SURVIVING IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS THROUGH TWO WORLD WARS AND THE GREAT DEPRESSION - A BIOGRAPHY WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT
THE PASSION FOR ANTIQUES MAKES US DO WHATEVER IT TAKES, TO MAINTAIN OUR COMMITMENT TO HISTORY AND ITS FINER POINTS
During the past thirty-five odd years, (some more so than others), I've thoroughly enjoyed the antique business, mostly because of what it didn't possess, in the way of work-day stresses. Running an antique business has always been challenging and historically charged; but truthfully, always more satisfying, because of its free-wheeling liberalities. Unlike what I experienced working in other capacities and professions. I loved my newspaper jag, if I'd ever been able to work at it, without management constantly kicking at the backs of my shoes, reminding, as if I had a shallow memory, who the boss was! I loved any opportunity to sneak into some of the old time, mom and pop antique shops, in the Toronto area, and I considered it part of the quest, to connect with veteran dealers; who by the way, weren't adverse to sharing their own intimate biographies about the profession. I am glad I had the opportunity to visit, and chat with these folks, because it re-enforced some of my own values, about the business I was planning to pursue. These fine folks offered a great deal of sage advice, about the pitfalls of the industry, and how they, (most were co-owned shops), had successfully navigated economic downturns in the past. My questioning was probably quite annoying to them, but possibly they saw the next generation of antique dealer, and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I would have very much enjoyed the opportunity to meet with Reginald Way, the British antique dealer, who I have been profiling for the past week. Suffice that I have his biography, "Antique Dealer," published in 1957, to consult, when I start wondering what it would have been like, to be in this profession much earlier in history. This is what I have in store for you today.
I've raised the point many times, with associate antique dealers, about the potential dire consequences of a future recession, the likes of the one we experienced in the late 1980's, through until the mid 1990's. Some of them hadn't become full fledged dealers at that point, and really don't appreciate my stories, about watching regional businesses suffering huge losses, and closing altogether. My warnings, I suppose, sound more like tall folk tales than economic histories. A lot of folks lost their homes, when the real estate market collapsed, and to make matters more consequential, they lost the jobs, that had provided re-payment capabilities, for their large mortgages. If they don't appreciate the real estate inspired collapse, of the nineteen nineties, there seems little point dredging up horror stories for businesses, from the period of the First World War, the Great Depression, and the Second World War. While I get stuck on the historical precedents, these periods now offer us modernists, facing our own contemporary risks and downfalls, it always amazes me, how those in the history-conserving business, can have so little regard for these catastrophic events, that always have the potential of returning with a renewed vengence. I keep harping on these issues, because Suzanne and I believe there is a greater purpose of writing a biography, than the self-indulgent, horn blowing to be expected from such intimate reflections. We opened Birch Hollow Antiques, from our Ontario Street home, in Bracebridge, only a few years before the onset of that era's recession. By time it hit with the tell-tale slump of the real estate market, we had just recently partnered, to open a main street antique shop, on upper Manitoba Street, less than a hundred yards from picturesque tree-lined Memorial Park. It seemed like the perfect partnership, but there are no perfect partnerships except on a drawing board, or in one's most hopeful imagination.
