WHY SHOULD WE KNOW THE FULL STORY OF EARLY SETTLER HARDSHIP? WAS IT REALLY THAT BAD?
I WONDER HOW MANY READERS, HAVE BUILT THEIR OWN LOG CABIN, OR FOREST SHANTY, FOR PROTECTION AGAINST THE ELEMENTS? THE WEATHER? THE BRUTAL WINTERS? THE WOLVES? HOW MANY HAVE SCULPTED AND SQUARED A TIMBER, OR BUILT A ROOF. FIT AND HINGED SHUTTERS ON WINDOWS, AND BUILT A ROCK FIREPLACE, OR RUN PIPE, FROM A COOKSTOVE, THROUGH A CABIN ROOF? OR CLEARED AN ACRE OF FOREST BY AXE AND SAW, AND THEN YANKED OUT THE ROOTS OF THOSE SAME FELLED TREES, IN PREPARATION FOR THE STRAIGHT FURROWS YOU'D PLOW THE NEXT SPRING, FOR THE FIRST CROPS OF A NEW HOMESTEAD. I DO KNOW PEOPLE LIKE THIS, AND I'VE SPENT HOURS TALKING ABOUT THE HARDSHIPS OF CONTEMPORARY HOMESTEADING. BUT UNLESS YOU'VE USED AN AXE OR SAW, TO CUT DOWN A DOZEN LARGE TREES, YOU JUST CAN'T GET IN THE MOOD, OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO WORK SUNRISE TO SUNSET, JUST FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF BASIC SURVIVAL. A FIRE KEPT-UP IN FIREPLACE OR COOKSTOVE, THAT NEEDED TO BE ENGAGED TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY FOR MUCH OF THE FALL AND WINTER SEASON. IMAGINE FOR A MOMENT, ARRIVING IN MUSKOKA, AS A KEEN EMIGRANT SETTLER, AT AROUND THIS TIME OF YEAR, WITH A YOUNG FAMILY IN TOW, NEEDING TO ERECT A CABIN IMMEDIATELY; WITH THE ONLY RESOURCES, A STRONG BACK, PHYSICAL PROWESS TO CUT THE TIMBER, AND THE ABILITY TO LEARN FAST, HOW TO MODEL SHANTIES AFTER WHAT WAS VIEWED ON NEIGHBOR PROPERTIES; IF THERE WAS ANYTHING TO SEE AT ALL. THINK ABOUT THE STRESS OF GETTING A ROOF OVER YOUR FAMILY, AS THE WINTER SEASON MOVES EVER CLOSER. THE PROVISIONS TO SURVIVE THAT FIRST WINTER? THE MONEY TO MAKE PURCHASES OF THOSE PROVISIONS? CONSIDERING, THAT CANADIAN GOVERNMENT LAND AGENTS, DIDN'T REALLY CARE IF EMIGRANTS HAD ENOUGH RESOURCES OR NOT, AND THERE WAS NO MEANS TEST GIVEN, BEFORE THESE ILL-PREPARED CITY REFUGEES SET SAIL FOR CANADA. IT'S TO BE EXPECTED THAT A HUGE PROPORTION OF THESE NEW ARRIVALS CAME TO THE HOMESTEAD GRANT LANDS, TERRIBLY POOR, AND PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF PERFORMING ALL THE TASKS REQUIRED, TO MAINTAIN A COMFORTABLE BACK WOODS HOMESTEAD. SHOULD THESE LONG ABANDONED HOMESTEADS, CARRY SOME EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS? BASED ON THE INTENSITY OF THESE HOMESTEADERS, TRYING TO SAVE THEIR LIVES, ONE CAN IMAGINE THAT THERE WAS INDEED, A SPIRITUAL IMPRINT LEFT BEHIND.
