One of my favourite Bracebridge stories from the archives
This morning, in a light rain with a threatening cloudscape moving in, I am sitting in our van, in a parking space here on the lower (or downtown) section, of Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge. Son Andrew frequently drops in to see his friends at Precision Music, which corners on Chancery Lane, a few stores to the north, from where I'm presently sitting. If it was the 1960's, as I love to write about, I would be sitting in front of the former H.J. Brooks furniture shop. And just south of Maureen's clothing store, and the Thomas Company, jeweller and giftware businesses, that my family used to visit, quite often back, in what are now referred to, as the good old days. Now I'm part of those recollections, and of course it makes me feel older than my fifty-nine years.
It's a busy morning, but I got lucky with this parking spot. When Andrew starts talking about the music industry, and the vintage guitar business, I will easily be able to get an hour's work in, at this keyboard, sitting here in the comfort of our Caravan, watching a summer morning in Bracebridge, mature in both weather and visual commerce. As is usual, I can see the ghosts of those olden days, still wandering the street of which they were so familiar, to the point of being character icons, of what it meant to live here. Having spent a goodly portion of my life, buried in books, when not pounding the pavement waxing nostalgic, I see this street through all the building, reforming generations, who have, in some unique way, and imprint, altered its character according to their vision, investment, and commercial interest. Yet so much on this main drag is really only different, because of its contemporary business tenants, and the modern facades, nailed over the original brick, that dates back to the late 1800's. If you ever have the opportunity, to enjoy a respite like mine today, you can sit and look up at the exposed architecture, and brick-work, at the top of these buildings; at least the ones where it is still exposed. I wonder what the builders of these Manitoba Street businesses would think today, if they could see that their structures have survived into a third century, and are still being used for largely what they were intended, in the 1880's, for example? It certainly suggests that we had some exceptionally talented builders, in town history, for these relics of architecture, to still be serving the business community, being adaptable and functional, despite all these years, since their foundations were first dug into the Muskoka soil.
To my left, is the once grand Dominion Hotel, the former place of lodging, where Canadian artist, Tom Thomson, is alleged to have spent a night, visiting with an art patron, who was interested in acquiring one of his Algonquin paintings, prior to 1917. The building is still being gainfully occupied, now with four retail businesses, and a restaurant, in the main block, and a former utility building at the back, on the north side, which houses another retail operation. There there are apartments above. From its hotel days, in the 1800's, it is still an important part of the economic engine, of downtown Bracebridge, and by all signs visible today, with customers darting in and out, and up the block, it is just as successful today, as it was in its own heyday, as a main street hotel. Possibly it is even more profitable, as a block of urban real estate, than it was proportionally, back in the 1890's. I'd sure like to meet with the builder, because it would seem by its modern day stature, it was constructed to weather whatever was thrown, or imposed upon it. In fact, if memory serves, it survived a massive dynamite explosion, at the intersection of Ontario Street and Manitoba, when a construction storage shed blew-up the result of public mischief. The widespread vibration from the explosion, travelled along the corridor shelf, of underground rock, on the east side, and the only windows that didn't blow out, were the ones that were open. Outside of some broken glass, the buildings survived.