I won't bore you with details, but the poop, and I mean a really big poop, soon hit the proverbial fan. Suzanne and I found ourselves without a business partner, which had nothing to do with antiques, and everything to do with the fact I had changed jobs in the local newspaper war, and our work-mates had a stake in the paper I had just quit. Thus, it wasn't long before the partnership died, and we had to hustle to find a replacement investor. In a short period of time, we had at least ten major adjustments to make, including the fact our car used to stall at sixty miles per hour, our new house was worth thirty thousand less than when we purchased it the year before, and by the summer of 1990, my jobs in radio, print, and museum management had ended, in part because of recessionary stresses, and my unwillingness to settle for less. We were fortunate Suzanne had a secure teaching job by this point, and at the very least, we had a business location on a prime stretch of the main street, and I understood the antique business pretty well. There were a lot of bleak years, and winters that were wretched in the economic sense. But thanks to new partners, and many consignors, who liked the fact, we only took twenty percent commission, and trusted the way we handled their heirloom pieces, we inched over the economic canyons, on the most slender fibres of bridging; and let me tell you, this was a sad enterprise by itself, because many of our consignors, themselves, had one proverbial foot on a banana peel, economically speaking. I sold off some of the last material pieces for customers who had just lost their homes to bank foreclosure; and for those having just lost their jobs with no prospects on the horizon. We all profited a little bit back then, because the consignment pieces were better, at that time, than anything else we had for sale. Funny thing about this, is that we undoubtedly would have closed our shop in Bracebridge, if it wasn't for the happenstance of selling on consignment; which happened innocently enough one day, when a fellow came in with some outstanding pieces, that we couldn't afford to buy outright. He asked if we would agree to sell them on consignment. I agreed and for the next two years, we sold lots of his vintage wooden boxes, trunks and blanket boxes, that he restored beautifully. It was our kick-start, that let us know, we didn't have to lay out big whacks of cash in order to maintain an inventory. These consignors, who offered us the chance to sell some amazing antiques and collectables, saved our business, but I probably never told them this before now.
The bottom line, is that we survived being caught in the eye of a massive, and brutal economic storm, because we knew how to limit our purchases, and become, temporarily, a consignment shop, at a time, when a lot of folks needed to raise money fast in order to pay hydro bills and taxes; and of course, to buy food. We used to have daily discussions, when our group of consignors would gather at my sales desk, for our coffee club socials, and overview the prevailing crisis, as if these bull sessions made them feel better, about, say, the fact they had just received notice their gas was being cut off, or the town was coming after them for unpaid taxes. Or that the repair on their car, was going to cost way more than they could afford, even if I sold everything they had consigned. We compared our situations, and a few laughs took the edge away. I can remember one friend of ours, bringing us hot soup from home, as a gesture of shared compassion, and the same fellow brought our boys almost-new winter coats, his own sons had worn as kids. To manage store, home, family and transportation, we didn't have a lot of money left over to eat well, or dress beyond the consideration of what was warm and durable. Fashion went out the window for that half decade of nickel and diming, to keep our business open, keep up the payments on our house, and provide for Andrew and Robert without too many sacrifices. What's so important about all this? Well, there's a lot to be learned from the biographies of others, who, like British Antique Dealer, Reginald Way, navigated the economic perils of two world wars, and the Great Depression. His reflections are important to antique dealers today, because it's quite true, that with some precisely measured and executed manipulations, our enterprises can survive almost anything, even our own demise. It is a unique and curious business, because of what it represents of antiquity, and its substantial values. Here now, as promised in yesterday's blog, are a few observations, from Mr. Way's biography, about the dark days and economic turmoil from the onset of the Second World War in the year 1939. You can archive back, in these blogs, to read his accounts of running the antique business through the First World War, and the Depression. Here now in the words of Mr. Way.
"With the outbreak of war in 1939, the antique business took another knock-out blow, but things turned out better for me than I'd dared to hope. Almost the day after war was declared, the Admiralty moved their headquarters to Bath and several of the large hotels were requisitioned. This meant that there was a lot of inventory work to be done, and I was at once employed by the Bath auctioneers, Messrs Fortt, Hatt & Billings, to help with this work, which lasted for several years. Life was very hectic for my family. Gladys's brother, Cecil Walker, was a hosier in Weston-super Mare, and owned a branch shop in Bath. His manager there was called up (for military service), so Gladys was asked if she would take his place, as she'd had experience in this type of business at Weston-super Mare, during the 1914-18 war, when Cecil was on active service.
