WHAT I WROTE ABOUT LIVING IN SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE ON LAKE JOSEPH!
THERE WAS NO WAY OF AVOIDING THE SHEER MAGIC OF BEING DOWNSIZED
My mother, on her first visit to my little home in the woodland, said she could hear strange voices, whenever she sat out on the front lawn. Merle was excessively superstitious and claimed it was the fault of her ancestry; the Pennsylvania Dutch, which as it turned out, (because we checked out her story) was the New York Dutch, with a touch of German for good measure. Her family, the Vandervoorts, were well rooted in the earliest years of settlement, on the present site of New York City, and it's likely her kin folk represented part of the inspiration, as a Dutch settlement, for Washington Irving's creation of his best known story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." It was my mother's favorite story. As for the voices she heard, at my cottage, I have no idea where they came from, or if they could be attributed to boaters talking out on the water, the echo making its way on shore, or just the casual conversation, nearby cottagers were enjoying, while sipping a cocktail on their patio. If my mother thought she was hearing fairies conversing, she never said, and I didn't ask. Merle was a genius in math, and had a long career in banking. She was methodical and what most who knew her, would call a straight shooter. Merle didn't dress-up a criticism to sound like a compliment. She was blunt and honest, and sometimes a little hurtful, but had a strange relationship with the whole realm of superstition. As I've written about previously, it wasn't easy growing up in a home where superstition was more important to observe than religion. If I used the Lord's name in vain, the retribution was less, than if I refused to toss salt over my shoulder at dinner, if, as was usual, I knocked over the shaker. If I broke a mirror? Forget about it! For seven years I was going to be dogged by bad luck. As former Toronto Maple Leafs player, Tiger Williams (who Merle adored) used to say, which she quoted frequently, "Teddy, you're done like dinner." So folks, I've got a pretty lengthy background in superstition, and folklore, and I'm not too upset by this either.
I didn't get up in the middle of the night, to see who or what was responsible, for the three knocks on the front window, of the little lakeside cottage. Maybe a neighbor was playing a prank on the new tenant.
When I looked out over the north lawn, one late evening, as I was passing in front of the window, in the main room, I saw a myriad of little lights hovering over the grass. A gathering of the fairy-kind, or a swarm of lightning bugs? I heard the clatter of little feet on the roof-top, one night, when I was sleeping in the second floor bedroom. Was it a squirrel doing the midnight shift, or was it the wee beasties that haunted the woodlands? It's not as if I hadn't heard bumps in the night before; and as well, suspected ghosts had haunted a house where I once used to live. But being alone in this strange little abode, with all its resident sounds and secrets, did make me slightly nervous those first few nights. The blackness outside, especially when shoreline lights were extinguished after midnight, made it so dark and forbidding below the hillside stand of trees, that knocks on the window, and a footfall on the roof did make me ponder whether the source was benign and natural, or malevolent. It's not that I was scared of ghosts or hobgoblins as they might have presented here, but this unusually appointed cottage, lifted from another time in history, gave off the aura, in so many ways, of being a parallel to the physical "Wardrobe," in the C.S.Lewis book, "The Witch and the Wardrobe." Things were different inside, and I have always had a difficult time explaining why. I felt different inside the cottage, than I did on the outside, looking in! Like wearing a particularly believable Hallowe'en costume, and feeling you've also changed in character, to match appearances. I hadn't really thought too much about time travel until I lived for a month in the historic cottage. I was being enchanted in an enchanted cottage. I was being influenced, as a writer, to pay attention to it, as if it had become my writing partner for that summer and fall season.
Honestly, I had to take off my hat and lower my head, in order to get through the downsized front door, of the neat little cottage. I've published numerous pieces, in this blog, even recently, about the miniature English cottage I lived in, during my first year as a paid writer, situated in the picturesque hamlet of Foote's Bay, on the shore of Muskoka's Lake Joseph. I was working for The Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon at the time, (summer of 1979) and our office was in the nearby Village of MacTier. When I've written about the amazing little cottage, that was owned by the McDonald family, they were all mostly general feature articles (in the form of blogs), but nothing that would profile, what a fledgling writer would be working-on, in a downsized cottage, suitable for gnomes and their ilk. I won't repeat the complete description of the purposely miniaturized cottage, but you can archive "Seven Persons' Cottage," to see some of the earlier blogs on the subject. It was like travelling back to the mid-Victorian period in England, with all its cultural enlightenments and traditions, imposed on the previously unsuspecting dweller of a little Muskoka cottage. It was like the dust-jacket of the book I was yet to write.
