THE SUMMER WHEN HOCKEY CLUBS FROM PASADENA, CAME TO BRACEBRIDGE FOR A VISIT - AND TO KICK OUR ASSES
CALIFORNIA AND THE HOCKEY PROGRAM WE UNDERESTIMATED
On a hot summer day like this, what finer remedy for what seems so oppressive, than a look back at local hockey. Even if you don't like hockey, this has kind of a local, national moral attached. Just read between the lines.
I was brought up on a diet of hockey. That made me just like the rest of my mates, back then, who had also been dragged off to the arena, to be exploited, I suppose you could say, for what talent on ice, we may have possessed. Even then, we had parents who were living vicariously through us, and it was their high hope, we would make it all the way to the National Hockey League. In Bracebridge, like Billy Carson, and Irvin "Ace" Bailey, of the early years of pro hockey, and Roger Crozier, of the contemporary hockey scene, with the Detroit Red Wings. Our parents told us, that if we played hard, and never gave up, we would be professional hockey players one day. Well sir, there were a lot of parents telling porkies back then, because an overwhelming majority left hockey after only a few seasons of play. They were looking for "naturals" like Bobby Orr, the amazing talent from Parry Sound, and most of us fell way short. But this was the standard by which we were being judged. In retrospect, I liked to play, but not the part about living up to unrealistic expectations.
The best it ever got for me, was when the starting goalie was a no show, on a trip to Bramalea, one season in the early 1970's, to play one of their Bantam "A" teams. In house league play, I was often the only goalie in the game, which meant, if I got hurt, a forward or defenceman had to become a sudden netminder. When going to Bramalea, I was scared out of my wits, that I would get pummeled, and there would be no relief from the bench. As it turned out, we won the game, and Scott Hammond and I were selected as the top players of the game; and because of this, we were treated to an NHL game that night, between the Minnesota North Stars and Toronto. I felt like a star, but that was short-lived. Hockey gradually became a part-time job instead of a recreation, and there was just too much expectation that we had to achieve what our parents wanted. I was so scared of my father's criticism, that when he asked me the score of our away games, I'd lie to him about the number of goals I let in; hoping that the local press wouldn't run the scores in the sports section, that my dad might read. Now that's not the way to enjoy what is supposed to be recreation. That's why I was so surprised, when a local reporter, asked Roger Crozier, at a press conference we were holding, how he would like to be remembered; as either an allstar hockey player, or an accomplished corporate executive. This by the way, was during the launch of the Crozier Foundation, in 1996, of which I was the new public relations co-ordinator for Muskoka. Roger answered immediately, that he wanted to be remembered as "a successful bank executive." Many of the reporters found this hard to grasp, but it was true. The best part of a game, Roger told me in casual reflection, was when the buzzer went at the end of the third period. This from a man who was often sick to his stomach before games. Hockey for him had been a damn tough job. Period.
I can remember playing squirt hockey in Burlington, which was I guess, like the "tykes" division of minor hockey today. I became a rink rat at a young age, and when I shouldn't have been out and about, especially alone, or with equally young chums, I was most likely to be found in hockey season, sitting up in the bleachers watching whatever was going on, down below. I wasn't given an option, as we gave our boys, as to whether they wished to play hockey, or spend their recreation money elsewhere. I was told that I would love playing hockey, and led by the hand to the registration table each fall, until I was in my mid-teens, and could attend sign-up without parental involvement. All I know, is that my family was hockey crazy, and when it wasn't the time for regular season play, they talked hockey instead. My mother was a Toronto supporter, and my father was a die-hard Montreal fan. I didn't have an option about playing, and I suppose I should be mad at my parents, for getting me involved in something that has added some physical misery for all these years. My hands have been beaten with sticks and pucks, and my knees are both wonky, and if I removed my beard, you'd see scars from slap-shots where the mask provided little coverage. But I did come to love the game, and yet, today, not having cable television, I confess that I didn't watch even one game all this year. My boys chose music and instruments, over hockey registration and equipment. It turned out far more expensive for us, in the long-run, but the rewards have been quadruple what I ever achieved, dedicating most of my time, trying to make it to the big leagues. Roger Crozier told me, that back in the late 1960's, I had been scouted as the goalie who had potential to make it into the junior ranks. I came close, let me tell you. But I just couldn't take the injuries any more. We've lost a lot of fine hockey players this way.
This story, today, is not a condemnation of hockey, but a casual reflection on a particular circumstance of competition, with another country, that provided some early enlightenment to Canadian coaches, who thought, that if we could ice the best of the best, we would never been overtaken at our national sport.
I still have a patch we were given, at the time, Bracebridge Minor Hockey, played host to touring clubs from Pasadena, California. If memory serves, and it doesn't always these days, the four team exhibition match, occurred at the time we had a hired head coach, for minor hockey, by the name of Bucko MacDonald; reportedly one of the best hip-checkers ever to play in the National Hockey League. I'll explain just how good, later in today's blog. By the way, the story is told, that it was Bucko, when he was coaching up in Parry Sound, who convinced the Orr family, and Bobby, to become a defenseman instead of a forward. So Bucko, from Sundridge, changed sports history, if this story is true. The point of bringing up Bucko's name, is that he brought a huge new prominence to Bracebridge hockey, and did increase the quality of play, with the all star teams at that point. I'm not sure what went on behind the scenes, as far as organization went, for us to play the lads from Pasadena, while they were on tour in Canada, but our lads were looking to spoil their Canadian holiday.
As a typical hockey-playing Canadian kid, it was entrenched in our minds, that we were born to excel in hockey. Somehow I felt as a lesser citizen, when we came off an unexpected loss instead of a win. Both my parents were hockey nuts, and the parents who were in the class of "screamers," and "complainers," no one wants to sit beside in the bleachers. How bad were they? Well, I can remember in one minor hockey playoff game, I was really getting annoyed by the fans behind, who were calling me, the netminder, "sieve!" It's the number one insult to call out to a goaltender. When I finally had to look, to see who was yelling this out, every time I let a goal in, there were only two people behind me, and that was mom and pop. Jesus, they were calling their own son a "sieve." I eventually had to ask my parents not to attend my games, or I warned, I was going to quit entirely. They seemed aghast that I wouldn't want their support, but their idea of support and mine, were quite opposite. So when our team was scheduled to play Pasadena, and they asked permission to attend, I ordered them to sit way up in the bleachers, at the west end of the arena. Yup, big mistake. I could hear them as an echo, making it twice to three times as irritating, as their voices rattled around the iron girders above. They were also prohibited from calling me names. They actually kept their verbal critiques low-key for most of the game. But it was noticeable, when they started yelling at the starting goaltender on our team, Tim Morrison, calling him a sieve instead. They kind of forgot the protocol of cheering for the home side. They wanted the coach to pull Tim after the first eight goals, in favor of their son.
First of all, we were told over and over, that because we were hardy Canadian lads, brought up on the frozen ponds of the frontier, we couldn't be beaten by kids from the southwest United States. It was a time in history, in the late 1960's, when there was no way, any Americans could play our national sport, with any proficiency; and when we were told, that the teams from Pasadena were very well trained, and good all round hockey players, we laughed it off, as nothing more than an attempt by our coaches, so we would take the exhibition games seriously. They knew the truth. These California kids were outstanding athletes, first of all, and from families who could afford extra coaching, and lots of ice time in the sunny south. To us, we just couldn't see this as being an issue, and so, the hubris kicked in, and we wondered instead, if there would be any "mercy" rule imposed. This meant, that once a score hit an eight to ten goal lead, the winning team would let-up, and it would just turn into a game of shinny instead. There was no need to humiliate these nicely tanned lads, who were probably surfers in the Beach Boys model of the good life, with sun, sand and music. The only ice these lads were familiar with, were the ice chunks in the sodas. This by the way, was our fundamental oversight, and as far as the mercy rule, by golly, we were the ones begging for the terrible drubbing to cease.
