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| Taken from Audrey Saunder's 1963 First Edition of "The Algonquin Story," on loan to us from our friend Sarah in Huntsville |
MY OBSESSION WITH THE STORY OF TOM THOMSON - WAS MORE PROFOUND AND TOUCHED A TAD ON THE PARANORMAL
THE COINCIDENCES THAT CAME WITH THE TERRITORY
If I started today's story, with the wild and whacky suggestion, that at times during my research of Canadian artist, Tom Thomson, I had, in the spirit-sense, felt his presence, (sensing he approved of my research interventions), how many of you would say, "here's a Currie blog I'm going to miss? See you!" It's one of those occupational hazards, as a writer of stuff like this, (the paranormal, I mean) that fogs over your credibility to be objective (having spirits on side doesn't seem as if you're playing fair); when for example you admit, without fear of being judged too harshly, a firm belief there's more to life than being born, struggling to survive, and dying with nary a peep from the other side. I'm not trying to sell you on the idea, that those who have crossed over, can communicate with the living. That's up to you to explore and discover. For me, I've been talking to dead people since I was a kid, as a family thing, so I don't think about it now, all these years down the pike, as being either absurd or impossible. You see, I'd have to order them to stop communicating with me, first of all. Then I'd have to explain to them that the consensus is, "it's impossible to communicate with the deceased!" If they didn't feel that was ample enough explanation, for why they shouldn't carry on, as before, well sir, I'd be inclined to amble through life the way I have been, and enjoy the fringe benefits of enlightenment. I grew up in a household that wasn't overly religious, and honestly, the only time I ever heard a vocalized reference to "Jesus Christ," was when the Leafs would score a goal, in a game against Montreal, my father's favorite hockey team. But when it came to a sensitivity regarding the afterlife, my mother and I knew it was an eventuality, that would be both surprising and heavenly enthralling.
My grandmother Blanche Jackson, had a lot of what you might say, was "the old country in her." A descendant of British, Dutch and German families from the old world, being the Sandercocks, Vandervoorts and Meyers, she had grown up with the stories, folklore and legends those cultures generated, from as far back as the 1500's, that we know about from family research. As my favorite author is Washington Irving, and the story I gravitate toward, as preferred autumn-season reading, is "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," it is neat to know that my Dutch ancestors were also encamped in what is now New York and New York State, some having lived in burgs similar to the fictional Sleepy Hollow, as burgermeisters. What I cherish more than anything else, is that family connection to the folklore of the region, that Irving used to craft his stories, including "Rip Van Winkle," and those great tales of the ghost ships of the historic Hudson River. It's nice to be related to a million or more Vandervoorts, but quite another, to be entitled, in a small way, to some of the ancestral characters portrayed in stories, as composed by authors respectful of such cultural legacies.
I grew up in a house where superstition reigned supreme, and I meant this most sincerely. Blanche's daughter, Merle, the youngest of the Jackson kids, of Trenton and Toronto, could quote any number of superstitions for me, if I had been interested in knowing more about them, or why she felt they were important to observe respectfully. She understood, for example, what certain configurations of tea grounds meant, when visible at the bottom of a cup. It's why she used tea bags, so this wouldn't happen, because she very much feared getting less than positive predictions. The disaster for her, was when a tea bag broke, (she often saved tea bags for a second dunking, and the casing frequently failed), and she got stuck looking at the shape of the grounds in the cup. I have no idea what may have shown her, in the shape on the bottom or side of the cup, that bad things were about to happen, but it would be the look on her face, that told the story. The same with a tipped salt shaker, having to shake it over the opposite shoulder for restored good luck, stepping on a sidewalk crack, walking under a ladder, having a black cat walk in front, or behind you, breaking a mirror, or scooping "money" off a stirred cup of tea, coffee or even hot chocolate. I won't get into all the details of what these superstitions meant, other than to suggest I grew up being intimately familiar, with what could only be defined as "the paranormal," being a partner in each strange day, and each spirited event, for my entire time living at home. My mother had seen the ghosts of her departed mother, and then her father, in her bedroom, shortly after each had passed away. When the phone rang sometime that next morning, my father heard her say, on both occasions before answering, "my mother has died," and then a few years later, "my father has passed." As my father didn't believe in ghosts or the paranormal generally, I think he was even shocked at how she knew their deaths had occurred before actually getting the news. Maybe it was just a lucky guess each time, if you can call getting bad news as being "lucky." Yet she had confessed to my father before the phone calls, that she had seen her mother sitting on the corner of her bed, and that it was a calming experience to see this. Her father had been seen leaning against the doorway of her room, when she awoke from a later morning nap, and he as well, had possessed a look of great peace on this face, such that it prevailed calm upon her as well. She took the calls about their respective deaths, just as calmly, as if she really had been forewarned about their crossing to the other side.