It took awhile, that summer, to figure the place out. Think about yourself in such a setting. You have to hunch over to get through the antiquated front door, that creaked as if it was in an old castle, and the first architectural feature of the interior, other than the rich patina of the exposed woodwork, is the fireplace with miniature gargoyles carved onto the mantlepiece. Then there was the huge front window, looking north up the lake, that seemed at first glance, as if the stern of a great schooner, with a built-in cushioned seat instead of a small sill. When I closed the front door, the north wall revealed a fold-up desk in the alcove, with book shelves. The interior design suggested the model for the downsized version, would have been an English countryside abode from before the 1850's. I met the builder of the house, a fascinating chap who also built the cottage a little further north on the shore. He also carved "character" pipes, and I had a chance to view his amazing collection, and talk about the building of "Seven Persons Cottage." It was a hobby for him and a great advantage for me, the occupant that summer season. He was as fascinating as the cottage.
Everything of course was downsized to scale, which I used to know, but have forgotten since. It had a separate tiny dining room with fold-out table, and a creaking staircase, that Hollywood would have found attractive for a movie with a ghost attached, and there was a wonderfully bright but little kitchen, with all the appliances I needed to make my own meals. I could use the fireplace but I waited until the cooler nights of late August. Talk about an amazing experience. You could lose perspective real easy. The fantasy aspect to it, was the way the cottage actually seemed to get bigger in the lamplight, and was enhanced even further with the fireplace glow, which illuminated the gargoyles on the mantle wood. I can't imagine any writer being uninspired by this amazing interior, that afforded such a storied atmosphere. My position of choice, was to curl up on the window seat, with its comfortable and thick cushions, and enjoy the view up the lake, which even in the late evening, was a curious scene of boat lights, incoming and out-going, and all the cottage lights around the small bay where the marina was anchored at the south end. I could even look out the door and see the lights of the marina twinkling off the water of the small harbour, with its miniature dock and boat tied-up. There were times when I'd drift off to sleep, awakening after dropping my note pad onto the wood floor, and feeling as if my dream wasn't over quite yet; and had taken a strange turn. For an antiquarian thinker like myself, with Dickensian perspective, and a Washington Irving bias, even at this point in my budding writing career, this place allowed me to slip back in time legitimately, and the miniaturization of the interior, facilitated my interests in the "fantastic." I could so easily write short stories with a paranormal, supernatural theme, and it was as if Edgar Allan Poe was sitting beside me, with a Raven perched on his shoulder. There was an air of enchantment. It was an inspiring place to work, and sitting there, on the window seat, I'd fill at least half of a reporter's notebook before turning down the wick of the Victorian era oil lamp, on the shelf beside me. It was like stepping back in time, and the flickering lights in the front room, made it perfect for the writer of historical fiction. I was more of a poet in those days, when I had free time to pursue creative writing. I'd also sit there, at window-side, and read works of authors, such as C.S. Lewis, wanting to know more about his take on the supernatural. I read "Alice in Wonderland," by Lewis Carroll, and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," by Washington Irving, three times that autumn season.