"My daughter Peggy, who was about seventeen, at the time, decided that for her war work, she would get a job in a local day nursery, where the services of the right type of girl were badly needed, and our assistant, Jane Hutchins, joined the ATS. In this way the overheads of Gay Street were drastically cut. When my inventory work with the auctioneers ended, I was left alone in my business and life became horribly monotonous. However, that ended with the arrival of 'knocker,' Albert Swift, who immediately began his operations in and about the city. I was amazed at the large quantity of antiques he discovered, and, although I was not selling anything, the prices were so low that I couldn't resist buying them from him. Early in 1940 during the phoney war, business began to improve; for people, having got over their first fright, began to be interested once more in antiques, realizing that now was the time to obtain bargains. That only lasted until the fall of France, when business again came to a standstill."
Mr. Way recalls that, "In July, I joined the Home Guard and was in it until the following November when my health broke down. This was due to the wound in my left hand from the 1914-1918 war (shrapnel wound). It had given me neuritis in the left shoulder and, I suppose, because of having to sleep in a wet cellar, while I was in the Home Guard, the neuritis became worse and finally spread to my right shoulder as well. On my doctor's orders I had, much to my regret, to resign. Early that September, I'd received a letter from a friend of mine, in Fowey, saying that Dr. Rashleigh was going to sell most of the contents of Menabilly, (estate) so I went down to the sale. Very few dealers were present at the auction, and I was able to buy the little walnut domed-top bookcase which I'd first seen, when I visited the house years ago, in the 1920's. Subsequently I sold the bookcase to a client in Bath, and I'm glad to say that it's still in her possession today, although it narrowly escaped destruction in the air raids when part of her house was destroyed. "When the late Queen Mary came to stay with the Duke and Duchess, of Beaufort at Badminton, for the duration of the war, Her Majesty made frequent visits to Bath. At Christmas time she arranged a party for the village children at Badminton, and there was a large Christmas tree. Her Majesty visited Messrs Woolworth's, to buy gifts to put on the tree. The manager, whom I knew quite well, told me that he was in his office, when his secretary rushed in and said in high excitement, 'Queen Mary has just come in!' He thought she was giving him an important piece of war news about the famous liner and exclaimed, 'Good Lord, I thought she was in New York Harbour!' (he was referring, at that moment to the ship, not the actual Queen, who was soon after standing in the shop). As soon as he understood what his secretary meant, he rushed downstairs to show Her Majesty over the store. I was honored by a Royal visit on the 6th of February, 1941. I knew nothing about it until, during the afternoon, the manager of the Bath Chronicle and Herald newspaper, rang me up, asking if I knew the time at which Queen Mary, and the Duke of Kent, would be viewing my shop. Almost before I'd replaced the receiver, a large Daimler saloon drew up outside and Queen Mary, and the Duke of Kent got out. As I opened the door, Her Majesty said, 'I've brought my son to see you Mr. Way.' They both bought several things. Those purchased by Queen Mary were mostly small pieces of old china. His Royal Highness bought some old cut-glass Georgian decanters, some Oriental bowls and a perfect rectangular, pierced edge Chippendale mahogany tray.
"He explained to me that he had a special room in which he collected a store of articles, which he kept to give as wedding presents, and that everything he'd bought that afternoon, except the tray, which he proposed to use himself, would go into that store-room. It's sad to think that the tray was to be used by him for so short a time. Before they left, the Duke wrote in his beautiful clear hand-writing, on the back of one of my business cards, the instructions for the delivery of his purchases. The card is still in my possession. With the arrival of the Admiralty in Bath and, in addition, a large number of evacuees from London, and other places, the city became congested. Room also had to be found for the Irish labourers who were working to enlarge the underground Bath stone quarries. All this new population necessitated the services of billeting officers, who went around inspecting all premises. In our own place we had, beside Gladys, our daughter Peggy and myself, a young employee of the Admiralty, Mary Croft, living with us. The three rooms at the top of the house had been converted into a flat, and at first this was occupied by an airman and his wife. After he was posted to another part of England, we had a very charming couple up there, a young scientist, who was working with the Admiralty, and his wife. This scientist was doing a very hush-hush job and at times he was most absent-minded. On Saturday afternoons, if he was free from work, he and his wife used to play golf. One Saturday his wife, who was waiting in the sitting room, while he changed into his golfing clothes, though he was taking a very long time over it; so she went into the bedroom to see what was happening. There she found to her surprise, that, instead of getting into his golfing kit, he'd undressed, put on his pyjamas, and gone to bed. One incident stands out in my mind, from those days of war; a light touch but one that's vivid to me.
"When I left Bristol to live in Bath, I still kept my Bristol tailor, Mr. Hutchings. A week before Bristol was heavily bombed, I'd received a postcard from him, saying that a suit I'd ordered was ready for fitting. In that bombing attack much of Park Street, where Mr. Hutchings had his premises, was destroyed. Questioning a friend, from there, about the damage, I asked him how the centre part of Park Street had fared. 'All down,' he told me. Later I said to Gladys, 'So my new suit that Hutchings was making must have gone.' But a fortnight later, I got a postcard from him saying, 'You haven't called for your try-on, advice of which I sent you several weeks ago.' I went over to Bristol at once, and found Hutchings's shop still standing, looking for all the world like a small slice of wedding cake, left standing on a dish with all the rest of the cake gone.
"When I congratulated him on his good luck he said, 'Who says No. 13's unlucky? Exactly six houses have been destroyed on each side of me, and I'm the thirteenth.' Poor Bristol, with its loss of Mary-le-Port Street, and its Elizabethan period houses. So much beauty that has been destroyed forever. Now the ruined walls have been demolished and upon the foundations have risen new, modern buildings. As an old Bristol client mourned to me, 'Bristol has lots its soul.' I wonder."
Mr. Way concludes, "In 1941, the antique business began to get better for me; large numbers of Admiralty civil service staff were billeted in accommodation, so atrociously furnished, that they were glad to buy simple pieces of antique furniture, to make their rooms less ghastly. As Gladys was still at her brother's business, I found I needed some help in the shop. It was not difficult to get a suitable assistant, because a number of young wives had come down with their husbands, who were employed by the Admiralty, and my new assistant soon became efficient. One day I left her in sole charge, with instructions to write down everything of importance, that occurred during the day. In the evening I found on my desk the following note, 'There have been three air-raid warnings and a dog fight over the city, with much machine-gun fire.' No word of any business transactions. In spite of her mixture of war and business, she became quite capable of managing customers and, late in June, Gladys and I took a week's holiday and went to Fowey. It seemed rather a grim place in war time, after the happy days we'd known there. There was no bathing with the harbour, locked behind a boom; no boating, and most of the cliffs were fortified, and in the hands of the army. Pridmouth was controlled by the RAF, and all lanes leading to the camp, were barricaded with large notices saying, 'Keep out!" "In 1942, at the end of April, Bath suffered three bad raids which, for a time, dislocated all business in the city. These raids were very vicious. The first two were aimed at the business and commercial centre of Bath, and if all the bombs that were dropped had exploded, the devastations would have been terrific, but in the centre and busiest part of the city, there were between thirty and forty unexploded bombs. The third raid, which took place on a Sunday, was directed at the Georgian and residential parts of the city; and as Gay Street was in this part, we were most fortunate not to be hit. When the Germans found that there was absolutely no defence, either in the air or on the ground, during those raids, they swooped down and machine-gunned through the windows of the houses, in some of the wider streets. The greatest loss to Bath was the historic Assembly Rooms, which had recently been restored at vast expense. Fortunately, the old glass chandeliers, had been removed to a place of safety; but they are practically all that remains of this beautiful suite of Georgian rooms."
SPIRITS IN THE HOUSE - CAN YOU BLAME THEM FOR DISLIKING CHANGE FOISTED UPON THEM?
SOMETIMES THERE'S A CLASH BETWEEN THE ANTIQUE COLLECTOR AND THE PLACE OF RESIDENCE, AND THOSE MYSTERIES WITHIN
THE FIRST RESIDENCE WITH MY NEW BRIDE, SUZANNE, IN THE EARLY 1980'S, WAS IN AN A SMALL, ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT IN A MUCH LARGER VICTORIAN-ERA HOUSE. IT WAS ONLY A BLOCK AWAY FROM BRACEBRIDGE'S MAIN STREET. IT WAS, TO USE SUZANNE'S WORD, AN "ADORABLE" VINTAGE ENHANCED (WITH LOTS OF WOODWORK), GROUND-FLOOR UNIT, WITH A LITTLE PORCH AND A NICE BACKYARD. WHEN WE FIRST BEGAN DATING, THE APARTMENT WAS DECORATED WITH A MODEST NUMBER OF FURNISHINGS, A MINOR AND TASTEFUL COLLECTION OF HEIRLOOM DECORATIONS, AND THE BUILT-IN SHELVES, IN THE KITCHEN-DININGROOM, HAD A FEW TRINKETS BUT NOT MUCH ELSE. IF SHE READS THIS, I WILL BE LIVING ON OUR PORCH HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, BECAUSE HER RECOLLECTION IS MUCH DIFFERENT. IN HER MIND, SHE HAD THE PERFECT AMOUNT OF EVERYTHING, RIGHT DOWN TO THE DISH TOWELS AND TEA COZY. WHAT I SAW AS A SPARTAN DOMAIN, WAS ACTUALLY PERFECTLY PROPORTIONAL TO HER DEMANDS OF THE RESIDENCE. SHE WAS A ROOKIE TEACHER, AND IT TOOK THREE MINUTES TO WALK FROM OUR DOOR, THROUGH THE FRONT ENTRANCE OF BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL.
I JUST NOW, WITH A NEAT LITTLE SHOULDER BLOCK, STOPPED SUZANNE FROM LOOKING AT THE SCREEN, AS SHE OCCASIONALLY DOES, TO CHECK HOW MANY TIMES I'VE USED HER NAME IN A BLOG. TO DISTRACT HER, I ASKED IF SHE RECALLED, IF THERE WERE ANY STRANGE OCCURRENCES IN THAT FIRST YEAR OF OCCUPANCY…….OTHER THAN MY RAPPING AT THE DOOR. "THERE WERE THE WIND CHIMES," SHE ANSWERED. "I'D HEAR THEM IN THE NIGHT, AFTER GOING TO BED, OR SOMETIMES THEY'D WAKE ME UP. THERE WERE NO WIND CHIMES IN, OR NEAR MY APARTMENT, AND I COULD NEVER FIND THE SOURCE."
WHEN WE BECAME ENGAGED, AND WE DECIDED TO KEEP HER APARTMENT, AND THAT I WOULD VACATE MINE, THE MOVE BEGAN SLOWLY, TO HAUL MY ANTIQUES AND JUNK, THE TWO BLOCKS FROM ONE RESIDENCE TO THE OTHER. I'D BEEN A PARTNER IN AN ANTIQUE AND GIFT BUSINESS, CALLED "OLD MILL ANTIQUES," WITH MY PARENTS, MERLE AND ED, IN THE FORMER HOME OF DR. PETER MCGIBBON, OPPOSITE THE MAPLE LINED MEMORIAL PARK. WE HAD STARED THE BUSINESS BACK IN THE WINTER OF 1977-78, AND BY THE EARLY 1980'S, MY PARENTS HAD MOVED-ON TO PARRY SOUND, WHERE ED WORKED AT NORTHLAND LUMBER…..AND MERLE CAME TO WORK THERE AS WELL. I WAS WORKING AS NEWS EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ALSO ABOUT A FOUR MINUTE WALK FROM EITHER RESIDENCE…..HERS OR MINE. WE DIVIDED UP THE ANTIQUES, AND I GOT MOST OF WHAT WAS LEFT, AND THEY WERE SHIPPED OVER TO SUZANNE'S APARTMENT IN THE BACK OF MY CHEVY CHEVETTE. WHAT A LITTLE WORKHORSE.