"WHEN MY GRANDFATHER ADAMS (FAMILY NAME), SETTLED IN THE LITTLE LUMBERING TOWN OF GRAVENHURST, BEFORE THE TURN OF THE CENTURY (1900'S), I'M SURE THE FAMILY HE BROUGHT FROM SCOTLAND FELT QUITE AT HOME. GRANDPA OFTEN TOLD ME IT WAS VERY SIMILAR TO THEIR PART OF THE COUNTRY IN NORTHERN SCOTLAND. BEING A LUMBERMAN, HE TOOK OVER A SMALL MILL BACK IN THE BUSH, BECOMING ONE OF THE PIONEERS (BUSINESSMEN) IN THE LATE 1880'S. MY UNCLE CHARLIE MET SUDDEN DEATH ONE DAY WHILE HE WAS LEARNING HOW TO PLACE LOGS ON THE CARRIAGE THAT WENT UNDER THE SAW. HIS CLOTHES BECAME ENTANGLED IN THE MACHINERY AND HE HAD BOTH HANDS SEVERED WHILE HIS FATHER WAS UNABLE TO SAVE HIM. SO, WAS IT ANY WONDER, GRANDPA GAVE UP THE MILL AND MOVED BACK INTO TOWN?" (ROUGHLY THE SAME MISADVENTURE OCCURRED AT A LUMBER MILL IN BRACEBRIDGE, AT AROUND THIS TIME, WHEN ANOTHER YOUNG MAN GOT CAUGHT BY THE CARRIAGE, AND DRAGGED INTO THE SAW BLADE. THIS WAS TOLD TO ME BY BRACEBRIDGE HISTORIAN, LES TENNANT, WHOSE FAMILY HAD THE TENNANT SAWMILL) THE POINT HERE, IS THAT MEDICAL ASSISTANCE WAS A LONG WAY OFF, AND TODAY, MOST WOULD HAVE BEEN SAVED BY THE PROXIMITY TO EMERGENCY CARE. IT WAS A HUGE PART OF THE HARDSHIP PROFILE, OF WHAT IT TOOK TO LIVE IN ISOLATION. THERE WAS NO DOCTOR CLOSE BY, TO SAVE THE TWO GENTLEMEN MENTIONED ABOVE, WHO HAD MISHAPS WITH LOG CARRIAGES AND SAW BLADES.
THE ABOVE PASSAGE, REGARDING THE ADAMS FAMILY OF GRAVENHURST WAS WRITTEN BY FAMILY HISTORIAN, MURIEL GRIGG, WHEN SHE WAS SEVENTY-FOUR YEARS OF AGE. THE HARDCOVER FAMILY AND REGIONAL HISTORY, WAS ENTITLED "MAGNETIC MUSKOKA." IT IS ONE OF THE MOST OVERLOOKED BOOKS IN MUSKOKA'S REGIONAL LIBRARY OF HISTORIES, PRIMARILY BECAUSE IT IS MORE FAMILY RELATED THAN A GENERAL COMMUNITY AND REGIONAL CHRONICLE.
"MURIEL GRIGG WAS BORN MURIEL ROGERS, THE DAUGHTER OF FRED AND DOTTIE (NEE ADAMS) ROGERS. HER GRANDFATHER. W. B. ADAMS, WAS ONE OF THE PIONEERS IN THE LUMBERING BUSINESS IN MUSKOKA. SHE WAS RAISED IN A HOUSE BUILT BY HER GRANDFATHER ON AUSTIN STREET, GRAVENHURST. HER FATHER WAS THE MUSKOKA INSPECTOR FOR THE SUN LIFE ASSURANCE COMPANY. AFTER THE FIRST WORLD WAR SHE MARRIED WILLIAM ROY GRIGG AND MOVED TO WINNIPEG. SHE HAS LIVED IN CALGARY, AND LATER TORONTO, WHERE SHE STILL RESIDES (CIRCA 1971). THE BOOK WAS WRITTEN IN HER SEVENTY-FOURTH YEAR AND PUBLISHED FOR HER SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY." SHE WAS BORN IN 1896. THE HARD COVER EDITION WAS PUBLISHED BY THE FORMER "BAXTER PRESS," OF GRAVENHURST.
