Superstitions and Folklore Of The Old Country Needed To Be Preserved In The New Country

WHAT'S SO SPECIAL ABOUT WASHINGTON IRVING, ANYWAY, BESIDES THE FACT THE TITLE OF HIS BOOK, BECAME THE NAME OF A TOWN

FOR ONE THING, HE KNEW THE IMPORTANCE OF FOLK LORE TO THE CULTURAL HERITAGE OF A REGION AND A COUNTRY

     In August, of 1864, the American Civil War was creating battlefield horrors out of picturesque valleys, cleared pasturelands for as far as the eye could see, and filling long sweeping hillsides in the eastern regions of America, with soldiers wearing the blue and the grey. The echoes of war, could be heard clearly in the north, and even in the pioneer hamlet of Bracebridge, news of the war's casualties, were contained in stories published by the city newspapers that were mailed to the settlements of South Muskoka. Would the winning American army, turn their attention toward Canada, reminiscent of the War of 1812, as a means of creating a much larger United States? Is it any wonder then, that in the midst of this dangerous war, that W.D. LeSueur, thought it was prudent, to borrow the title of a book, written by a revered American author, named by the way, after a former President, to then entitle a Canadian community with what would be seen as being American influence? While I have never believed it was the reason Bracebridge declined to embrace the full relationship of literary provenance with Irving, it does give pause for thought! If it was the case, it would be somewhat more acceptable, me thinks, because there was risk of northern focus. When the war ended, and Canada was safe from conflict northward, it would have interested townsfolk to know, that Washington Irving had based the book, Bracebridge Hall, on the traditions of the old country, namely being England, and the reverence expressed of Squire Bracebridge, was that he was a stickler for adherence to old superstitions, legends, lore and all related traditions of life and times that were diminishing in cultural value, in the english countryside. The book that shared its name with Bracebridge, Ontario, was in the spirit of old England, where most of the settlers at that time, had emigrated from, before occupying the vast wilderness on what was the Canadian frontier. Irving had the opinion, that these relics of culture, should not be abandoned, simply because the United States had separated itself from colonial rule. He wrote of tradition with this respect for their conservation for the greater good of a country's identity.
     Honestly, it's not my fault. It's not a fault at all to be imaginative. I have grown up this way, for better or worse, because of early-life exposures. I have no regrets. I would not wish, even if I was afforded the opportunity, to change a single thing about the way I was brought up, that always offered encouragment for my creative enterprise. Whatever that might have been, or meant, at any particular time.
    My imagination was allowed to thrive, because my mother Merle, knew it was likely to be integral to my longterm advancement. She knew early in life, I wasn't going to be an accountant, lawyer, architect, biologist, or astronaut. I think she thought of me as more of a poet, than a botanist. An artist more so than a building contractor. The greatest freedom I could ever have hoped for, was having a parent who encouraged me to create, and expand my imagination, to whatever proportion I desired. Attached of course, to an imagination charged with inexhaustible energy. To expect the unexpected, was my motto. To encounter, by sensory perception, what could only be explained as a figment of a vivid imagination. My mother would chastise any teacher, who dared to suggest her son was a "day-dreamer". Merle thought that it was an asset to be a dreamer. One who could employ imagination to overcome life's stalemates, was most likely to succeed at living an emotionally prosperous and fulfilling life. Merle was the least likely person, to be so profound, in the philosophical sense. I'm just thankful she was my advocate in this regard when I needed it the most. Sometimes I fear education today, as well as imposed technologies, have reduced the development of imagination to its bare minimum, denying children especially, what my mother offered me, as that unfettered opportunity, to explore fantasy to its furthest horizon. Letting me chase the "what ifs" to my complete satisfaction. A lifetime spent this way, might be considered fool's folly, and it might well be the truth, considering I believe in angels, life after death, ghosts and sundry other entities of enchantment, known of legend and lore. I don't wear it like a beanie cap with a propellor whizzing on top. I have never worn a pair of clown shoes, or a bulbous red nose, hat with a cat living inside, or attired myself in a cape, thinking of myself as a super hero of some acclaim. But, it is true there's a carnival breaking loose in my mind, and I'm invited to attend whenever I so desire.
