WHATEVER THE SOURCE OF THE ALLURE TO HUNT AND GATHER, IT WAS, AND CONTINUES, TO BE A DEEP, DEEP WELL OF INSPIRATION
IF MY COLLECTING INTERESTS WERE WILD AND CRAZY, I BUDGETED FOR THESE EXCESSES, BY NEVER MOUNTAIN CLIMBING OR DEEP SEA DIVING ETC.
Suzanne just now, came around the corner of the shop, into the studio, to let me know the weather prediction for the next twenty-four hours was for extreme cold, and high wind-chill values. Somewhere in the minus 39 C range. Well sir, I went to school every morning, in Bracebridge, in the mid 1960's, to mid 70's, across the expanse of the Muskoka River, on the Hunt's Hill bridge, and I hate to think what those numbers would have been; and never once did I hear about extreme cold warnings being issued. We knew it was colder than usual, when our genitals lost all feeling, and our lip fur could be peeled off like a bandaid. I remember old fashion Canadian winters, and while this one has been robust, gosh, it's pretty tame, even in snowfall, to a lot of years when we lived up on Bracebridge's Alice Street. I haven't heard even one timber snap, outside of a few frozen branches in the Bog, and the winter is better than half over. In my youth, and my introduction to the winter season of Muskoka, you prepared for tough weather after Labour Day, and you counted your blessings, if you got to Remembrance Day without a foot of snow on the ground. Honestly, I'd rather have it cold and clear, than warmer with snow; or for that matter rain. I won't be doing anything special this evening, or donning my thermal underwear to walk the dog. I will just do that Muskoka thing, our kin folk were doing in the winters of the 1860's. I may however, snuggle up with our cats, the little white dog, under one of Suzanne's hand crafted afghans, and invite her to climb beneath for a winter respite; hey, it's Valentine's Day, and she's my sweetheart.
I am, in earnest, a stalwart defender, and robust booster of the antique profession, despite what some may see as a general preponderance to criticize present trends, especially in what I see as excessive pricing. I adore antiques and collectables. I remain however, of the opinion, with some validation, skeptical that an antique or collectible, no matter how precious, or adorable, can save my life, if ever I am ever urgently in need.
Instead, I am very much indebted to friends, family, and of course, our heritage of pets, past and present, for their mutual role in giving my life its meaning and purpose. Mine has never been alone, the solitary pursuit of material possessions, as an end-all. I love what we do, hunting for antiques throughout the region, and some of our best family times admittedly, have been spent enjoying the countryside rambles, in this beautiful part of the world, looking for things to enhance our collections, and our respective businesses. The social times spend chatting around the picnic table, loaded with area baked goods and fresh produce, in hundreds of historic crossroads communities, have been precious to this biography. Yet at the same time, never forgetting that none of this would mean a darn thing, without the contribution of human connection, and all related creature comforts.
I have, even from childhood, considered family my best friends, despite the times when we'd rather divorce ourselves from one another. It's just a part of being close, to have disagreements proximity can, by itself, create, as a prevailing but temporary atmosphere. I may have been just another disgruntled child, amidst several billion youth, of my era, having disagreements with parental authority, but I loved them dearly, quirks and all. I had many friends, like Ray and Holly Green, back in my Burlington days, who were as close as family, as were their parents Beatrice and Al, who were my own back-up parents, as were the Nagys, owners of our apartment up on Harris Crescent. I didn't leave from our apartment, without saying goodbye to our budgies, Tinkerbell, and Sam. I still make the rounds of cats, to bid them farewell, as we head to work for the day. Muffin the dog, comes with us, and hangs around the music studio making new friends. All these living, breathing entities, are the succession of sparks, that keep me energized, and interested, in pursuing my assorted professions. I have never been a loner, and even when I was a bachelor, I had "Animal" the cat to keep me company; and she was brilliant at that task. She was a stray, dumped out of a moving car, in front of the old Herald-Gazette building, on Bracebridge's Dominion Street, where I worked. I was standing outside with another reporter, having a coffee, when the tiny critter was dropped onto the pavement, from the open window of a passing car. She rolled a few times, and despite some scrapes and clumps of missing fur, from the friction with asphalt, she recovered pretty well on the humble offerings of a reporter's salary. I had just been dumped by a girl, and Animal had been dumped by a couple of a--holes, and we found a lot in common, huddled in that tiny Manitoba Street apartment, sharing slim portions or edibles. We had a couple of really nice Christmases together, when my family was in Florida. So yes, I did feel she was part of my daily demeanour, and this is common to pet owners. We've only had "Muffin," (adopted from the Bracebridge Animal Shelter in January), for just over a month, and now we can't imagine life without her. Of course, we won't forget Bosko, our previous dog, that died earlier in December, after years of inspiring us, and bringing goodwill to Birch Hollow every single day of our relationship. If passion was measured, there was never a doubt, that Suzanne and I had unfettered love for all the pets, past and present, (as did our boys who cared for them daily); inspiring us each and every day we set out on our specific hunt and gather missions. Bosko the dog went with us frequently on buying trips, as did Kosmo Kramer, the farting Labrador; and very much looked forward to our stops along the way, where treats were made available, including ice cream cones, that both travelling dogs adored. Muffin, who likes New York Fries, comes with us as well, and most antiques shops allow us the opportunity to tote her in our arms, as we shop about; this courtesy goes at our shop as well. We don't take the cats, but they are on our minds constantly, as you would expect of extended family members.
