMBER FROM A BARN OR CABIN, AND WATCH OUT OVER THE PASTURE WHERE HORSES, IF THE FARMERS HAD ONE, PULLED PLOWS, AND HEAVY IRON IMPLEMENTS, WHICH GOUGED DOWN THROUGH THE FIELD GRASSES IN STRAIGHT FURROWS. A PLACE FULL OF UNTOLD PROMISE. FULL OF ACTIVITY. I'D FIND MYSELF SLIDING HELPLESSLY INTO THE FRIENDLY ABYSS OF HISTORY, TO THE TIME WHEN THE FOUNDING FAMILY OF THIS FARMSTEAD, STOOD OUT ON THIS NEWLY CLEARED PASTURELAND, AND IMAGINED THE HARVEST A FERTILE FIELD WOULD GENERATE, WITH THEIR FAITH IN GOD. EACH SPRING THEY LOOKED OUT ON THIS SAME LANDSCAPE, AND HOPED AGAIN, FOR A BOUNTIFUL HARVEST, AND IT'S LIKELY THEY WERE CRESTFALLEN, WHEN LATE FROSTS, THE WIND AND RAIN OF SUMMER STORMS, THE PELTING DOWN OF HAIL DESTROYED THE CROPS, AND WHAT SURVIVED, WAS KILLED BY EARLY FROST. YET THEY PERSERVERE. IT WAS THE PATINA, THE SPIRIT OF PLACES LIKE THIS; HAUNTED BY THE REALITY OF SO MANY HARDSHIPS AND HEARTACHE, OF THOSE COURAGEOUS SOULS, TRYING TO EKE OUT SURVIVAL IN SUCH A HARSH ENVIRONS; SHORT GROWING SEASON, THIN SOIL, ROCKS, DEEP ROOTS, AND TREES AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE. BOGS AND WATERCOURSES, DIFFICULT TO NAVIGATE, AND BRIDGE, TO PROVIDE AN ACCESS ROUTE TO TRANSPORT SUPPLIES FROM THE VILLAGE, WHERE THE GENERAL STORES WERE SITUATED. LIVING HERE WAS DAMN HARD, AND THE ONLY REPRIEVE, SADLY, WAS ABANDONING WHAT THEY HAD WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE, FOR AN EVEN GREATER SPECULATION; MOVING TO A DIFFERENT REGION, FOR A NEW BEGINNING.
SO THERE WAS ALWAYS AN IMBEDDED AURA OF SADNESS, EVEN ON SUNNY DAYS, ON THESE DISTRICT-OPENING HOMESTEADS, LEFT TO ERODE BACK INTO THE LANDSCAPE FROM WHICH THEY HAD RISEN, WITHIN THAT DARK WREATH OF THICK PINES, BLOCKING OUT THE SUN FOR MOST OF THE DAYTIME; UNTIL THEY COULD BE CLEARED, A CABIN CONSTRUCTED FROM THE TIMBER. THOSE WHO ONCE CALLED THIS PLACE THEIR HOME, AND CELEBRATED IT AS ANY HOME, WHERE HAPPINESS WAS SHARED AT HEARTHSIDE, AS WAS THE HEARTBREAK OF SICKNESS AND LOSS, FREQUENT IN THESE BACKWOODS, ISOLATED ENCAMPMENTS; WHERE THE COMING OF THE WINTER WAS ALWAYS FEARED, HEIGHTENED BY THE SEASON'S FIRST SNOW, DUSTED OVER THE DEEP GREEN PINERY. IN THESE MOMENTS OF SOLITUDE, LISTENING, AND BEING TRANQUILIZED BY THE SOFT BRUSH OF WIND OVER THE DRY AUTUMN FIELD GRASSES, THAT SWEEP, AND ROLL, LIKE OCEAN WAVES, IN THE GENTLE AFTERNOON BREEZE, IT DOES SEEM LIKE A PARADISE, AS THOREAU MUST HAVE SEEN THE LANDSCAPE OF HIS WALDEN POND. IT IS AN ENTIRELY PAIN-FREE, SLOW FALL INTO THE SOFT GRACEFULNESS OF THIS AUTUMN REMINISCENCE; A SOLITUDE, THAT TRICKS THE VOYEUR, INTO A DENIAL OF