SUZANNE WENT FROM SENSIBLE PROPORTION, TO RESIDING WITH AN ANTIQUE HOARDER. I HATE THAT WORD, BUT WHEN I SAY IT, IN JEST, SHE JUST NODS IN AGREEMENT….."YES YOU ARE." NOW HERE'S WHY OUR COMING TOGETHER WAS DISHARMONIOUS TO THE PLACE WHERE WE DWELLED.
Not long after I began cluttering her apartment with pine cupboards, side-boards, Boston rockers, harvest tables and books…..oh so many books, the atmosphere changed in the house. While I liked the full book shelves in the kitchen, and the positioning of mid-1800's pine cupboards against the woodwork of the doors frames, the spirit-kind didn't share my Martha Stewart plans for the place. When we'd head to bed, it wouldn't be long before there was the gentle, but unmistakable tinkling of the glass wind chimes. They'd continue for a long time, until we'd get up to investigate, and there would be a typical silence in the apartment. We might then get to about three or four in the morning, before hearing them again. We think now, whatever was creating the sound, and if it was paranormal in character, the purpose was to disturb our sleep, to draw attention to the rights and privileges of previous residents…..possibly the original builders of this fine brick home.
We actually started to ignore the wind chimes, and it was wonderful to be able to sleep through the night. When we'd get up in the morning, there would be cupboard doors open, books pulled askew from the pine shelf in the kitchen, the bathroom door would be hanging open, and assorted lights would be on. When I did get up, one evening, at about 2 a.m. the door of the small apartment fridge was open, and its light on; the bathroom door was wide open, and the inside light was on. So I shut the fridge door, switched-off the bathroom light, and re-secured the bathroom door, making sure it was latched properly. In the morning, Suzanne asked me why I left the bathroom light on, and the door hanging open, and lectured me about checking the fridge door when I'm finished pulling items out. I guaranteed her, I had gotten up in the night, and found the same things that she discovered at daybreak. It wasn't a seven day a week haunting but it could be as much as five days, when we could honestly report something weird had happened in the night. It was always in the late evening. Suzanne also heard someone call out her name, from thin air, and this was also at a period just before she went to bed. As well, in the middle of dinner preparation, the spirit-kind would click off the burner…..possibly being the ghost of a really good household cook, in the past, sensing my young bride was about to burn dinner.
It must be understood, during this period, I was still hauling interesting antiques and vintage decorations, crocks and china, home almost every weekend, especially if there happened to be a regional auction,….. a church flea market or yard sales in the vicinity. I think the movie "Beetlejuice," made sense in our circumstance. The resident spirits, ghosts etc., (nothing harmful or in any way malevolent) did not appreciate change as we were imposing it, upon this historic dwelling. They may in fact have been very interested, in an ethereal way, of getting us to move, and take our junk with us. (It was my treasure, Suzanne's nightmare). The more antique items I brought into the tiny apartment, the greater the late night intrusions. The wind chimes seemed to get louder but I guess there was more stuff, for the sound to bounce off, on the way to our attention in the bedroom. It was obvious by the increasing number of shifting items, in the house, open doors and pulled-out drawers, that there was a growing frustration of the dearly departed and the antiquing folks downstairs. Suzanne is not to blame for this. The haunting she experienced was almost nostalgic and interesting, until it got kind of whacky when I cluttered the joint.