"GRANDPA ADAMS HAD MADE A LITTLE WORKSHOP FOR HIMSELF AT THE REAR OF HIS HOUSE, AS HE WAS BUILDING HOMES IN TOWN. I USED TO LOVE TO GO IN AND WATCH HIM, AND PICK UP THE LITTLE STICKS AND PUT THEM IN A BASKET FOR KINDLING, AND HAND HIM NAILS WHILE HE WAS MAKING LATHS AND NAILING THEM UP AGAINST THE WALL; AND COVERED THE WHOLE THING WITH FINE WIRE MESH. THIS WAS TO HOLD THE PLASTER FOR WALLS. I WOULD ASK HIM IF I MIGHT TURN THE BIG STONE WHEEL. 'WHY OF COURSE, MY WEE LASSIE,' HE WOULD REPLY.
"ANOTHER TREAT WAS TO GO INTO THEIR PLACE AND ASK GRANDMA IF I COULD HELP HER WHEN SHE WAS BAKING. 'AH, YES MY BONNIE WEE BAIRN,' SHE WOULD REPLY, 'YOU CAN GO DOWN STAIRS AND GET ME A FEW EGGS FROM THE BIG CROCK OF WATER-GLASS.' SHE THEN WOULD GIVE ME A BIG, LONG-HANDLED SPOON, WITH HOLES IN IT TO DRAIN OFF THE LIQUID. OF COURSE, SHE NEVER KNEW HOW SCARED I WAS GOING DOWN INTO THAT CAVERNOUS, COLD CELLAR, WITH A LITTLE TINY LIGHT UP IN THE CEILING. THE WHOLE THING WAS MADE OF STONE, THE STEPS, THE WALLS AND THE FLOOR. THERE WERE HUGE BINS FULL OF VEGETABLES FOR THE WINTER, AND THE BARREL OF APPLES ALL WRAPPED IN PAPER TO PRESERVE THEM. THEN GRANDMA WOULD ASK ME IF I WOULD LIKE SOME PEPPERMINTS FROM THE DEEP POCKETS OF HER LONG SKIRT, UNDER A HUGE APRON SHE ALWAYS WORE WHILE WORKING IN THE KITCHEN. STILL ANOTHER TREAT I REMEMBER WAS WHEN I WAS INVITED INTO THEIR PLACE FOR THEIR EVENING DISH OF GRUEL (A THICK PORRIDGE).
"I REMEMBER THE LILACS IN THE SPRING OF THE YEAR, THE BUSHES SURROUNDED THEIR HOME, AND THEN THE SCENT FROM THE APPLE, PLUM AND CHERRY TREES, TO SAY NOTHING OF THE HUGE VEGETABLE GARDEN GRANDPA HAD, THAT PRODUCED ENOUGH FOR BOTH FAMILIES FOR THE WINTER. I WAS ALLOWED TO PICK CORN-COBS FROM THE STALKS, BUT HE WOULD TELL ME, 'REMEMBER LASSIE, ONLY THE ONES WITH THE DARK BROWN TASSELS'."
MURIEL GRIGG RECALLS, "AS GRANDPA WOUND THE BIG, TALL CLOCK THAT HUNG ON THE WALL IN THE KITCHEN, EVERY NIGHT, JUST AFTER IT STRUCK NINE, IT COULD BE HEARD ALL OVER THE HOUSE. OF COURSE, THAT WAS JUST A SUBTLE SIGNAL FOR ANY OF AUNT ISA'S VISITORS, TO DEPART FOR THEIR HOMES. GRANDMA BY THIS TIME, HAD ALREADY GONE UP THE BACK STAIRS TO THEIR BEDROOM. I HAD OFTEN HEARD ABOUT THIS OLD ROUTINE OF GRANDPA'S, AND A LOT OF THEIR FRIENDS TO MAKE QUITE A JOKE ABOUT IT. IN THE COLD WINTER NIGHTS, I WAS OFTEN ALLOWED TO STAY IN THE LIVING-ROOM AFTER A DISH OF GRUEL, WITH MY GRANDPARENTS, AND WATCH THE RED GLOW FROM THE BIG POT-BELLIED STOVE. IT USED TO SHINE THROUGH THE LITTLE MICA WINDOWS AND ONE ALWAYS FELT WARMER JUST BY WATCHING IT."