I'm now positioned within a few metres, of the place on the sidewalk, where I once met the outstretched arms of Bracebridge Police Constable, Rod White, who grabbed the handlebars of my bike, and stopped me dead in my tracks. I had been weaving back and forth through the wandering tourists, and had nearly taken down a few folks who walked across my path. So I didn't see Rod behind a cluster of pedestrians up ahead, who I expected would move, when they saw this crazy kid, on his green bike with the banana seat. All of a sudden I heard, "Excuse me please, excuse me," and it sounded pretty gruff; like from the chops of a substantial chap, chewing tobacco. All of a sudden, the crowd parted, and there he was in all his uniformed glory. Constable Rod White, had warned me numerous times, about riding my bike on the sidewalk, especially along the main street. I stopped by hitting his chest with my face, because I wasn't anticipating a sudden halt to my ride, north on Manitoba Street. "Mr. Currie," he began his address, slowly, patiently, without any real emotion on his face, that would have let me know the precise level of his policing determination, to rid the street of cycling kids like me. "How many times have I told you not to ride your bike on the sidewalk," he asked, but I knew he had the answer; considering he did roughly the same thing a week earlier, in pretty much the same location; and a month before that, a little further south. I was a repeat offender. An habitual violator of municipal rules. Was he going to arrest me? Take me to the cop shop for interrogation? "The next time I catch you riding your bike on the sidewalk, I'm going to take your bike an impound it, and then have a talk with your parents," he said, having twice, to that point, spit tobacco juice off to the side, but not on the sidewalk.
I didn't know what "impounding" meant, but assumed it wasn't a good situation for my bike. I didn't like walking home and back either. I was nervous of both those potentials happening, because I lived half my young life welded to a bike, and my parents were obsessed with their standing in the community. "Don't you bring shame on this family," my mother used to tell me frequently, as if she really did expect me to blow something up, like the dynamite storage shed. Well, that happened long before my time. "We have a good name in this town, and let's keep it that way," she'd conclude, giving me her version of the "evil eye". I wouldn't admit, even under circumstance of extreme torture, that I had ever done anything to tarnish the good name of "Currie." When in fact, I had done everything to weigh down our name, but had a track record, until Rod White, that is, of never actually getting caught. Truth was, however, that I didn't really know what she was talking about, or how it would happen, that a tiny, insignificant guy like me, could ruin the reputation, my parents held above all else apparently. But at the moment Rod was threatening to bring the issue of my bike riding, to the forefront, in a meeting with my parents, admittedly, it did have a profound impact that day. Every one knew Rod would have no compunction whatsoever, calling up our respective parents about our ongoing mischief, or failure to follow the rules. So on that day, staring down at his massive hands, on my handlebars, and his belly in the way of forward momentum, I decided to change my evil ways, and keep the bike at home on my downtown jaunts. I think Rod appreciated my change of habit, and for a lot of years under his watch, he never again had to wrap the long arm of the law around my bike.
I like to park myself in these situations around town, because each location inspires me in a different way, reminding me of events and occurrences I hadn't thought about in decades. I travelled all over this town, in my youth, thus you can imagine, I can find stories from almost any portal around the community, including from the residential areas. I really did enjoy my years growing up in Bracebridge, and I took advantage of every opportunity to explore and pursue adventure, in all its various forms. Some of the memories involve me, being chased by the bad guys; I became a good runner, because I spent a lot of time fleeing the scenes of conflict, that by the way, I usually had some hand instigating, in the first place. I had a big mouth, according to popular reviews, of the time; and my actions around town became somewhat legendary. But generally, I have fewer of these memories, in the adverse sense, and many more that I would like to re-live if given the opportunity. I had good friends, and in those days, every homeowner in our neighborhood particularly, was a sort-of surrogate parent, and didn't mind letting me know they were watching; if Rod White wasn't. So what would you say to the young fellow with blueberry all over his face, when rumour has it, a pie had disappeared from a neighbor's window-sill, where it had been set-out for cooling? Or how was a property owner, to react, when finding me up their apple tree, stealing fruit? What kind of reprimand was suited to the wee lad standing in the backyard garden, eating ripe tomatoes off the vine? It was just great that they didn't know my real name. I answered back then to "Hey you," and "Why you little......"
So all of this, just from a main street parking spot, waiting for Andrew to finish his visit. Now that's what I call a "storied" home town.
Antiques, Collectables, and what they can inspire, and remind us, of our pasts
If you happen to believe the paranormalist theory, that those who have crossed over, can, and do communicate with the living, through a medium, and or, offer interactive signs and messages to make their existence known, to all others, then I have another point of view to offer; this time, involving the role of antiques and collectables in this spiritual messaging.