I have been experiencing similar ghostly encounters throughout my life, and it's been so commonplace, that I'm very seldom ever surprised any more, that the person I just greeted in the hallway, or on the street, disappears without a trace, once I bid them good day. So when I began working on the Tom Thomson story, in the mid 1990's, I was of course, particularly fascinated by the allegations that he had been murdered by someone he knew on Canoe Lake, that fateful July day of 1917. The additional mystery of where his Thomson's body had come to rest, was also something that peaked my curiosity, and compelled me to read everything I could about the historic Canadian cold case. How could one body be in two graves. He was buried in the small Canoe Lake Cemetery, in the hamlet of Mowat, shortly after his body was pulled from Canoe Lake, after death by misadventure. Then, by family authority, a Huntsville undertaker by the name of Churchill, had been contracted to remove Thomson's body from the Canoe Lake Cemetery plot, and shipped by railway, to be buried in the Thomson family plot, in Leith, Ontario, near the community of Owen Sound. Upon exhumation however, the Canoe Lake site was found to contain a skeletal remains. So if Thomson was still a resident of the Canoe Lake neigbourhood, who was in the coffin shipped to Leith? It's still a mystery to this day, because the Thomson family has never approved of a plan to exhume the plot, to put an end to the mystery once and for all.
As soon as I began working on a plan for a feature series, I had proposed for a local publication, my research and frequent travels to Canoe Lake, for the purposes of getting a better backdrop and understanding for the story, the strange coincidences began in earnest. There wasn't a week that went by, during this intensive period of story development, when there wasn't something weird happening, to infill information shortfalls. I had all kinds of phone calls and cards and letters from folks who claimed they knew something about Tom Thomson, previously unknown, garnered from stories their parents used to tell them, when they were growing up; and paddling the waters of the same lake that had claimed the young Canadian artist. Suzanne and I got to the point of expecting these spin-off developments, although we couldn't figure out how all these people were finding out about a story I hadn't yet composed. I suppose if anything, it was the power of "word of mouth" in the early going, and the fact, a lot of folks in this region of Ontario, have held a special fascination and awareness of Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven artists, all of them, at one time or another, having painted in the area, especially the shoreline of Georgian Bay. When the first series of articles were published, even in a relatively low circulation paper, the response was incredible, and offers of research assistance both generous and quite numerous. The more embedded I became with the entire Thomson story, the more coincidences we encountered as a family. This wasn't scary stuff, by any means, but I must admit, that one day, while standing at the Tea Lake dam, where Thomson used to fish, while staying at Mowat, I did wonder, after yet another strange insight about his life, whether the deceased artist was trying to communicate with me; possibly, if I let my mind wander a tad, Thomson was hoping a guy like me could help solve the mystery of his death, and point, once and for all, to the murderer if this had been the truth of his demise. It sure seemed, at times, Thomson wanted me to uncover the murderer. Thus, from the beginning of formal research, I did not believe in the 1917 Coroner's conclusion that the artist had died the result of drowning. I can't imagine what evidence it would take, to make me believe this today, with all that I know and have read about in the past three years.
Growing up in a household that accepted the paranormal for what it was, at that time of many, many coincidences, believing adamantly one could speak from the grave, and seek justice from the services of the living, wasn't all that strange to me or my mother. When I write about it, which basically validates life after death, (on my own terms) it does read as if I'm a little nutty. I've lived with this negative spin-off, as a writer about the paranormal, for many years now, and the net result of entering this realm of study of course, is that you simply address your critics the way you should. Just as my mother did, when asked by friends why she wouldn't walk beneath a ladder, or why she would veer away from an encounter with a black cat, or avoid stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. And possibly even my grandmother had to explain to her house guests, when it came to interpreting the meaning of three knocks on the front door, or explaining the shiver she might have experienced, sitting at home, believing in the lore that someone must have, just then, walked over her grave; the one from a previous life.
Whenever I begin work on a new Thomson research project, or a redevelopment of a former series of articles, the coincidences and strange occurrences will begin once more. I'll let you know if any pop up that deserve mention. In the meantime, I wish to share some of these early pieces, as kind of a scrapbook collection, of Algonquin and Tom Thomson retrospectives, as they related to my work twenty plus years ago; including our many forays into the park as family campers, and hobby sleuths, compelled to find the truth about Tom Thomson's final hours amongst the living. Murder or misadventure while traversing Canoe Lake?
Much more to come in this short July reconnecting, with the Tom Thomson mystery.
The bottom line of it all, is that I cherish the work of Tom Thomson, as does our entire family, and it was this celebration of his work, that inspired us to stay up late into the night, huddled together under blankets on the shore of Tea Lake, to watch the dance of the Northern Lights, just as Tom Thomson had depicted them on his art panels, when he too had watched them paint the sky.
ROY MACGREGOR’S CRITICAL APPROACH -
TOM THOMSON AND WINNIE TRAINOR GIVEN FULL SCRUTINY
By Ted Currie
A number of years ago now, Canadian art historian, David Silcox, gave me good advice about the study of Tom Thomson.
The author of numerous, well respected books on Canadian artists, and the famous Group of Seven, reminded me to never become so preoccupied with the artist’s mysterious death, that his contribution to the heritage of this country, via art, should becomes a lesser consideration.
It has been happening since Judge William Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," hit bookshelves, back in the early 1970's. Assisted by Little’s credible research, assisting with a widely viewed CBC documentary, from the same vintage, a sinister, cold-case scenario was adding murder to the legend, of the life and times of Tom Thomson.
Arguably, over the decades, his alleged murder has gained a momentum of its own. How many admirers now, when looking at his art work, have a loose smidgeon or two of mystery, swirling about in their minds? How did he die? Who would want to kill him? How can one man be buried in two cemetery plots?
. While suspicion had been raised in the early 1930's, by Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies, the CBC and Little had now made a large scale foray into the safe domain of accepted thought. The Coroner’s ruling that Thomson had been the victim of accidental drowning, in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake, in July 1917, apparently was full of holes. From the 1970's to the present, the subject of Thomson’s "drowning or murder" has spawned everything from a cottage game, to a plethora of tomes written and re-written, each one to read more exciting and revealing than the other. Thomson’s demise has inadvertently become an income generator for a lot of creative types. Just for the record, I have never earned one cent from writing about the Thomson mystery.
"Tom Thomson; Silence of the Storm," authored by Silcox, and colleague, artist, Harold Town, was one of my most coveted art resources, when I first began writing Thomson-themed columns for the local press, back in the mid 1990's. I own a signed first edition of this large format gem of Canadiana, and I’ve kept the author’s words in mind, whenever tackling a feature series, such as this one for The Arrow, where Thomson factors prominently into the story-line. Fascinated by Thomson’s art panels, David Silcox, without purposely intending to block "mystery" from consideration, certainly influenced this writer to adopt a more insightful, respectful appreciation for his creative endeavors in life. Regardless of how entertaining the story has become, intruding upon the circumstances of his death, for all these years, it is for me today, a secondary consideration to the study of his paintings. When I look at his art now, I do so differently than I did in the early years of research, when I put murder most foul ahead of all sensible proportion. I was determined to solve the case, name the murderer, and find the precise location of his mortal remains.
I have long been a fan of Judge Little’s book, and I have a signed first edition of "The Tom Thomson Mystery," of which I am delighted to own. But my prized acquisition, also a signed first edition, is Roy MacGregor’s newest book, "Northern Light - The Enduring Mystery of Tom Thomson and the woman who loved him." I actually was the first to inform David Silcox, then in England, about the release of this latest Thomson study. Always interested in updates about Thomson, he was curious about MacGregor’s approach, especially when I let him know he had employed the services of a forensic artist to do a facial reconstruction, from the skull uncovered by Judge Little, in the 1950's, during an impromtu exhumation of the supposedly empty Canoe Lake gravesite.