THE ADJUSTMENT TO HARDSHIP BECAME PART OF MUSKOKANS CULTURAL IDENTITIES
ONE DAY RECENTLY, SUZANNE, HAVING JUST PUT DOWN A BIOGRAPHY OF AMERICAN FOLK ARTIST, GRANDMA MOSES, LOOKED AT ME WORKING ON THE LAPTOP, AND SAID, "YOUR WRITING ABOUT MUSKOKA REMINDS ME OF HOW GRANDMA MOSES USED TO PAINT." TWO THINGS ARE RELEVANT ABOUT THIS STATEMENT. FIRST OF ALL, SUZANNE DOESN'T COMMENT ABOUT MY WRITING, GOOD OR BAD. THIS WAS A FIRST. I'M ALWAYS SUSPICIOUS OF FIRST TIME EVENTS. IT'S THE WAY WE'VE LIVED FOR THE PAST THIRTY ONE YEARS. SHE WILL EDIT MY MATERIAL, AND MANAGE FREE LANCE PROJECTS, BOOKS ETC., AND EVEN TYPESET FOR ME ON OCCASION, BUT GENERALLY REFRAINING FROM MAKING ANY COMMENT ABOUT THE EDITORIAL MATERIAL ITSELF. SHE JUST CORRECTS ERRORS AND WILL POLISH A SENTENCE IF IT'S NEEDED, BUT NEVER OFFERING ANY OTHER COMMENT ABOUT ITS QUALITY. THIS IS BOTH GOOD AND BAD, YOU MIGHT SAY, BECAUSE I DO RESPECT HER OPINIONS. I DON'T CRITIQUE HER SEWING WORK, OR KNITTING, AND SHE LETS ME WRITE POORLY IF IT'S WHAT I PREFER. MAKES ME NUTS A LITTLE BIT, BECAUSE I WANT TO TURN OUT NEW AND IMPROVED WORK, BUT WE HAVE THIS DISTANCING THING, FROM MAKING PERSONAL COMMENTS ABOUT OUR RESPECTIVE AREAS OF CREATIVITY. SHE DOESN'T KNIT ME SOCKS, MITTS OR SWEATERS, FOR THIS PRECISE REASON; THAT I MAY OFFER A CRITICISM. MY MOTHER USED TO KNIT ME SWEATERS, AND I HURT HER FEELINGS A LOT. I HATE WOOL, AND TIGHT APARELL. SHE VIOLATED THESE RULES CONSTANTLY. SUZANNE KNOWS THIS, AND NEVER MERGES OUR CREATIVE ENTERPRISES. I CAN LIVE WITH IT.