I remember, while watching John Edward's former television show, "Crossing Over," and listening as he described images of identifying items and situations, that those who had crossed over, were sending him as a medium, in order to relate back to members of the audience; and wondering momentarily, to myself, about other aspects of messaging in the paranormal sense.
I have had enough experiences, of being messaged, from those who have crossed over, to feel a sort of semi-medium myself, although I'm not aspiring to be anything other than a writer and antique dealer. I do draw back, in these circumstances, to the fact I had a very profound angel-encounter, during a serious illness, as a child. Research I've completed, in the past several years, on angel interventions, suggest that one doesn't resume a normal life after any angel encounter. It is said, that there is a sudden spiritual enlightenment, granted by the angel-kind, and it never diminishes from that point. So possibly, I was spared by my guardian angel, on that fateful day, at the point when my parents were preparing to take me to the hospital. The fever broke. I could never forget the associated dream of this angel, at a time when I had no real understanding of what an angel truly represented, other than as a religious ornament to be hung on the Christmas tree. So when I reference that I can talk to dead people, well, maybe it came from this angel-encounter, back when I was six or seven years of age.
I don't get the kind of messaging that a medium would, and I don't have images dancing in my head, regarding people around me, sent by the dearly departed, for my helpful transference to them, as word from the great beyond. Mine is much more subtle and unintrusive generally. But I do pick up on signs, and conditions, that remind me of someone, or some past event, that I often feel, are spiritual in the vein of sensory perception. It may be the smell of fresh baking, that comes from our kitchen, at a time when no one is baking, or in any position to open the fridge door, or oven, to release the aroma of food items in storage. It may be the casual, wafting aroma of lilacs or lillies, in the winter season, when there isn't a flower in the room, or any perfume being used in the entire house. But each of these scents, and situations, inspire me to think of some prior event, or personal habit, of someone in our family network, who has since crossed over. So while I don't get images popping up in my mind, I do have the lower end stuff, of picking-up on what I believe are casual, low calorie, little reminders, from the so-called other side, about things they want me to rememeber; for whatever reason. There have been many times in the past, during long writing jags especially, without a break, that much of the sensory stimulation occurs; and I always stop and ask, silently, of course, "what are you trying to tell me?" It could be that a picture on the wall falls down, or one of cats, will knock a book to the floor, that opens, on the way down, revealing a packet inside that I'd been looking for. Maybe it's the result of a song on the radio, and a strange nostalgic illumination in the house, that will remind me of another time, and of a house full of other people, but not just in casual recollection; more like a pointed reminder, that there's something important to consider, or even reconsider, about a plan I had been concocting for the near future.
I have written many times, in the past, about shopping for antiques, and collectables, and being drawn to specific pieces as if, at one time, I had been its rightful owner. My business partner Suzanne, knows how frequently, on an antique hunt, I will come to her in a giant mall, and ask her to come with me, to view a particular piece I found. It might be an ordinary piece to most of the other shoppers who visit those antique malls, but to me, it will stand out as if it has a distinct electric aura; something that compels me to stop, look, and pay attention. Many of these pieces strike a chord, and not just any chord. They may be over-priced or under-priced, but money is never the defining circumstance. Even if I don't buy the piece, which could be as basic as a vintage sewing machine, a landscape painting, or even a piece of clothing, that emits a detectable vibe. It's been happening throughout my life, and yes, it is a little weird at times. It is one of the most difficult things to explain, because most antique dealers, are practical, straight-forward types, who although are attracted to old stuff for general interest and eventual profit, don't have a little recurring voice in the head, that says, "Buy me or else!" While I don't hear voices, as such, I am very sensitive to the aura some pieces possess, although I can't explain why; and I never expect someone else to see or feel the way I do, which is crappy, when it comes down to buying for profit, despite all the other sensory extravagances.