Thomson was supposedly exhumed and moved from the Canoe Lake Cemetery, only days after his original burial, and re-buried in a family plot in Leith, Ontario. Rumors around the lake led Little, and mates, to believe Thomson had never been moved from Canoe Lake. There was a lot of evidence supporting this assumption. With a quandry like that, why not dig up a grave? Indeed bones were found, when the band of contemporaries, on this macabre outing, put the spades through the rotten wood of the found coffin, said to have been the same one that had contained Thomson’s remains. Without question, this was destined to be an enduring mystery, as it has had, from the beginning, so very many curious events, strange characters, odd comings and goings, and coincidences on top of one another.
What is so interesting about MacGregor’s book, without question, is the fact he has now become the "keeper" of the truths, hearsay, rumors, expectations, embellishments and falsehoods about the Thomson mystery. He has become, in one alluring, sensibly prepared compendium, a worthy archivist of many theories and related details of Thomson’s final days; his death, burial, re-burial, and all the strange cast of characters who played a role, large or small, in what today is a full fledged, no holds barred mystery. And it’s his excellent portrayal of Thomson’s love-interest, Winnie Trainor, of Huntsville and Canoe Lake, that colors in the black and white of a former bare bones, incomplete history. As much as a forensic artist can put a face to a skull, Thomson researchers, long into the future, will be able to use his book as an information fountain, where nothing is summarily left out, but rather stacked to overflowing, for the benefit of discerning readers, researchers, to formulate new theories and enhance sidebar stories. As I mentioned in my last column, Roy MacGregor has become the go-to author, for anyone truly interested in a thorough examination of the past 94 odd years, of what most Thomson enthusiasts would call, wild speculation.
In Roy MacGregor’s earlier historic novel "Shorelines," the author offered everso subtly, a tease of actuality, a taste of the way it was, when portraying, with considerable inside knowledge, the relationship between artist and love-interest. He clearly established a precedent for a second book on the subject. It wouldn’t be a work of fiction either.
By his own admission "Shorelines" got him into trouble with some of his own kin, because of his family relationship to Winnie Trainor. Some of the information was too revealing. On the other hand, "Northern Light," is trouble worth taking, for what it reveals about Winnie’s conflicted life following her beau’s tragic death. I was amazed by MacGregor’s insights about this most important woman, and her role throughout the entire Thomson biography. Without this knowledge previously, the story was at best, a deep echo of unfinished research. Don’t think for a moment, Winnie Trainor wasn’t a key player in the Thomson mystery. She was. The book will explain why.
I won’t give away the story-line of a book I thoroughly respect. It is gracious to Thomson’s art work, and it reminds me of the advice by David Silcox, to separate the realities of his art from the strange nuances of conspiracy and alleged murder. He has done this, while at the same time, not holding back information about the artist’s less than stellar moments, as painter Jackson Pollock’s biographers, had no choice but to reveal his eccentricities, over indulgences and emotional outbursts.
After reading many speculative tomes on Thomson, it was MacGregor’s book that illuminated the artist in a human-on-human context, that we can relate to with some added poignancy. What has been written about Thomson’s character, has offered little more than a faint sketch, with nary a trace of mortal fibre. MacGregor’s work, as a sort of re-animation of the artist, allows for us to see for ourselves, the potential of an artist as a young man; a man with a mate, in the throes of either romance or the crisis of a relationship, and an unwanted pregnancy. There is the sensation of an actual heartbeat, and it makes this book special to my interests, in understanding the whole story of the Thomson mystery.
"Northern Light," released in the autumn of 2010, was published by Random House, Canada, and is available in most new book stores. If it’s not on the shelf, you can order one. I had talked to Roy late last year, about a book signing date in Huntsville. He said he’d let me know. And I’ll let you know if a date is scheduled this summer season.
Thanks for joining me for this column. More Tom Thomson stories to come
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