At the time, we had three stray cats, all from the neighborhood, that we had rescued during those several years of occupancy. There was Fester, Tommy, and Animal. Animal was my cat, and it had been rescued in front of The Herald-Gazette office, down the road, when a jerk and his jerk-friend tossed the kitten out of a moving car. I saw it happen, but in the time it took to pull the injured cat off the road, I'd missed the car's license plate. Animal had a few scrapes and bruises but survived. In the former McGibbon House, a rather haunted abode itself, I have a photograph of Animal peering up at a corner of the room, where many mysterious events and noises had come from, during my years at that house. The photograph revealed a strange white mist, hanging in the doorway, and the cat looking up at it, sitting in the doorway. I shot most of a roll of 24 exposures on my news camera. I had my photographic technician, at the time, do many different prints of the clearest image, to determine if there was anything wrong with the negative; and he checked out my camera lens to see if it could have been a light flare, that caused the white image. Everything checked out, and with Animal's help, I may have been able to get my first ghost shot as a journalist. I will have much more on the McGibbon house in a future blog. Point is, Animal was always very animated when the wind chimes would sound, and we'd see her looking up at the wall, in the vicinity where it was loudest. The other cats would just cuddle on the chair, but Animal would follow activity around the apartment, much as a cat would wait and watch for a mouse to appear. Animal knew there was something extra in this apartment.
One evening, shortly after going to bed, Animal had jumped up on the bed to snuggle into my legs. I remember feeling those last numbing thoughts before actual slumber, and then feeling cat claws in my leg. Animal had bolted. The wind chimes were louder than I'd heard them before. I sat up, Suzanne told me to go back to sleep (as it was just a normal night of haunting), and I could see around the corner that a kitchen light was now on. I swung my legs out over the bed, saw the bleeding cat scratch on my shin, and then…..just then, I could smell something burning. I yelled at Suzanne to get out of bed, because something was on fire in the building. I ran into the living room, and the smell was intense. I banged on the adjoining door to the main part of the house, where the owners lived, and found him working the door handle from the other side. We met face to face, with a lot of anxiety etched onto our midnight faces. "There's a fire downstairs," he shouted, as more smoke poured into our apartment. "I've called the fire department…..you've got to get out."
So, here are two antique-burdened tenants, with three cats, held in our arms…..still in our pajamas, trying to make a quick exit…..but not leaving our family keepsakes behind. We got the cats out of the house, and took them to the car at the end of the apartment. I would move that too, after going back in for a couple more items. So here we are, on a winter's eve, standing in the snow, with an antique walking-wheel (for spinning wool) in our hands, and some family photographs we just couldn't leave behind. There's a good outcome to the story. A part of the gas furnace had failed and caught fire. If it hadn't been discovered at that time, so quickly, it might have been a much more dire situation. We had to stay in the car for a couple of hours, but short of it being a little cool in the house, after the fire department had to ventilate the structure, (and the furnace was now on the blink), it was nice to be safe and sound.
In retrospect, and I can't speak about the landlord's awakening, in the emergency, whether the result of smoke or the sound of wind-chimes, but I can validate that long before the permeating aroma of smoke, I was awaked by a frightened cat, and very loud windchimes, to go with the intrusive kitchen light, that came on by itself. The spirit clan of that old house, may have wanted us to move out, and take the clutter, but it certainly didn't want us to perish in a fire. The wind chimes seemed less intrusive for the rest of our residency there, but the doors still opened in the night, and the lights would switch on and off by themselves. We agreed to stop bringing more stuff into the house, and that seemed to evoke a sort-of truce.
There had been deaths in the house previously, one that was rumored to have been an act of suicide. We don't know, for sure, and we didn't believe it necessary to do an in-depth investigation. What we did know however, was that the paranormal occurrences increased three-fold, from the time I moved in with Suzanne, to the moment we recognized there was no room left to hang even a small painting. The former occupants of the house, just didn't like the change we were generating in the little apartment. I can affect people that way. Now it's always potential, that we may have also, inadvertently, brought in a hitch-hiker spirit, on one of the many antique pieces, moved into the apartment. I never felt this, but it is also true, we found one immediately after moving to another abode, just down the hillside. It wouldn't be the first time we inadvertently brought in some patina of the spirit-kind, on an antique we couldn't live without. We were the owners of this early 1900's two story home. And it had a ghost, or more, and two tragic deaths within, during its structural history. Believe me, we found them, but even then, the house had a kindness within, that was a perfect place to start our family. I would live there again if opportunity prevailed.
More on the stranger side of antique hunting and collecting, in the next blog.
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