I wonder if you've ever experienced something similiar, when for example, you pass an article in an antique shop or mall, or at an auction or flea market, and then find yourself compeled to turn around, and walk back to where you had seen it? What was it about the article, or display, that inspired you? The price on the sticker? The placement in an overhead lamp's illumination? It's possible future placement with other antiques you own? For decorating purposes? Or was it more profound and deep than this? Did it remind you of something from your experience at a grandparent's house? Something an aunt had on a shelf, or in a china cupboard, that you had always admired? Or, if you think like me, is it possible a grandparent, aunt, uncle or cousin, who has crossed over, is actually trying to tell you something, about their state of the union, via that instant inspiration? Is it possible, that it was no accident that you are at the mall, in the first place, and that you found this particular item, in the booth you usually, on other visits, have missed entirely? Is this the handiwork of a loved one, who has crossed over, trying to warn you about something imminent, through an inanimate, antique piece? From a career antique and collectable dealer, who had some time with an angel of mercy, gads, I could write a book about strange but meaningful encounters with curious pieces; that always, whether I buy them or not, serve to remind me of something I have forgotten. Is this the point of it all? My mother and all of my teachers used to tell me that I should pay attention, so it's not really all that surprising that the spirit world is also concerned about my attention span. Now whether these strange, out of the blue encounters, are the handiwork of the paranormal or not, each of them has, in their own way, influenced me a smidgeon in one direction or the other. I mean i'm always mulling things over. And it doesn't always necessitate me making the purchase, of the subject piece, because that's not what it's all about anyway. Some of the messaging, for me, reminds me of either my own personal biography, and possibly some of its shortfalls, or signals me to stop, and re-assess a chosen direction, that possibly the other side feels is dangerous, or will prove disastrous in other ways. Suzanne knows when I'm in the zone, that's for sure, and because she has also come to validate now, those who have passed, having ability to communicate with the living, we bobb around antique sales responding all over the place, to certain pieces that glow (to our gaze) like beacons for no particular reason. It takes us time to figure out what these signs are telling us. I'm pretty slow on the up-take, so I probably miss a lot of signs, which undoubtedly frustrates the spirits trying, against all odds, to influence me. Sometimes I can go months without anything of particular note. Then, on one day, I might have ten things pop up that blow my mind, that are so freaking coincidental, that honestly, you have to wonder what's going on in the universe. What is it all saying?
I have been attracted to vintage pieces for most of my life, and certainly that dates back to childhood, when, even at six years of age, I was exploring old houses, in my former hometown Burlington. I was attracted to places that, for most of my chums, were dark and forbidding. To me they were welcoming abodes, full of messages, but then, all I knew, was that they would influence me in a some manner, even my prevailing attitude; a cumulative situation that I still feel at my core. Changing my attitude for the following hour, half-day, day, week, and month. I seemed to be attracted to those things, vintage and otherwise, that would generate an initiative, or a prevailing attitude, which always led me in a clear direction toward something else; as if I was being played like a pinball-game flipper. Or led by the tip of my big nose, to where I was supposed to be. I started thinking about this more, in my adult years, especially, when I began writing more, and needing a constant source of inspiration to carry on. I certainly didn't resist temptation in this regard, and have felt that all the messaging, if that indeed, was what it translates as, had good intentions attached. Nothing I have been attracted to, and usually for no apparent reason (including the possibility it was worth more than the asking price), has ever warned me of imminent disaster, or someone's pending doom, even my own. It doesn't mean I don't have feelings of dread occasionally, from seeing or experiencing antiques and collections for sale; but I have enough experience in this regard, to just distance myself just in case. So I guess I accept the good messages and discard anything I perceive to be negative, or having an aura I'm not comfortable with. Here's an example. I came upon a funerary display, at an antique mall, a while back, and what has always fascinated me, in terms of antiques from this profession, absolutely thwarted me, from entering the subject room. I've been there on three occasions, and it's always the same sensation of dread that keeps me from fully penetrating the room. Now this is something for a person who has lived in numerous spiritually endowed houses in the past, and had a fair amount to do with the paranormal, and ghost story gathering. I don't know what piece in this collection strikes me most, as being haunted, or carrying a spirited aura, but I do know, for fact, that it isn't about the collection of funerary items alone. I used to work in a hospital and I have painted areas in and around the morgue, while autopsies were being performed. So if that didn't thwart me, at a young age, I don't believe it's something that would influence me today. I think there may be one or two pieces, that carry a little extra, and the message is that I should not dawdle in the room.
