A Haunted Attic and The Hills of Bracebridge

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUNDS OF "A TOWN" BUT ARE YOU LISTENING?

FROM THE BEGINNING, THE SETTLERS MADE PEACE WITH THE LANDSCAPE, IN RETURN FOR WATER POWER AND NAVIGATIONAL CONNECTEDNESS

     "Lest we forget,' may I say to the young men and boys, that their fathers found a rough, forbidding jumble of hills and holes, penetrated by a winding river; that they removed the hills, bridged the river, filled the holes, laid smooth walks where they themselves, had to slither through the mud; that they filled the germ infested wells and brought pure water into your homes; that they made the impenetrable darkness into a fairyland of light; that they took the barren, unsightly streets and planted trees, shrubs and flowers, to delight your senses; that when they went to their shops at six in the morning, they spent an hour cleaning and filling dirty lamps, and then plugged through until near midnight handling salt pork, codfish and barrels of salt, without even paper bags for parcelling rice, while you asunter down at 8:30, turn on the radio, live amid pretty labelled cans and packages, step into a car at 6 p.m. and spend the evening on the lakes or in gorgeous amusement halls. They gave you churches with pipe organs - well, you know what those fathers gave you by their foresight, faith, perserverance and self-denial." The passage above was written by G.H.O. Thomas, former publisher of The Bracebridge Gazette.

     If you grow up in a prairie town, you will possess an unspoken, ingrained appreciation, for flat, open land, and a far off panorama of treeless horizon. If you happen to have spent part of your life, in company of the Rockie Mountains, making up the most prominent aspect of your panorama, then obviously, you will have a deep seeded sensitivity to this type of landscape; and sensitivity to the lifestyle and inspirations it motivates. Have you lived in a prominent valley, or a community in the north, with short summers and long winters? Have you spent some quality time living in a community, carved out of the thick Canadian forest? What about living on a lake shore, or river? Has flooding been an issue, the disadvantage of living along a watershed? Then consider what Bracebridge has had to offer its inhabitants, since the first shanty built in 1859. Lots of trees, rock, water and hills. Oh so many hills to overcome and imbed residences and commerce. Hills and the valleys that influence huge cataracts along the river course, such as the Great Falls, on the South Branch of the Muskoka River, Bracebridge Falls, (into Bracebridge Bay), Wilson's Falls, and High Falls, and all the rapids in between.

   From 1859 to the present, we have been influenced by water and hills more so, because of the challenges they have presented to our living arrangements. Today we don't give it much thought, but that's to be expected. But when you look at how the town has developed, through its history, you can't go very far in the chronicle, without full appreciation, regarding all the influences on development, to which these landforms have had a profound impact. Not only has the town hugged the river bank for all the resource potential it could provide, but we have used the hillsides to a general advantage, and it's also what makes the urban community so picturesque and appealing to our visitors.

     Take the main street for example. When I was growing up, there was clear distinction what area was downtown, and what, above the Queen's Hill, was defined as "being uptown." For all intents and purposes, the uptown began, in mindset, not just based on topography, but on the age of the buildings, and continuity of the heritage linkage. By this I mean, that while the hillside defined the downtown, because it was in a sort of depression, or shelf, at either the top or bottom of other slopes on the landscape, you could still be "downtown" and yet be visiting the Bracebridge Public Library. In reality, at least the thinking from my period, as a hometowner, from 1966 until 1989, downtown stretched from the silver bridge and the Bird's Mill buildings, all the way to the northern tip of the triangular  Memorial Park, with its tall maples, ceremonial canons and the bandshell, which was constructed in the 1920's, as a tribute to the local citizens, who had died in service of their country, during the First World War. The park, where the Bracebridge Citizens Band used to host regular concerts, became part of the accepted downtown, or traditional business core, because of how and why it was established as a memorial. So if I told my mother, back in the spring of 1966, that I was going downtown, this is the business area I could be found wandering. In more modern times, the topographical depression, or shelf of land, where the original downtown was constructed, is what merchants wanted to highlight, and re-invent, as if going back to the first days of settlement.

     In the early 1990's, I wrote for a short-term publication, then known as "The Downtowner," financed by the downtown merchants, who wanted to make a clear territorial distinction, between their commercial area of the main street, by highlighting the unique history and tradition of this first area of development, dating back to its hamlet era. I thought it was a good idea at the time, and although it was probably seen as divisive in the commercial, "all-for-one one and one-for-all" way of thinking, it had some potential to be a long term promotional magazine. I certainly think it would be a success today, if it was published online instead of on newsprint. If it was re-configured, to take in the whole main street business community, it would probably fly, based on the neat history of this important part of town. But getting back to the hillside, Bracebridge was the model of what a "downtown" really means, and back forty to fifty years ago, this old section of town, was the undisputed hub, that held the community's economic future together. It had a strong core of businesses, and local politicians knew where to invest their time; which is why you would see so many of them at the Top Hat Restaurant, and Angie's Delicatessan, for coffee chats, with uncertain political overtones. Downtown was a meeting place, that made politics, and governance a far more approachable, visible reality. It was pretty transparent back in those days, and there was a lot of citizen input, without ever having to attend a formal council meeting. You just shouted from one table to another, or did some old fashion table-hopping, to put a word in edge-wise. Those who governed us, glad-handed up and down the main street, but it was downtown, in the traditional sense; only a short walk from town hall, where leaders of the business community, industrialists, contractors, and investors met as a matter of course; in the part of the old village, where ideas had been hatched for well more than a century. It was a "happening" place, because it was a strategic "gathering" location, for all Bracebridge boosters, whether you wanted to talk about the successes of the local hockey clubs, (or how to get teams winning again) or if, by chance, you were hunting for a couple of investors, to help finance a slice of farm pasture, for some future posterity. It was all very public enterprise, and many of the town's movers and shakers, were the proprietors and owners of those businesses and the respective buildings. When the downtown is dismissed as old news, and a street of whiners and complainers, those who are making these statements have no respect for its integral part in community life and times, dating back to the time when there were only a few cabins and several businesses on the entire strip.

     I have a copy of a special heritage feature, written by the former publisher of the Bracebridge Gazette, (which was later joined with The Bracebridge Herald, circa the 1950's), which explains some of the significance of the hills of our community. Written by well known citizen-teacher-writer and newspaper personality, G.H.O. Thomas, the reference to the hills commences as follows:

      "That winter of 1884-85, was probably the busiest of all, as work began on building the railroad in the fall of 1884. Fifty years ago the road now used from the South Falls turn, to Bracebridge, was known as the New Road but all mail stages had to go the old road by South Falls, over Sharp's Hills. Weren't they hills? When sleighing was good, all passengers might ride but when roads broke up, all male passengers had to walk up hill and were lucky if they didn't have to shove. At Easter 1885, I walked up Sharp's Hill in mud almost ankle deep. But it was in winter when big loads of logs were being hauled, that the exciting rides took place. I don't know whether they ever used chains under sleigh runners then or not, but often didn't. The descent began with horses holding back and moving slowly. Gradually the load would force quicker movement, until towards the bottom of the hill, horses would be on the gallop with teamsters hollering, for all they were worth, to warn any who might be coming the other way.

     "In those old days, Sharp's Hill had nothing over Free Methodist Hill for steepness, but the Free Methodist Hill was much shorter. Only a few of you ever came down what was then Free Methodist Hill. The one you think of, is that (road) now going up to the church, but in olden days that was Scott's Hill. Nobody ever came down that except the most daring coasters. Scott's Hill was not made passable until years later. Imagine what it was like when the road was on a level of the houses now perched on its side. Free Methodist Hill was the one that goes straight up when you cross the bridge, but in those days it was more abrupt because in more recent years, the bridge has been raised, and the foot of the hill filled. Sure enough, passengers used to enter Bracebridge with a thrill. Yes, Bracebridge had other hills fifty years ago. The next time you are on Ontario Street, by the (former) Salvation Army Barracks, (Dominion Street, where it ends with Inn at the Falls), look how far below the street some houses still are. That hill was at least that much higher in those days, and only about half as long. The Queen's Hill, some years ago, when excavating for a sewer at the foot of the hill, workmen came upon trees and stumps ten feet below the surface. Queen's Hill has been filled many feet at the bottom, and cut down many feet, and made very much longer at the top."