THE SECOND THING, ABOUT GRANDMA MOSES, IS THAT ANY COMPARISON, WHILE INTERESTING, INITIALLY SUGGESTS I'M NAIVE IN MY APPROACH TO WRITING ABOUT MUSKOKA HISTORY. SHE IMMEDIATELY CORRECTS THIS, BY SUGGESTING, I WRITE IN A "FOLKISH" WAY, PRESENTING LOTS OF SENSORY STUFF, LIKE COLORS, AND TEXTURES, AND STRANGE CHARACTER PROFILES, AND EVEN STRANGER CIRCUMSTANCES. THE VISUAL IMPRESSIONS I'M OFFERING MY READERS, SHOWS MY SENSITIVITY TO THE CULTURAL MOSAIC OF HOMESTEADERS, FOR EXAMPLE. "YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN," SHE ADDED, BEFORE I COULD GET OUT MY FIRST QUESTION, IN RESPONSE TO BE LABELLED A NAIVE HISTORIAN. NOT A GOOD TITLE FOR ANY HISTORIAN OR ANY WRITER. "YOU'RE NOT WRITING THE INDIVIDUAL BIOGRAPHIES OF THE PIONEERS. YOU'RE PLACING THEM IN AND AROUND THE HOMESTEADS, AND PUTTING FIRES IN THE STOVES, AND PLACING LIT OIL LAMPS ON THE WINDOW SILLS," SHE EXPLAINED. "YOU POINT OUT THE PLEASANT SOUND OF MUSIC, BEING PLAYED ON A VIOLIN, OR PARLOR ORGAN, AND THAT COLORS THE STORY WITH A FOLKISH HUE. THAT'S WHAT I MEAN. YOU BRING BACK LIFE TO THESE ABANDONED PLACES, BUT YOU'RE LESS CONCERNED ABOUT ACCURACY, THAN CREATING A WORD-PAINTING OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE, FOR THOSE WHO WEREN'T THERE TO SEE IT FIRST HAND." IT'S AN EXPLANATION LIKE THIS, THAT MAKES ME WANT TO HIRE THE GOOD WOMAN AS MY CO-WRITER. SHE GETS ME. IT'S TAKEN MORE THAN THREE DECADES, BUT SHE'S FINALLY FIGURED HOW FUNCTIONAL OR, LIKEWISE, DYSFUNCTIONAL MY THOUGHT-PROCESS COGS DO THEIR WORK. I HAPPEN TO ADORE FOLK ART, BUT I'M A BIGGER FAN OF CANADA'S MARITIME FOLK ARTIST, MAUD LEWIS INSTEAD. BUT SUZANNE'S REFERENCE TO GRANDMA MOSES WAS OKAY. IT DID MAKE ME THINK ABOUT THIS, FOR A TAD, BECAUSE IT'S NOT SOMETHING I ANALYZE FOR THE HELL OF IT.
"WHEN I READ YOUR STORIES ABOUT OLD HOMESTEADS," SUZANNE REMINDED ME, "I CAN SEE THE KIDS FROM LONG AGO, PLAYING IN THE FIELDS, AND EVEN SEE THE COLORS OF THEIR SWEATERS AND HATS, FLAPPING WHEN THEY RUN; EVEN THOUGH YOU MAY NOT HAVE INCLUDED THAT AS A REFERENCE. I CAN SMELL THE COAL OIL BURNING IN THE GLASS LAMPS (WE HAVE ABOUT A HUNDRED AT HOME, SO SHE DOES KNOW THIS INTIMATELY), AND THE WOODSMOKE FROM THE FIREPLACE, EVEN IF YOU DIDN'T SPECIFICALLY BRING THAT UP IN THE STORY." I WAS STARTING TO GET THE FEELING, SHE WAS APPROVING OF MY WORK, YET IT STRUCK ME, THAT SHE WOULDN'T BUY A PIECE OF FOLK ART ON A DARE. I WOULD FILL OUR STORE AND HOUSE WITH FOLK ART, IF I COULD GET MORE, SO I ASKED HER BLUNTLY, WHETHER OR NOT, BY MAKING THE FOLK ART REFERENCE, SHE WAS CONDEMNING MY WORK AS BEING LESS THAN PROFICIENT, IN TERMS OF ACCURATE PORTRAYALS. GEEZ, I DON'T WANT TO SEND THE WRONG MESSAGE HERE, THAT HOMESTEADING WAS AS PLEASING AND JOYFUL AS A GRANDMA MOSES' PAINTING IS COLORFUL. "YOU SEE, THIS IS WHY I DON'T OFFER OPINIONS ABOUT WHAT YOU WRITE," SHE SNARLED BACK, RETURNING TO KNITTING SOCKS THAT WEREN'T BEING MADE FOR MY FEET. "IT'S A COMPLIMENT, SO TAKE IT AS SUCH, AND STOP OVER ANALYZING; YOUR STORIES REMIND ME THAT THESE HOMESTEADS WERE CULTURALLY IMPORTANT, JUST LIKE YOU WRITE ABOUT. SO THAT'S WHY THEY REMIND ME OF FOLK ART." I SAT THERE, THE BOOK I WAS READING, FOLDED UP IN MY LAP, AND THE ONLY RESPONSE I COULD OFFER, WAS "HEY, WHY DON'T YOU MAKE ME A PAIR OF SOCKS?" "YOU DON'T LIKE WOOL, REMEMBER," SHE ANSWERED BACK. "BESIDES, I'VE GOT ORDERS TO FILL, FROM PAYING CUSTOMERS." I HALF RESENTED BEING CALLED A CHEAPSKATE, BUT SHE WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE WOOL. I HATE THE PRICKLY FEELING OF WOOL AGAINST MY SKIN. IT GOES BACK TO CHILDHOOD, WHEN MY MOTHER WOULD MAKE ME WEAR A WOOL SWEATER, FOR A DINNER OUT, ESPECIALLY HORRIBLE IF I'D HAD A SUNBURN TO CONTEND WITH!