When we got to the rink, we immediately, as Canadian lads did back then, began calling "hat-tricks," and "shut-outs," just like Babe Ruth would point to a place in the bleachers, where he was going to deposit the very next home run. We were so confident in ourselves, that we only gave a half effort at the pre-game warm-up. I don't even think I got a chance to have some shots against me, seeing as I was the back-up, and might not see any action at all. Then it happened. The Pasadena club, we were going to play, hit the ice for their pre-game warm-up. (There were four teams, I believe, who played in that Sunday exhibition series) We just stood there, in awe, and benefitted in a way, from the cool and refreshing breeze, their skating in a circle, in the end zone, created in the warm arena climate. There was a bit of mist in the air, and they despatched it to the rafters. They looked as if their uniforms were tailored, whereas ours were torn, sewn-up by our mothers, with blood stains on the sleeves. But honestly, it was their incredible skating prowess that amazed us the most. We had seen nice uniforms before, but not the whole hockey package. They were flying around their end-zone like we'd never seen before, except in the N.H.L. When they set themselves to warm-up the goalie, they did so with precision with great organization, such that the back-up goalie was getting some action on the side-boards, with several players taking close-in wrist shots. Compared to them, we were one up from road hockey players, or at most, a pick-up bunch for some afternoon shinny.
Tim Morrison got the call, as usual, to start in net, and of this, I was very appreciative. I had a feeling that our cocky approach to the capabilities of our southern friends, was going to teach some lessons, and I was happy to get my lesson while at the end of the pine bench. When the game got underway, gosh, the Pasadena players figured we must be holding back, because our forwards couldn't connect on a pass, or stick handled more than a few strides, without losing the puck. They played the first five minutes, anticipating that we were trying to suck them in, to a sort of false sense of security. So they just ragged the puck, and passed it from side to side, and finally, when it appeared the charade was over, they started rushing the net with beautiful stick handling and passing, and sliding them past Tim, as if they were simply and accurately threading a needle. Now to Tim's credit, he made some big saves, but probably in the first half of the game, he would have faced fifty shots. That was a lot for any minor hockey team, and I think it was at the eight to nothing point, that the coach gave me the nod; which means I had to jump over the boards, and face the horrors of incoming shooters without much in the way of defense. One of my favorite defensemen, came back to welcome me into the game, saying, "Well Teddy, we're in deep crap now. It's all up to you!" Paul never took the game too seriously and as long as he was on the ice, he'd come back after a goal, to protect me from my team-mates, who wanted to eject me from the game themselves.
It was frightening, and unrelenting, as one rush after another, cruised without even a tender ruffling, through our defensemen, and each shot on net was both accurate, and hard enough to take the glove right off my hand. We couldn't clear the puck, and even when we did, there would be an icing call, and the face-off would be to my right or left, and typically, the centre would get it back to the point, and there would be this wicked shot to my right or left. I had sticks in my face, of forwards looking to make deflections, but no dirty plays, like jabbing me in the crotch, or trying to trip me in the crease. They played clean and we didn't. So imagine then how hard it was to play this precision squad, with men in the penalty box. We were getting clobbered playing five a side. Now, I'm not writing this to highlight my stellar play between the pipes, but holy mackeral, did I ever get the job done. For me, the best time to go into the nets, was when the score was lopsided. There was a lot less pressure, and as a rule, I always played better. Now the score of the game, finished at 11-0, and I'm pretty sure they imposed their own mercy rule. I think they could have scored more on me, if they had played as hard as they might have, if the score had been closer. So I caught a break, and only let in four goals over a period and a half. The fact that we lost by eleven goals, at our own national sport, didn't enter into it, until much later that week, while we were licking our wounds, and wondering how we would ever get over the humiliation of being beaten by Americans; and ones from California. By the way, all our teams lost on that day. Some teams played better than others, but we all lost by considerable margins.