Many antique dealers, I've known, over the past four decades, have had an "anything goes," "anything can happen," attitude, about what can occurs with some regularity in our profession. Strange stuff happens, that we can't possibly explain; coincidences handling an estate, where you'd swear, someone was watching over you, while sorting estate items you wish to purchase. We have all developed, I think, a sensory perception about the antique hunt, and when we become suddenly enamored with a piece, we pay attention, even if we haven't got a clue, what turned us on to it! It's intuition based in large part, on experience, and we know never to mistrust our feelings. Yet on many other occasions, we will stop at some display, and focus on some odd piece, that we may not have any other interest; where we, for a few minutes, ponder what it is, that commanded we stop for a closer look. If that piece generates a recollection, or recalls a specific situation from the past, or in any way causes us to think beyond what we were, before stopping, we write it off to one of those unexplained moments, we accept as being typical but still could never explain the cumulative effect on our lives. A long time ago, I surrendered to these sensitivities, and now, each time it happens, I slow my pace to take it all in; because I figure that if there is some spiritual intervention, commanding that I notice something or other, well sir, then I should be willing to respect the effort of the spirit-kind, and get whatever message I can from the temporary diversion.
Suzanne and I have been walking around flea markets, and fundraising events, where antiques and collectables are the main fare, and suddenly, my good wife will stop, turn to a particular spot on the table, and pull out something that caught her attention. This isn't unusual at all, if you're an antique hunter. Except that when I ask her, how in the world she spotted the tiny piece, possibly an antique pin, or broach, amongst a thousand other overlapping, scattered bits and bobbs, of second hand inventory, she will say, "something told me to look there!" What she means by this, is that intuition led her to look for that piece, that somehow was getting a message to her, even when it was buried under other materials. Could it have really been a spiritually enhanced piece of jewelry? A haunted broach, or Victorian purse? Or was it supposed to be this way? Did the piece make itself available to the perceived right person, so that the message, whatever it was, got from point A to B? "It was meant to be?" How many times have you heard this, about some happenstance situation, or said it yourself, because of some unanticipated union, that was as far off the radar as earth from the sun? Are these just sayings that mean nothing, in the final analysis? Or, are we being played like fish in a carnival "fish pond"? If you've been in enough of these strange circumstances, it does cross your mind, there's more at play here than the unfolding of an average work day for an antique dealer. But now, I always try to figure these encounters out, and attempt, as much as my mortal capability will permit, to garner any relevance a subject piece might have, to the direction I may soon travel. I have opened myself up, to all kinds of spiritual interventions, because they just seem to have more attached to them, than we often give credit. I often wonder, just what kind of games those who have crossed over, are playing with us mortals, such that we are being offered up so many signs and temptations, to follow along, or begging us apparently, to either pay attention, or change direction altogether; or remember the good old days, as they will help us navigate the future. This is my world, and I'm good with it, and all its resident adventures.
This is not to suggest, that I can't get through a day without my spirit guides or partners. I do have a genuine interest in what these signs mean, that we all get in our lives, but most of the time, choose for all kinds of reasons, to ignore or consider only as coincidences that can be easily explained. My feeling, on the matter, is that one day, it will be science that finds the way and means to determine, and define accurately, the existence of life after death; or what they may find is a parallel universe that exists after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment