So You Want To Be An Antique Dealer and Clarence Our Best Customer

ANTIQUE DEALERS WHO HAVE SAVE HISTORY FROM A TERRIBLE FATE

ACTING AS FRONT LINE HISTORIANS, WHETHER THEY KNOW IT OR NOT, DEALERS HAVE KEPT ANTIQUES OUT OF LANDFILL SITES AND IN CIRCULATION

     One of our customers, a senior citizen, who comes in every week, is spellbound by the paintings hung in the corridor of our antique shop. I know he's in the building, because his sighs are very audible, and he pauses to examine each painting close-up, and he makes comments about how interesting they are, and usually remarks on what they remind him of, from his home region. Suzanne welcomes him to the shop, and he smiles and thanks her for allowing him to visit. He is complimentary and always smiles as he walks through the shop, but always on his own. If you heard him, coming down the hall, you'd swear he had a companion, because of the way he explains the paintings, and what he likes about them on a painting by painting tour. It makes our day, frankly, and he relaxes us at the time in the day, when we expect to get busy. In a strange, passive way, he makes us happy to be antique dealers. He never buys a thing. And, we never see him leave. But we know he's too real to be ghost. While he won't do much to enhance our sales figures, he gives us something money can't buy; a gentle, inspirational way to start our day. He appreciates what we have done to showcase history and art, and never once haggles, argues, criticizes, or makes demands, but always passes-on a compliment. We also know he's in the building because he rings our sleigh bells hanging on the wall. He's earned the nickname "Clarence," the angel trying to get his wings, in the Frank Capra Christmas movie, "It's a Wonderful Life." Well, we sure like it when this kindly customer walks our hall.
     When someone casually asks me if I can advise them about opening an antique business, I ask them how many weeks they've got to consume the answer. Every time, I get "the look"! What they want from me, is the thumbnail version, and the "thumbs-up" signal from me, that it takes nothing more to become a full-regalia antique dealer. I've been trying to earn my stripes for a lot of years, and my peers would tell me, I've got a long way to go yet. I accept this! Why wouldn't I? It is a tough profession to master, and the precipice doesn't get any less dangerous, just because we gather more experience. It simply gives us the knowledge that any error in judgement when acquiring antique inventory, can send us hurtling down the cliffside in unceremonious fashion. So offering to explain all the reasons why one should be careful about entering the antique trade, on a budget of time to explain, is entirely absurd. What is needed, and it's hard to come by, these days, is an apprenticeship with a veteran dealer, or network of professionals willing to share experiences. Of course, this demands the want-to-be dealer, to willingly surrender the idea, you can become a qualified antique buyer and seller, with a pat on the back and a wink of the eye. You can lose big-time as a rookie, because there are those who prey on the "fresh fish" of the industry, to sell crap at a premium. Let's just say, that despite all the folks who gave me sound advice, I still managed to squander thousands of dollars, buying "dogs,' as they're known; being antique and collectable items, that despite looking good, are either frauds, reproductions, or simply undesirable due to market shifts. We get this foisted upon us every week, and we send the sellers packing. Eventually, through persistence, they will find a sucker out there, and it's likely, money will be lost, but not at the expense of the original seller. I will always offer to mentor aspiring dealers, but not in casual circumstance, such as while standing at our sales counter. The risks are too high to take anything about the antique business casually.  
     A customer asked us this morning, interrupting Suzanne tending other customers, where we kept the good antiques? He was a dealer! He's made a fool of himself previously, in our shop, so we've learned to turn the other cheek quickly. As he wasn't adverse to hurting our feelings, we didn't have any problem turning away from his enquiry, and tending the needs of customers at the counter, who as a first priority, seemed quite pleased with our inventory options. When someone makes a statement like this, dealer or not, it isn't really a question. It's a cheap shot, plain and simple. They're just trying to show the audience how important they are, and get the opportunity to slap us with a little more sarcasm, as an opportunity of grandstanding, before moving on to the next dealer he wishes to insult. We get a lot of this from associate dealers, full to overflowing with that hubris I wrote about yesterday, who don't worry too much about offending colleagues. Neither do I, but from a very different angle. We have another dealer who comes into our shop, bestowing the virtues of a competitor, for the benefit of our customers. I wanted to ask him, the last time he pulled the routine, why he just didn't wear one of those sandwich boards, to promote dealers he thought were better than us. It's not uncommon for dealer rivalry to go this route, and in my estimation, it's the result of intense competition between many more dealers, than I can remember, fishing-out the same depleted pond. When I overview the antique trade, and the fact it's growing too fast for its own good, it's not because I dislike competition because it hurts our bottom line. Rather, because it hurts all our bottom lines. And on top of this, some activities of new-age dealers, especially as regards unjustifiable price increases, based on current market demand, seems to some of us veterans, of the mom and pop era of antique shops, the proverbial two headed snake, devouring resources and good will from both ends to serve the middle. I am happy to be an antique dealer, but mostly for the reasons listed below.
     Before moving on to other story-lines, (for purposes of this re-booted blog), in the coming weeks and months, I wanted to mention for clarity's sake, that for all the negative attributes, afforded antique dealers and collectors, past and present, and the way they have been portrayed as rogues and tomb raiders, by writers over the centuries, the nitty gritty of the profession, is the glaring reality, historians should be particularly grateful for their existence. Especially for their longstanding tradition, of identifying relics and preserving them from being destroyed.
     I do have my doubts about the new generation of antique dealers, this is true, especially those who think that all you have to do to qualify, is knowing what is old, can be acquired cheaply, and sold for a nice profit. Being an antique dealer, to my way of thinking, has always been an honor. Being part of an historic profession, so rich in its own legacy and colorful mysteries, storied and character-filled, has been a privilege for all these years, that I have never once taken for granted. It's why on occasion, I rear-up against what I believe is a watering-down the unique heritage of our profession, by the recent proliferation of both new antique dealers and venues; and the subsequent reduced focus on the due diligence of responsibility, to represent what they sell, responsibly, and with the highest regard for those who may be purchasing what they offer for sale. It reflects badly on the industry when a dealer goofs up. It is a catastrophe in the making, when we have a lot of dealers doing the same thing, causing buyers to complain and judge us all with the same mistrust based on bad experiences.
     A majority of antique dealers in this country don't belong to industry associations, and at best, they are members of the local chambers of commerce. There needs to be more co-operation between dealers, and mentorship associations, in order to assist the new generation better adapt to some of the basic protocols of our profession. Pricing sensibility is job one. Escalating and unjustified valuations, for antiques that are common and abundant, are hurting the industry as a whole, and will eventually reduce the number of dealers, as customers wise-up to the percentage increases, which, if in a grocery store, would be challenged by angry customers, threatening to take their business elsewhere. Antique and collectable customers just leave the building, muttering all the way out, and may, to carry on with something they love, decide to become pickers themselves to save money. I wonder whether these offending dealers ever think about the fact, their over-pricing of inventory, has created this new "I can find the stuff myself," attitude amongst customers. If you tune in to the "picker" reality shows, on television, you'll appreciate that hunting and gathering isn't rocket science. It can, and is being copied, and in turn, our businesses are being threatened, with what can only be summed up as "Scrooge-like" greed. Greed has capsized a lot of businesses and our boat is getting overloaded.  
     To wrap-up this series of antique related columns, promised for the month of September, I want to set the record straight about dealers and collectors. I think criticism is tailored best, when it comes from the inside. Having a critic, who has never been an antique dealer or collector, but thinks they have the scoop on the inside workings of the profession, is woefully out of their league. It's not to say they couldn't research the industry over years, in an attempt to untangle the inner workings of a profession that has been mysterious for most of its own history. I can't parallel an antique dealer with the secretive professions of magicians and illusionists, escape artists or high wire walkers; but it does fall somewhere close behind, because of the intrigue that is the rich, cultured patina of an enterprise, that in one form or another, goes back centuries. A profession that has been portrayed by literary giants and revered poets, artists and philosophers, because of this mysterious side of what, on the surface, is just run of the mill commercial activity. Nothing special. Retail is retail, right? This is exactly what would throw a writer, unfamiliar with the intricacies of the business, for a proverbial "loop," because there is an inner working that, at first examination, appears Monty Python-esque in operation, more so than anything representing normal retail. All antique related enterprises, from the most elite of the bunch, on the cityscape, to the country dealer selling primitive pine from an old barn, are far more complicated that they look from the outside; just as dealers appear quite ordinary and unassuming. How they get their inventories, and the sources they employ to make finds, and act on them, is the result of vast amounts of experience in not only antiques, but in history itself. To be a truly successful antique dealer, one has to be intimate with history, and its chronicle up to the present, in order to fully appreciate how important relics relate to their time period, culture, economy, politics, geography and influences of war, calamities caused by epidemics, and human migration. How did a particular exotic antique, with considerable provenance and value, come to be found in the attic of a Victorian home, during the settling of an estate, here in the hinterland of Ontario? A trillion questions that need to be answered every week of business, by antique dealers all over the world. Proving an antique piece's provenance, which can represent a huge increase in valuation, demands the discipline of an historian, and the dogged determination of a research / archivist; yet most of the time, a dealer is considered nothing more than a clerk behind the counter, making big bucks off the sale of interesting old stuff.
     Consider the reality of the average country antique shop, and what worldly treasures might come through the front door in any given day, week, month or year. While I think it's better than it was, when I started in the antique trade, there are still way too many people, who assume, wrongly of course, there is little value to old things. They will complain about the price of bread and milk, and of course meat, while shopping at the grocery store, yet they will think nothing, of tossing out paintings, vintage glass, important documents (ephemera), china, antique chairs, tables, dressers, cupboards, and vintage quilts. I have rescued many thousands of antique relics and neat artifacts from being buried in landfill, but it horrifies me to think of the ones that got away, tipped into the mounds of household refuse.     If they had checked around their community, posing some questions to local antique dealers, or even did a preliminary search online, by looking up various pieces on ebay for example, they would have learned, with some joy I would presume, that they could make a fair amount of money, selling what they wish removed from their residences. Instead of having to pay disposal fees at the regional landfill site, the items could be recycled, and local dealers would, if offered an opportunity to intervene, explain the potentials of this fascinating turn of events. Bring them a cup of coffee. Listen and learn. Landfill site space would be saved and money would be forthcoming to buy food at the grocery store; or a speed boat, because some pieces may be worth a great deal of money. That's where antique dealers come in, and thank goodness for their astute perspective, on antique valuations, and for most in the profession, the willingness to invest research time to get it right. And, as in any profession on the big old earth, there are slackers, and undesirables, and those who should be in any other field than retailing antiques. On the much wider scale, I believe there are far more highly skilled and responsible antique dealers running shops, than the fly-by-nighters, who buy and sell antiques because it seems like a good way to make a quick and large profit. There's a lot more to the antique business than building an inventory, renting a venue, and throwing out a shingle at roadside, with the company name painted on the front. There are a fair number of failures, because these keeners didn't think it worthwhile to investigate all the pitfalls, inherent of an enterprise that has all the hallmarks of outright gambling. I've watched as some of my contemporaries made big errors in judgement, buying collections that were hugely over-valued from the get-go, and that they couldn't sell to get their money back. Rookie mistakes are expected, but not so much for veterans. It still happens, and it has happened to me many times. If it can trip-up someone who is experienced, it can be devastating to a fledgling dealer, to the very precipice of bankruptcy.