     You see, I have never walked through a windswept pasture, that I haven't been acutely suspicious, I might soon come upon some wafting apparition, of possibly a pioneer child, mother or father, buried in an unmarked grave, I happen to pass-by, situated along a well worn homestead pathway. I have never strolled through a pine forest, or hardwood acreage, without being aware of inherent enchantments, and characteristic woodland sprites, fairies, gnomes and leprechauns, associated with these low-light natural places; the preferred shadowy residences of bandy legged wee beasties, assorted hobgoblins and crusty old trolls, living under rickety bridges, that vibrate as if about to collapse, at even the slightest footfall across its length. On the edge of The Bog, in the first moments of nightfall, the twinkling lights of fireflies, darting above the rolling mist, certainly inspires thoughts of fancy, as to what magic their show heralds for the creatures of the night. I grew up with appreciation for the folk lore of my ancestry, and while you might think it foolish, what was acceptable in childhood, has lasted to the status of senior adulthood, I am glad to have this comfort of strange fiction, as good company, when the rest of society weighs heavily upon the shoulders, and conscience, we routinely over-burden at great peril, and consequence, to its general well being. I am restored when my imagination is peaked, and my curiosity fulfilled. I am most content, to sit at my desk, and compose pieces just like this. Silly hearted of course.
     In the past several blogs, I've re-visited my childhood experience, with what I believe was my Guardian Angel. A dream that is now at least fifty-four years old, and is as clear today, as it was in the minutes after I awoke, having survived a night of fever, and an illness that had last three weeks. Or so my mother told me later. I have pondered this dream, of being in the presence of a most comforting, compassionate angel, many times in the past five decades, and I'm still unsure what message I was supposed to take from the experience, other than the fact I didn't die that evening. I hope, of course, that over most of a lifetime, I have honored the dream with the respect an angel is deserving, and that if she could get a message to me now, it would take note of my congenial nature, my generosity, consideration of others, and the fact I cuss much less these days, much to my wife's satisfaction. Now for those who find me intolerably self-centered, a narcissist of epic proportion, inconsiderate of others' feelings, when I sing in the bathroom, and let's not forget, how Suzanne labels me the ultimate cheapskate when buying things for the house. I will tell you this, however, that I understand the implications of having a dream-visit by an angel, and if any one thing, I've possessed more than anything else in my life, it's been gratitude for her divine intervention on that night, when my parents were on the brink of taking me to the hospital, because they had run out of options for home care. Like a tatoo, this one of an angel, I have worn this experience close to my heart, since I was about six years of age, and I shall leave this mortal coil, with it as fresh in my mind as ever, and I think this knowledge, garnered early in life, will benefit me when it comes to saying goodbye to all that I have known and loved of this human experience. So it has not just been something from my past, to write about for the sake of filling the white background of this blog-site. It imprinted upon me, early enough in life, that it has become entrenched in my beliefs about everything else. It is why I trend toward stories of the paranormal, and of course, why folklore appeals to me, as fantasy did as a child, walking through Bamford's Woods and the Grove, haunted by whatever our imaginations deemed appropriate for the occasion. It was the initiative to read books by those authors, who demonstrated the same respect for superstition, the paranormal, the spirit-kind, and resident enchantments, adapted for wherever we happened to be living, and the circumstances by which I explored the countryside attributes, whether highland, lowland, haunted forested, or misty moor.
     It was the work of Washington Irving, much later in life, that spoke to those needs I possessed, to re-connect with the unfettered way I had celebrated childhood. To say the "angel made me do it," is a far stretch, but it would be truthful to suggest, the divine experience did show me the possibilities and potentials of existence and beyond, just as the universe held so very many secrets to human existence, whether it be heaven, or the neighborhood of alien life forms.
     When mid-summer rolls around, each year, and the harvest gets a little closer, the evenings a wee bit cooler, the blue sky, a deeper hue, and the field grasses become a duller, patina-green, like the finish on a pioneer rocker, rather than representative of spring, I think about the literary work of American Author, Washington Irving. Of course, the author is intimate to me, because of the fact I wrote a book, back at the turn of this century, about the fact the Town of Bracebridge, was named after a book written by Irving, entitled "Bracebridge Hall," circa 1822, a sort of sequel to his 1818 text, known as "The Sketch Book," which, of course, contains the story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and the moonlit ride of the Headless Horseman.
     When the hamlet of North Falls, was re-named "Bracebridge," in August of 1864, after Irving's book by the same name, what should have been reason to celebrate literary provenance, of an internationally acclaimed author, turned out to be a quiet amount of whining instead, that a perfectly good name had been rejected by W.D. LeSueur, postal authority, responsible for naming new post offices in Canada. LeSueur, as I've written about at least a thousand times, in the past twenty years, was also a respected literary critic, also with an international reputation, having had his reviews of books published in the well known Blackwoods review, in England. When he rejected the name "North Falls," it was because he had something better in mind. He wanted the fledgling community, to have a little bit extra to build into their heritage, something to eventually celebrate when reaching milestones of inhabitation. It was a wonderful gift, and a literary provenance, that could have, if properly honed from 1864, been used by the good folks of Bracebridge, Ontario, for all kinds of enhanced programs, economic and social, as was their right having this kind of provenance, part of their recorded history.