SUZANNE, BY THE WAY, IS FROM MUSKOKA PIONEER STOCK, DATING BACK TO 1862, AND SHE REMINDS ME FREQUENTLY, THAT HER GREAT GRANDFATHER'S DUG-OUT CANOE, IS ON DISPLAY AT THE MUSKOKA LAKES MUSEUM IN PORT CARLING. I RESPOND BY INFORMING HER, THAT I WAS ONCE A DIRECTOR OF THAT MUSEUM, AND THUS, STEWARD OF THE DUG-OUT CANOE, ONCE UPON A TIME. SO THERE!
BACK TO THE HOMESTEAD WILDS
After writing the first part of the blog today, while holed-up at our Gravenhurst music studio (of all places to write a blog), I arrived home to take Bosko for a walk over in The Bog. We have three trips into the neighborhood forest, and lowland every day, and it's a nice way to break up the routine of everyday living. We all know the inherent ruts of the daily grind, of work, work, and more work. Bosko doesn't care about my issues, or trials, because she's got bigger things to sniff-out, like a new resident coyote, that has been visiting our neighborhood for the past several weeks. Bosko lets me know where the beast is, with the intensity of her tracking ability, and we make a quick retreat. Just in case. I don't mind yielding the right of way. I just try to look calm doing so!
I did think about what Suzanne had offered, as a casual overview, of the work she has had to edit for the past three years of my daily blogging. Outside of deserving a medal of courage, for tolerating me hovering at her back, while proofing, (which I couldn't stand myself), I suppose she did remind me of how my impressions, of rural farm life, did expand into the folkish side of history authordom. I started to recall my many trips into the old homestead property, a mile or so off Beaumont Drive, in Bracebridge, between Kerr Park, and Stephen's Bay Road. I found it the first winter back in Bracebridge, after returning home from university, to seek my fame and fortune. Well, I've had some minor fame but no fortune. While my girlfriend, at the time, Gail, was still attending classes at university, in Toronto, I would head out for some cross country skiing, on weekday afternoons. There was one ski trail from Kerr Park, which is adjacent to the Muskoka River, that crossed through an amazing former homestead acreage, that I fell in love with almost immediately. Yes, indeed, it was as if I had some intimate connection to this place, in a previous life. You've probably experienced a weird feeling like this, a few times in your own life, without any validation of these emotions. Seeing it first, in the snowy days of early December, back in 1977, made this homestead all the more emotionally alluring. It's not necessarily a good thing for an historian to get all sentimental, about the task at hand. Well, at this time, I wasn't an historian, but I did have my first antique shop open for business, in the former house / medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge. The historian gig came much later.
The largely intact, two level farmhouse, had been built on a significant hillside, above a boggy lowland, bordered by a huge rock face on the south side of the property. It reminds me of the landscape, that you can look-out over, from the Algonquin Park Visitor Centre. You would expect to find wolves, bear, moose and deer roaming there, and it did concern me especially, when in the late afternoons, on the return trip, I could clearly hear the distant howl of wolves. This was their territory and I was the intruder.