     G.H.O. Thomas notes that, "In my early days, people very rarely attempted to walk up or down Queen's Hill, on the west side. Hunt's Hill was a dandy. In the old days nobody ever attempted to take a load up Hunt's Hill. All hauling in the Baysville direction went by a bridge, crossing the river at Wilson's Falls. You may get some idea of Hunt's Hill, when you look at the cut at the top and then at the bottom, where the old bridge was so much lower than the present one, that loads of loose hay were drawn across the old bridge under the new one, while the latter was being built. My recollection of Hunt's Hill as it was, comes vividly, by a little incident of that first winter. Mr. Robert Leishman took a load (citizens) out for a dance at their lumber camp somewhere in Macaulay. We had a dandy dance to the fiddle of the cook. All went well until dancers began to slip. Then it was found that in the 'swing your partners,' the ladies dresses had swung against the tap of the molasses barrel, and let a stream of syrup pour onto the floor. But I digress. Coming home the horses got out of control on Hunt's Hill, and slithered the passengers down onto the ice. Possibly there has never been a more exciting dump on that hill since, though many thousands of logs have rolled down. Often in recent years, I have thought of Bracebridge hills, as they were fifty years ago, and have felt admiration for the public men, of the town, who by infinite patience and perseverance and faith, have removed mountains."

     Hills today are still referred to in much the same way, as when I was growing up, which is still pretty contemporary in terms of that era of urban development. For example, the steep hillside that looks down upon Ball's Flats, and was once accessed by the continuation of Wellington Street, across the lower level of Monck, or formerly known as "Cheese Factory Hill," (becoming Highway 118) became known as "Snob Hill," in part, because of the larger homes that were being constructed on its ridge. The former Premier of Ontario, MPP Frank Miller used to live on Snob Hill, but I never found him to be a "snob." I'm pretty sure it is still referred to in this regard.

     When I was enrolled at Bracebridge Public School, I had to walk down Hunt's Hill in the morning, and up the Queen's Hill to get to the height of land, where the school was situated, on McMurray Street. The reverse, obviously, had to be followed going home for lunch. So it took four times a day, to deal with these substantial inclines and subsequent declines, to arrive at both school, and back at our Alice Street residence. That first spring, May 1966, I got to participate in another hillside debacle, without having a clue where "the track" was located at the school. I had been all around the playground, and with the exception of gravel, tarmac and a baseball diamond, there was no visible track for running on. When our physical education teacher, led us to the edge of the playground, on the west embankment of the school yard, I couldn't believe what we were being asked to do, in order to find this evasive track and field resource. I knew looking out at the horizon, and the farm land way below this shelf of land, getting to the lowland was going to be interesting. I was scared half to death. It was the steepest slope I'd ever tried to navigate, and the teacher was yelling at us to hurry to the bottom. Well sir, there was no dawdling possible, thanks to gravity. There were kids falling all over the place, getting their feet caught up in exposed roots, and fallen boughs, not to mention a pretty large quantity of exposed rocks. It was a frightening romp down a cliffside as far as I was concerned, although most of the students thought it was a neat local challenge, to make it to the bottom without breaking your neck. The way up? After running the track and the long jump for an hour, we had to climb back up that same cliff. Tired, hot, and with wobbly knees, we were expected to arrive at the top in mere minutes, and well, for me, that wasn't going to happen. It was my first serious introduction to the hardships associated with living on hilly terrain. There is a narrow paved path up that same slope today, and it is ridiculously steep and difficult to navigate. In my day, it was a sand and rock path suited to a mountain goat. But the Bracebridge kids and teachers, treated it as if this was nothing but a gentle slope. It's what I mean about the gradual acceptance of local geography, by immersion to all its ups and downs. I came from Burlington, where hills in the urban area, were, slight, few and far between, and nothing to overturn your apple cart. I had some adjustments in attitude to make, from what were mole hills in comparison, to what my new hometown offered as interesting landforms.

     Thanks for joining today's blog. It's always neat to have you aboard. Please visit again for more left of centre stories about growing up in Bracebridge.

FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES

A HAUNTED ATTIC AND A WRITER IN RESIDENCE AND AN ANTIQUE SHOP

The year I graduated from York University, in Toronto, with a freshly inked degree in Canadian history, I arrived back in my then hometown, of Bracebridge, and commenced getting involved in everything I could. Community events and initiatives that had even the slightest heritage fringe, must have needed my help. Or so I thought. I guess you could say I was "pumped" to get involved.

It was the spring of 1977. Within weeks of settling in, we had launched plans for a family antique business, which involved a move to the mainstream. I begged some column space from a local publisher, and got my very first byline on a weekly column entitled simply, "Antiques and Collectibles." Before the end of the year I had held an inaugural meeting of a proposed Bracebridge Historical Society, in the attic of the wonderful old McGibbon house, we had just moved to, in order to operate Old Mill Antiques. The Historical Society's objective, when officially launched, would be to save Woodchester Villa, an octagonal home, built by Henry Bird of the well known Bird's Woollen Mill on the Muskoka River. It wouldn't be until 1978 that the Historical Society was officially recognized but it had its seed in the attic of Dr. Peter McGibbon's former Manitoba Street home.

I was overflowing with ambition, some of it misspent. I somehow believed that the rolled up diploma, now tucked into a dresser drawer, entitled me to fire off in all directions, and be successful no matter where I hurled myself. It didn't proceed quite as I'd hoped, but 1977 was a good turn-around year, particularly as a writer in this splendid, early 1900's residence. The best part of the new digs, was that I was able to turn the large attic portion, in the three story house, into a great place to write. With a huge window at the front, affording a panorama of Manitoba Street's, maple-lined Memorial Park, I could watch a lot of comings and goings at all times of day and night, over the four seasons. As a fledgling writer, there was always something to make notes about, or expand from observation, into another short story. It was a luxurious, inspiring location that most writer's would have killed for, especially the solitude. Street noise was always muffled, it seemed, even if the window was open.

We had a three room shop that first year, an apartment in the back, and access via the back stair, to the attic room, which stretched from the back of the main house to the front, as the south wing, along the main street, had only two stories. I would work in the store, or in the basement refinishing through the day, and following dinner, I'd spend the rest of the night, and well into the morning, working at the attic window, where I set up my desk and typewriter. For several years, I wrote like a man possessed, and I dabbled in poetry, play composition, short stories, non-fiction, and of course my weekly columns for the local press. Sometimes I'd wake up with a start, head hung down over the typewriter, where I'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. It was a non-threatening, comfortable, subtly inspiring studio set-up, and I wanted to tap into it for everything and anything it could, as inspiration, to motivate a budding but unaccomplished author.

Even as a kid, I've always been keenly sensitive to my environs, and whether I'm writing, or just lounging, the aura of the room or the abode generally, factors deeply into my psyche. It will show up in my writing in any number of ways. It has taken four places of lodging, since, to have found my perfect writing place again, after leaving the McGibbon house, when my wife and I got married. Even though Birch Hollow, for me today, is a great and nurturing place to write, it is nothing like what I'd benefitted from in that main street attic.