If this reads overly maudlin, sickly sweet, and generally unfit for the ilk of the antique dealer, I couldn't write this out of my biography, without feeling part of my character had been lanced of its substance. Suzanne and I have a neat little antique shop today, connected to our sons' vintage music shop, that is a comfortable and inspiring place to retire as a final business venture. We are surprisingly content, and sometimes we feel a little too relaxed for our own good. When we look forward, we can only hope that this wonderful opportunity continues for some time to come. But we do recognize how we got to this stage of business development, and why we pursued this route, laid down by the way, as a retirement project, in 1985. It's what we wanted to achieve, from the start-up, which by the way was on a budget of a thousand dollars, and when we open the business every morning, frankly, we can't believe our good fortune....and it has very little to do with financial reward. We proved to ourselves, that we could establish exactly what we wanted, as a retirement occupation. Along a very long path from start-up to the present, we have benefitted from so many sources of inspiration, and yes even from our pets, that have always kept us in good spirits, and happy with our home life with family.
Maybe to some readers, I seem overly indebted to others, including pets, for the realities of our present antique shop. It would however, be dishonest, to claim we did it all on our own. We had a lot of help from friends and associates, and always generosity from our respective families, who supported our plans from the beginning. The business, for how long it remains here, and what traditions it may inevitably spawn, is the result of input of all kinds, from advice, to fundamental friendship that has always cheered us up, when the chips were down. We could never take credit for being self-made in this enterprise, because wherever we look, and however far back we remember, there were always those sparks of inspiration, that made us thankful we had taken the right turn at the crossroads; very content, to carry on with our mission of eventual retirement, employed in a business that represented a wide array of personal and shared values. The love of history for one!
I had the benefit of sage advice from many veteran antique dealers, I used to meet up with, during my early years exploring the nuances of the profession. They may never have known, what insight and motivation they gave me, to join their association of hunters and gatherers. I feel quite honored, to have carried on some of their traditions, that they passed on to me, a poor, but enthusiastic underling, hanging off their every shred of wisdom, about how to thrive and survive in such an historic but demanding profession.
I have two preoccupations in life, other than being an unfaltering believer in "family comes first." First of all, I am a life-long collector of things; all kinds of things. Secondly, I am a writer who enjoys nothing more, than writing about my first obsession. As for the family aspect, well, we're all collectors, so no matter what, it all folds into my greatest life passion, and glory be, I consider myself a lucky fellow in this regard.
I don't want to give the impression, that all I care about, in the antique and collectable profession, is the acquisition of inventory to profit from, in our mainstreet shop, or anywhere else we happen to find a profitable outlet. Online sales, for example. It's probably hard to believe, that I have never been so materially obsessed, to have forgotten my roots in this profession; and I hope the Burlington part of my biography, emphasizes this connection to all the good folks, and a few adverse, I've known over the decades; in those interesting, and quaint places, where we have hung our hats in the past. And those who, by happenstance, and social intercourse, I've come to associate, and feel thankful to have been, at points, however brief, in their good company. In the antique trade today, I do feel slightly removed from the inner circle of the industry, and I don't think it's much more than a faint shadow of its former well numbered dynamic; when in Muskoka, for example, every dealer knew and socialized with their many competitors. There has always been a co-operative of dealers and ardent collectors around this region, that while loose and never defined by the constitution of a formal association, shared a lot of information with one another. Most often visible, at the country auctions run by Les Rutledge, his son Wayne, and Art Campbell. It was a weekly meeting opportunity, during the busy summer months, when we could discuss the events of the week, and compare, and possibly even brag about our latest acquisitions. Often, we would buy, sight unseen, items from our dealer colleagues, while having a coffee, and occasionally bidding on what the auctioneers were offering as that moment's temptation.
