Antiques That Hold Their Spirits-The Ghost That Has Long Haunted Me

ANTIQUES THAT HOLD THEIR SPIRITS - I'VE HAD A FEW OVER THE YEARS

THE GHOST OF TORRANCE TERRACE HAS LONG HAUNTED ME

Even as a kid, trundling home from school, there were things I found along the way, that I couldn't resist scooping up as found-treasure. I'd arrive home to our Burlington apartment, with pockets full of this and that, leaving my mother Merle to figure out, when I wasn't looking, how to free our abode of toads, grasshoppers, old bits of metal, some shiny rocks, and chestnuts in various stages of decomposition. She threw out three quarters of everything I collected, from broken hockey sticks, to neat old bottles found down in the thickly overgrown ravine of Ramble Creek.

I was attracted to certain things by forces unknown. At least that's what Merle used to tell the neighbors, when she saw me coming up Harris Crescent with pockets bulging and overflowing, while swinging a ball bat, or old hockey stick I found alongside the road. Strangely though, she was right about some things, regarding those early acts of acquisition. There was something that "made me do it," and it wasn't a voice in my head, directing my actions. It was a feeling then, just as it has always been throughout my collecting life. I will encounter a relic, an antique or collectible in a shop, at a yard sale, or at an auction, that I'm drawn to for more than the capital value. As an antique dealer I do operate on a for-profit basis, even though my wife, the accountant, questions this frequently, when I come home with something else truly bizarre, to what we normally acquire to refurbish and re-sell.

One of my most poignant recollections, of a childhood experience, where I truly felt in the company of the spirits, came in a most casual, spontaneous way, making me feel on that particular day, as if I was being urged by something unknown, to visit an old house in the neighborhood,……then only a few days from being crushed by earth movers. It was to make way for the construction of a large apartment tower amidst some wonderful late Victorian architecture. The old estate, on Torrance Avenue, that looked so storied and charming amidst the wreath of venerable old hardwoods, and the ever-popular chestnut grove bordering the road, was facing its last few days as prominent architecture in our neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario. Which was a short hike to the shore of Lake Ontario, and a place that was often brushed by thick morning fog, and the muted sound of fog-horns from huge freighters passing somewhere on the bay. It was a little bit Hollywood, in scenery, perfect for a ghost story, but at this time of my young, impressionable life, I didn't have much knowledge of spirits or their ilk. I was just a curious little snot, usually with the arse ripped out of his pants, and a tangle of torn knee patches on both legs, with pockets-full of interesting livestock etc. I was an "eyes wide open" kid. I was an antique hunter in training, long before i knew what an antique was all about.

On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, back pushing, and triple-daring before we decided to pool our collective bravado, and the thin, still growing, shreds of our male hubris, to challenge what our parents had instilled, rather burdened upon us, about invading private property. They taught us to respect signs that stated "no trespassing." Have you ever broken trust before? Found a way to circumnavigate some unfair imposition? We wanted to see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time, as I walked by, when "old house" and "kid" didn't subtly exchange glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, a pull on my wanderlust, to just make a friendly visit. Even just a head-poke, through the half-open front door, to glance both ways, around the corner. What harm could that do? As a career antique dealer, this has been the most often repeated question, and the common thread of a great deal of unravelling.

Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was! My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions, I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.

The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak. There isn't an inquisitive child alive who could resist the allure. What was left inside? Scrounger's rights! Finders keepers! I could find all kinds of justification, for defying every rule, civil and otherwise, to work my mates into a frenzy of self righteousness. God wanted us to enter that old house.

Once inside the door, which of course involved a typical amount of pushing and "you go first" challenges, it was definitely a treat for the senses. It was quite dilapidated by this point of its forced-decline, and there had been doors and built-in cabinets ripped from the walls, corner cupboards unfastened, leaving ugly holes in the wall. Even the mantle was gone and everywhere there was evidence of home-wreckers, having swung their hammers and prying bars. There were broken Christmas ornaments strewn on the floor, and pages from old magazines and newspapers crumpled in corners and in doorless closets. There were dishes on an old table, and drinking glasses on the remnants of a kitchen counter. As we chums wandered slowly, in awe, from room to room, we picked up little keepsakes from the floor, that attracted our darting and weaving span of attention, in the lowly lit environs of what had once been, a truly magnificent home. I remember the curious way light shone through the stained glass on some of the old windows.

What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle, just to hear the echo through the empty rooms. Then without any provocation or inspired fear, of being detected, wandering through the old house, I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, a sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race. Much as if my soul had encountered something ominous, I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie, within a very short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en, dressed up in a sheet, with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities, I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the rooms. I wasn't frightened, and I don't think the feelings I had experienced, were shared by the other three chums. At least they never admitted to anything, or any fears other than facing a police officer, or our parents, should we be found out. But there were reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way. I knew we were being watched by something. I've had this sensation many times in the past, and it has always linked to some paranormal encounter…..always as inadvertent as it was then…..right in the middle of a great and memorable childhood adventure. Ghosts hadn't been on our minds. I know I was imposed upon that day but it had nothing to do with fear or loathing of spirit-kind. It was as if I was being asked for help save this doomed Victorian estate. I felt as if I was being exposed to a message that wasn't quite connecting. I still miss more of these than I pick-up, on my modern day adventures.

Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the aura of an occupied house, and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then, we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura, the remnant patina of the human / architectural relationship, forged beneath these old timbers. Sensory attempts to warn and advise us, about the prevailing circumstance, of what has happened in the past.

I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use, and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and all the life and death occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.

When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects.

I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets; ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold. A parallel experience, might be if you were to suddenly appear at a former abode, you spent your childhood, and sense part of your spirit still dwelling within…..the ghosts of your past wandering through the same rooms and halls, up and down the stairs, as if nothing at all was different…..except of course, the belongings now, laid-out beneath this roof, from another resident family reminding, eerily, sadly, that time has passed…..but not been forgotten. It has been said that a little of our soul is spread over the places we have lived and miles we have travelled, and that when our spirit finally leaves our human life, it re-traces all of these places we once occupied…..even for a short while, as a sort of paranormal retrospective.

I would like to, in some future blogs, illustrate this point more clearly, by profiling some experiences I've had over the decades, as an antique dealer, frequently attracted to pieces that may or may not be haunted…..somewhat as I felt strangely compelled to enter an old house, on the off chance, of finding something neat to scoff. While it's a stretch, obviously, to compare an old cedar trunk, with provenance, to an historic estate, my exposure to the sensation of occupation, as a child, has inspired a great awareness as a collector…..that some pieces, strange or not, have an attraction that goes well beyond the patina of the wood, or the feel of the fabric. Truth is, I can feel something extra, as if the essence of the item's builder, or former owner….a child, possibly, is still somehow connected. There are many stories told of cradles rocking without an occupant or attendant, rocking chairs moving of their own accord, and organs playing without the slightest touch of mortal hand. My stories aren't quite so compelling and interesting, but we've had a few unusual events attached to certain acquired pieces. Nothing fearful or disturbing. Just curious in a paranormal context.

Maybe you have felt the same at times. Feeling it necessary to stop at an antique sale, to examine a piece that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think twice about acquiring. What made you stop for a second look? Did your grandmother have something similar? Could it be a sign from someone who has crossed, trying to remind you about a favorite quilt or cushion, old rocking horse or cradle, that you used to play with when visiting. For those who validate the existence, in spirit form, of those who have crossed over, few would deny the possibility, that sentiment and emotion are routinely tweaked by forces unknown, to make us aware of our past…..and our future; if we only had a few moments to ponder the associations, and signs apparent. I wander around, most of the time, with this openness to suggestion….willingness to entertain even the slightest remembrance, that puts me in mind of those friends and family, who were so important to my well being. When my wife hears me laughing at something, while on an antique shop walk-about, she recognizes immediately, Ted's had a poignant reminiscence…..quite out of the blue. Always in the strangest, and most obscure of places in the shop, it seems. But I know, as soon as I enter, like my feeling of all buildings, something is going to tap me on the shoulder, or peak my curiosity, and moreso than a for-profit purchase, I will likely be hauling something home that, I love saying to my wife, "spoke to me!"

I don't see dead people as such. I feel them though. I sense them, and quite enjoy the feeling and enthralling allure of a limitless universe of possibility, where there are no rules of engagement. As some folks say, "you just go with the flow."

I will leave today's blog, with one final story that I have never come to understand, or identify as having been true, or simply a figment of an over-active child's imagination. It was after school one afternoon, that I was wandering along the rocky, overgrown shore of Ramble Creek, not too far from Lakeshore Boulevard, and the bridge just before the wider view of Lake Ontario. I came through a clearing and could hear a rhythmic creaking of what sounded like a swing set. I came out into a small clearing along the embankment of the creek, and I could see a girl swinging back and forth in the yard of a house I hadn't seen before. I didn't know the girl, and even though I'd come this far many times before, this house was new to me. When the girl, about my age at the time….seven or eight, spotted me, she jumped off the swing and beckoned me to cross over the limestone pads that formed a bridge. I did so, and she took my hand immediately, to lead me back to the swing set. I can so clearly remember swinging side by side that sunny spring afternoon. When the sun started to weaken, I told her it was time for me to leave, for the hike back home. She took my hand again, and walked me to the shore, and the trail of stones across the fast, shallow water. When I looked at her, I saw tears streaking down her pale face. She did not want me to leave. She insisted I return again, to play on the swings, just as we had that afternoon. I felt heartsick about leaving her. I wanted to race back over those limestone pads and hug her. It was as if I'd known this girl from another life, as we had such a strange connection I didn't understand. I couldn't have understood at that age.

I made many trips back along that winding Ramble Creek, and never saw her again. Nobody I asked knew who she was, yet there was a swing set, out in the yard, exactly where it had been on that day. I remember her telling me, this was her house, and that she went to the same school as I did…….but apparently, not on the same plane as I occupied. Had I been swinging with a ghost? As a matter of irony, it was adjacent to the old house I have been writing about, on Torrance Avenue. I can still hear that swing, as if it was at my side this very moment….just as I can see her tear stained face, and the blue eyes that begged me to stay. What if I had remained? Might I also, have become a ghost of Ramble Creek?