THE SENSES. FROM A COMFORTABLE DISTANCE, THE WATCHER HAS BECOME MUCH AS THE SPIRIT-KIND, IN THE SWIRLING, DREAM-LIKE ENERGY OF TIME PAST. THE PAST HAS RETURNED. I SWEAR TO HAVE HEARD THE LAUGHTER OF CHILDREN, AT PLAY, WHERE NO CHILDREN WERE PRESENT; HEARD DOGS BARKING THAT WERE NOWHERE IN SIGHT, HEARD THE THUD OF HOOVES, FROM THE HORSEDRAWN CART, RATTLING UP THE DIRT LANE TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. FEELING THE PRESENCE OF ENERGY, WHERE THERE WAS ONLY OPEN FIELD, A FALLEN HOMESTEAD, AND THE AROMA OF A RETIRING SEASON. ONE MOMENT, I COULD SWEAR TO HAVE SEEN THE MOVEMENT OF PEOPLE NEAR WHERE THE BARN ONCE STOOD, AND HEAR THE DISTANT SOUND OF SING-SONG BUT NO SOURCE BEING VISIBLE. IT WAS A HAUNTED VISION, INSPIRED BY MY OWN IMMERSION. MY WILLINGNESS TO SEE THE TRUE PROVENANCE OF A PIONEER ENCAMPMENT, A MUSKOKA FARMSTEAD. IF I WAS TO TELL YOU I FELT A HAND ENTER MINE, WHEN NO ONE WAS NEAR ME, WOULD YOU THINK ME MAD? IT WASN'T UNCOMMON TO FEEL THE BRUSH OF SOMEONE OR SOMETHING, WHILE SITTING ON THOSE AFTERNOONS, OR EVEN TOUCHING SHOULDERS WITH AN ENTITY, WHILE WALKING BACK UP THE LANE, TO THE DIG-SITE, WHEN MY SOJOURN HAD ENDED. THESE WERE UNSETTLING MOMENTS, YET I NEVER ONCE FELT AN URGE TO FLEE, OR REAR-UP IN FEAR, HAVING BEEN IN ANY WAY STARTLED BY WHAT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED, BY A MEDIUM, AS A FULL SPIRIT ENCOUNTER. I NEVER VISITED THESE ABANDONED FARMSTEADS, WITHOUT FEELING I WASN'T ALONE ON MY TRAVELS, OR MY RESPITES, TO ENJOY THE DAY. THEY WEREN'T THREATENING EVENTS, BUT INTERVENTIONS THAT MADE ME APPRECIATE, THAT SOME FORMER RESIDENTS, HADN'T ALOUD THEIR DEATHS, TO SEPARATE THEM FROM THE GROUND THEY ONCE TILLED, TEARING THEIR MUSCLES, AND ANGERING THEIR NERVES; FIELDS PLANTED AND HARVESTED FROM, IN THE FINAL DAYS OF THE SUMMER SEASON. HERE I WAS, A SPECTATOR TO ALL OF HISTORY, THAT HAD OCCURRED HERE; REMARKABLE EVEN IN ITS INHERENT COMMONPLACES.
THE LILACS AND THE HOMESTEAD
Have you ever stopped, on a walk through a dark pinery, and heard the gentle windsong through the needles? Felt the presence of something mysterious, on an early evening walk by a churchyard, or along a grown-over path, by the ruins of an old mill, or barn, as if, someone was close to you, or watching from some portal nearby? Yet nothing is visible to you. You might hear someone talking, or calling out your name, or the sound of footfall following behind, when no one is present. Anywhere. You stop frequently to check. Then we are kindred spirits. I hear and see, and feel, and touch back, at mysterious interventions all the time.
