The Antique Store Shopper Who Really Wasn't

The Antique Store Shopper Who Really Wasn't

While it might seem from the plethora of gathered stories so far that our family eagerly embraces the paranormal to the point of invention, we're still not at the point where ghostly encounters have meant anything more than a slight deviation of life's normal course. I'm reasonably sure many people have had paranormal experiences throughout their lives but opted to avoid even the most basic analysis or cross referencing, in order to authenticate the activity. I'm of the firm belief many of these experiences are a long, long way from what might be considered intrusive and frightening. Most are pretty passive events and nothing more than everso delicate messages from those who have passed. We in our house tend to be more receptive and attentive to activities surrounding us on any given day. I don't sit around waiting for something paranormal to present itself but I don't run away scared if all of a sudden a smell of lilacs or a bell mysteriously ringing goes otherwise unexplained. And we don't blame everything on the paranormal and are quick to find any other source that could explain our sensory intrusion. Quite a few are accepted but largely unexplained but always welcome none the less.

I've had exposure to strange encounters most of my life, and Suzanne has had a few but none that were the fuel of public notoriety such as to facilitate the inking of a movie deal. If you have read many paranormal stories, and are familiar with ghostly encounters yourself, our stories are about as run-of-the-mill as you can get. Nothing particularly spectacular when compared to stories about haunted castles and spiritful misty moors. Ours are really what might be expected of interesting, somewhat hard to explain encounters.....none of them threatening although possibly a tad unsettling. What we do have is an open minded approach to new and interesting things in this crazy old life. We couldn't possibly rule out the existence of ghosts or Unidentified Flying Objects or for that matter goblins, fairies, trolls, and other assorted wee beasties writers have been telling us about for centuries......we just haven't worked to disprove their existence because frankly it doesn't bother us either way. If we found a fairy in our garden we wouldn't try to snatch it up as a trophy. We'd just be delighted our garden was good enough to provide habitat.

In every single encounter we have had individually or as a family, we have never been led in that particular direction by, as an example, having just watched a horror flick, or just prior to...., reading about a haunting, or anything else that would have made us anticipate something lurking in the shadows. The encounters have all been when, as they say, we would least expect anything out of the ordinary. There had not been any stimulus to invent paranormal discovery. It just happened out of the blue or the dark depending on the time of day. Each time we have had an experience we might label in the paranormal domain, or at least close, we always try to find reasons it might have been mind over matter. And we never suggest for a moment that what we have witnessed, or sensed, is clear fact the paranormal has been at work.....because as researchers recognize, it isn't that easy to bag a photo of a wayward, passing by, or lodging-in-your-house "spirit," for proof you've been touched by the paranormal. We don't as a rule hunt ghosts or try to get rid of any we do find. Live and let haunt I hear some folks say. As historians by profession however, we cross reference fact and very often find fiction lurking within, and we adore refuting long held historical claims by applying good research skills. We've ticked a few folks off in our ballywick who preferred the old and trusted histories of the region, very much disliking those historical activists who delve too deeply. Thusly, when we put forward our tales of the paranormal, they are just that.....tales, because we can not prove beyond doubt that what we encountered is the work of the spirit-kind. It would be daft to swear on the Bible that we have been intruded upon by Catherine the ghost child. We can suspect a haunting but we simply can't offer proof beyond doubt.

One such strange but unproven encounter, that developed twice (only one of us experienced the mystery shopper), occurred once again at our former antique shop in Bracebridge. On the first occasion it had been a busy afternoon with a lot of tourist traffic passing through the basement shop. It was a strange location in many ways. Our shop was situated in a modern storefront addition that had been built onto the front of a large Victorian house that had once been occupied by the local undertaker. You couldn't get into the house from the addition and the original building had been divided into apartments. The creaking and groaning of the modified building never stopped, and it was common several times a day to hear footsteps coming down the stairs only to find no one arriving in the shop. In the early years of the store our sales desk was in a larger second room to the left, a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, such that we couldn't see who was coming in until they rounded the corner into the main shop. If they went straight into the room at the bottom of the stairs, we might only hear the tinkling of china or pinging of crystal, as a shopper(s) tested the wares. Lots of times we would get up and actually go to the room to see if any one had actually belonged to the footfall. We just wrote it off to a settling building and the constant pounding of heavy traffic up the main street.

Late this particular afternoon, Suzanne looked up from bookwork at the counter to see an elderly bearded man in an old coat standing a few feet in front. She was about to say "hello" to the sudden guest of the shop, when the figure simply vanished into thin air. Yet she could describe his facial features and clothing, his height and expression as clearly as you would any customer who appears at your sales desk with an enquiry or a request to purchase. Several weeks later, in pretty much the same circumstance as the first encounter, Suzanne felt a presence near the counter, looked up to see if someone needed help, and saw the same gentleman standing in front as before. She thought at first that she had been too quick to judge the gentleman's visit the first time as a ghostly encounter, due to the fact he was obviously interested in something in our shop. As she pulled up from the chair to properly address the chap, still standing within a few metres of the counter, he simply turned and vanished as quietly and mysteriously as he had arrived. It did leave my wife rubbing her eyes wondering just how the lighting in the store was creating this illusion of a short bearded man in a frock. In retrospect what she did see was not a chap from the 1990's, but someone dressed characteristic of many decades previous. It had the usual trappings of "I've seen a ghost." Suzanne was looking for another sale for the day and instead got a twice disappearing customer on the cusp of something or other. She just didn't understand the message you might say.

There are many stories about the folks who used to dwell in this particular Victorian era house, one being that a sickly relative had lived and suffered from a long and serious ailment alone in the attic, over many years, eventually passing away in that same section of the old home. Once again as historians, we have not verified this claim by a former resident. Suzanne has no doubt about the man she saw but whether it was the deceased attic-dweller, we will probably never know. I never saw the chap in my days at the store but I did hear the phantom footsteps at least once every day for more than five years. Still, it was a good location for our shop and during its run we enjoyed a pretty good volume of sales. We gave it up to pursue new business opportunities in Gravenhurst, a town ten miles south of Bracebridge but we still have a soft spot for the Birch Hollow location of once.

Woodchester Villa's Storied Past - My Favorite of all Haunts

It was in the late summer of 1977, the year I graduated from York University, in Toronto, that I decided to get involved with a move in Bracebridge, Ontario, to save an historic octagonal home built by Woolen Mill founder, Henry Bird, closely following a design put forth by American Orsen Fowler.....who believed in the restorative, health-promoting, life-sensible qualities of living within an octagon. Many folks across North America did buy into his belief and designs for better living, and there were two such examples in Muskoka, one a lakeside cottage the other Woodchester Villa, or as it was better known to the local citizenry as..... the "Bird House," in reference to the founder of the hill-top estate.

I was part of the first board of directors of the newly established Bracebridge Historical Society, and I do consider myself the chap who put forth the idea to commence the group in the first place, which after a few years of hardy labor down the road, proudly opened the newly acquired museum (in the early 1980's). After a short hiatus due to out-of-the-area employment, I returned as a member of the Board a hair's breadth into the new museum's mandate, which was to both preserve local heritage and entertain visitors. I remained at Woodchester in one capacity or another for the better part of the decade, as both the Society's President and later Museum Manager during the period of the late 1980's.

I worked many long hours at the museum and each member of our family spent their summers, during that hectic decade, tied in one way or another to the site. We looked after a lot of the maintenance issues from mowing the lawns to painting the decking, weeding the limestone walkways to running educational and entertainment programs throughout the two summer months. There was a tight budget from the beginning of the museum to the time I ended my association. We had many Strawberry Socials on the lawns at Woodchester, and two sensational "Theatre in the Round" performances, thanks to the actors connected at the time to Muskoka Festival, then operating each summer from the Gravenhurst Opera House. They did the shows for free and it helped our attendance figures which were at the time failing for many different reasons. First of all, we had few if any dollars to spend on advertising. We got by each summer on the kindness of so many generous volunteers and folks who left donations to help us offset costs.

We guided many school tours through the years, and had special open houses at Christmas and then a "Christmas in July," program for kids during the summer season. We even had inpromtu musical events offered by concert and otherwise accomplished pianists who would just happen by the parlor as part of the tour.....then be unable to resist tickling the ivories.....that's right....they would just start playing and a crowd would soon gather nearby. From this kind of unexpected but always welcome entertainment, we'd range upwards to hosting the full regalia, Provincial Salvation Army Band on the side lawn. We tried everything at least once, and it was particularly tough because we suffered most of the time from too few volunteers, too much work expected of us.... and we had two tiny tots to contend with at the same time. Now try to repeat that last line fast. Talk about a tongue twister but it's all true. It was a crazy time of our lives as a family and I dare say my wife was pondering the sensibility of marrying an historian. I can remember Suzanne having to hold son Robert while demonstrating butter-making for the "Christmas in July" event. In fact, I used to set up the playpen in the museum annex, for son Robert, and I let Andrew play with his toy cars on the museum floor in the restored former Presbyterian Church, while I worked from the back office. It was a daily thing. My boys grew up in a museum. It somewhat explains their interest in old stuff now, I suppose. (The former church site by the way, is now the Chapel Gallery.....of which I helped initiate to the site in the initial plan for the museum's business upgrade from poverty status to sustainability). We worked in every area of the museum and knew it incredibly well. I used to sneak folks up to the Widow's Walk, which was accessed through a trap door at the uppermost peak of the roof, where the view to the river and main street was magnificent. I wasn't supposed to do this but I did it any way! It was an insurance issue moreso. It was safe to my standard but not by their reasoning.