The American teams were gentlemanly, good sports, beginning to end, and refrained from taking penalties. They didn't smash us around, and for all intents and purposes, they played closer to International Rules, as they were then, without the heavy body checking. They played with finness and it meant an exciting game for the spectators to watch. The fact it was lopsided, was one thing, but it was quite another, to have to admit, like my parents had to, that day, Californians had an exceptional hockey program, much better funded and operated than our own. This is what hurt the most I think. We had good coaches, but California had the whole physical fitness program, on side, which was becoming part of the hockey program, even for the teams of the National Hockey League. I remember a story about Bracebridge born hockey star, Roger Crozier, being overwhelmed, in the early 1970's, when he played for the Buffalo Sabres, when new head coach, Floyd Smith, insisted on a higher level of physical fitness for his players, commencing a new exercise protocol during training camp. Roger was used to stopping pucks, and the sit-ups he did, were after making key saves against NHL sharpshooters. To be told he would have to doing running and gymnasium exercises, like sit-ups, made life in sport a lot less comfortable. A lot of the old NHL'ers would have felt somewhat the same, suggesting they were hired to play hockey to the best of their abilities, not become body-builders. So the Pasadena experience, showed us NHL loving youth, that there was a new order coming, and we should prepare for what it would mean, to become a true allstar performer.
I do think the Pasadena exhibition series taught us a lesson, about the upper limits of play, we could expect from training and commitment. We were playing hockey because we loved the game, and even at our practices, we still preferred to play shinny instead of skating drills that made the game boring and a lot less enticing. After our friendly drubbing, our coaches became a little bit more demanding on us, and our practices were a lot more intense. I can't say that it marked the point where my interest in hockey decreased, but there seemed to be a lot more pressure on us, to win back our reputation. The word got around, that we had lost big-time to the American squads, and if you had been at the games, you would have understood why it happened. Unfortunately, our critics weren't at the game, and so the only thing they knew, was that we had been beaten by teams from the beaches of California. Of course, we were to be taught a lot more about hockey, as NHL expansion had moved into Oakland and Los Angeles. Of course, what was factored in then, in our defence, was that most of the players on these teams were Canadian. Like Wayne Rutledge, of Barrie and Gravenhurst, who was the starting goalie, that first year of expansion, for the Los Angeles Kings, with Terry Sawchuck as back-up. But we've also learned since, that the United States, and a lot of countries around the world, are producing exceptional hockey players, male and female. I don't think that our brief Pasadena experience changed hockey attitudes, except in Bracebridge itself. We were cocky, and suddenly we were humbled.
Now as promised, here is a little anecdote about Bucko MacDonald. For the Toronto Maple Leafs, back in the war-time, and post war era, Bucko was one of the most exciting defenceman in the six team National Hockey League. His fame was, of all things, his ass. I didn't know much about his hockey prowess, other than what he did for us as a senior coach. And he was most definitely senior by the time he was coaching Bracebridge Minor Hockey. I wasn't really fond of him, in the way my team-mates were, because he made me "ride the pine," way more than I thought was fair play. I often didn't get to play a single minute of a game, when I played in the all-star division. If I complained, he would tell me I was lucky to get this opportunity, to elevate from the roll of house league players. I actually played on two teams, but I got more ice time in the house league. Obviously, though, it was the best case scenario to be invited to play on an all star team. I got double the practice time. But I don't think Bucko liked to be questioned in this regard, and I'm not saying he had it in for me, but on one occasion in particular, it did cross my mind that I had pissed him off generally; and he was going to remind me of my place on the team. Back bencher!
He was running drills down the ice, where players had to stick handle from the end of the rink, to the red line, where Bucko was waiting, to knock the puck off your stick. We went through about twenty players, when he yelled out, that he wanted Tim Morrison and I to do the same thing, and try to stick handle past him on the fly. We both looked at each other, wondering why we had to do this drill, as stick handlers, but what Bucko wanted, he usually got. Bucko poke-checked the puck of Tim's stick without much fuss, and when it came to me, I thought it would be neat if I could be the one player on the team, who was able to fool the old fart with a clever deke. So I gave it everything I had, to whip down that ice, with goalie pads, mask, gloves and stick pushing ahead the puck. I was planning to deke him to the right, and I had a good speed built-up by time he started skating backwards, from our red line meeting. By time we reached the blueline, I was ready to execute a brilliantly evasive shift, with the puck going through his skates to meet me on the other side. And then it happened.