     I have had the truly exceptional privilege, of having apprenticed with a number of well known collectors in Ontario, who offered me advice on how to side-step these pitfalls; and by golly, some of these falls are nasty and costly. I had many hours of discussion with these folks, who had as much expertise in their fields of antique specialty, as acquired historical knowledge of Canada, and the world; simply meaning, they knew the importance of historical perspective, related to the antique significance, and garnered provenance of the pieces they collected. In other words, they employed the research skills of an archivist / historian, to fulfill their objective to represent the pieces they possessed, and what they hunted for, in their own endless quest to conserve heritage for the posterity, of future generations. And oh yes, they knew how to profit from their performance of due diligence. I maintain, and always will, that in order to be a successful antique or art dealer, you must possess more than just an average knowledge of history, whether local, regional, provincial, national, or national. You need to be enlightened as an antique dealer, and seek insights constantly, because it can make the difference, between spotting a jewel of antiquity, and misjudging it as nothing special. It happens constantly, and it's why other dealers swoop in, and pick-up what others thought were value-less. As I've written about frequently for the past three years, there is no learning curve for antique dealers, trying to succeed at their enterprises. It is just a continuous learning situation, and if a dealer is serious about making money, they would never, ever limit their efforts to self-improve; and age isn't a factor. Veteran dealers with a lot of mileage behind them, want to know what's going on in their field, and are willing to read and investigate their own profession, just in case they've been missing something important.
    Antique dealers, although they wouldn't state this on their business cards, or the sign nailed to the front of their shops, are front-line historians, who have saved a behemoth amount of world heritage, because they intervened, and halted the disposal of so called "old junk" from being tossed into the dumpsters, or carted in the backs of trucks to landfill locations. Major art works have been saved because dealers knew how to employ experts in the respective field, learning in the process, that being a successful antique retailer, hinges on the strength of the network of support; something we all need from time to time, to keep us on our game.
     While antique dealers don't get a lot of credit for helping to conserve heritage, largely because they are seen as the folks who speculate on history for their own gain, they have, by their actions to seek out antiques, been able to identify and safeguard important pieces relevant to our social, cultural, religious past. They've spared what others decided was worthless, and for their efforts deserve our respect. In these cases, they've rightfully earned their margin of profit.
    Let's get nostalgic. Coming tomorrow.

The Antique Profession Is Not Like I Remember

ANTIQUES OR BUST, WOULD I TAKE THE SAME ROUTE IF THERE WERE "D0-OVERS"?

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE PROFESSION THAT MAKES US WANT TO STAY, OR BECKONS US TO LEAVE WHILE THE GOING'S GOOD?

     Suzanne and I got into a disagreement the other night, (nothing serious, like the butter tart incident of several weeks ago -see our facebook page), about of all things, a cabin in the hamlet of Dee Bank, a couple of tee shots from the outer limits of the Village of Windermere. She's got an idea that we should do a later life "Thoreau" thing, and find our retirement Walden Pond. I'm a lover of nature, and love nothing more than a trip up to Canoe Lake, and a paddle over to the old Mowat Lodge, but living rural is a different animal for me, at the age when I hobble in town. And that's on level terrain. Roughing in in the wilds is for reading about at my age, no actually doing, unless its a Four Seasons hotel. We agreed to put that on the back burner for now, or until our ship comes in, loaded with money.
     I have been dogged by idealism throughout my life, like the birth mark, on my left butt cheek, that looks for all intents and purposes, like a spinning wheel. I've checked it in a mirror, and if I wiggle, it looks like its actually spinning. I began as an antique dealer, with what you might say, was "an old school" perspective. I think I accelerated myself right through to senior status, from the tadpole stage, because of my keen enjoyment and appreciation of the way things were in the 1970's, as far as the antique profession was concerned. I barely recognize it today, in part, because of the way upstart, inexperienced dealers, (with money raised from other professions) have watered-down a culture that seemed nailed-down and unmoveable, as far as day to day conduct of the dealer-kind. I'm sorry to write this critical overview, but I find that the profession has changed dramatically in the past twenty years, not at all what I remember as a fledgling dealer, trying to break into the industry. Like many dealers I knew back then, and respected, they started with passion for history, and not pockets full of money. The money was an inconvenient truth, and I know, thinking back to my own start-up period, nothing was going to stop me chasing after the antiques I wanted. I started small and contented myself as a scrounger, even to the point I would spend hours in the bush digging in long retired dump sites for cork top medicine bottles. It was my boot camp as an apprentice dealer. I didn't have surplus money for the first ten years of playing around in this new-to-me profession. I taught me how to spend wisely and get more for less investment. Today I feel there are a lot fewer poor upstart dealers, and more retired professionals, making antiques an after-thought enterprise. They have ample resources to swallow mistakes, and speculate where others are operating as normal retail, trying desperately to survive a tough economy. And yes, my wife is a retired teacher so we have it better than others in our profession. But we started as bottom feeders, and worked our way up, with the long term intent, 32 years in the making, of retiring to what we both professed, was a pleasant pre-occupation.
     I remarked to my partner, Suzanne, just a few moments ago, that I'm not sure, if I had to do it all over again, if I would choose the antique profession as I did, so willingly in the mid 1970's, when I first caught the collecting bug. Possibly, I would have been better opening up a free enterprise museum, or as the curator for a travelling exhibit of pioneer artifacts; or if that wasn't enough to turn the crank, then possibly a "believe-it-or-not" kind of collection, showing off three headed houseflies, and skeletal remains of this and that; maybe even a funerary heritage exhibition of which I am quite interested. But as far as being involved in the normal competitive fare of the antique business, as it operates generally today, I think there are better heritage related activities to get up to, for a life's work. Even as a retirement business, I wonder if we made the right decision back in 1985 or so, to work at our day jobs until our antique enterprise reached a proportional level of success, that it could walk on its own and entertain us until that final big retirement in the sky.
     What has made me question this, is the well founded hunch antique dealing is not what it used to be. What really inspired me to get involved, in what I believed was a truly historic profession, with a lot of interesting baggage? Not much of what I see out there today, that's for sure. For me, back then, as idealistic as I was, the experience of entering the profession of buying and selling antiques, was like entering a haunted house, with all the ghostly bells and whistles; and a profession that could be described, if, as a book, a literary classic. It was an industry full of intrigue and mystery, as if it had been defined into history, by well versed authors, such as Charles Dickens and Washington Irving. In some ways, this was true, and in my era joining the trade, it was all these things and more, each day being spiced with adventure and discovery. So full of curiosities, you bet, with a sort of embedded magic, that we enjoyed without having to dissect it into small portions, in order to understand. It was a profession of rich culture and periless intrigue. Buried treasure and pirate maps, hidden drawers and secret passages, and an industry where mysteries were everyday temptations, to look harder, drive further, research more, and enjoy passion for passion's sake. I still live and work as I entered the antique industry way back when, but it is so much more obvious today, I don't fit into the modern way of antique buying and "flipping," which is a term I have come to despise. It puts greed into the mix, and although it's an inherent part of speculative buying, in order to achieve a profit, veterans of the profession would rather not wear it as a button on our lapels. All retail is speculative afterall, but it doesn't come down to the crass representation of normal sales as "flipping" as one might attach to making money in real estate. I heard a rookie antiquer talking to another a about the big money "flipping" art work, and honestly, at that moment, I saw the side of my profession rearing up as if, to this young fellow, it was more important than the lifestyle with a heritage theme.