     LeSueur just forgot the importance of setting the record straight, from the beginning. While he admitted the town was indeed named after Irving's book, shortly before he died, he never explained how it had been intended as a literary honor, as LeSueur was very fond of Irving's work, and talent as an author. It just never became the heritage icon it should have been, and my efforts in the past twenty years, haven't done much more than scratch the surface, to create even the smallest shred of interest, anywhere in town, to exploit what, because of a name and author, belongs to them as provenance. What a shame. I hate that this incredible part of history has been ignored for so many years, when in reality, it could have meant a connection with one of the greatest authors to have ever lived. I never give up on this mission, to activate interest in Washington Irving, and his fabulous body of work. When I had to prepare a column for the August issue, of the publication I write for, "Curious; The Tourist Guide," I put together another short retrospective about what amounts to my now historic failure, to sell the Town on the very great value of finally embracing its literary connectedness to Irving and Bracebridge Hall; a remarkable story about old England and its traditions. No writer or historian likes to dwell on the circumstances of their failures, but in this case, it's being entrenched in history, whether they happen to like my meddling or not. Now however, it has a negative connotation, and I'm left to explain it better, hopefully to coming generations, of town leadership, possibly possessing more interest in such heritage matters, fifty or a hundred years from today.
     I have had the same situation in the Town of Gravenhurst, that two years earlier, in 1862, was named "Gravenhurst," after the name of a book, written by a British author, poet, philosopher, William Henry Smith, a fascinating human being, known for his kindness and brilliant insights about the human experience. Smith's book was entitled, "Gravenhurst; or Thoughts on Good and Evil," and was found by William Dawson LeSueur, in his capacity as postal authority for Canada, the perfect name for the hamlet gathered between two lakes, being Gull Lake and Lake Muskoka. When the post office opened in August of 1862, the shingle read "Gravenhurst," instead of what the citizens of the day had submitted, as being "McCabe's Landing," in recognition of the first modest hoteliers in the region; McCabe's Tavern. LeSueur also forgot to provide the pioneer residents with the reasoning for his change of names, which of course, all these years later, would have been highly beneficial to the community; that at present, doesn't assume much help can come from association with a dead poet.
     In the case of Washington Irving, it's very much the personal commitment, that I will never drop my interest in the story, and trying each and every year, to sell my old hometown, on the inherent benefits of forging a working association, with all groups, libraries and museums in the United States that have embraced the literary legacy of this revered author, and have celebrated his work for long and long, because of the good the celebrated provenance heralds.
    As well, I am a devoted Irving reader; for one thing, I have four of his stories, right now, on a shelf beside my chair, including "Rip Van Winkle," and "Bracebridge Hall," in the form of an 1887 book, I picked up at a local estate sale. When I get befuddled by day to day goings-on, and tired of face-value dealings, fearing my imagination has dried-up like an old prune, I will gladly invest a half hour or so, to rekindle the magic, Irving, with generous ink, poured into his fiction, for readers benefit. He gives us fantasy on a platter, and offers us the opportunity to reactivate our imagination, as we enjoyed as children, and he welcomes us, to be voyeur's of his phantom ship, sailing down the haunted Hudson River, and then hear the curiously appointed Dutchmen, in the heights of the Catskill Mountains, bowling in the cloudscape as its embedded thunder-makers; hear the pounding hooves of the Headless Horseman in the pursuit of the fleeing Ichibad Crane, in the burg of Sleepy Hollow. Then when I look out the window, above The Bog, from here at Birch Hollow, I too will be open to possibility, and greet such a horseman with eager anticipation, except should he wish me poorly, or hit me with a flaming pumpkin. Irving offers up such delightful relics of tradition, and folklore, he insisted on rekindling for the posterity of cultural identity. Thanks to his courageous literary forays, and ripening imagination, for our gain, I never walk in the misted-over moor, across the lane, without keen anticipation that I might see some paranormal entity or other, and connect with the fantasy side, the shadow of reality, modernists wish to conceal as distractions, taking us away from the focus on the immediate; such that it might encourage us, to be silly hearted, and give credence to the abstractions of all those alluring fictions, that cause us to fritter away time, as if it was inexhaustible. I on the other hand, find time most liberal and acommodating, when I am at the peak of being frivolously endowed with good humor, and great expectation; life needs its embedded curiosities and exceptions to be tolerable.
     In tomorrow's blog, I will offer readers a sample of a Washington Irving story, I have great affection for, regarding his spirited stay at the manor house, known as Newstead Abbey in Nottingham Englands Sherwood Forest; the home acerage of Robin Hood. Please join me if you can withstand a little haunting good fun.