We were always wary of each other, as I think is common, and even traditional, in the antique profession, and I have read biographies that seem to acknowledge this as a necessary restraint, from becoming "best of best" friends. Maybe we didn't trust ourselves, to keep our secrets close, if and when we succumbed to close friendship, and then let things slip during a wine social. Most of us prefer not to live with those regrets, yet we always seemed to manage friendships that went well past professional courtesy. Whether it was meeting up with associate dealers on the yard sale circuit, on bright and warm summer mornings, or socializing over an all-dressed "food cart" hot dog and beverage, at an outdoor farm auction, we seemed, at least on the conservative edge of friendship, to be able to get along, and share some select insider stories, about the ying and yang of a business suited to eccentrics. I've never met a hardcore antique and collectable dealer, who I could claim, without a wink of the eye, and a couple of nods, to be eccentricity-free.
So in a way, I do sort of feel on the "outs" these days, in the antique community, of which Suzanne and I, are now, minus the framed certificate, senior long-serving dealers in Muskoka. It's not that there is a shortage of dealers today. It's quite the opposite. But it's possible, younger, new age dealers, may secretly worry about getting too close to their competitors; who they think, might wish, in order to prosper as the big game in town, to sink the opponent's battleships, out of perceived dangers to their business economies. I don't know. We haven't changed our attitudes about our competitors, from the days when we counted dozens of dealers as our close associates; always extending dealer discounts as a common, across-the-board courtesy. We still do this, because it is part of the industry tradition, of which we remain committed. We find this courtesy is not as common as it once was, that's for sure. A lot of dealers we come across today, are those who sell their wares online, or in antique mall booths. Back as far as the late 1970's, onward, most of the dealers I knew, had their own little shops, some tucked into their family homes for cost savings and convenience. Others had small but interesting main street shops, throughout Muskoka, and a few had much larger operations in the rural clime. When we got together for our auction and yard sale socials, we aired our grievances with sales slumps, and rejoiced to share stories of more profitable weeks and months, when we actually doubled sales from the month before; making rent and a little profit. In the winter months, it was exciting just to make rent. Well some things never change. Yet in Muskoka, the six month surge, of tourism, always made up for the winter season shortfalls. But this is what we used to share, even if it was the occasional sob story, about having purchased a major collection, and not being able to sell a single piece, to even marginally offset the cost incurred. There wasn't one of us back then, who couldn't whip up a few stories of antique-profession horror, of mistakenly buying frauds and reproductions, and suffering the consequences with angry partners and spouses. It was a modest support group but make no mistake, it was what was needed, to keep us from wallowing in self-pity; because on most occasions, we found kindred spirits, many who were sharing similar maladies of self confidence, in an industry that has long been known as being a ruthless enterprise, where competition between dealers and collectors has been epic; as near-legend, told and re-told in countless stories of mystery and intrigue, about the cut-throat tactics of sharks in this profession; to get and possess what they most desire of antiques and collectables. I haven't seen, or experienced in any way, the most aggressive of these situations, but I have been exposed to enough on the lower level, to be able to qualify all else I've heard, about how nasty it can get, when interests clash out of greed.
In my recollection, after forty years of antique hunting, (1975-2015), I have a far more positive perspective on the profession, despite what negatives bounce about in our realm of interest and business. I have had the privilege of meeting, and associating, with many wonderfully sharing, and charitable collectors, and dealers, in those four decades, and many of these friendships have influenced how we run our business today. Suzanne and I have taken the positive attributes afforded us, garnered from these associations with very experienced and knowledgable folks, who, in our humble opinion, shared our values about this historic enterprise, of buying and selling old and collectable things. Yet, at the same time, we met up with a lot of insider-critics, who shared their discontent with the way the profession was being over-run by a new generation of dealers, who were only in the business for profit; not interested in the comradery or traditions of a profession even Charles Dickens wrote about, of old Victorian England. We have always understood their chagrin in this regard, because we felt exactly the same, when our profession today, is considered just another avenue for generating income. Dealers with a few decades behind them, know that to be fulfilled in our line of work, the heart strings have to be loosened, just a tad. Out of respect and compassion to name two of many.