Woodchester Villa had its share of curious attributes. None that were particularly troubling but it was obvious to any paranormally sensitive occupant or visitor, there was an aura, an unseen energy within which gave you the constant feeling of being watched. We weren't the first to experience these sensations, as it was noted by other residents of the property from year's past, that it was a dwelling of many strange noises and curious unexplainable occurrences. While it wasn't enough to scare any one from the building there were occasions when we all would ask ourselves, "did you hear that," "who turned the light on," or "where are those barking dogs?" I seldom if ever walked up to the Widow's Walk without feeling someone was coming up right behind me. I'd even feel a tug on my ankle but nobody else was on the narrow staircase when I would look down. It was probably mind over matter in this case because it was kind of a spooky, dimly lit part of the house to traverse in all kinds of weather and times of day.

The first documented case of unusual sounds in the house, was reported by museum staff in about the second year of full operation. Several staff members told about being in the second floor curator's office, and hearing the sound of barking dogs. The windows were closed and there were no dogs barking when staff stepped out to investigate. I had heard them as well, so I didn't have any reason to doubt that they had also heard the nearly non-stop howling and barking as if the hounds were in the house itself. I never really thought about it until the young ladies on staff, started to look for these barking dogs. None could be found. If there was barking heard in the house, by taking one step out the door at the front or back, the racket would suddenly cease. At that time nobody mentioned the "barking dogs" as being any kind of paranormal encounter. It was just annoying. In the middle of book work I'd get up and stick my head out the window, like most on staff for those years, and yell "Shut up....shut up you stupid dogs!" It didn't work. The paranormal connection came a short while later, while students who should have been at work guiding, dusting and conserving, took a particular interest in the spiritual essences of the estate. They commenced an unanticipated, unwarranted and non-sanctioned exploratory adventure to determine just how many ghosts dwelled within the octagon of Woodchester Villa. I was in for a rude introduction to their handiwork when the electronic media showed up to record the hauntings which even included what turned out to be an invented murder scenario, the students believed had occurred on the estate. It was a public relations coup on one hand, because it did get us needed publicity but the Bird family was not impressed by the suggestion foul play had occurred on the upper staircase......as the spirits had somehow relayed to the teenage tour guides. It is said a guide was threatened on the staircase by some invisible entity, and told to get out of the house. It was pretty much what I told them but I wasn't a ghost....just a pissed off public relations director trying to mend fences as fast as they were smashing them down. It began as calmly as this......

It was the same year that I was working on behalf of the Public Relations Committee, that I had my first run-in with ghosts and those who wished to identify them as unique qualities and quantities of the Victorian estate. A reporter on staff of The Herald-Gazette, of which I was editor at the time, went to do a story about the alleged haunting of the Bird House. I didn't really think too much of it, until it arrived on my desk for approval.....and as content overseer, I had to weigh content and adverse impact before I passed it on to lay-out. It wasn't breaking news or anything and it seemed harmless for a page four insertion. What I assumed was to be a light feature article, and possibly a kindly bit of publicity for a new museum, had a much more dire story-line. It seemed that in response to the annoying and ongoing din of barking dogs, which lasted a few years on and off, the staff decided this time to allow Ouija to sort it all out. One young lady brought the board in to see if the staff could make contact with the spirits, still holed-up somewhat comfortably in the century old octagonal house. Well, one thing led to another, and all sorts of weird stuff was being reported, and what was to be a one-time feature story for the fun of it, became a lengthier series of articles......because the reporter's initial interest generated more delving, questions to the "other side," and a playfulness with the television reporter who picked up the feature story and decided to approach staff directly. It was a slow news period...you're right!

As a short sidebar to this story, I let an acquaintance of mine, during casual after-work conversation, in on the most recent debacle happening at Woodchester.....she was a highly sensitive young lady with a particular awareness about paranormal characteristics and habits, and who knew all about seances, and the inherent dangers of a Ouija Board in the wrong hands. She scolded me soundly for allowing the girls to play around with the Board, and taking a chance that every wayward spirit, good and nasty, would feel warmly at home in these new (old) digs. I happened to mention it to her just as plain old, run-of-the-mill conversation, regarding the kind of day I was having as both a museum director and editor...... being weighed down by the chores of the day. To her it was a far more serious matter....unearthly you might say. "By using that Board you've invited a lot more spirits than were probably ever lodging in that house, to come for an extended visit, and never, never want to leave," she said with unflinching confidence that we'd made a giant welcome sign to "party-on dudes." We didn't really want a sideshow up there afterall. This female friend, who shall remain nameless, told me that one of the great faults of using such a board, is that you can inadvertently invite any old wayward spirit into the mainstream without having a chance to check credentials at the door. "You can draw in a lot of spirits you don't want in your house.....and this is their portal back into our world!" I just nodded because that's the first I'd ever heard of that particular conduit between this world and the great beyond. I don't know whether she was right or not.....but life and haunting did get somewhat more involved after the board was used....moreso than just the sound of barking dogs.

I was watching the nightly news, sipping a nice cold beer, when all of a sudden a film clip appeared on-screen of Woodchester, with a story about an unsolved mystery unfolding in Bracebridge......and it may have involved murder. What staff had been up to went way beyond the Ouija Board and the feature story we ran in The Herald-Gazette. Now staff was investigating an unresolved murder in the house and an empty grave in the local cemetery. Geez, they were hired to work as museum interpreters and now it was turning into an episode of "Murder She Wrote." What was worse is that they started naming names, and it involved a prominent family......the first family of the house in fact, and to hear about it on the nightly news didn't amuse any of the kin who caught the reference. The story was that a young family member had been pushed down a flight of stairs, probably coming from the attic, and had been killed by the fall. It was assumed the burial plot held the secret and short of digging it up, a lot of innuendo had been cast unceremoniously around town. Just the kind of slanderous stuff that can get a museum and staff into serious legal trouble, and give a public relations director some wickedly strong heartburn. I was on the phone mending fences right away. I was having lots of meetings with lots of people, and my reporter was called in to re-assess what he had helped fan into the nightly news.

We found out that it had begun when one of the staff members reported that he had been audibly told to "get out of this house,"

by some unseen entity, as he was descending the attic to third floor staircase. A little unsettled and building on a theme already stemming up from a strong root of suspicion, the next ill conceived project was to find out if the voice and a grave marker discrepancy someone else had found, added up to murder-most-foul. The bottom line here, is that there was no murder, no foul play whatsoever, and we had many apologies to bestow to family .....and a Ouija Board to remove from the house.

It took a few years for this to blow over. It doesn't mean the house wasn't paranormally endowed, and it may have even been quite honestly interpreted that an entity within wanted the subject staff member to "buzz off," but there was no murder. No mystery. Just the life history of an old house fussing up from time to time....creaking timbers and settling ground and yes a few quality moments of barking dogs from somewhere quite unknown.

One of the most significant paranormal events came when a director of the museum, a guy who wouldn't budge for any wayward spirit, got the idea to tape-record old 78 rpm records from the parlor gramophone so that we could play them through the day by using a speaker insert in the cabinet; the recorder actually placed in an unused bathroom nearby. So instead of wearing out the needles on the gramophone, or stressing the critical main-spring with daily use, it afforded us a great option to bring music into the parlor by what appeared to be a whirling Victrola but was actually an extension of electronics. Guests believed it was an actual record being played and seemed to enjoy the ambience it created in the otherwise stuffy parlor.

What happened was that while the records were being recorded, some curious knocking and other noises in the house were being picked up. When he played us the tape we could clearly hear the knocking as if someone was at the adjacent door....that's how clear it was recorded. Yet he had no actual interruptions throughout the recording session over several days. He often went out of the room, even out doors while the record was spinning and despite his best efforts to identify the sources of the knocking (he heard later on the recordings), he could offer no explanation for their existence. The records themselves were fine as was the machine. He listened to all the records over again and never heard problems with the actual pressing, that would have accounted for the knocking. He firmly believed the sounds to have been external and not a technical problem with either the tape recorder or Victrola. I used to play that same tape over and over during at least three years, and I always got a kick out of hearing the knocks myself. They weren't really disturbing or unsettling but it did seem to be the case something was trying to get attention on that particular day of recording.

On another occasion I intruded quite accidentally on a conversation of a young family coming down from the second floor of the museum, in a rather animated discussion about "The Room," and "Did you get that feeling we shouldn't step inside?" I asked the guide what room the family had felt uncomfortable in, and she pointed me to the children's quarters at the right of the stairs. I wandered in and looked all about, studied the period toys strewn on the floor, as if children had just been at play, and dismissed anything paranormal whatsoever. I chatted at some length with the guides who told me that many visitors to the second floor would not go into the room, despite the fact we had taken down barrier ropes during my tenure as director manager. "They find it occupied," said one of the guides. "They enjoy looking at the master bedroom and the other exhibits in the bedroom at the front of the house but they don't like going into the children's room." We decided to do a little survey. Without telling any one about our interest in the room, and why it seemed oppressive, we jotted down remarks from people leaving the museum and asked them specifically which rooms they enjoyed the most....and the least.

We of course found that a majority of visitors that summer did not like the child's room. They said it appeared "sad and lonely," the toys being un-played with. It was my wife's own refusal to enter the room that made me ever-more interested in finding out what it was that inspired these feelings of foreboding. We tried to change-up the toy display, putting some away and tidying up the floor space to allow visitors full entrance to the room. Suzanne still felt the room was occupied and suggested it had nothing at all to do with the decor. She felt there was a strong presence of a child in the room and there was no compassion to share the toys. I have stood for hours in that room on bright days, where light was brimming into the room, and on dull days when rain splashed against the glass pane.....and never, not even for a second, did I feel unwelcome in those quarters. It doesn't mean everyone else was wrong because by averages of people avoiding it, I was the one being paranormally numb-founded you might say.

My most significant paranormal experience in that house came on the day of an open house during a Christmas in July program. Both Suzanne and I were feeling poorly that day the result of the flu, or an illness from something we had consumed, and we were painfully putting together the day's materials in order that the event could run as planned. Suzanne was setting out a massive cake in the upstair's porch area, while looking after both Andrew and Robert. Staff were setting up chairs for the band yet to arrive, and I was in the downstairs kitchen making up lemonade for the several hundred guests expected. In the basement area you could hear footsteps above but not clearly. You certainly couldn't hear anything outside because the thick stone walls insulated out the noise of the neighborhood. As for the barking dogs, you could only hear them in the upstair bedroom we used in those days as the office. In the abutting open area to the kitchen we held our regular board meetings. I was stirring the lemonade when all of a sudden I could hear a child in near hysterics, crying loudly enough to be in the adjoining Victorian-era kitchen part of the original home layout. I went running over to see if a youngster had snuck downstairs and hurt themselves by some misadventure. There was nothing. Yet I could still hear the crying. I looked out the basement door and there wasn't a sound or person visible. Back through the door it was clear again. Then I felt a cold shiver when I thought of Suzanne and the boys in the porch area upstairs. Thinking maybe one of the boys had been stung by a bee, I raced up the narrow stairs, jogged through the parlor, the hall, jostling a few volunteer helpers along the way, only to find Suzanne with Andrew on a chair, Robert asleep in his stroller, and their mother cutting the cake into several hundred squares.

"Who was crying," I asked an obviously startled wife. "What are you talking about....no one has been crying....though I feel like it," she retorted. "Where did you hear crying?" she asked. "Downstairs. I was stirring the lemonade and heard a kid crying.....I thought it was coming from the next room but it wasn't." "Outside?" she asked. "No, I went out the back door half expecting to find someone with a skinned knee but there was nothing." There had been no crying child that we could find on the premises indoors or out. But I heard crying regardless. My imagination? Even when I was moving around in that kitchen, and heading from room to room, I could hear the crying. It only stopped when I put my head out the bottom door. Once inside again I could hear the same crying. When I hit the top of the stairs to the first floor, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. This was the first serious encounter I had experienced at Woodchester. It was a little unsettling. I thought then about the child's room on the second floor, and wondered to myself whether there was indeed an unhappy child left in that house from another era.

What Kind of Dreams Did Folks Have in 1869?

WHAT KIND OF DREAMS DID FOLKS HAVE IN 1869? WELL, LET'S FIND OUT!

"MY DREAM," WRITTEN BY J. HELMORE, PUBLISHED IN THE "BOW BELLS" LITERARY MAGAZINE OF OCTOBER 1869

     In 1869 the Free Lands and Homestead Grant program was launched. It was a multi level government initiative, to help encourage settlement of the unoccupied regions of the country. The government gave away free 100 acre parcels to emigrants, arriving in Canada, largely for agricultural pursuits. It was established as a trial endeavour, throughout the District of Muskoka and Parry Sound, to determine if homesteaders could make prosperous farms, from its adverse topography. Many water hazards you might say, including bogs, swamps, creeks, rivers, and lakes. Many thousands of eager Europeans, decided to abandon their homes and livelihoods overseas, to take up the land grants in this region, including Parry Sound. The hardships of pioneering on the Ontario frontier, were of monstrous proportion, many settlers failing at their mission to set up successful farmsteads. Hundreds if not thousands, perished as a direct result, of having arrived on this wild frontier, poorly prepared, to handle the extremes of land clearing, and surviving the long, brutal winters, and short, fly-infested summers. This is what was going on in Muskoka in the year 1869.  Here then is what the literary compendium, known as "Bow Bells," was publishing in October of that same year. The publication by the way, was one penny per issue, so it's possible these same pioneers may have had access to it, most likely of course when they were still in Europe. Here is an article under the heading, "Adventures, National Customs, and Curious Facts," and the story written by J. Helmore, is entitled "My Dream." It begins as follows:

     "The 24th of February, 1844, found me first mate of the brig 'Red Jacket', in the latitude of Bermuda, bound to the south side of Cuba. A terrific gale had just ceased a thirty-six hour blowing, and I went below and turned-in. I was not long in my berth before I was in dreamland. I seldom dream, and up to that date I had no faith in dreams. As what I had experienced while asleep at that time, afterwards proved true. I will proceed in a few words to relate it.

     "My father, who had been dead for twelve years, came to the side of my berth, and placing his hand on my head, said, 'My son, rise and follow me.' I did so. He conducted me out on deck, over the vessel's side, and we glided above the ocean at a rapid rate, when suddenly I descried a boat containing men tossing about on the waves. We slighted on board of her; and then I saw my father's brother, who had some weeks before sailed with the brig 'Joseph Brown' for Jamaica. 'My son,' said my father, 'you see the condition your uncle and his companions are in. Nine days ago their vessel foundered, since which, they have been exposed to the mercy of winds and waves. The last two days they have had no provisions. It is in your power to rescue them. Come, we must now return to your vessel.'

     "As he said this, we immediately stepped out of the boat and glided back to the brig then into the cabin, and I returned to my berth. My father then said, 'As soon as you have charge of the deck, keep the brig off south-east, and by four o'clock you will come up with the boat containing your uncle, and his fellow-sufferers. Now wake, it is twelve o'clock, and you are called.' As he finished speaking, he shook me violently, and I awoke, in time, to hear Captain Crockett exclaim, 'Turn out Mr. Hedmore, turn out. Larboard watch on deck'. I was out of my berth in a moment, and hurried on deck, when I perceived that the sails had been jibed over during my watch below. 'That's fortunate,' I thought, 'for in case Captain Crockett refuses to change the vessel's course, which I felt confident he will, I can now haul her up two points, and he will know nothing about it.' Had the vessel not been jibed, I could not well have kept her off two points without the Captain's knowing it, although I noticed that he had been indulging freely with his old friend, the Jamaican bottle.

     "As soon as the larboard watch was set, he came to me and said, 'Mr. Helmore, make a good southeast course, and heave the log every hour; should the wind blow any fresher, taken in the flying jib'. 'Ay, ay, sir,' I replied. 'Captain, before you go below, I would like to tell you of a dream I have had; will you listen to it sir?' 'Yes, if it is not too long, out with it'. I then briefly stated what I have just related to the reader. After I had concluded, Captain Crockett said, 'All moonshine!' Why, man, should the vessel's course be altered south-east by east, you would strike the broadside of Bermuda, by four o'clock. No, no sir. Keep her on her course, south-east,' saying this, he went below.

     "As soon as I was satisfied that the Captain had turned in, I went to Jem (the man at the wheel) and told him to luff up south-east by east. As it was necessary that I should assign some reason for altering the vessel's course, I resolved to make him my confidant, and when his turn at the wheel was over, I had decided to steer the next two hours myself. 'Jem,' said I. 'do you believe in dreams?' 'Well, yes sir, I do rather believe in them.' 'Well, Jem, while I was below I dreamed that I saw a boat containing four men, drifting about, and was told to steer the brig two points to the east'ard of her course, during my watch, and by four o'clock, I would come up with them. Now, Jem, I want you to luff up south-east by east, and if the Captain should come on deck, you can tell him she steers wild, and has 'sprung the luff' on you. Mind Jem, this must be kept a secret. 'Ay, ay, sir,' said Jem, giving the vessel the wheel two points. 'The Captain said we'd make Bermuda, didn't he sir?'

     "No danger Jem, Bermuda is off our weather quarter over a hundred miles.' Nothing of interest transpired during the next two hours, and at two o'clock I took the wheel, and continued to keep the vessel south-east by east, till half-past three, when day began to break, and I kept her away south-east again. I then called the sailor whose turn I had been steering to come to the wheel; and I went forward and told Jem, who was anxiously looking out for the boat, to go to the foremast head and see whether anything was in sight. He had not got half-way up the ratlins, when the welcome salute of 'Boat ahoy,' was made by him. I immediately jumped up the rigging; and there, sure enough, about a quarter of a mile ahead, was a boat the very picture of the one I had seen in my dream. I instantly hastened down to the deck, and went to the cabin door and shouted, 'Boat in sight, and close aboard, sir.' A moment afterwards Captain Crockett came hurrying up. By time we were within two cable lengths of the boat, and we at once hove to, and launched our boat, and in twenty minutes the shipwrecked men were safely on board, when what was my surprise to discover, that one of them was my uncle John! The rescued men were nearly exhausted; but by observing proper care, they soon recovered, when my uncle John gave us the following account of their voyage.