I had no provenance on the man, other than I knew he once played in the NHL. I knew what a hip check was, but I had never administered one, and had, in fact, never received one either. As I was preparing to go around Bucko, he all of a sudden, with considerable momentum backwards, bent forward, tucked, and shot his ass right across my path, hitting deeply into my rib cage, while flipping me into a cartwheel over top of him. Bucko was a big man, with big arms, and massive legs, and his behind was big and bad. I actually watched the whole spectacular ride, with eyes wide open, and the roof of the arena and the ice changing positions during my summersault through the air. Keep in mind, that I was also wearing about seventy pounds of wet goalie pads. Thank God I was wearing a mask and helmet, because when I finally hit the ice, my head connected hard, and nearly knocked me out. I was winded that's for sure. And I saw stars that I'd never seen before. Bucko stood above me, and yelled back to my team-mates, asking if any one else wanted to take a second run down the ice. He certainly didn't fear for my health in any way, and it did take me a few minutes to regain my hockey wits. This stuff is supposed to happen in hockey, right? Well, this is how I grew up in the game, and you didn't cry when you got hurt, because it was a sign of weakness. I wouldn't have let Bucko see me cry anyway, because of the way I felt. I actually told him this to his face, one season, as I quit the allstar team; because he refused to give me any time during games. I got tired of being a practice goalie, and one he could hip check as a demonstration, of how to knock an opponent to the ice in one smooth, nasty shift of the big old arse. In the NHL he could do what he wanted. But not in minor hockey. It's the first time, I ever wanted to two hand anyone. It would have meant my suspension from hockey forever, because Bucko was like a god to coaches and parents.
I gave up competitive play, when I tried out for junior one year, and found out, by chit-chat with other players, that the coach had given his sharpshooters, the mission of testing me, to see if I was puck shy. Being puck shy meant that, when an incoming player, wound up to unleash a wrist or slapshot, the goalie would raise his head in a defensive way, signaling a fear of imminent injury. But it kind of comes with the territory, because earlier that year, I had taken a slap-shot in the throat, during a game of shinny, that nearly killed me. So yes, I was a tad puck-shy.
So after getting some pucks in the face, and mostly the groin, and being injured on just about every shot taken, that particular practice, I went to the boards, took my mask off, found a dint had been made in my heavy-duty jock, and decided at that moment, that life was too short to endure this kind of physical abuse. The coach came over to the boards, and yelled an insult at me for leaving the net. He asked why I was leaning over the boards, and didn't seem to be at all interested in my injuries. "Are you puck shy Currie," he asked, and it sure sounded then, that he had made me a project; and had been testing my tolerance for hard shots to the most vulnerable places. I answered that I was now, most definitely puck shy. I didn't wait for his overview of this admission. I just limped my way to the dressing room, and ended my minor hockey experience with the contenting resolve, that I was indeed, "a lover, not a fighter." Outside of playing at university and in recreational leagues for years after, I never again accepted that being pummeled into submission, was going to make me a good hockey player.
In many ways, I did learn from that Pasadena experience, that you could be good at hockey, and win regularly, without the necessity of beating the crap out of each other. They played brilliantly without any requirement of being rough, or dirty in their play. I liked that. I respect that!
FROM THE ARCHIVES
A PREAMBLE TO AN OLD BIT OF PARANORMAL BIOGRAPHY
I REMEMBER SITTING AT MY DESK, IN THE FORMER BIRCH HOLLOW SHOP, IN BRACEBRIDGE, FEELING RATHER COZY AND QUITE CONTENTED, AS THE HOT AIR VENT BELCHED ITS THERAPEUTIC BREATH RIGHT ABOVE ME; AND I WAS MOST DEFINITELY BASKING THAT QUIET AFTERNOON.