Consider when we are called in, to discuss the purchase of an estate, with a grieving family. It is our time-honored professionalism, with the same commitment of compassion as the undertaker, that we approach the task with great sensitivity. Their relative or close friend, had to die in order to create this opportunity for us; and while some of us find it hard to contain our enthusiasm to make the purchase, (some are quite incredible), it becomes heartfelt very soon in the process, and attachments develop the dealer might have thought impossible at the beginning. Business is business afterall. Veteran dealers would also be able to write enlightening chapters, in a collective of experiences, involving something or other of paranormal quantity or quality, while dealing with estate dismantling. Much as if the former owner, not long deceased, resents the whole mortal process, of selling-off the articles they possessed in life. It might be the sensation of a hand on a shoulder (the dealer's shoulder), or a whisper of a voice, demanding a cessation of estate settling altogether. The scent of perfume, worn daily by a former owner, of house and contents, who hasn't quite departed yet, for the heavenly oasis of the other side, during the estate process. Not really a drama for the silver screen, to rival other ghost tales, but nonetheless, spirited reminders that provenance can go beyond what one normally expects and hopes for, on any given antique item, big or small. I conduct these dismantling exercises, with an opening respect for the spiritual potentials, so I'm never surprised when I get a hand on my shoulder, in an otherwise unoccupied room. Or catch a glimpse of a vapor in a hallway, or hear a book fall off a corner shelf, when no one else is near. We dealers, have death as part of our enterprise. Antiques, by the fact of their qualifying age, have been owned by others, who have passed on, and our success in the the first regard, has depended on this as a means of inventory gathering. We are the rebound people. It is a little morbid to think of it this way, but it is true none the less. And yes, it does require sensitivity, and a few dealers, I hate to say, have shown little of this, in their pursuit of materials from which to profit quickly.
I hope some of the biographical snipits I include on my blogs, from the archives, will offer some deeper explanation of how personal feelings, and attachments, have morphed into the antique profession, as we choose to conduct business, here now in Uptown Gravenhurst. We are of the same mind, as we were, when we opened in the basement retail space, on upper Manitoba Street, (Below Martin's Framing), in 1989 (to 1996), when arguably, Birch Hollow Antiques was a social club ninety percent of the time. Profitable? Well, just enough to stave off our fetters. We decided to close the business, because I took another more lucrative position, but definitely not because we had failed to make a profit. Quite to the contrary. Yet the best part of the business, by far, were the social gatherings almost every afternoon, through the six days of the business week back then, with associate collectors and dealers; and let me tell you, these were all historical tutorials, with coffee, courtesy some great instructors, who knew their fields of collecting interests inside out. They were never frivolous gatherings, and much of what we discussed and debated, helped me mature as an antique dealer, aware of many more collecting fields, than I might have come to know otherwise. In the antique trade, there is no learning curve. It is a matter of continuous learning.
THE ANGEL, THE KITCHEN, RAMBLE CREEK, AND HARRIS CRESCENT
BURLINGTON AND GRAVENHURST - I LOVE THEM BOTH
I CERTAINLY NEVER FELT COMFORTABLE, SITTING DOWN WITH MY HOCKEY BUDDIES AND TELLING THEM ABOUT THE "ANGEL DREAM," I HAD AS A KID. IF I HAD BROKEN OUT THIS LITTLE GEM OF PERSONAL HISTORY, IN FRONT OF SOME OF MY NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUES, IN THE PUB AFTER WORK, THEY'D HAVE MADE ME FEEL AWFULLY SILLY. IT WASN'T UNTIL A FEW YEARS AGO, THAT I EVEN FELT COMFORTABLE TELLING MY WIFE, SUZANNE, THAT I ONCE HAD A RELIGIOUSLY SIGNIFICANT DREAM. ALL SHE SAID TO ME WAS, "ONLY ONE!" AS IF ONE ANGEL DREAM ISN'T ENOUGH. OR THAT I SHOULD HAVE HAD MANY, MANY FOLLOW-UP VISITATIONS FROM A VARIETY OF RELIGIOUS FIGURES. I KNEW SHE WAS HAVING FUN WITH ME, BUT IT'S ONE OF THOSE SITUATIONS, THAT NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU TRY TO EXPLAIN IT, AND REMOVE THE MYSTERY, THERE'S SIMPLY NO DENYING IT AFFECTED MY YOUNG LIFE. HOW MANY OF YOU, READING THIS NOW, HAVE HAD A DREAM IN YOUR MIND FOR MORE THAN FIVE OR TEN YEARS? WHAT ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE? FORTY? WELL, MINE HAS BEEN AS CLEAR AND POIGNANT FOR HALF A CENTURY. THAT'S WHAT I CALL RETENTION. SEEING AS I CAN'T REMEMBER THE DREAM I HAD FROM LAST NIGHT, BUT I WOKE UP THIS MORNING WITH IT FRESH ON MY MIND. BY THE TIME I'D WASHED MY FACE, IT WAS GONE. THE ANGEL IN MY DREAM, IN AND AROUND MY SEVENTH YEAR OF LIFE, IS STILL WHERE SHE WAS BEFORE, HOVERING THERE, IN THE CORNER OF A ROOM, WITH ENORMOUS WINGS, A SHADE OF WHITE I HAD NEVER BEFORE, OR AFTER, EXPERIENCED IN COGNIZANT EXISTENCE. THE SCENT IN THIS ANGEL'S PRESENCE, WAS LIKE NOTHING ON EARTH. SHE WAS SPEAKING TO ME, WITHOUT ANY MOVEMENT OF HER MOUTH, AND I WAS GETTING THE MESSAGE. IT WASN'T MY TIME.