     "Our brig, the 'Joseph Brown', called on the 20th of last month from Liverpool, bound to Jamaica. Ten days ago she sprung a leak, during a heavy gale, which lasted six days. On the morning of the 14th, finding both pumps failing to keep her free, we got the boats in readiness for use at a moment's notice. It was well we did so, for at midnight she began to settle, and soon went down. I and three others succeeded in getting into one boat, and the mate and the remainder of the crew into a second. Our condition, as you may judge, was pitiable. We were adrift upon the ocean with but a scanty supply of provisions, and only a single oar, the rest having been washed overboard when the brig went down. We had despaired of ever reaching land, or being picked-up. Last night I dreamed that my brother (your father) came to me and stated that at daybreak, a vessel would rescue us, which has proved true.

     "A singular coincidence,' said Captain Crockett. 'Last night my mate told me that he dreamed a boat containing four men was near, and if we steered south-east by east, we would come up with them by daylight.' Two days after recovering these men, we spoke of the brig Romer, when uncle John requested to be taken on board of her, as she was bound to Liverpool, and he wanted to reach home as soon as possible. We hailed the Captain, and asked whether he would take on board some persons we had rescued from an open boat, and who wanted to get back to England. 'Yes,' he answered. 'Bring them on board. I am short-handed. Half my crew are down with sickness.' We soon conveyed them on board, when, wishing them a pleasant passage, we stood on our course."

     When we fall asleep and slide into one of our dreamland episodes, might we occasionally predict the future in due course?

ADVENTURES, NATIONAL CUSTOMS AND CURIOUS FACTS - PLAYING WITH SNAKES

     Also contained in the compendium of "Bow Bells" magazines, circa 1869, there is a fascinating story about poisonous snake handling, that I thought would interest readers. It's what the readers of 1869 paid a penny and issue to acquire, and this story is, well, at least in the contemporary sense, "worth every penny." The story begins:

     "Dr. Schuman, a well known physician of Baltimore, in the United States, has made the following communication to a medical journal. 'I send you the following account of a rattlesnake bite, and the remedies which proved successful in a case which came under my charge. John Brooks, a German by birth, and a stuffer of birds, animals etc., who had resided at No. 25, East Fayette Street, Baltimore, for a number of years, frequently indulged in playing with all varieties of snakes, in the most careless and reckless manner. Brooks was a man of very intemperate habits, and was always under the influence of spirituous liquers. It was a very common occurrance to see him standing at his shop door, surrounded by a crowd of children and loafers, with sometimes a rattlesnake in one hand, and a copperhead in the other; or perhaps, a rattlesnake in each hand. I never knew him to have a cobra; but anacondas and boa-constrictors he cared no more for, than an ordinary individual would of a canary bird. He was a tall, muscular man, of great strength and powerful constitution; and, in spite of his drinking to such excess as to almost produce insanity, there was something peculiarly interesting in his features, and he had the most piercing eyes I ever saw in a man's head. He, moreover, managed to obtain possession of animals of all descriptions, from all parts of South and North America, without paying but a trifle for them.

      "Brooks played on the accordion, or rather played at it, making a monotonous sound that could hardly be considered a tune. At all times of the day and night he would turn out of their cages, as many as ten or twelve different kind of snakes in the room where he and his wife slept; and very often after she had retired, and the poor woman be frightened nearly out of her senses, he would be playing his accordion, and the snakes hissing and darting about the room. He had also five or six children who slept in the same room. There would generally be in his collection, three or four rattlesnakes.

     "Although I have killed many rattlesnakes in the mountains of Virginia, as well as other varieties, my blood would run cold at this man's reckless exposure of his life. One night about nine o'clock, in the early part of October 1866, I was called on by Brooks's oldest daughter to come and see her father, as he was bitten by a rattlesnake. Being a physician, and residing in the neighbourhood, I immediately answered the summons. On arriving at the house, although only ten minutes had elapsed, (I found) the bite was on the back of his left hand; he was almost insensible, and in answer to my inquiry regarding his feelings, could only give a slight motion of his head. The arm had swollen to an enormous size, and presented more the appearance of being totally bruised. Some bystanders had already endeavoured to administer whisky; but on account of a disordered condition of the stomach, we found it impossible to get him to retain it in any shape, having already drunk copiously of lager-beer.

     "I immediately proceeded to cut out the flesh well from around the bite, which was no larger than the point of a pen, and applied a very powerful suction cupping pump to the wound, at the same time administering one grain of corrosive sublimate in about half an ounce of ethereal solution of opium, which I was agreeably disappointed to find he retained on his stomach, and caused him to rear up and speak a few words. The pump drew blood from the bite, and I immediately ordered also about fifty leaches to be brought and applied all over the arm to prevent a return of such poisonous blood to the head. For the benefit of all the medical faculty and humanity, I will give you an account of the treatment adopted by myself, which was to administer one fourth of a grain of corrosive sublimate or bichloride of mercury, with one grain of opium every four hours. This treatment I continued up to the fourth week, and then gradually diminished the dose. At the end of the fourth week, Brooks commenced to speak; and, forty-five days after he was bitten, he recovered, and immediately went to playing with snakes again.

      "In the early part of last spring, Brooks was standing in his door playing with a rattlesnake in one hand, and a black snake in the other, with his usual audience, or whatever they may be termed, and giving his exhibition, when some thoughtless man passing by, called out in fun, 'Brooks you are a rowdy!' This so exasperated him, he took his eye off the rattlesnake for a moment, and it immediately struck his fangs in his right cheek twice, not one or two inches from the corner of his mouth. He placed the snakes back in the cage with the greatest care, and called for his accordion, telling his wife he would play one more tune, as he must die in a few moments. They sent for another physician (during my absence from the city), but his services were useless; and after playing his accordion for ten minutes, he went upstairs to his bedroom, vomited up the contents of his stomach, and died, as his wife said, like a man going to sleep, and without the least sign of pain. His body was so decomposed in fourteen hours afterwards, it was necessary to inter it immediately."

     I love these old books. I have a lot more to share, and stories from antiquity you will find hard to believe. Being a bibliophile has its perks other than benefitting from the increasing value of antiquarian books. I am surrounded by some of the greatest and most memorable stories ever written, because this you see, is both my profession and my hobby.

Back To The Homestead Wilds

BACK TO THE HOMESTEAD WILDS (From my Archives)

     After writing the first part of the blog today, while holed-up at our Gravenhurst music studio (of all places to write a blog), I arrived home to take Bosko for a walk over in The Bog. We have three trips into the neighborhood forest, and lowland every day, and it's a nice way to break up the routine of everyday living. We all know the inherent ruts of the daily grind, of work, work, and more work. Bosko doesn't care about my issues, or trials, because she's got bigger things to sniff-out, like a new resident coyote, that has been visiting our neighborhood for the past several weeks. Bosko lets me know where the beast is, with the intensity of her tracking ability, and we make a quick retreat. Just in case. I don't mind yielding the right of way. I just try to look calm doing so!

     I did think about what Suzanne had offered, as a casual overview, of the work she has had to edit for the past three years of my daily blogging. Outside of deserving a medal of courage, for tolerating me hovering at her back, while proofing, (which I couldn't stand myself), I suppose she did remind me of how my impressions, of rural farm life, did expand into the folkish side of history authordom. I started to recall my many trips into the old homestead property, a mile or so off Beaumont Drive, in Bracebridge, between Kerr Park, and Stephen's Bay Road. I found it the first winter back in Bracebridge, after returning home from university, to seek my fame and fortune. Well, I've had some minor fame but no fortune. While my girlfriend, at the time, Gail, was still attending classes at university, in Toronto, I would head out for some cross country skiing, on weekday afternoons. There was one ski trail from Kerr Park, which is adjacent to the Muskoka River, that crossed through an amazing former homestead acreage, that I fell in love with almost immediately. Yes, indeed, it was as if I had some intimate connection to this place, in a previous life. You've probably experienced a weird feeling like this, a few times in your own life, without any validation of these emotions. Seeing it first, in the snowy days of early December, back in 1977, made this homestead all the more emotionally alluring. It's not necessarily a good thing for an historian to get all sentimental, about the task at hand. Well, at this time, I wasn't an historian, but I did have my first antique shop open for business, in the former house / medical office, of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge. The historian gig came much later.

    The largely intact, two level farmhouse, had been built on a significant hillside, above a boggy lowland, bordered by a huge rock face on the south side of the property. It reminds me of the landscape, that you can look-out over, from the Algonquin Park Visitor Centre. You would expect to find wolves, bear, moose and deer roaming there, and it did concern me especially, when in the late afternoons, on the return trip, I could clearly hear the distant howl of wolves. This was their territory and I was the intruder.