     If you know Suzanne and I as friends or as customers, you will appreciate that we are a husband and wife proprietorship, who have put lifestyle at par with the commercial prowess, of the antique business we created so many years ago. We got the template, in fact, from the Ned Hay General Store, now a restored part of Huntsville's "Heritage Place," formerly Muskoka Pioneer Village, which in its on heyday, was in the hamlet of Falkenburg, just north of Bracebridge. On a visit to the heritage site, shortly after we were married, we decided that the way this re-created Victorian era store was appointed, would be our own template for an eventual family antique shop. While we have a lot more space and more inventory than the Ned Hay General Store, we think we've captured a portion of its heritage essence, and most certainly, we would confess to anyone, it was the heritage venue we admired, as seen in the 1980's, that led us to our retirement business in this new century. That and Robinson's Store in Dorset, one of our favorite places to visit when we're in that neck of the woods. It's not an antique shop, but it is one of the most unique general stores in this region, and a good model for us as far as what generates the curiosity of our customers.
     What influences us today, is the watering-down of the heritage component of antique venues; big on prices, weak on history, provenance almost non-existent, on antiques that deserve to be researched. Customers who deserve information about the items they wish to purchase, at considerable expense. As far as due diligence these days, it generally comes down to a folded-up piece of paper, with the unmistakable print of a run-off listing, from an online auction or sales site, offering a parallel review of an identical piece, including the asking price. I will not enter an antique shop, or mall booth, where this method of identification and pricing is employed. It is the sign of inexperience plain and simple. If you have risen to the stature of antique shop or mall both proprietor, then for gosh sakes, you're expected to be more professional and astute to the actuality of our enterprise, than to rely on these on-line sites, that are as riddled with inaccuracies and bogus embellishments, surely not to be taken as gospel; especially posting them in your venue, to bolster authenticity and justify the asking price. I have turned down many vintage and antiquarian books, because there was an insert from an online book co-operative, that had no serious relevance to the book in my hands. Books are judged on many characteristics of condition, from the dustjacket to the surface of the back cover, such that a print-out of another book, which may be in better condition, has no relevance whatsoever. Even as a reference guide, these inserts are visual examples of "fobbing-off" responsibilities, by not showing the dealer's own research skills, and ability to differentiate between what is being sold on-line, and what is in the hands of a customers needing our guidance. Asking prices for online antiques and collectables, are just that! "Asking prices." The same as when an ebay listing is quoted, or other online sales venue. These do not reflect a fair and honest appraisal, as would be offered by an insurance appraiser dealing with replacement value. The range of asking prices or starting bids, on these sites, is wide to the point of absurdity, and the selling prices are not always attainable for reference purposes. You can ask a million bucks for something, but what was the eventual selling price, if there was a sale even completed?
     The business that I entered back in the mid 1970's, would have been to some veterans of the industry, a watering down period as well, according to their standard; and the fact more young people like me, were changing the character of a storied profession. I understand the often violent rigors of change because I double as an historian. Yet, by my own close reckoning, the past twenty years have seen a dramatic transformation of the antique business, especially noticeable by the almost unbelievable escalation of asking prices in shops and mall booths, which in my opinion, threatens the future prosperity of this very old, and very traditional enterprise. There is little if any excuse for these sometimes massive price escalations, because what is being priced in the nose-bleed category, more often than not, can neither be proven as rare, or a good investment; such that it will increase in value at some point in the next century. More likely, they will drop in value five inches out the front door of the shop.