"ANYONE WHO EXPERIENCES THE ANGEL PRESENCE IS CHANGED BY IT AND BECOMES, IN A VERY REAL SENSE, PART OF IT." THIS IS NOTED IN THE 2004 BOOK, "AN EXTRAORDINARY GATHERING OF ANGELS," BY MARGARET BARKER. "ANGEL' MEANS MESSENGER, AND HUMANS EXPERIENCE ANGELS PRIMARILY AS MESSENGERS. BUT THIS IS NOT WHAT THEY 'ARE,' THIS IS WHAT THEY DO."
IN THE CHAPTER, HEADED "PERCEIVING ANGLES," THE AUTHOR WRITES, "ANGELS CAN BE PERCEIVED BY ANY OF THE HUMAN SENSES, BUT ONLY WHEN THEY ENTER OUR STATE OF TIME AND MATTER, ARE THEY PERCEIVED AS DISTINCT BEINGS. A RECENT SURVEY SHOWED THAT MOST PEOPLE WHO EXPERIENCED AN ANGEL HAD NOT SEEN ANYTHING, BUT THERE ARE PRACTICAL DIFFICULTIES IN CONVEYING A SENSE OF PERFUME OR ETHEREAL SOUND, A WARM UNFOLDING PRESENCE, A PARTICULAR TASTE SENSATION, OR A MOMENT OF SPIRITUAL OR INTELLECTUAL ILLUMINATION." SHE ALSO NOTES THAT, "THE PERFUME OF ANGELS IS DESCRIBED IN VARIOUS WAYS; THE SCENT OF FLOWERS, PERHAPS, OF SWEET MYRRH." BUT IT IS THE ASSERTION, BY THE AUTHOR THAT, "THERE CAN BE NO OBJECTIVE KNOWLEDGE OF ANGELS, NO GLIMPSE OF THE STATE BEYOND THE VEIL THAT IS JUST INTELLECTUAL ENQUIRY. KNOWLEDGE OF THE ANGELS, BOTH KNOWING ANGELS AND KNOWING WHAT THEY KNOW, IS KNOWLEDGE OF A DIFFERENT ORDER. IT IS BEYOND HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, AND ONCE RECEIVED, SUPERSEDES ALL HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. IT CANNOT BE UNLEARNED; THERE IS NO GOING BACK." EXPLAINS RATHER BLUNTLY HOW LONG AN ANGEL DREAM CAN LAST.