When I look back on some of my jottings from that period, it's certainly true that the cottage interior influenced my perspective. And even the poems scribbled onto the pages, as if I feared the inspiration would suddenly run-out, reflect a profound submission to the strange fictions that wavered like the eerie shadows; in the yellow illumination of the oil lamp, and erupting flames from the hardwood log in the fireplace. It was easy to be lulled into the story-lines of Charles Dickens, because, I was, afterall, in the bosom of an old english cottage, in essence, here in the hinterland of Canada. As a student of history, it was a luxury to bask in the remembrances of old and dear traditions, as legendary authors, like Sir Walter Scott spun his border tales, and ye olde bard, Robbie Burns' poems of historic Scotland. I may have enjoyed a drachm or two of brandy, while sitting on the window seat, pen in the other hand, looking out over the moonlit lake, listening for a wee bit, to Harry Lauder on the small portable Victrola I had brought with me, to hear some of my old 78's. On windy nights, aye, what a romantic, sentimental, folk lore-laden abode it was, listening to Harry's Scottish songs, and reading some Robbie Burns, for what ailed me of complacency. The aroma of trace woodsmoke from the hearth, and the perfume of candle wax and coal oil, put me in the old bard's cottage and the only influence denied, was that of a freshly baked haggis steaming on a platter.
I don't know what rapped on the window pane that night. I haven't got a clue whether or not, the lights I saw in the dark of night, on the lawn outside the cottage, was a fairy ring, or just the typical show of fire flies doing their own dance. I do know that this storied wee place, offered me an environs in which to be fascinated, and it is how I have lived ever since. I would rather live with this naive anticipation, amongst people, places, and things that inspire me, than be stuck in a sterile circumstance, where everything can be explained through forensic investigation, the intrusion of cold logic, and precedents of the past. Tell me, what fun would it be, if there was never, ever, the innocent speculation, in even the most mature mind, for even a moment, about the possibility, as thin as it might be, that a monster lives under your bed?
Tonight we rejoin Washington Irving's story of the Ghost Ship, in the region of the Historic Hudson River, an interesting study of how the intricacies, and mysteries of the environment, can influence an author's imagination. Delightfully so, especially for those who enjoy tales of the supernatural.
WASHINGTON IRVING'S "STORM SHIP" CONTINUED
"THERE IS ANOTHER STORY TOLD OF THIS FOUL-WEATHER URCHIN (STORM SHIP'S CAPTAIN), BY SKIPPER DANIEL OUSLESTICKER, OF FISHKILL, WHO WAS NEVER KNOWN TO TELL A LIE. HE DECLARED, THAT IN A SEVERE SQUALL, HE SAW HIM SEATED ASTRIDE HIS BOWSPRIT, RIDING THE SLOOP ASHORE, FULL BUTT AGAINST ANTHONY'S NOSE, AND THAT HE WAS EXORCISED BY DONNIE VAN GIESON, OF ESOPUS, WHO HAPPENED TO BE ON BOARD, AND WHO SUNG THE HYMN OF ST. NICHOLAS, WHEREUPON THE GOBLIN THREW HIMSELF UP IN THE AIR LIKE A BALL, AND WENT OFF IN A WHIRLWIND, CARRYING AWAY WITH HIM THE NIGHT-CAP OF THE DOMINIE'S WIFE, WHICH WAS DISCOVERED THE NEXT SUNDAY MORNING HANGING ON THE WEATHER-COCK OF ESOPUS' CHURCH STEEPLE, AT LEAST FORTY MILES OFF! AFTER SEVERAL EVENTS OF THIS KIND HAD TAKEN PLACE, THE REGLAR SKIPPERS OF THE RIVER, FOR A LONG TIME, DID NOT VENTURE TO PASS THE DUNDERBERG, WITHOUT LOWERING THEIR PEAKS, OUT OF HOMAGE TO THE HEER OF THE MOUNTAIN, AND IT WAS OBSERVED THAT ALL SUCH AS PAID THIS TRIBUTE OF RESPECT, WERE SUFFERED TO PASS UNMOLESTED."
WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE THIS SHORT STORY, IN THE WORDS OF HIS WELL TRAVELLED CHARACTER, GEOFFREY CRAYON, ESQ., IN THE SKETCH BOOK, OF 1822 VINTAGE.