     In my early years, selling to collectors was a big deal, home decorators not so much. In fact, back then, which was the early 1990's, it was always about 60 / 40, the lower side being sales directly proportional to home decoration. Collectors wanted the best of the best in their area of expertise, and this is how we shopped every week to fill the shelves. We bought items of course, for our general audience, but when it came to making a profit, it depended on the target merchandise we were able to ferret out, on our hunts, and the quality characteristics of individual pieces. Today, this is completely reversed, to the point where collectors make up less than ten percent of our trade, here from our Gravenhurst shop. Profit is profit right? When you've apprenticed forever and ever, in a profession that was thriving, largely because of collector interests, looking to improve their lot, it is a little unsettling now, when decorating and re-purposing are the market movers. Today, at least in our neck of the hinterland, the hunt for antiques and collectables, is far less investment-driven, collector-dominant, than when I took on this industry, as the one to companion me for the rest of my life.     The scholarly side, which was always weighted on my collection of old books, has dwindled now to the support of casual readers, and believe it or not, decorators, who want to give a scholarly impression, on the book shelves they fill with books that look old and seem important. This is not what I signed up for, or worked to achieve, although it wouldn't be the first time, I had to suck-it-up just to make a buck; and if all customers want is a pretty picture, the good company of a book that looks old, and a table that gives off a warm antique hue in a condo decorating scheme, then I shall gladly cash the cheques and go about my merry way. But if I had to do it all over again, I think I would open a museum, and rely on historic significance to drum up business. Maybe I'd starve, or maybe I'd find a good response to old fashioned history, served like an open-face sandwich.
     I may quit altogether, or spontaneously combust the day I am forced to sell my 1850's "Boston to Montreal" railway map, to someone who wants it, to create an air of sophistication in their high-rise condo. Not that they don't have the right to do this, if they pay my asking price, just that it would break my heart to have it used for design, instead of the heritage resource, it so respectfully presents; such that we might learn from it, as a preamble to the present chronicle of the modern railway, versus a vintage graphic, that contrasts the upholstery of a livingroom couch. Is this what the antique trade has become? For show only? I remember the good old days, when it was about the preservation of artifacts and related relics, of all descriptions, for their inherent historic, and investment potential. Today, I don't get it! I just play like I do!

This Time Around It's All About History and Fond Memories

A RE-BOOTED BLOG, BY AN "ANTIQUE-HEAD" DONE WITH POLITICS

A QUIET PLACE IN CYBERSPACE TO PRESENT INTERESTING ANTIQUE AND LOCAL HISTORY FINDS

     A month and a half back, I was exhausted by heat, the demands of business, the rigors of the tourist surge, and writing too darn much, apparently for my own good. I was starting to get visions and epiphanies, time traveling without a machine, finding evasive portals to other dimensions, based, Suzanne tells me, on too much of a good thing; and in the heat of very hot days I was half writing and half slumbering at my post. Which made for interesting reading. Even from childhood, I hated hot and humid days. The problem in a nut-shell, is that I have injured my back and neck over years of slouching at my desk, and wherever else I choose to write, such that it has caused considerable muscle distress. I can't really call it an occupational disability, because it's more of a recreation now, than a paying career, as it once was back in my newspaper days. I love to write, and it has always been enormously therapeutic, except when I get wrankled by local politics. It has been my downfall in many ways, because the madder I get at them, (politicians) the harder I tap at this keyboard, and the more damage I cause my neck and back. I have found that Frank Costanza's "Serenity Now," (from the former Seinfeld show), only offers moderate relief these days, from the jaw clenching disdain I had, when for example, reading the local weekly, and then foaming at the mouth, rabidly angry at their latest action or most in-action.
     In order to get back to enjoying my recreation of writing for the fun-of-it, I decided to go on hiatus for the balance of the summer, and contribute business-related editorial copy to our Currie's Antiques facebook page. This is what brought me back to this blog, for another "go at it," but from a totally non-political perspective. You see, it was, from the beginning, and probably as far as five years back now, that son Robert helped me launch this same blog, writing regularly about the follies of municipal government; and the politicians who compose local councils in this region of Ontario. As a former council reporter for Muskoka Publications, and specifically The Herald-Gazette, a now-retired newspaper in Bracebridge, I knew a lot about how these councillor-types worked and manipulated agenda behind the scenes, and yes, in my heyday, these stories were above-the-fold news makers. I covered the Township of Muskoka Lakes, Bracebridge and the Township of Georgian Bay, from the late 1970's into the first months of 1990. I was so mad about what I experienced in those years, that it carried all the way over into this new century. I always enjoyed the art of political ranting, but the writing part was a little hard on the body. I was acting out my frustrations on the keyboard, with the intensity of a wrecking crew, and it was hurting me more than sensibly critiquing them. I decided to drop politics altogether and concentrate on topics of greater interest and relevance to our business, and local history, which I love to investigate for previously unknown facts and stories.