      There was a cart trail up the hillside, to the front of the house, which faced east if memory serves. The lane was heavily grown over by encroaching evergreens, but the snowload, on that very first visit, had pulled the boughs lower, so the silhouette of the farmstead was visible in the scattered sunglow. I stood at the base of the hill, looking up at the abandoned old farmhouse, with that initial sense of awe, ruminating about what it must have looked like a century earlier. It was distressing to think that such a fine location, with such a beautiful view over the lowland, would have been abandoned, to erode back into the earth from which it once belonged. I would have loved to dwell in such a place, in the Muskoka heartland. In my mind, I started to imagine the folks who may have lived here, by first noticing more intimate details, as I navigated my skis, in a sideways cross-over motion, up the laneway incline. The closer I got to the top of the hill, the more I sensed that family aura, I've experienced on dozens of similar pioneer homesteads in the region.      There was a hush, both with the insulation of the snow-load, but also because of the enclosure of border evergreens. The cold wind snapping and cracking frozen tree limbs, through the lowland, wasn't affecting anything on this hillside; and the silence was intriguing. Without thinking about it, I began imagining what the sounds of this place would have been, way back in its first years as a family abode; the voices of adults working at homestead chores, chopping firewood, and the laughter of children sledding down the far slope, into the valley. It was as if, the house was setting the scene, for its own rediscovery, moreso than my own writer's fascination, to put life where there was a void. It didn't take long, before I was filling this vacant hillside house, with all kinds of seasonal activities, pre-Christmas, and comings and goings, up and down this front drive. The horse drawn cutter, coming around the bend, bells resonating off the iced-over snow, with the buffalo robe hanging off the side. I was romanticizing this place, but I couldn't seem to stop. I have no idea who lived here, back to the period of the late 1800's, so the only other explanation, beyond a hopped-up imagination, (like a Hollywood film coming to life), was a sincere but intrusive love for history; re-enactment, for the sentimental heart. There was of course, always the potential, that resident spirits, imbedded here for long and long, were sending me a paranormal welcome. It was just one of those weird situations, I've had many times before, in similar locations, when the environs started to inspire strange thoughts, without any intention on my part, to create an instant family, to suit my interpretive needs at the moment.

     It would become the model homestead, for many future stories, and factored very heavily into the creation of my first book, "Memories and Images," circa 1983, produced with Muskoka photographer, Tim DuVernet, that we released, as an initial foray into book writing. This soon-to-collapse former homestead, was more alluring than I can truly explain. I suppose it became kind of an obsession, at a time when the only other demand on my time, was playing hockey, and chasing after elusive antiques for our shop. I made twice weekly ski trips back to the homestead, through the winter months, and many more when the weather got a little warmer, and the snow melted away. Of course, the bugs made it a tad unfriendly, and the bear near-misses, made it a little more precarious taking the trip into the property. Once I was on the top of that hill, I didn't worry at all about bear intrusions. I don't know why I felt this way, but as it was, I saw bears everywhere else, and wolves, but nothing to bother me during those calm sojourns in and around the old farmhouse. Were the spirits dispatching the animals that may have wanted me (to stay) for dinner? If there were spirit protectors, on that hillside, they were certainly more "Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost" types. There was nothing malevolent being there, although it was still sad, watching this beautiful house, tumble, board by board into the landscape. It seemed worth saving. Maybe the spirits thought I could restore the place, and bring it back to its historic elegance. I suppose however, in the words of these stories, I have kept the essence of the Victorian era farmhouse alive. It will always be that way for me, until I tumble into the earth for that final time. That former dwelling place, may have been abandoned in fact, but in spirit, it was a very full house.

     On occasions when I'd pull open the door to gain access, I would find myself in the former kitchen, and marvel about the way plates were still hung on the wall, and the old built-in cupboards were still holding original plates, cups and saucers, and many utensils, which had spilled out onto the floor, when another intruder dislodged a drawer from a stove-side cabinet. It was a dark room even on a sunny afternoon, so I imagine it very much benefitted, from one of those all day fires in the hearth, kept up by the matron of the house. I could smell the ingrained patina of smoke, and soot, still very much in evidence, long after it had been abandoned. There were pots and pans all over the floor, and milk bottles, which by itself, dated the last occupants of the house. Other than of course, the family of raccoons I got to know, over my many visits. I kept my distance, although I could see them watching me, from an open space where ceiling boards had fallen away. There were even a few framed pictures hanging on the walls, and many broken and gnawed chairs, scattered in what probably had been the parlor. I had never ventured to the second floor, because the stairs had been badly damaged by water exposure, as there was a pretty large hole in the roof, that had rotted away boards on the upper floor, and then the base of the stairs, where I needed access. I could see through the rotten steps, down into what had been a partial basement, or cold room for storing fruit and vegetables for the winter season. The house was in danger of imminent collapse from the very first day I visited. The side section of the house had collapsed when I visited in the spring of 1979, and then again in the fall of the same year. It was a sad reality, but it had no defenders, to save it from, what was a natural, four seasons demise. Each season, played a role in its final destruction. Yet those lilacs, as I remember, were still thriving, on those final two visits. Makes me wonder about what it would all look like, back there, now in the fall of 2014.

     As I wrote about previously, in this short series, all the abandoned homestead properties, cabins, and farmhouses I visited, back in the mid 1970's, to mid 1980's, had distinct auras connected. Even the first few steps on these overgrown, largely forgotten properties, gave me either the sense of dread, sadness, melancholy, or a sort of neutral contentment; more on my part than the interplay of the spirits of the place. It had a lot to do with the season I visited, and if it was sunny, overcast, raining or snowing. The later in the day, even on sunny autumn afternoons like today (here at Birch Hollow), these homesteads seemed to animate into very life-filled places; the birds and squirrels more active, groundhogs making appearances in the fields, venerable old crows cawing from the upper boughs of gnarled pines, and the occasional fox, running across the former pasture, looking for a dinner of a field mouse of two. I might be on site for three to five hours, and hear very little, except the wind whispering through the evergreens; and then the creaking of old trees rubbing against saplings, measuring their odds of survival; and the grating, scuffling noise from my digging device.     Even when I'd take a lunch break, to sit overlooking one section of field, or a valley below the homestead hillside, you would be lucky to see a bird, let alone hear one. But just as I would be packing up, the natural world seemed to let loose. There was nothing particularly paranormal or supernatural about it, other than I found it odd, that upon my imminent departure, this homestead became a very busy place. I suppose, when I arrived, I scared away the creature inhabitants, or kept them from roaming about, just in case I was an unknown predator. I can remember looking back, at one homestead property, after hitting the main road on foot, and seeing deer crossing the field, a bear scratching at a tree on a slope, where I had been working a half hour earlier, and enough birds to look like the cutting room floor, from the Alfred Hitchcock movie, "The Birds." Nothing all that strange, but I did wonder, what would happen if I passed back through the old gate. Would this wildlife retreat again?

     The house on the hill inspired at least two dozen major feature stories, in two books I prepared, and many other heritage articles for The Herald-Gazette, The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun. It can be thusly said, I gained a lot of story kindling, from having visited that uniquely situated farmhouse, in Bracebridge. There was always an intrusive melancholy on that storied hillside, as if the old dwelling was seeking refuge in my heart; that as a writer (because I wrote there on each occasion, even in the winter), I could somehow bring back what it once possessed, of a resident family; much as a parent / guardian, wishes against all odds, for a child's return, or a widow prays for her partner's arrival, back into a favorite chair at hearthside; to hear again the familiar humming in the kitchen, of a grandmother with ladle in hand, mixing batter in a bowl. I never really lost the melancholy of that time, and when I recall the house, and picturesque property now, I suppose, as Suzanne noted, I want to fulfill a promise I apparently made, in mindful resolve, to paint a pretty picture of the way it was! Suffice to say, I can't help myself, in this folkish regard, to imagine what Grandma Moses might have infilled with her paints, of this same scene, that I can't do justice today, by the same stroke of naive genius; my pen not as proficient, as was her paint brush.