SOME TIME AFTER I HAD THIS INCREDIBLY CLEAR, INTER-ACTIVE DREAM, WHILE LIVING AT THE NAGY APARTMENTS, IN BURLINGTON, I ASKED MY MOTHER IF I COULD GO TO CHURCH. SHE WAS ABSOLUTELY STUNNED WHEN I ASKED THIS QUESTION. "WHY DO YOU WANT TO GO TO CHURCH TEDDY," SHE ASKED, AS IT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE FURTHEST THING FROM HER MIND, AT THAT POINT. I DIDN'T HAVE AN ANSWER AS TO WHY, AND I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO ADD FIFTY YEARS LATER. THE ONLY THING SHE ASKED, WAS THAT I GO TO THE BURLINGTON UNITED CHURCH, AS IT WAS APPROPRIATE WITH HER OWN RELIGIOUS BACKGROUND. AS A KID, GROWING UP IN A RELIGIOUS HOUSEHOLD, IN TORONTO, SHE USED TO GO TO CHURCH AT LEAST TWICE ON SUNDAYS, EVERY SINGLE WEEK. LATER IN LIFE, AND ONCE MARRIED, MY PARENTS DIDN'T GO TO CHURCH. MY MOTHER CONFESSED TO ME, ON OCCASION, THAT SHE THOUGHT I SHOULD GO TO CHURCH, BUT IT NEVER HAPPENED. UNTIL THE DAY I THOUGHT I SHOULD GIVE IT A TRY. MERLE FOUND OUT ABOUT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASSES, AND I WAS INVITED TO ATTEND. I LASTED FOUR SUNDAYS. IT WASN'T FOR ME. BUT IT DIDN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH FAITH, AS I HAVE LONG BELIEVED IN GOD, AND THAT THERE IS AN AFTERLIFE. I HAVE TO ADMIT THIS NOW, THAT BEING IN CHURCH DIDN'T MAKE ME FEEL CLOSER TO GOD, OR MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. RECALLING MY DREAM, WHENEVER I HAVE FELT BLUE OR UNINSPIRED, HAS ALWAYS MADE ME FEEL A LOT CLOSER TO HEAVEN. IT HAS FOR ME, BEEN A FEELING OF SECURITY, AT TIMES OF WEAKNESS, AND A WARM SENSATION IN THE SOUL, WHEN I'VE BEEN ILL AND WONDERING IF MY TIME WAS COMING. THE ANGEL SPOKE TO ME, DURING MY CHURCH DAYS, AND MADE ME FEEL THAT FAITH WAS PERSONAL, AND THAT BELIEVING, IN MY CASE, WASN'T GOING TO BE ENHANCED AT ALL, BY GOING TO CHURCH TWICE ON SUNDAYS, OR JUST ONCE IN A BLUE MOON.
FOR THOSE READERS WHO AREN'T AWARE OF MY ANGEL ENCOUNTER, IT OCCURRED DURING A WICKED ILLNESS I HAD, BEFORE I GOT THE IDEA TO GO TO CHURCH; WHEN DOCTORS DEBATED WHETHER I HAD WHOOPING COUGH OR JUST A SERIOUS CHEST INFECTION. EVERY TIME I COUGHED, I WAS SICK TO MY STOMACH. I SAT UP IN A CHAIR FOR ABOUT A WEEK, AND HAD FEVERS ON AND OFF. EVERYTHING I TRIED TO EAT WOULDN'T STAY DOWN, SO I HAD LOST A LOT OF WEIGHT IN A SHORT PERIOD. I KNOW THE WAY MERLE AND ED WERE TALKING, THAT I WAS ON THE BRINK OF GOING TO THE HOSPITAL, BECAUSE I COULDN'T EVEN KEEP FLUIDS DOWN. IT WAS DURING A BAD BOUT OF FEVER, AND A FITFUL SLEEP, BETWEEN COUGHING JAGS, THAT I EXPERIENCED THIS ANGEL DREAM. I REALLY DIDN'T KNOW WHAT AN ANGEL WAS, EXCEPT WHAT WE HAD ON OUR CHRISTMAS TREE, AND AS I HAD NEVER BEEN TO CHURCH IN MY YOUNG LIFE, THE ONLY OTHER ANGEL I MIGHT HAVE SEEN, WOULD HAVE BEEN IN A MOVIE, POTENTIALLY. I DON'T KNOW IF I HAD, TO THAT POINT, EVER BEEN EXPOSED TO A VISUAL DEFINITION OF WHAT AN ANGEL LOOKED LIKE, BEFORE THIS DREAM GAVE ME ALL THE INFORMATION I REQUIRED. IF I WAS AN ARTIST, I COULD DRAW HER EXACTLY. EVEN TODAY. THE ODDEST PART OF COURSE, WAS THAT THE ANGEL APPEARED IN A CORNER OF THE APARTMENT LAUNDRY ROOM OF ALL PLACES. IN THE DREAM, I OPEN THE DOOR TO THE BIG OPEN ROOM, WALK DOWN THE FEW STAIRS ONTO THE CONCRETE FLOOR, AND TURN TO MY LEFT, AS SOMETHING HAD CAUGHT MY ATTENTION.