There was a cart trail up the hillside, to the front of the house, which faced east if memory serves. The lane was heavily grown over by encroaching evergreens, but the snowload, on that very first visit, had pulled the boughs lower, so the silhouette of the farmstead was visible in the scattered sunglow. I stood at the base of the hill, looking up at the abandoned old farmhouse, with that initial sense of awe, ruminating about what it must have looked like a century earlier. It was distressing to think that such a fine location, with such a beautiful view over the lowland, would have been abandoned, to erode back into the earth from which it once belonged. I would have loved to dwell in such a place, in the Muskoka heartland. In my mind, I started to imagine the folks who may have lived here, by first noticing more intimate details, as I navigated my skis, in a sideways cross-over motion, up the laneway incline. The closer I got to the top of the hill, the more I sensed that family aura, I've experienced on dozens of similar pioneer homesteads in the region. There was a hush, both with the insulation of the snow-load, but also because of the enclosure of border evergreens. The cold wind snapping and cracking frozen tree limbs, through the lowland, wasn't affecting anything on this hillside; and the silence was intriguing. Without thinking about it, I began imagining what the sounds of this place would have been, way back in its first years as a family abode; the voices of adults working at homestead chores, chopping firewood, and the laughter of children sledding down the far slope, into the valley. It was as if, the house was setting the scene, for its own rediscovery, moreso than my own writer's fascination, to put life where there was a void. It didn't take long, before I was filling this vacant hillside house, with all kinds of seasonal activities, pre-Christmas, and comings and goings, up and down this front drive. The horse drawn cutter, coming around the bend, bells resonating off the iced-over snow, with the buffalo robe hanging off the side. I was romanticizing this place, but I couldn't seem to stop. I have no idea who lived here, back to the period of the late 1800's, so the only other explanation, beyond a hopped-up imagination, (like a Hollywood film coming to life), was a sincere but intrusive love for history; re-enactment, for the sentimental heart. There was of course, always the potential, that resident spirits, imbedded here for long and long, were sending me a paranormal welcome. It was just one of those weird situations, I've had many times before, in similar locations, when the environs started to inspire strange thoughts, without any intention on my part, to create an instant family, to suit my interpretive needs at the moment.
It would become the model homestead, for many future stories, and factored very heavily into the creation of my first book, "Memories and Images," circa 1983, produced with Muskoka photographer, Tim DuVernet, that we released, as an initial foray into book writing. This soon-to-collapse former homestead, was more alluring than I can truly explain. I suppose it became kind of an obsession, at a time when the only other demand on my time, was playing hockey, and chasing after elusive antiques for our shop. I made twice weekly ski trips back to the homestead, through the winter months, and many more when the weather got a little warmer, and the snow melted away. Of course, the bugs made it a tad unfriendly, and the bear near-misses, made it a little more precarious taking the trip into the property. Once I was on the top of that hill, I didn't worry at all about bear intrusions. I don't know why I felt this way, but as it was, I saw bears everywhere else, and wolves, but nothing to bother me during those calm sojourns in and around the old farmhouse. Were the spirits dispatching the animals that may have wanted me (to stay) for dinner? If there were spirit protectors, on that hillside, they were certainly more "Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost" types. There was nothing malevolent being there, although it was still sad, watching this beautiful house, tumble, board by board into the landscape. It seemed worth saving. Maybe the spirits thought I could restore the place, and bring it back to its historic elegance. I suppose however, in the words of these stories, I have kept the essence of the Victorian era farmhouse alive. It will always be that way for me, until I tumble into the earth for that final time. That former dwelling place, may have been abandoned in fact, but in spirit, it was a very full house.