Part Seven The Logging Camp Cook

PART SEVEN

The Logging Camp Cook Kept the Lumbermen Going

     My father Ed, spent a majority of his working life, in the employ of the lumber industry labouring in one capacity or another. If memory serves he worked for Jones Lumber in Ancaster, Ontario, Tepsons, although I'm not sure where that was located, Weldwood, Consumer's Lumber, and when we moved to Muskoka, he began with the well known Shier's Lumber Company, and then finished his days as general manager of Bracebridge's Building Trades Centre. I worked for a summer as a general labourer at Building Trades and decided after one summer, that my relationship with lumber would be through family from that point on. It was an incredibly difficult job, and my most loathed gig, was having to crawl up into the tiny air space inside the fully loaded box car, with none other than cedar siding. There were also two by fours, and four by fours. Did I mention it would occur on the company siding on the hottest days of the summer. When I got the uppermost level cleared out, so that the fork lift could be better employed to lift out the rest of the lumber, I was covered in blood from the hundreds of splinters in my arms and legs from the dry cedar. I itched for the next week.
     I got to perform many other lumber-yard tasks often including the gathering of wood to fill orders, to be shipped out later that same day. Whenever my work-mate pulled the lift truck to the pile of timbers, long and short, I cringed with fear. I was the manager's son, and my father worried about my initiation to the company, especially amongst those who didn't really care for his managerial style. He was right. They were hard on me. Here's an example:
     I used to ride on the side of the lift-truck so that I could get to the piles of lumber at the same time as my partner we called "Balls". When we pulled up to the pile of timbers, the big ones being most feared of all, Balls would get on one end of the pile and I was supposed to be on the other end, so that we could pick up a timber at the same time, and then shift one at a time onto the forks of the lift-truck raised to accept the timbers. Balls warned me about the back-lash of the timber, if, for example, we didn't drop them onto the forks at exactly the same time. I don't know why he warned me of this, because it didn't matter, even if we both counted to three before dropping it onto the forks. If we had agreed to drop a timber down on three, he let his end go on two. My end of the timber was often still in my hand when he tossed his end, and that usually beat the heck out of my hands. Sometimes, the toss would be so agressive that I would get the whiplash of timber whipping past my ear, while Balls was already picking up the next timber. The timbers by the way, even the short ones, are hugely heavy, and getting an end bashing you on the head, beat anything I got as a hockey goaltender in all my seasons. I got even with Balls by the end of the summer, because I'd agree to count to three and then toss it down on one. He soon figured out that the Ed Currie's kid was smarter than he thought.
     Point of this lengthy preamble is that, even in modern times, of which the seventies seemed that way, the lumber business demanded exceptional alertness and physical fitness. The ambulance visited frequently, especially the saw mill at the side, when one of the labourers, or saw operators had an "oops" moment. I simply can't imagine how incredibly difficult the lumbering business was, first as the loggers had to deal with cutting and extracting white pine logs from the rough Muskoka landscape, and then running them along the rapids-filled waterways to local sawmills. This will be a feature story for later, but what is of interest today, is how the loggers got their sustenance out their in the snowy woods, hustling about their jobs in a Arctic-like climate. What was the cook up to in that shanty, that would inspire the men that physical salvation was a few hours away. It is said by some of the insiders from that period, that the Camboose and other camp cooks were of the highest quality, the food delicious, and that employees often weighed this fact, before signing-on to work in the winter and then log drive. The best cooks were considered quite an asset of these logging enterprises, and the well known early century book by Reverend Allen, entitled "From the Lumber Camp to the Ministry," has a fabulous section, where the author highlights the fine work of the camp cooks in their wonderfully aromatic kitchens; with the tell-tale wafting of woodsmoke that very much added to the flavor of everything being cooked on-site, like it or not. Including wood ash.
     One of the favorite logging camp staples, but not the best inside air quality, was the buried iron pots, in the fire pit, of baking beans that would cook for most of the day leading to the logger's dinner hour. It was thick with molasses and pork bits and grease, and was definitely of the hardy variety, to satisfy hunger pangs. And yes, it was expected wood ash falling to the mix would give that smokey flavour to the menu, no matter what was being served at the time. It could be desert!
     Reverend Allen writes about the preparation of stews, using a variety of available meat, which depended largely on the cash to purchase better quality provisions; or if bad weather limited accessibility via roadways, a mutton or beef stew, might have to be altered somewhat, although the men may not have known of the substitution. If there were cows kept for their dairy product capacity, milk and butter particularly, which wasn't common by the way, it's possible one or two might go missing to feed the camp. The same for oxen used for hauling, or the occasional horse that showed signs of poor health usually due to having worked to hard for too long. The men, being hungry, were mostly concerned at the final hour, that provisions were plentiful and did not taste like it often looked. Reverend Allen wrote about looking into the cookery before breakfast preparations had fully begun, and watched as the camp cook stirred a large and thick layer of white fat, that had congealed on the top of the stew from the night before, was mixed in to the rest of the pot, to get it ready for later in the day. To most of us today, this would be considered grossly unhealthy and, in the process of preparation, well, pretty disgusting. But it had the constitution that seemed to work well for the loggers, who had to work in some of the most adverse weather conditions, demanding the physical endurance to make it through a sunrise to sunset length day.
     It was also recorded in a number of historic lumbering industry overviews, from the period of logging in Muskoka from the 1860's onward to the 1890's, that dinner periods in the mess hall area of these same camps, were only filled with the metal sounds of utensils hitting tin dinner trays, occasional coughing and snuffing of the nostrils, as rules often prohibited talking while the meal was in progress. Most of the men would admittedly, have been so hungry, conversation would have only got in the way of hardy eating.
     There would have been other meat options provided at these camps, dependent on the wildlife of the neighborhood where the camp operation, or river drive was located. It's highly possibly, on occasion, to have offered the loggers freshly caught fish and game, such as rabbit, deer and moose although this would have been considered quite a treat from the normal fare. It is known that many of these logging camp cooks were highly proficient bread, and pie bakers. It is also known that many women from the area also provided food materials for the camps, and would come to the camps themselves to staff the kitchens, although this was not the case for a majority of the operations, at least in this region of Ontario.
     Cookery heritage is more than just a household consideration, and these unsung heroes of the camp kitchens kept Muskoka's number one industry in operation, in those formative years, thanks to their hardy, nourishing, stick-to-your-bones dinners. We have found a few recipes for baked beans we believe were from some of those camps, but we really don't think the cooks in these situations really needed one to follow; at least after the first thousand suppers.
     In Suzanne's family archives, specifically her uncle Bert Shea's book, "The History of the Sheas and the Paths of Adventure,"
there is a small but interesting passage addressing camp food, under the heading "Back to Camp." It reads as follows: "Daylight the following morning saw John and Nehemiah miles from home, heading at a brisk pace in the clear frosty air for Number 2 Camp, Moon River. Not pausing in their pace at noon, each undone a lunch of good home-made bread and cold, homegrown pork in a sandwich, done up on a big red handkerchief tied to a brace under their mackinaw coats to keep them from freezing. Eating as they travelled, the days were short and the miles long and to be at Borlin's Camp on time for supper was important or there would be nothing to eat till breakfast.
     "Tired and hungry they arrived at the camp. Of the few who remained in over Christmas, one had made himself a new hunting knife in the blacksmith shop, another, a new white oak handle for his handaxe, another had gone hunting and shot a fine buck that brought fresh venison in the camp for Christmas. Others had spent their time resting around the table playing cards; all were interested in news from the outside world. John and Nehemiah after a good supper, crawled into their bunks and were soon asleep, to arouse at the usual time - at breakfast the long tables were far from full, but the men were straggling in throughout the day and by night, singly and in groups, some fit and some badly out of balance from the bottle."
     In another paragraph, Bert Shea offers a particularly warm and inviting overview of the lumber camp, writing, "It is needless to say that as darkness settled down on that cool September evening, the odor of wood smoke reaching the nostrils of the weary traveller, the dim lights of the oil lamps from the camp windows, that came into view, then the odour of cooking food filtering out of the open cookery door, all offered a wordless welcome not only to John but to many the weary traveller seeking out work in the land of the virgin pine.
     "A lumber camp was a place where grub was stocked in plenty, there were no restrictions as to the amount of food a man could eat so long as he was there for the interest of the operator. But for the greater part of lumbermen, they were there for all they could get for themselves without concern for man or horseflesh."
     A thriving lumbering camp had a thriving camp kitchen, and good, hardy food, for a hardy day's work. This is a legacy of the Muskoka experience, as it existed in the lumber camps of old.
     Thank you for joining this short series of articles on cookery heritage, handwritten recipes, and vintage cookbooks. I will be writing more about the logging industry as it existed in this locale, in the near future, early in the New Year, all to be published on this facebook page. Coming up next is our favorite "Christmas in Muskoka" series of articles, that will run for the entire month of December, ending on New Year's Day. Some of the stories will be ones I wrote many years ago, and a few more recently, but most will be new for 2016. They are rooted in our family's love for this wonderful part of the world, and it's one of my favorite seasons of the year, in which to put pen to paper, and rejoice about the good qualities and quantities of being a Muskokan. Please join us starting December 1st.