I RECALL, IF MEMORY SERVES, THAT IT WAS BITTERLY COLD OUTSIDE. I WAS WORKING ON A COUPLE OF CREATIVE PROJECTS, AT THE TIME, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHICH ONE. THERE HADN'T BEEN A CUSTOMER FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, WHICH WASN'T UNUSUAL DURING THE MARCH OF DAYS IN JANUARY. I WAS LISTENING FOR THE DOOR TO OPEN, ON THE MAIN FLOOR (WE WERE IN THE BASEMENT), AND I HAVE TO ADMIT, I WAS ALSO LISTENING KEENLY TO THE WIND, AND THE SNOW AND ICE PELLETS BLOWING AGAINST, AND RATTLING THE LOADING DOOR IN THE OTHER ROOM. I WAS A LITTLE WORRIED ABOUT DRIVING HOME AFTER FIVE O'CLOCK CLOSING. THE ROADS WERE GOING TO BE IN ROUGH SHAPE, AS IT WAS A SATURDAY AND WORK CREWS WERE PROBABLY IN LESSER NUMBERS.
I WAS FALLING DEEPER AND DEEPER INTO MY WRITING WORK. I KNOW WHEN I'M CONCENTRATING AT LEVEL TEN. IT'S WHEN I IMPRESS SO HARD, I CAN READ THE IMPRINT UP TO FIVE SHEETS BELOW. I DID THIS ONCE ON OUR HARVEST TABLE, AND THAT REALLY IRRITATED SUZANNE. IT'S ONE THING TO LIVE WITH A WRITER IN RESIDENCE, WHO IS PECULIAR FROM THE GET-GO, BUT TO HAVE OUR HEIRLOOM FURNITURE IMPRINTED WITH MY EDITORIAL OPINION, WAS TOTALLY OUT OF BOUNDS, OF WHAT A SPOUSE SHOULD HAVE TO PUT UP WITH.
I KNOW, IN THIS CASE, I WAS QUITE CONSUMED BY THIS CREATIVE JAG, AND INDEED, I HAD PENNED MY WAY THROUGH FIVE PAGES, WHEN I WENT LOOKING AFTER MY BRIEF HIATUS.
THERE ARE ARTISTS, AS A CASE IN POINT, WHO BELIEVE THAT AT A POINT IN THE INTENSE EXERCISE OF THE CREATIVE PROCESS, ONE CAN ACTUALLY FIND AND PASS THROUGH A PORTAL INTO AN ETHEREAL ABYSS, WHERE LIKE A LACK OF GRAVITY, YOU CAN EXPERIENCE THE "SURREAL" FROM THE INSIDE OUT. SOME WOULD SAY IT HAPPENS AT A PINNACLE OF EXHAUSTION, OR PEAKED CONCENTRATION, WHEN THE MIND SIMPLY LET'S GO, AND LIKE A DRUG INDUCED HIGH, EVERYTHING IS A TAD MORE OR LESS THAN IT SHOULD BE.....BUT WHO THE HELL CARES? I JUST DRANK IT ALL IN, AND ENJOYED THE RIDE. IT WAS VERY MUCH LIKE I HAD READ ABOUT, IN ART BIOGRAPHIES, AND CERTAIN OTHER PHILOSOPHIES, LIKE ZEN.....AND ALTHOUGH I WASN'T ATTEMPTING TO FIND THIS PORTAL, OR PARANORMAL ENTRANCE INTO ALICE'S WONDERLAND, I DID EXPERIENCE SOMETHING THAT, WHILE NOT OUT-OF-BODY, BY STRICT DEFINITION, I WAS CERTAINLY A FULL-FOOT ACROSS THE STARTING LINE; AND THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING WITH GREAT DIMENSION AND POSSIBILITY. IT WAS MUCH LIKE THAT SHORT PERIOD OF TIME BEFORE SLUMBER SETS IN, WHEN DREAMS ARE THIN AND UNMEMORABLE, BUT YOU KNOW THEY'RE UNFOLDING. I JUST KEPT ON WRITING INSTEAD OF FALLING INTO A SLEEP MODE, EVEN FOR A FEW SECONDS. I WAS DEFINITELY WIDE AWAKE, BUT IT WAS A LOT MORE UNIVERSAL IN DIMENSION, THAN THE FOUR WALLS OF AN UPTOWN ANTIQUE SHOP.