I usually found the fallen-in log homesteads, by looking for the stands of lilacs. The pioneers found this hardy species, a pleasant decoration for what was plain and colorless about the simple cabin or shanty. It was the same with grave sites. The settlers would transplant lilacs by the rough hewn crosses and slab, wood and rock monuments. There was always something significant, to the planting of lilacs, as if it was a sort of folk art statement, about who they were, and what they found pleasant amongst what could be vicious and unpleasant. In the fall, the lilac leaves would be curled and blackened by the long summer, although they would last against the frost and sometimes, continue to hang-on to the branches until after the first and second snows of the late autumn.
There were lots of occasions, when I'd be walking back along the far fence line, and swear someone was walking right behind me. I'd stop, look back quickly to see if there was anyone following. Sometimes, I'd just stop in my tracks, and listen first, before turning around, much as if I knew it was a ghost, that would disappear as soon as I was able to turn. Maybe it would continue walking past me, if I just stood still. I could feel a little chill, when this happened, because what I was hearing was the full footsteps, in boots, of a substantial human close behind. I'd suddenly think of Washington Irving's famous "Headless Horseman," from his book, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and feel, momentarily, as if I should flee, in order to keep my head where it belonged; up there on my shoulders.
It was often the case, walking around the long abandoned homesteads, that I'd hear someone call out my name, and it did send a chill, because there was no mistaking who I was. I'd turn a corner, near the fallen drive shed, and catch the scent of sweet grass, one moment, and baking bread the next. There was the aroma of preserves, such as chili sauces steaming on a woodstove, near the house, with no visible source. No fireplace, woodstove, or a room that was still standing, to support any cookery activities. I can remember smelling burning coal oil in many places, around the old farmstead, as if I was in vicinity of numerous illuminated lamps. There were none. Why would there have been an ignited oil lamp? But it was exactly what burning coal oil smelled like, because I had, at the time, over fifty vintage lamps myself.
In those years, I was more interested in the heritage of these places, and a determination to highlight the pioneer period in Muskoka, that I felt had been seriously neglected, and terribly misunderstood. The possibility these historic places, dotting the landscape, might have carried paranormal energy, of those first families, never really entered my mind. After bottle digging, I'd be absolutely exhausted, so even if I had run into a ghost, face to face, I likely wouldn't have had any energy left to run away, and I'm not the kind to scream. I like ghosts. Most of the time.
It was the afternoon I sat on a sun-baked hillside, before the long walk home, with a loaded packsack of old glass vessels, that I felt the first significant presence of something I truly didn't understand. I can only parallel it to a half-slumber, where if I'd been in full recline on the matted field grass, sleep would have overcome me quickly. It was so warm and peaceful in that soft patch of former pasture, and I was tired after a long dig, and longer walk. I began to dream about this place, as if I was seeing it as it was, in earlier years of occupation. Like an abstract painting, but one that was moving like a film projector, I could see the the clothes on an outside drying line, fluttering in the wind (but there was no wind on this afternoon). I could see blankets on the line. Red ones, and white gowns side by side. I could hear the laughter of children running in the tall grasses of the pasture, and occasionally see their bobbing heads with golden hair, rising above the sweeping, weaving motions of all the plants that grew in this field. I could see smoke coming from the cabin chimney, and I remember twigging all of a sudden, to the reality I was visualizing the farmstead itself, as I had been imagining it looked. Or did I have any hand in it's determination at all? It was a light slumber dream, with a permeating reality of pasture aromas, but not the ones I recalled from the field on that day. There was the distinct aroma of manure, where there wasn't a single beast to be held accountable. I saw a person waving from the doorway of the farm house, and smoke coming from the chimney, and someone yelling near the log barn to my right. I heard the rustling of the field grasses, as if multiple runners were coming toward me. There was laughter, and in the background, the sound of an axe hitting wood presumably, and then the hooves of horses on the dusty dirt lane twenty yards in front of me. I began to appreciate that I was having a sort of prolonged, deep daydream, and it was becoming a little too real. I could feel my heart racing, as if I had figured out, there was something wrong with my sensory perception; much as if my dream had been hijacked by the imbedded energy of this old family farm.