Part Six The Pioneer's Cookery Skills

PART SIX


The Pioneer's Cookery Skills And The Provisions Found In The Wild

     "During the years when the children were small we didn't have many things we needed of the essentials of life, such as sugar - this was were unable to get except the maple sugar we made in the spring - but this was not suitable for preserving fruit - wild fruit which grew in abundance. Raspberries grew around the edge of the new clearings and blueberries sprung up on the hills where the fire had spread from the burning of the fallows, that had run over killing the trees; or the low bush cranberries that grown on the bog on the west end of the Little or Giles Lake and on Roxborough's bog."
     The passage above was published in Bert Shea's 1970's book, "History of the Sheas and the Paths of Adventure," taken from observations made by Suzanne's great-great grandmother, Mary Shea, but best known in the family chronicle as "Granny Shea." As I've noted previously, Suzanne's side of the family arrived in Muskoka as homesteaders, in and around 1862, making them amongst the earliest settlers in this part of Ontario. Her uncle Bert Shea wrote two books documenting those early years of hardship, trying to farm the thin, rocky soil, of the rolling landscape of the present Watt Township, in the neighborhood of Three Mile Lake, nestled into what today is the Township of Muskoka Lakes. The homestead site was situated in the hamlet of Ufford, a name borrowed from a community in England.
     There is an excellent family history given by Grandma Shea in Chapter Five of Bert Shea's book, that profiles the hardships of living in the wilds and the difficulty of isolation, poor roads, and great distances to centres where grain could be milled, and provisions for sustenance purchased.
     "The raspberries came in haying time and I picked berries and put them on racks to dry. We could keep them, when dried, for winter when I would soak them and then stew them with sugar if we had money to buy it." For interest's sake, a well known play, depicting earlier rural times, was penned by a Huntsville writer, based on some of the stories of the Shea family history, including the wedding of Suzanne's grandfather and grandmother's wedding. The title of the play itself was a line written by Granny Shea, reading, "The Raspberries Came in Haying Time."
     "The cranberries came in late September or October after the farm crops were harvested and I would go with William (Shea) to pick them. Some places in the marsh where they grew along the lakeshore on the edge of the marsh, we would pick out of the canoe and if  you weren't careful when reaching for nice big berries, the canoe could upset and you would lose your berries. This didn't happen to us as William was good in a canoe and I soon learned from him. Then when we went out on the marsh on foot you had to keep moving when picking so you wouldn't sink to your knees while standing in the bog. We often picked two big cotton bags of the cranberries and carried them home. They would keep in the dry upstairs in the log house like little apples all winter and were ready to be stewed any time after the middle of November."
     The pioneer lady wrote, "Sometimes we would go over to Roxborough's bog on lot 18, Con. 7 and pick, and there were places in this bog you could sink out of sight but it grew the most beautiful cranberries you would ever see anywhere. But when he decided to drain the bog and dug deep ditches through the high-land surrounding it, the springs that fed it drained the surface, and then he continued by extending the drains through the marsh. The cranberries died out and the little pine and tamarack and spruce came up and covered the whole bog and then after a few years we would go over and cut a long slender young tamarac for a fishing pole - almost everyone had a fishing pole from  Roxborough's swamp; but we missed the good cranberries."
     Mrs. Shea adds to her story, writing, "One day an old man came around taking orders for apple trees and William bought some trees - not many - one was a crabapple called the General Grant and a Duchess of Oldenburg. How we prized these trees and when they came out in blossom in the spring, we were so delighted to have such beautiful trees just in front of the old log house and to smell the odour of the apple blossoms. After a few days, we watched the branches closely and by the formations where the blossoms had been, there was the evidence that the bees that had been so busy among the blossoms, gathering honey, had done a perfect job of pollination. With keen interest, throughout the summer, we watched the development of our first apples and by early autumn, and the time of ripening of the wild plums over in the grove, our apple trees were, as they had been in the spring, with their blossoms, a sight to see - laden with rosy cheeked apples and the prize of ours possessions. This was something new to the children - they had never tasted an apple before, as well as to watch them grown.
     "As well as eating from our hands all that we wanted, I peeled and cut each apple in eights, removing the core, and spread the pieces on racks to dry. This process took a few days to complete. When each lot was dried, they were taken f rom the rack or the beams and put in a clean-white cotton bag. Day after day this process went on till the whole of the apple crop of the Duchess of Oldenburg were safely prepared for winter cooking, with the other dried fruits and cranberries. This was the way we did, the years before there were glass jars for preserving, or crocks, for keeping the prepared fruit, or money to buy jars or crocks or sugar in sufficient quantities.
     "In those days everyone depended on their own resources - if the seasons were good, especially free from frost, we got along and were happy - but there came bad years when frost cut the first blossoms or the wheat was a failure,' and then she hesitated. I watched her in thought as she smoothed her white apron with her wrinkled hands. She went on, 'There were times when we didn't just know how things were going to go. We couldn't get enough flour. William and I would do without to save the bread for the little ones. Fed on good bread and milk they came along alright. We both did the best we could. William was a good man, he always thought of his family first. He was not only a good worker but he could plan, was a good hunter and trapper and fisherman and altogether it helped us along. Mr. McLeod on Con. 2, made good herring nets - they cost very little more than the price of the good linen thread that made the meshes and the main or top and bottom cords - he made the floaters from the cedar or pine with his jack knife - but he had to by the lead for the sinkers. These nets would last for years. Pa would set it down in the Bay just off Norway Point, we alled it Norway Point because there stood a beautiful Norway Pine on the centre of it, the only Norway Pine on Three Mile lake."
     She commented further that, "Pa, as well as spending a little time hunting in the fall, did some trapping too. He could catch the beaver and this gave us money for taxes and winter clothes, and for Christmas. Bracebridge was growing along these years. The fur buyers had set up shops in the village - they, having contacts in the old country, among the manufacturers who had markets for the finished furs in the British Isles and in Europe. Canada, being a British Colony, enjoyed a preference in the fur market over the great Russian competitors."
     After returning from selling furs in Bracebridge Pa would bring treats home for the Christmas celebration, particularly for the children. She recalls, "Little eyes would be heavy with sleep ere the squeak of Pa's footsteps on the frosty path that betrayed his coming and the click of the latch announced his arrival. With ice on his whiskers he entered the cozy kitchen and wearily laid his precious burden down on the cabin floor. The fire in the stove burned merrily, the steam from the spout of the Black Iron Teakettle furnished moisture to coat the frosty window panes. The odor of freshly brewed tea and fresh fried pork and vegetables in abundant measure, fresh from the stove to the table, bespoke satisfaction and comfort to a hungry man. After supper, Pa would take the little ones on his knee and tell them about his trip to the village of Bracebridge and about all the things in the stores and then it wold be again time for bed."
     Please join us again tomorrow, on this facebook page, for the conclusion of our short series on the folk history of recipes and cookbooks.

Part Five From Book Hound To Cookbook Pursuer

PART FIVE

From Book Hound to Cookbook Pursuer - Same Idea But a Markedly Different Focu
     As readers of this  post, must now appreciate, Suzanne and I are stalwart book lovers. Eager bibliophiles on the verge of going full monty into bibliomania. My friend and associate book collector, David Brown didn't like either title for what he did as a means of entertainment. Truthfully, and as his biographer, Miles David Brown passed the bibliophile stage in only a few years of active book collecting. He subtly but quickly evolved into what can only be considered the "bibliomaniac" level of loving books too much, which ultimately cost him his marriage, and most of the open space in his Hamilton, Ontario bungalow. Yup, he was a book hoarder, more so than a collector, by the end of his industrious, always-on-the-move existence as a collector. Surprisingly, it's a pretty thin line all collectors can cross even without knowing it, and begin to hoard for reasons of emotional surrender to a particular interest. I've been as close-as-spitting you might say, and with Dave as my mentor for many years, I had begun to slip into his world of excesses. Suzanne enjoyed the same mentorship, and although it was an honor and privilege working side by side with this well known bookman, we both knew we were making compromises by bringing in too many books for our own ability to then get rid of them as book sellers. I think switching to cookbooks about five years ago, was both a good strategy, and one that would deny us the open lane to ever become over zealous about the volumes needed to feel satisfied. And this, by the way, is what it's all about. We have at times felt we needed more books but just to possess them, not to actually benefit from them.
     The difference between collecting old books and, on the other side, cookbooks, at least for us, is that rare and old books are most significant when they are in good to pristine condition. Condition is critical and value is directly proportional to the degree of damage. If an old or otherwise collectable book, that was published with a dustjacket, is missing this component in the present tense, it will lose upwards of seventy-five percent of its market value. The same devaluations occur with pages that are ripped, water damaged, or when the spine is damaged or failing at the point of both front and back hinges. Books that are dirty, scuffed or smell moldy, are considered seriously compromised, and although can be conserved, become more significant for information and story they contain, than having any kind of serious market value.
     As far as rare, vintage, collectable and out-of-print cookbooks, content is generally more important than condition, when you are immersed in a reference enterprise as is ours at present. We use a lot of highly collectable and important cookery resource books, because we require the content, thus being its most important asset to us. We have sold some unbelievably beat-up cookbooks, very ugly to the collector of pristine books, even with seriously compromised covers, because, as it turned out in these cases, the buyer needed the book for a specific reason, or for the sake of sheer nostalgia, no matter what the prevailing condition. To us, it is not all that detrimental to have greasy fingerprints showing on a book jacket, if it was put there by the home cook(s) who once owned and benefitted from it as a cookery resource. Our cookbook buyers generally appreciate the visible provenance of a text that appears to have had a busy life in the pursuit of quality home cookery. It's not that the rules of condition are all that much different, but what is the exception, rests with the collectable characteristic, well beyond the value of a pristine copy. A pristine copy is fine if it's newly published, but a book that shows considerable use, and the battle wounds of being stove-side, demonstrates a different and tangible value, that for all intents and purposes is what matters most to a new owner looking to benefit from the text as a resource.
     This may seem a little confusing, but it's really quite simple. Old book collectors as a rule, and by my association with collectors, want their books to be in great condition, because it does matter as an investment. You may be surprised to know this, but an autographed edition can actually devalue a book, unless it is the signature of an author of the calibre of Charles Dickens, Lewis Carroll, or Washington Irving. It's no longer pristine or even fine, with a signature or inscription penned onto an inside cover page, or title page. Same goes for sports cards. It's why a lot of collectors have sports stars autograph pieces of paper, and not on the card-face itself. An autographed book is considered separately in most cases, being sold as such, and not as pristine or fine copies, even though that may be the state of condition. Fiction collectors are the most precise in this regard, moreso than most who collect non-fiction, which comes down to a more intense scrutiny on content and information contained within, than a work of literature, where packaging and presentation is the treasure value of a first edition. First editions by the way, are of critical importance in fiction, as I'm sure you can imagine, such as the case with Margaret Mitchell's "Gone With The Wind." While it's not to say that first editions of popular cookbooks are any less important, especially from a bygone era, they are not the end-all when it comes to the business of using them as resources, as we do, and in re-selling them to "foodies" who are allured by the content and reputation, and couldn't care less if it is a stated first edition or even in excellent condition. Let me put it this way. Even if a lawnmower ran over an important cookbook, as long as most of the pages could be read, and copied for posterity, it will hold a value as a reference text.
     The point of all this in fact, is that our turn away from collecting mostly rare, old and out of print books, and switching to cookbooks has given us a lot more flexibility in acquiring materials for both our cookery archives, and for our shop shelves. We're not turning down books because of ever-so slight blemishes and light damage to the cover stock. A cookbook doesn't have to be attractive, or have amazing cover graphics to be coveted by collectors, mostly interested in the contents of even the plainest, simplest packaging. The only real downside, is that hunting for vintage cookbooks is much more difficult because of availability. As there are millions of old books to choose from, being non-fiction and fiction, there are far fewer desirable cookbooks for sale out on the hustings. Obviously it is still the case where the best old cookbooks are still being possessed and I dare say cherished by owners, who probably inherited them from family dating back generations. To address what I wrote in yesterday's post, there is still more availability of old cookbooks today, than there was when Suzanne and I first began collecting them back in the mid-1980's. The modern home cook it seems, (or at least we are told this by some visitors to our shop) can Google the recipes they want on their phones or laptops, avoiding the clutter of books in the kitchen altogether. These same people laugh at us for trying to go back to a time when every kitchen of merit, had a shelf of old and trusted cookbooks, with their companion handwritten recipes and box of printed cards with their favorite dishes featured. We just sigh, smile and keep our opinions in check, because there's no reason to try and change their conviction the internet has made everything in hard-copy obsolete. Just so you know, this is not the case, and things are going back even in terms of vintage vinyl for the record player. We should know, as we are major regional sellers of vintage and new vinyl.
     Honestly, it's hard to imagine a kitchen, ultra modern, or old fashioned "country" without a small stack of cookbooks; with traces of flour on their covers, and a few noticeable greasy fingerprints. It's folk art to us, but then we are loyalists to the old ways especially when it comes to kitchen traditions. We so loyal in fact, that we will even, when possible, give the provenance of the cookbooks we sell, because we think it's an added value to the material in question. It doesn't mean that knowing a former owner, and passing this information along to a purchaser, will add to the purchase price. It means with cookbooks provenance has its place, being the passed-on warmth and character of a cookery legacy. Think about how many great family dinners, and special holiday feasts were inspired by this same book, or books, and should a ghost of a former owner be attached somehow, how great would that be to have experienced help from the "other side" as an assistant cook. Hey, we all need inspiration, and creative boosts to get tasks completed, so getting some motivation for the spirit kind might be kind of neat. The ghost you bring home with that old cookbook, might be represented in actuality, by the greasy fingerprints and gravy stains it possess in fact. Any ghost that has "cookery" as a tipping point, would have to be "Casper-like," so you need not worry about malevolence in your household.
     Greasy fingerprints on a first edition of Washington Irving's famous book, "Bracebridge Hall," would seriously detract from its market value. If it was a cookbook that Washington Irving penned instead, well, fingerprints would be like the worn fret-board of a heavily used guitar; the clear sign of a passionate period of ownership in its own chronicle. We like that kind of thing, and we couldn't be happier as collectors, content with a few good finds, and never, ever disappointed, about coming home after a buying trip with only one wonderful cookbook, or on a good trip, a box full, versus the old days, arriving back at Birch Hollow with half a van load of very general old books. It's a lot less stress on the van, and much less of a burden on our home and shop, where they inevitably line yet another shelf.
     Please join Suzanne and I tomorrow for another installment in this series of stories about old cookbooks and handwritten recipes.