I WROTE LIKE A MAN POSSESSED, BECAUSE FOR THE SHORT PERIOD, ON THAT ETHEREAL RIDE, I GOT A WHOLE OTHER IMPRESSION OF WHAT MAY EXIST IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE. MAYBE I WAS HALF ASLEEP AND DREAMING. POSSIBLY THE FOUR COFFEES TO THAT POINT WERE TRIPPING-ME OUT OF SENSIBILITY. I SUPPOSE I COULD HAVE EXPERIENCED SOME SORT OF MILD SEIZURE, BUT I'VE NEVER HAD ANOTHER. THEN AGAIN, IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE RESULT OF AN IMAGINATION- OVERLOAD, AND THE TRIP WAS COURTESY THE MIND PROTECTING ITSELF; AND MY MOMENTUM PURPOSELY SLOWED, AND MY MOOD LIGHTENED, TO DEFUSE THE BOMB THAT MAY HAVE BEEN MY OVER-STIMULATED BRAIN. HAVING A BRAIN EXPLODE AS A RESULT OF SHORT-STORY WRITING, IS NOT HOW I WANT TO LEAVE THIS MORTAL COIL.
THE STORE WAS A VERY HAUNTED PLACE. WE KNEW IT FROM THE FIRST DAY, SETTING UP SHOP. BUT AS WE GENERALLY LIKE THE COMPANY OF WAYWARD SPIRITS, IT DIDN'T CAUSE US ANY CHAGRIN WHATSOEVER. WE LEARNED TO LIVE WITH THE DISRUPTIONS, AND THERE WERE MANY. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER IT WAS THE BUILDING OR THE ANTIQUES FILLING THE DOWNSTAIRS SPACE, BUT WE SELDOM WENT A DAY, WITHOUT CURIOUS STUFF HAPPENING. IT DIDN'T MATTER WHETHER WE WERE THERE OR NOT, THE SPIRIT-KIND PLAYED SILLY ASS WITH OUR INVENTORY, ESPECIALLY THE DOLLS, WHICH WERE KNOCKED OVER JUST ABOUT EVERY NIGHT....ALWAYS FOR US TO FIND WHEN WE OPENED THE DOOR, EACH MORNING. YOU CAN READ MORE ABOUT THIS BELOW.
AS FAR AS FADING FROM REALITY, AND FINDING A PORTAL TO ANOTHER DIMENSION, THIS WOULD SEEM ELEMENTARY TO ANY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THE LENGTH AND BREADTH OF MEDITATION DONE WELL.
I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED, IN THE YEARS SINCE, IF THAT UNANTICIPATED TRIP TO NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR, HAD BEEN THE HANDIWORK OF THE WEE GHOSTIES,.....THOSE NON-PAYING RESIDENTS OF THAT BUILDING; IS IT POSSIBLE THEY HAD PLAYED A ROLE IN THE ETHEREAL TRIP......THAT I MAY HAVE WRONGLY ATTRIBUTED TO ARTFUL MEDITATION TAKEN TO THE EXTREME? I DON'T KNOW. I RECALL A FAIR BIT OF PARANORMAL ACTIVITY THAT DAY, BUT THERE WAS ALSO A CONFLUENCE WITH THE WIND AND STORM CONDITIONS, OPENING AND SHUTTING THE FRONT DOOR, FROM TIME TO TIME. MAYBE MOMENTARILY, I HAD CROSSED INTO THEIR ETHEREAL EXISTENCE, AND I DO REMEMBER BEING STARTLED OUT OF THE TRANCE, BY THE SOUND OF A HEAVY FOOTFALL ON THE STAIRS NEAR MY DESK. AS USUAL, THERE WAS NO BODY OR FEET COMPANIONING THE SOUNDS OF BOOTS.