Hovering in the corner, with large white wings, and a whiteness that was brilliantly bright,……an illumination, that should have been blinding but it wasn't. Even as a kid, without any real knowledge of what was earthly and what wasn't, the angel in front of me, was definitely not earthly. The knowledge transmitted, as I stood there, made it clear, this was beyond anything I could decipher as a mere mortal. This is exactly how I felt. Mortal. The angel was compelling me to pay attention, but in a loving, dominating way. I remember not being able to move at all. But it wasn't the case I wanted to leave. I wasn't scared, but I was enormously curious. I didn't even know what death was, and how a mortal becomes immortal. There was a sweet aroma, that I have never smelled again. There was a slight chill, but I wasn't cold. I felt as if I was floating, as she was, and there was no way of exiting this situation. There was a sound but it was as if something was "whirring," but in a deep, subtle vibration, and once I laid my eyes on the specter, it was as if my head was in a vice, and I could not look away. As I've noted before, she was telling me something, but there was no movement of her lips, yet the words were being received. I felt at great ease, and physically, it had been more than a week since I could sleep for more than an hour, without a fit of coughing, and wrenching into a container at the side of my chair. I felt at peace. Calm. There was no trepidation being in her presence. There was, however, a keen awareness at the time, this was an unusual circumstance from what I had come to know of life, thus far. I understood what was happening, and that the angel was letting me know I had many more years of life to enjoy. This sickness would pass. The look on her face was so peaceful and calming, that I would have chased death, to take hold of her wing, and fly away to heaven's gate. This was not my destiny. When I woke up, Merle was sitting beside me, half asleep, with a cloth in her hand, she had been using wet, to cool my temperature. She startled awake when I opened my eyes, and she immediately stood up and checked my temperature. She yelled to my father, slumbering in another chair, that the fever had broken. I didn't know what this meant exactly, but I felt much better. I never confessed the alleged meeting with my guardian angel. It wasn't important that she knew about this, because nothing was going to shake the belief I had, something wonderful had just occurred. I did get well, and in only a few days, I was back to Lakeshore Public School, and playing baseball again with Ray Green and the lads. Is it possible, this was a genuine meeting with the angel-kind? What are the odds? What has it meant for this writer, over a lifetime? Was I the benefactor of enlightenment, at this age? Have I been enlightened ever since? My mother told neighbor friends, one day when I was in the lower hall, eavesdropping, that "I was praying to God that Teddy would pull through." Geez, maybe I was in trouble that night. As far as enlightenment, well, that's for you to decide, based on what I've written. I feel enlightened, but that doesn't mean I am thusly endowed.
For years now, I have been drawn to books about angels, china figures, carved wooden angels, pictures and paintings of angels, and just about anything else that reminds me of the strange meeting I had with a dream angel. The only book I have at my desk-side today, is the one I quoted from earlier, by Margaret Barker, because it contains the most information, of all the source books I've consulted, most relevant to my own experience. There are a few reprints of famous paintings, depicting an angel or cluster of God's messengers, that remind me, even in a small way, of the characteristics, and features, I witnessed during that dreamland encounter. I can start re-living the dream from just the slightest provocation or inspiration, of feeling, smelling, touching or seeing something that reminds me of the conditions of that meeting. It has, I suppose, been one of the things that has routinely kept this dream alive, for me, over this half century, when by all the precedents, it should have dissipated years ago. These points of light, jig me back, almost as an imposition of condition, that I not forget, that by the grace of God, I am still very much alive.
You will understand then, how difficult it has been to admit the context, of what might only ever have been, a delusion brought on by fever. There are certain contemporaries who would think me quite a "nutter," if I was to admit such a belief in something that was, by my own admission, most likely, just a vivid dream. I don't think my revelation would hold up to scrutiny, by others, even if you now, were to consider aggressive dreams you've had, when terribly ill…..but never had a problem discerning a dream from the qualities and quantities of real life experience. If an angel was to come to you, while wide awake, and it was witnessed by several others, and you got a feather as evidence, that would be slightly more compelling, than me telling you, I had a visitation from a dream-angel. The only qualifier here, is that I did survive, as she told me I would; I did go to church to find out about angles, and their relationship to God, and I have never, in 50 years, been able to forget the dream to its finest sensory detail. It was an ethereal, beautiful experience, of peace and tranquility, and a feeling I hope to experience again. If this is what death represents, then we fear unnecessarily, what the after-life represents.
I have often pondered, whether my great fondness for Burlington, and the Nagy Apartments, had something to do with this experience. Was it the reason that I paid much more attention to my surroundings, and feel today, as if part of my spirit remains there today, liberated, to carry on the play of once…..the adventures that didn't have an end……the times with friends who were blood buddies, to eternity? I can retrace my steps, sitting nearly two hundred miles to the north, and feel the sensations of the Nagy's cool grass on my bare feet, smell the cherries from the old tree, the gas that Alec poured into the tank of his lawn mower, the blossoms on Mrs. White's fruit trees, and the glorious…..heavenly smells coming from Ann Nagy's kitchen, where her bread was cooling on a rack, and her famous apple pies, were just finishing-up in the oven. It is a sensory bombardment, if I wish, and over the past week, it has been so much fun, re-living those good old days, when my family and I resided at 2138 Harris Crescent.