"SUCH,' SAID ANTHONY VANDER HAYDEN, 'ARE A FEW OF THE STORIES WRITTEN DOWN BY SELYNE THE POET, CONCERNING THIS STORM SHIP; WHICH HE AFFIRMS TO HAVE BROUGHT TO THIS COLONY OF MISCHIEVOUS IMPS INTO THE PROVINCE, FROM SOME OLD GHOST-RIDDEN COUNTRY OF EUROPE. I COULD GIVE YOUR A HOST OF MORE, IF NECESSARY; FOR ALL THE ACCIDENTS THAT SO OFTEN BEFALL THE RIVER CRAFT IN THE HIGHLANDS ARE SAID TO BE TRICKS PLAYED OFF BY THESE IMPS OF THE DUNDERBERG; BUT IS EE THAT YOU ARE NODDING, SO LET US TURN IN FOR THE NIGHT'."
"THE MOON HAD JUST RAISED HER SILVER HORNS ABOVE THE ROUND BACK OF OLD BULL HILL, AND LIT UP THE GRAY ROCKS AND SHAGGED FORESTS, AND GLITTERING ON THE WAVING BOSOM OF THE RIVER. THE NIGHT DEW WAS FALLING, AND THE LATE GLOOMY MOUNTAINS BEGAN TO SOFTEN AND PUT ON A GRAY AERIAL TINT IN THE DEWY LIGHT. THE HUNTERS STIRRED THE FIRE, AND THREW ON FRESH FUEL TO QUALIFY THE DAMP OF THE NIGHT AIR. THEY THEN PREPARED A BED OF BRANCHES AND DRY LEAVES UNDER A LEDGE OF ROCKS FOR DOLPH; WHILE ANTHONY VANDER HAYDEN, WRAPPING HIMSELF UP IN A HUGE COAT MADE OF SKIN, STRETCHED HIMSELF BEFORE THE FIRE. IT WAS SOME TIME HOWEVER, BEFORE DOLPH COULD CLOSE HIS EYES. HE LAY CONTEMPLATING THE STRANGE SCENE BEFORE HIM; THE WILD WOODS AND ROCKS AROUND, THE FIRE THROWING FITFUL GLEAMS ON THE FACES OF THE SLEEPING SAVAGES; AND THE HEER ANTONY, TOO, WHO SO SINGULARLY, YET VAGUELY, REMINDED HIM OF THE NIGHTLY VISITANT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE. NOW AND THEN HE HEARD THE CRY OF SOME ANIMAL FROM THE FOREST; OR THE HOOTING OF THE OWL; OR THE NOTES OF THE WHIP-POOR-WILL, WHICH SEEMED TO ABOUND AMONG THESE SOLITUDES; OR THE SPLASH OF A STURGEON, LEAPING OUT OF THE RIVER, AND FALLING BACK FULL LENGTH ON ITS PLACID SURFACE. HE CONTRASTED ALL THIS WITH HIS ACCUSTOMED NEST IN THE GARRET ROOM OF THE DOCTOR'S MANSION; WHERE THE ONLY SOUNDS HE HEARD AT NIGHT WERE THE CHURCH CLOCK TELLING THE HOUR; THE DROWSY VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN, DRAWLING OUT ALL WAS WELL; THE DEEP SNORING OF THE DOCTOR'S CLUBBED NOSE FROM BELOW THE STAIRS, OR THE CAUTIOUS LABOURS FO SOME CARPENTER RAT GNAWING IN THE WAINSCOT. HIS THOUGHTS THEN WANDERED TO HIS POOR OLD MOTHER; WHAT WOULD SHE THINK OF HIS MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE - WHAT ANXIETY AND DISTRESS WOULD SHE NOT SUFFER? THIS WAS THE THOUGH THAT WOULD CONTINUALLY INTRUDE ITSELF TO MAR HIS PRESENT ENJOYMENT. IT BROUGHT WITH IT A FEELING OF PAIN AND COMPUNCTION, AND HE FELL ASLEEP WITH THE TEARS YET STANDING IN HIS EYES," WROTE IRVING.