As I've been aware of house-vibes, every place our family has ever called home, during the past 56 years, I instantly knew the McGibbon house had a positive aura, from the moment I stepped foot inside the main foyer, on that first look-see with the property manager. Working in the attic, I always had the feeling there was a resident spirit, or more, moving about the house, on the back staircase, and occasionally around me in the attic. I'd suddenly feel a strange draft of cold air, and hear footsteps coming up to the landing-door, when everyone else in the house was sound asleep. I sometimes felt as if a watcher was looking over my shoulder while I worked. Admittedly, I had moments when I felt mildly uncomfortable, but a lot of that came from Hollywood depictions, of ghosts and hauntings, such as the move "The Changling." But the positives of the place far outweighed the occasional sensation of spirits wafting around me. I got used to their presence.

Until one late night encounter, that is! I had worked late to finish a newspaper column. As I did every night, I began at the desk, turning off quite a number of sources of light, two floor lamps and two overhead fixtures, before I'd reach the attic door that was kept closed when I was working. Once the last overhead light was turned off, the only light to guide me down the back stairs, was the hall light on the next floor. When I'd get to that landing, I'd flick off the switch, close the door, and count on the illumination of the ground floor kitchen lamp, to get me down the last flight of stairs. On this occasion, when I had turned off the landing light, and taken a few steps out onto the platform of the second floor, I had an experience never to be forgotten. I had walked into a brilliant, white, cold, scented vapor in the otherwise dark staircase.

For several seconds, I was consumed by this cloud, and could see nothing else but the brilliant light all around me, and the chill-air like one would experience walking into a freezer on a hot summer day. It wasn't a frightening experience at all, but unsettling by its sudden arrival in that location of dimly-lit house. It passed as if it was moving up the stairs, as smoke, and I just happened to get in the way. But there was no doubt in my mind, once it had passed, that I had just enjoyed a one-on-one experience with an apparition. I got down to the bottom of the stairs, sat down on the last step, and tried to recall the sequence of events. Could there be any other explanation to the encounter, than to admit to myself, "I'd just seen a ghost?"

As I sat there, I felt a similar cold draft of air, slide down the back staircase, and it was so strong, it actually ruffled my hair. Seeing as this was mid-winter, and the furnace was directly below where I was sitting, and hot air rises, it seemed as if I'd had a second encounter in only a few moments, with the same passing spirit. I wasn't scared but I was definitely alerted to the potential of paranormal energy, flitting about Dr. McGibbon's former residence.

Several days after this adventure on the back stairs, while I was working in the shop, a group of people came in for a look around. I immediately noticed that they were formally dressed, predominantly in black, and seeing as we were neighbors of the local funeral home, I assumed they were visiting the recently deceased. When I heard them talking amongst themselves, about where they remember a family member sitting, in one of the rooms we had turned into store-space, I felt strangely compelled to listen more closely to the conversation. They had obviously lost a family member who had lived, for some time in the past, in the McGibbon house. They weren't of the McGibbon family, but came much later in the building's history. When I asked them a few questions, because I'm a "Nosey Parker," as my mother used to call me, one of the relatives said that a family member had died on the night I had witnessed a specter, climbing up the back stairway. Then the hair on the back of my neck, really did rise in salute, to the ways of the hereafter. By golly, I think I walked through a ghost, or possibly the ghost walked through me. If you've heard about a spirit taking leave of the places it dwelled in mortal form, during life, then it isn't so much of a stretch, to think that this sighting was just a final re-tracing of the good old days, for one last time.

I didn't say a word about my paranormal introduction, to their newly deceased relative. It wasn't the appropriate occasion, to blurt out something like, "oh, yes, I met your relative on the last go-around of the old haunt," and, back in the 1970's, it was still at a time when folks assumed you were a nutter, if you dared to admit even a slight, half-belief in ghosts. So it was our secret, the ghost and I, until much later when it was shared with Canadian Ghost Sleuth, John Robert Colombo, and it got a mention in one of his well known publications.

It made working in the attic much more interesting and event-filled after this.