Ann Nagy had a masterful way of peeling an apple. She liked to be able to make one cut into the apple, and provide one long, spiraling peel at the end. It was like a challenge for her. My victory, was that I got to eat the peels, and the longer the better. I got to sample everything she cooked. Her culinary talent was beyond what one might call exceptional. Her food was the kind that satisfied every hunger pang you had. It was food for a lumberjack. It was hardy and nutritious, and for years and years I used to say to Merle….who was a mediocre cook at best….."this isn't as good as what Nagy made me." There was no way on earth, Merle or even Ed, who became a good cook in later years, could hold a candle to the master cook, Ann Nagy. Did I mention her cabbage rolls? I would have cut off my arm, for her cabbage rolls. Her hot buttered bread, was sinful. When Alec and I were called from the living room, to come to the kitchen table, we arrived with eyes wide-open…..a minor amount of drool at the corners of our mouths, and feeling our hearts palpitate in respective chests, as casserole dishes steamed, and soup runneth-over, and beautiful brown pie-crusts oozed apple syrup around the edges. When Alec dug-in, it was for the long-haul. He'd wink at me, like a sergeant, getting the platoon ready for a charge onto the battlefield. When he reached for the bread, and the butter knife, he was, you see, telling me, "be brave son, tear off a chunk…..today, is the first day of the rest of our lives." There was an aura of good living in that kitchen, I will never forget, or surrender to old age. I will always remember the smile of satisfaction on Alec's face, when he sat back in his chair, folded his hands across his full belly, and said, "Teddy, have you had enough to eat." If there is a definable heavenly smile, it was painted on my face. Because this was what any one would like of heaven, but this place was on earth.
I am so pleased to have re-connected to Ann, Alec and Mary Anne Nagy, proprietors of the Nagy Apartments, in Burlington, Ontario. It is a little less hazy, and distant today, than it was several weeks ago, before I was contacted by Tracy McKelvey, my knew Burlington friend. After some online searching for references regarding the Harris Crescent neighborhood, out of general interest, she found a written connection to Ann Nagy, I had written some time ago. The night Suzanne came to tell me, that I'd just received a message from somebody in Burlington, and that Ann Nagy was still hustling in that kitchen of hers, all these years later, I was overjoyed to reacquaint with old friends and a good home town. Tracy provided some great photographs of the apartment building, and the neighborhood, especially my old haunt, in the ravine of Ramble Creek, and Lakeshore Public School. It all brought back cherished memories, and reminded me how negligent I've been, not doing this sooner, and seeking out the Nagys long before now. So the past seven parts, have all been written on the spur-of-the-moment, with nary a written note, or outline……just the good feelings I've always possessed, about those years in a wonderfully kind neighborhood, where a kid could be a kid, and be forgiven for his trespasses. Ann and Alec were great overseers, and saved me on numerous occasions, when I seemed bound and determined to break my neck, or sever an artery. They were family people, and as both my parents worked outside of Burlington, and I spent a lot of time alone, Ann and Alec were always around, to make sure I was okay……and wasn't in possession of anything that would spark a fire, blow something up, or electrocute any one of my friends. They watched over me, as if I was their kid, and that meant a lot to me, even then. While I did dislike Alec running at me, with his bottle of iodine, when I'd cut myself, or been in a bike mishap, he was deeply concerned about my welfare. I can tell you honestly, that I could never feel lonely, as long as I have these memories, to remind myself of the good neighbors we had on Harris Crescent, and at the Nagy apartment building, where residents cared about each other……as extended family members. How could you not love something like this, or wish for any place else to live? That's my feeling, anyway, and the reason I will never tire, of thinking back to the way it was…….
Thank you so much, for taking the time to read this short biographical piece, about my scalawag days, growing up in Burlington, Ontario…..where the fog made my trips to school so mysterious, and the fog horns on the lake, gave a kid's imagination a boost…..the ripe chestnuts, something for a kid to look forward to…..and hurl at both friends and adversaries, as was the tradition of the day. While this concludes my Burlington reminiscences, I've got lots more Muskoka pieces to write…..so please visit my blog again soon. Happy Valentine's Day.
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