"WERE THIS A MERE TALE OF FANCY, HERE WOULD BE A FINE OPPORTUNITY FOR WEAVING IN STRANGE ADVENTURES AMONG THESE WILD MOUNTAINS, AND ROVING HUNTERS; AND AFTER, INVOLVING MY HERO IN A VARIETY OF PERILS AND DIFFICULTIES, RESCUING HIM FROM THEM BY SOME MIRACULOUS CONTRIVANCE; BUT AS THIS IS ABSOLUTELY A TRUE STORY, I MUST CONTENT MYSELF WITH SIMPLE FACTS, AND KEEP TO PROBABILITIES."
IRVING REMINDS, "AT AN EARLY HOUR OF THE NEXT DAY, THEREFORE, AFTER A HEARY MORNING'S MEAL, THE ENCAMPMENT BROKE UP, AND OUR ADVENTURESS EMBARKED IN THE PINNACE OF ANTHONY VANDER HEYDEN. THERE BEING NO WIND FOR THE SAIL, THE INDIANS ROWED HER GENTLY ALONG, KEEPING TIME TO A KIND OF CHANT OF ONE OF THE WHITE MEN. THE DAY WAS SERENE AND BEAUTIFUL; THE RIVER WITHOUT A WAVE; AND AS THE VESSEL CLEFT THE GLASSY WATER, IT LEFT A LONG, UNDULATING TRACK BEHIND. THE CROWS, WHO HAD SCENTED THE HUNTEERS' BANQUET, WERE ALREADY GATHERING AND HOVERING, IN THE AIR, JUST WHERE A COLUMN OF THIN BLUE SMOKE, RISING FROM AMONG THE TREES, SHOWED THE PLACE OF THEIR LAST NIGHT'S QUARTERS. AS THEY COASTED ALONG THE BASES OF THE MOUNTAINS, THE HEER ANTHONY POINTED OUT TO DOLPH A BALD EAGLE, THE SOVEREIGN OF THESE REGIONS, WHO SAT PERCHED ON A DRY TREE THAT PROJECTED OVER THE RIVER, AND, WITH EYE TURNED UPWARDS, SEEMED TO BE DRINKING IN THE SPLENDOUR OF THE MORNING SUN. THEIR APPROACH DISTURBED THE MONARCH'S MEDITATIONS. HE FIRST SPREAD ONE WING, AND THEN THE OTHER; BALANCED HIMSELF FOR A MOMENT; AND THEN, QUITTING HIS PERCH WITH DIGNIFIED COMPOSURE, WHEELED SLOWLY OVER THEIR HEADS. DOLPH SNATCHED UP A GUN, AND SENT A WHISTLING BALL AFTER HIM THAT CUT SOME OF HIS FEATHERS FROM HIS WING; THE REPORT OF THE GUN LEAPED SHARPLY FROM ROCK TO ROCK, AND AWAKENED A THOUSAND ECHOES; BUT THE MONARCH OF THE AIR SAILED CALMLY ON, ASCENDING HIGHER AND HIGHER, AND WHEELING WIDELY AS HE ASCENDED, SOARING UP THE GREEN BOSOM OF THE WOODY MOUNTAIN, UNTIL HE DISAPPEARED OVER THE BROW OF A BEETLING PRECIPICE. DOLPH FELT IN A MANNER REBUKED BYU THIS PROUD TRANQUILITY, AND ALMOST REPROACHED HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO WANTONLY INSULTED THIS MAJESTIC BIRD. HEER ANTHONY TOLD HIM, LAUGHING, TO REMEMBER THAT HE WAS NOT YET OUT OF THE TERRITORIES OF THE LORD OF THE DUNDERBERG; AND AN OLD INDIAN SHOOK HIS HEAD, AND OBSERVED, THAT THERE WAS BAD LUCK IN KILLING AN EAGLE; THE HUNTER, ON THE CONTRARY, SHOULD ALWAYS LEAVE HIM A PORTION OF THE SPOILS."