I think back, and recall that I was getting bitten by insects, possibly because of where I had been sitting, and suddenly coming back to reality, and knocking away the critters that had snuck up my pant legs. My heart was still racing, as if I had just escaped a nightmare, yet there was nothing whatsoever, nightmarish about anything I had been daydreaming about. I did wonder, if I had some how been infiltrated on that occasion, by the still strong aura of this place, as it once existed. I probably had spent more time on the property than anyone else in decades, and possibly, I was scene as a sympathetic voyeur, who would understand the message if it was given. When you think about the length and breadth of the humanity, and its spiritual ingraining, that etched down hard here over the centuries, where I have been walking for these many hours, probably raised the dead so to speak. Was I their kindred spirit? Was I being allowed, through my brief daydream, to see what this place looked life, when it was full of life and enterprise? Had the spirits that hopelessly wandered these former pasture trails, looking for their former way of life, given me a gift of experience. Or was it just a daydream, without a crumb of what could be considered of "the paranormal"? But I knew things about this homestead, that I don't think came from just poking around, and digging in the old dumpsite. I don't know how I would have imagined all that I experienced in that several minute half-slumber, and from that point, on all my visits that fall, and for two years following, I never lost what that daydream had provided me, during the momentary hiatus, on a warm hillside, in the September sun. It wasn't a sad or mournful vision. It was quite the opposite. As if I was being afforded, because of my own compassion, a look back on what these warm spirits had been engaged, when the homestead was new, and their hopes were high.
On the way out the old gate, heading home that afternoon, I couldn't help but take a look back, to see, if perchance, my vision would return, and I would see the painting of a new homestead, as the former residents, the family, had known it in those first years of residence, on that hilly terrain, several hours ride by wagon to Bracebridge for supplies. I was a little bewildered because I wasn't tuned to the ways and means of the spirit-kind making contact with the living. I might have been able to explain the daydream, but the voices, footsteps, the wafting scent of oil lamps, fresh bread and lilacs, was beyond what I could easily figure out; but then it wasn't particularly important. It became less important each time I visited, to dig at the dump-site, because it became a sort of normal fare, to hear my name being called out, and feel as if someone was standing at my back, when I had my head down, looking into the excavation, where there were old medicine bottles, seal jars and crockery jugs. I put it down to an over-active imagination. But regardless of how unsettling the interventions were becoming, I never felt scared in any way; but I confess to having my curiosity peaked many times, especially when I would feel a hand slip into mine, as if a child wanted to lead me somewhere on the property I needed to visit. On these occasions, which happened dozens of times, I'd just stop in my tracks, and try to figure out if my mind was playing tricks, or I was having some kind of muscle spasm, considering the shoveling I had been working at for several hours. Each time, it felt as if it was a warm, soft little hand, and of this, there was not confusion. I remember once, that I actually stopped breathing, as if I expected, at any time, to be pulled to the ground by a greater power; a force from beyond, that did not appreciate my snooping about the homestead. After awhile, I would think of the sensation of the hand, in mine, as a sort of friendly gesture, of one spirit to another, and squeeze what wasn't there. It never squeezed back. I'm not sure what I would have done, if this had happened. I did feel a strange comfort at this homestead, that was different than the others I visited, over the coming decade of local excavations, on abandoned farm properties. If I had indeed, been exposed to a paranormal experience, on all those occasions, then honestly, I would feel quite privileged, that I had been invited to share their existence; the net result, inspiring me to more thoroughly research and write about the pioneer settlement period, of the history of Muskoka.
More homestead stories to come.
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