IT WASN'T A HEALTH ISSUE, AS I WAS FINE AFTERWARDS. I DIDN'T COME BACK TO FULL CONSCIOUSNESS FEELING FRIGHTENED, AS IF THE EXPERIENCE HAD BEEN UNPLEASANT. TO THE CONTRARY, IT HAD BEEB QUITE THE OPPOSITE. AND IF I HAD BEEN COMATOSE, I WOULDN'T HAVE HAD THE WRITING TO SHOW FOR THE EXPERIENCE. WHAT I WROTE DIDN'T MAKE A LOT OF SENSE, SO POSSIBLY I WAS CHANNELING? WHO KNOWS? BUT I CAN'T FORGET THE FEELING THAT WAS MOST DEFINITELY OTHER-WORLDLY, WITH THAT FEATHER-LIGHT FEELING THAT I HAVE EXPERIENCED ONCE BEFORE.......AND THAT WAS DURING A NEAR DEATH MOMENT, WHEN I BELIEVE I WAS IN THE COMPANY OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL. I WAS A KID. WHAT DID I KNOW? WELL, I KNEW IT WAS AN EVENT I WOULDN'T FORGET, AND I HAVEN'T, INCLUDING MY UNEXPECTED VISIT TO A SPIRITUAL PORTAL I DIDN'T KNOW EXISTED. IT HAPPENED IN A HAUNTED PLACE. POSSIBLY I WAS BEING HAUNTED FROM THE INSIDE, ON THIS OCCASION. BUT I'D GO BACK IN A HEARTBEAT. PROBLEM IS, AND I'VE TRIED A THOUSAND TIMES SINCE; I DON'T KNOW HOW I GOT THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE. I MAY HAVE HAD SOME HELP FROM THOSE WHO KNOW THE PLACE WELL. A DELUSION? AN HALLUCINATION? ALL ARE POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS. THE "ALLURE," AS STRONG AS EVER; AND IT'S LIKE AN ALIXER, THAT I EXPECT COULD TAKE ME THERE AGAIN? SOMETHING IS ODD ABOUT THIS. BUT HERE'S WHAT IT WAS LIKE IN OUR LITTLE SHOP BACK THEN, MUCH OF IT, I BELIEVE, THE RESULT OF OUR COLLECTION OF ANTIQUES, WITH THE POTENTIAL OF HITCH-HIKING SPIRITS, IN THE TRUNKS, CRADLES AND DRESSERS WE BOUGHT AT ESTATES AROUND MUSKOKA.
WELCOME TO MY NIGHTMARE? YES I DO HAVE NIGHTMARES ABOUT GHOSTS. STRANGE THING THOUGH. I'M NOT SCARED OF GHOSTS ENCOUNTERED WHILE CONSCIOUS. BUT I'M DAM NERVOUS OF THE ONES WHO HAUNT MY DREAMSCAPE.
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 varified 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 impromtu 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 Ouiji 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 Ouiji 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 Ouiji 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 inuendo 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 discrepency 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 Ouiji Board to remove from the house.
It took a few years for this to blow over. It doesn't mean the house wasn't paranorally 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 gramaphone 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 gramaphone, 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 unplayed 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 forboding. 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.
There were many other smaller incidents of curious nature that I encountered during my tenure as museum director and then manager but nothing that would have ever scared me from my task or spending hours working on projects within. I did feel there was someone watching from that house, especially when we were working outside. While raking the leaves or grass clippings I'd often get the feeling someone was watching out over the garden, and when I'd sneak a peak back toward the upper level of the house, I'd find everything as it should have been. No wavering curtains. No mysterious face looking out. Yet it was the one constant feeling working around the property, and even inside there seemed to be a guardian of the site, possibly the spiritual aura Fowler believed would have a place in an octagonal building. I never felt bad-will at Woodchester, and I was never told by any entity to "get out our else!" I think somehow the spirit of the dwelling knew we were kindly folks, looking after its earthly haunt, and cut us a little slack. It's possible it just didn't like some visitors and made them feel unwelcome in certain areas of the house.
I adored my years working at Woodchester Villa but after more than ten years involved with the project, and having a badly neglected young family, it was time to turn over the responsibilities to another curator and guiding volunteers. All us Curries still have a soft spot when it comes to remembering time spent at Woodchester Villa and Museum. It was an important part of our lives for many years and we will never forget its strange but welcoming aura. Make it a point sometime soon to visit this charming old hillside estate! Judge for yourself whether there are resident spirits, or not!