Part Four Cookery Heritage Being Lost

Recipes written on all sorts of paper.

PART FOUR

SO MUCH COOKERY HERITAGE TOSSED IN THE REFUSE BIN DISCARDED BECAUSE OF DISINTEREST

     Suzanne and I are sure of one thing when it comes to collecting old cookbooks and their resident handwritten recipes that were most often folded up, and stuffed inside these same well used and well travelled texts passed down through the generations. The fact is clear to us, that it is infinitely better today, as far as the hunt and gather of these old texts, than when started our collection back in the early 1980's. Although it's not a scientific survey, as such, it does seem to confirm that old passed-down cookbooks are not nearly as important to maintain in the modern era kitchens. They have been replaced by art, interesting decorator pieces, and the most up to date cookbooks, that look better for presentation, than the value of advice offered within. It seems that modern home chefs of this new century, would rather have updated texts lining their kitchen shelf, if they decide to cook in the first place. I suppose for entertaining, having an old beat-up family cookbook doesn't look cool, although, in our opinion, these books are always mainstays of good taste no matter how badly their cover stock is damaged and stained, and whether or not the spine is still connected securely to the rest of the text.
     Although Suzanne and I could buy five to ten full boxes of cookbooks at estate sale auctions, back in the early to late 1980's, it was rare to find them in used book shops and almost impossible to locate at flea markets and yards sales where today, you can find lots of variety. It's kind of sad to folks like us, because these kitchen relics, like the family Bible, should remain with family as far along the line as it goes. Of course in this regard we are hopeless romantics and victims of nostalgia, but we seek no cure for this pleasant affliction. I would say that, today, our opportunities to acquire old and collectable cookbooks and all that go with them in the way of handwritten recipes, is four to five times greater than it was when we began. It's good in a way but not so good in another. We acquire the best of the best, being cookbooks with a proven track-record of loyalty amongst generations of home cooks, and those other community cookbooks contributed-to by friends and neighbors in church congregations, service clubs, fundraising associations, and hamlet, village and town publications with all the names of those who have offered recipes. We always have buyers for these small format, simply produced cookbooks, often with spiral or staple bindings.
     We very much appreciate when those who have inherited these wonderful relics of cookery heritage offer them for sale, either to us, or at venues where we can make purchases. I just hate the thought of so much history being dumped at landfill sites, or destroyed for general lack of interest. There are many folks on this continent that want these old and often rare cookbooks for their exceptional content; and many because they are books their grandmothers and mothers owned, and used every week in their family homes. Baby Boomers are amongst our best customers and for good reason. They are amongst the last loyalists to old cookbooks, with exception of collectors and those suffering the same affliction, of being a slave to the emotions of nostalgia.
     In my years associated with old books, as a buyer and seller, I have picked up some repair skills to at the very least secure covers back onto texts, as companion to all other conservation efforts to free them of the contaminates garnered over a long shelf life. Suzanne and I have saved many books that seemed destined to the garbage bin, or recycling depot. It pleases us to bits to be able to save these beat-up old cookbooks, thought best ground back to pulp, or returned to the earth from which they once grew in forest stands. What we conserve, at the same time, are some recipes that are not common today, but are of interest to home cooks and chefs, looking for some history with their culinary creations. A unique old cookbook, in terms of content, has to be in very, very bad shape for us to cast it into the bin. Even then, we probably have yanked out pages without mold, and saved them in plastic sheets for future reference.
     We also have in our collection, many cookbooks and handwritten recipes with provenance; meaning that we recognized the owner, and how we came to acquire the item(s). We have had collections donated to us, not to sell, but to use as reference for our customers and a host of home cooks and chefs. We will make sure those using the resource are told of its particular chronicle of ownership because this does matter; if not to them, to us as the stewards of the collection. And we are often asked for specific recipes from a time period, and we can go back to the mid-1800's Victorian period, with some ease, at this point. Although we want to be able to go back much further with both cookbooks and handwritten material of period home cooks. It does exist, and we want to own it, or at least as much of it as we can afford. It can get pretty pricey chasing down the oldest cookbooks and related ephemera. All you have to do is check titles through online rare book sites and even on ebay auction listing, to find out just how valuable they can get with the growing pressure of collectors like us trying to buy up the gems. Some of the rarest books from earlier centuries can easily hit the multi-thousand dollar level. We have to sit on the sidelines for these auctions unfortunately.
     We want to remind the readers of this series, to keep us in mind, should inherited cookbook collections, in your possession, become a burden on your kitchen or library shelves. While only a small portion of these old and out of print cookbooks are of significant value, there is a growing value due to an increasing market interest. Here are some of the most coveted of the general cookbooks we need regularly for our large client list; just in case you have some and wish to part with them. Here are a few of our most requested cookbooks according to our collection archivist, Suzanne: "A Guide To Good Cooking with Five Roses Flour," "Purity Cook Book," "Blue Ribbon Cook Book," "Ogilive's Book for a Cook," and as mentioned previously, Community Church Group Cookbooks. Locally representative community cookbooks from Muskoka hamlets, villages and towns are most desirable, and we always like to keep a good stock of these on hand, as they are highly sought after, especially by family members of those who, many years ago, contributed recipes. If you have cookbooks you don't need any longer, especially the ones listed above, please text us and we'll get right back to you.
     While there are collector colleagues who can't figure out what we find so appealing about old cookbooks and handwritten recipes, there are many millions of folks around the globe who are smitten with the whole package of culinary heritage. It starts with a love for kitchen craft, and the belief that this room is the most magical in the household, and often turns into a culinary relationship that carries on through a lifetime. It happened this way in our own family, and although my mother wasn't a highly proficient cook, we still treated our tiny apartment kitchen as if it was a shrine of sorts. It's where we had our holiday meals, and seeing as we were only a family of three, we made our kitchen a place of great, however humble celebration. It was as if we had a dozen Curries in that room, and as Charles Dickens penned the words of his clerk, coming in late after Christmas, "I am behind my time. I was making rather merry," yesterday. So were we and on a pretty tight budget. But good food is good food afterall, and we ate well in those days when by economy, we were amongst the poorest of the apartment block, yet the least concerned about what that meant in earnest. My parents seemed to make the kitchen a restorative room in a neat but sparsely furnished apartment, and there was a strange alchemy I never understood, how they could make so much food each week on so few dollars left after rent and utilities were paid. They had both lived through the Great Depression, my father's home being amongst the poorest of the Irish in Toronto's Cabbagetown neighborhood, and my mother Merle, being the daughter of Blanche and Stanley Jackson; Blanche being an outstanding home cook, even according to the hobos she fed at the back door, and Stan being a contractor who had a hard time getting customers to pay, even a church congregation, for the building he had constructed in those terrible years of economic calamity. Food seemed to sooth the savage beast within.
     Please join Suzanne and I again tomorrow, for another post on this facebook page, about the good fun and rewards of collecting vintage cookbooks and handwritten recipes.