"NOTHING, HOWEVER, OCCURRED TO MOLEST THEM ON THEIR VOYAGE. THEY PASSED PLEASANTLY THROUGH MAGNIFICENT AND LONELY SCENES, UNTIL THEY CAME TO WHERE POLLOPOL'S ISLAND LAY, LIKE A FLOATING BOWER, AT THE EXTREMITY OF THE HIGHLANDS. HERE THEY LANDED, UNTIL THE HEAD OF THE DAY SHOULD ABATE, OR A BREEZE SPRING UP, THAT MIGHT SUPERSEDE THE LABOUR OF THE OAR. SOME PREPARED THE MID-DAY MEAL, WHILE OTHERS REPOSED UNDER THE SHADE TREES IN LUXURIOUS SUMMER INDOLENCE, LOOKING DROWSILY FORTH UPON THE BEAUTY OF THE SCENE. ON THE ONE SIDE WERE THE HIGHLANDS, VAST AND CRAGGED, FEATHERED TO THE TOP WITH FORESTS, AND THROWING THEIR SHADOWS ON THE GLASSY WATER THAT DIMPLED AT THEIR FEET. ON THE OTHER SIDE WAS A WIDE EXPANSE OF THE RIVER, LIKE A BROAD LAKE, WITH LONG SUNNY REACHES, AND GREEN HEADLANDS; AND THE DISTANT LINE OF SHAWUNKGUNK MOUNTAINS WAVING ALONG A CLEAR HORIZON, OR CHEQUERED BY A FLEECY CLOUD."
THE OIL LAMP AT THE OLD EWING FARM, IN MONCK TOWNSHIP, NEAR BRACEBRIDGE, WAS SLOWLY EXTINGUISHED THAT PARTICULAR NIGHT, THE WICK BEING ROLLED DOWN SLOWLY INTO THE BURNER. THE LINGERING, WAFTING SCENT OF COAL OIL FILLED THE BEDROOM, AS THE COLD AUTUMN AIR DROPPING IN TEMPERATURE OUTSIDE, TO NEAR FROST, COULD BE FELT, LIKE A COLD SPIRIT, SEEPING INTO THE UPSTAIRS OF THE FARM HOUSE. THE BOOK WAS CLOSED, BUT THE PAGE MARKED FOR A RETURN ENGAGEMENT, PRIOR TO SLUMBER THE NEXT EVENING.....WHEN FROM UNDER A HEAVY WOOL BLANKET AND QUILT, THE STORY WOULD BE RESUMED BY THE FLICKER OF THE OLD OIL LAMP ON THE DRESSER.
I PURCHASED THE WASHINGTON IRVING BOOK, CONTAINING THE STORY, "THE STORM SHIP," FROM AN ESTATE AUCTION, AT THE FORMER EWING FARM IN THE MID 1980'S. AT THE TIME, I PURCHASED FIFTEEN BOXES OF OLD BOOKS, FROM THE ANTIQUATED FARM LIBRARY, AND THE IRVING BOOK LOOKED TO HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE MOST FREQUENTLY READ AND RE-READ, BACK IN ITS PIONEER PERIOD, AS A MUSKOKA FARMSTEAD. THE STORY OF THE PHANTOM SHIP WAS CLEARLY MARKED BY NUMEROUS BENT OVER CORNERS......AND THIS IS WHAT I HAVE FOLLOWED FOR INCLUSION ON THIS BLOG. THE POINT I WANT TO MAKE, IS THAT THESE STORIES, INCLUDING ONES TOLD BY CHARLES DICKENS, WERE TO BE FOUND ON THE FIRST HOMESTEADS IN OUR REGION OF ONTARIO......AND IT IS TO BE EXPECTED, THAT THEY FOUND SIMILARITIES IN THEIR NEW PLACE OF RESIDENCE, TO SOME OF THE HAUNTING, CHILLING, AND MEMORABLE STORIES SPUN BY AUTHORS LIKE WASHINGTON IRVING. DID THEY SEE PARALLELS TO SLEEPY HOLLOW, WHEN THEY LOOKED OUT ONTO THEIR HOMESTEADS? I WILL RETURN TO THE CONCLUSION OF "THE GHOST SHIP," FOR TOMORROW'S BLOG. I'LL RESUME WHERE PRESUMABLY, A MEMBER OF THE EWING FAMILY MAY HAVE LEFT OFF, ONE AUTUMN NIGHT MORE THAN A CENTURY AGO.
No comments:
Post a Comment