On occasions when I'd pull open the door to gain access, I would find myself in the former kitchen, and marvel about the way plates were still hung on the wall, and the old built-in cupboards were still holding original plates, cups and saucers, and many utensils, which had spilled out onto the floor, when another intruder dislodged a drawer from a stove-side cabinet. It was a dark room even on a sunny afternoon, so I imagine it very much benefitted, from one of those all day fires in the hearth, kept up by the matron of the house. I could smell the ingrained patina of smoke, and soot, still very much in evidence, long after it had been abandoned. There were pots and pans all over the floor, and milk bottles, which by itself, dated the last occupants of the house. Other than of course, the family of raccoons I got to know, over my many visits. I kept my distance, although I could see them watching me, from an open space where ceiling boards had fallen away. There were even a few framed pictures hanging on the walls, and many broken and gnawed chairs, scattered in what probably had been the parlor. I had never ventured to the second floor, because the stairs had been badly damaged by water exposure, as there was a pretty large hole in the roof, that had rotted away boards on the upper floor, and then the base of the stairs, where I needed access. I could see through the rotten steps, down into what had been a partial basement, or cold room for storing fruit and vegetables for the winter season. The house was in danger of imminent collapse from the very first day I visited. The side section of the house had collapsed when I visited in the spring of 1979, and then again in the fall of the same year. It was a sad reality, but it had no defenders, to save it from, what was a natural, four seasons demise. Each season, played a role in its final destruction. Yet those lilacs, as I remember, were still thriving, on those final two visits. Makes me wonder about what it would all look like, back there, now in the fall of 2014.
As I wrote about previously, in this short series, all the abandoned homestead properties, cabins, and farmhouses I visited, back in the mid 1970's, to mid 1980's, had distinct auras connected. Even the first few steps on these overgrown, largely forgotten properties, gave me either the sense of dread, sadness, melancholy, or a sort of neutral contentment; more on my part than the interplay of the spirits of the place. It had a lot to do with the season I visited, and if it was sunny, overcast, raining or snowing. The later in the day, even on sunny autumn afternoons like today (here at Birch Hollow), these homesteads seemed to animate into very life-filled places; the birds and squirrels more active, groundhogs making appearances in the fields, venerable old crows cawing from the upper boughs of gnarled pines, and the occasional fox, running across the former pasture, looking for a dinner of a field mouse of two. I might be on site for three to five hours, and hear very little, except the wind whispering through the evergreens; and then the creaking of old trees rubbing against saplings, measuring their odds of survival; and the grating, scuffling noise from my digging device. Even when I'd take a lunch break, to sit overlooking one section of field, or a valley below the homestead hillside, you would be lucky to see a bird, let alone hear one. But just as I would be packing up, the natural world seemed to let loose. There was nothing particularly paranormal or supernatural about it, other than I found it odd, that upon my imminent departure, this homestead became a very busy place. I suppose, when I arrived, I scared away the creature inhabitants, or kept them from roaming about, just in case I was an unknown predator. I can remember looking back, at one homestead property, after hitting the main road on foot, and seeing deer crossing the field, a bear scratching at a tree on a slope, where I had been working a half hour earlier, and enough birds to look like the cutting room floor, from the Alfred Hitchcock movie, "The Birds." Nothing all that strange, but I did wonder, what would happen if I passed back through the old gate. Would this wildlife retreat again?
The house on the hill inspired at least two dozen major feature stories, in two books I prepared, and many other heritage articles for The Herald-Gazette, The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun. It can be thusly said, I gained a lot of story kindling, from having visited that uniquely situated farmhouse, in Bracebridge. There was always an intrusive melancholy on that storied hillside, as if the old dwelling was seeking refuge in my heart; that as a writer (because I wrote there on each occasion, even in the winter), I could somehow bring back what it once possessed, of a resident family; much as a parent / guardian, wishes against all odds, for a child's return, or a widow prays for her partner's arrival, back into a favorite chair at hearthside; to hear again the familiar humming in the kitchen, of a grandmother with ladle in hand, mixing batter in a bowl. I never really lost the melancholy of that time, and when I recall the house, and picturesque property now, I suppose, as Suzanne noted, I want to fulfill a promise I apparently made, in mindful resolve, to paint a pretty picture of the way it was! Suffice to say, I can't help myself, in this folkish regard, to imagine what Grandma Moses might have infilled with her paints, of this same scene, that I can't do justice today, by the same stroke of naive genius; my pen not as proficient, as was her paint brush.
Thank you for joining me today, for this continuation of the series, "Seasons of the Lilacs." Much more to come.
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