     While looking over Suzanne's shoulders last night, while she was helping me research the provenance of one of the paintings we had purchased yesterday, from a regional second hand shop, I begged her, and may or may not have bitten her shoulder, to give me one last look at my declining blog numbers, now that it had been dormant for pretty close to six weeks. Even without publishing a blog for all that time, I had still been getting a large number of folks archiving through my past blogs, especially the heritage components. And surprising the heck out of me, was the reality, the accumulated views for (just shy of) four years, was now within a lumberjack's whisker hair, of hitting 300,000, which was my target when I began daily blogging in November 2011. I was still 2,000 shy, but I figure it's highly possible that I can hit my target date, even after six week's vacation, if I resume work on the site with a month and a half to go before my anniversary date. The agreement with Suzanne, who handles all my editing and publishing tasks, is that I stay away from political subjects, no matter what, and as far as current events, if they're not historic in relevance, or about antique finds, they are to be avoided at all cost. I have never been very good at this in the past, and have broken every promise thus far. I'm feeling that this time, having had a nice holiday from worrying about local, provincial or national politics, I can color within the lines at least for the balance of the year. After that, well, I'm crappy at long term planning. If I like how this kind of antique-extension column works, I may stay this way for the long haul; or until I'm vapourized by all the internal fortitude I've been building-up to keep me in this non-political state of mind.
     I really like the idea of having so many of my previous heritage-themed blogs, being archived by interested readers, literally from around the globe, who for some reason, have discovered a name (or circumstance) from the pages of antiquity, that has been tied to local history here in Muskoka, relevant to them; and it has at some time in the past, been included in a subject blog. It's sort of like having a book you've written, a long time back, taken out repeatedly, and regularly, from the local public library in the present tense. It makes you think you've done something right, and provided some information service, that wasn't otherwise addressed, or available for research purposes. Every writer / historian likes to have their relevance proven in some way, and seeing as I don't write books any more (I won't kill a tree to spread my opinions), the cyberspace reference library works perfectly for me, and gets such a wide and diverse audience, that makes a lowly historical-type like me, feel all the hunting and gathering of information has been worth it; or at least that's the potentially deluded version of the situation, yet something, even in all its modesty, which makes me want to sit down and write-away into my own tangible oblivion, of living a writer's most pleasant existence.
     I also like to have an outlet for some of my small town, "growing-up" nostalgia, and I can't visit Bracebridge, even on business now, that I don't drift off into the sudden whirlwind of reminiscence. Seeing as I'm one of very few doing this kind of thing for public consumption, having a distinctly blue collar neighborhood perspective, it's not likely to be sought out as being important by any of my contemporaries. It's not an important history to most writers these days, but I refuse to let this period of time, which I enjoyed so much, be lost because it isn't a recollection of politics, or story about the privileges of the rich and famous, and those citizens who were, let's just say, socially well postioned. I like to consider myself the historian of the poor but significantly storied bastards, but good folks, who would otherwise be lost in the dusk of antiquity, because they weren't of high political and social standing in the community. Enter Mr. Currie. I suppose I do consider this my lot in life, and I'm not complaining about the perspective. Most regional historians didn't sit outside the Albion Hotel in Bracebridge, watching the bouncer throw out troublesome patrons, without first opening the door. Or sitting on a grease-covered chair in the bowels of the former Downtown Garage, watching two fine veteran mechanics work their magic. I saw things from the ground up, and it was pretty revealing about what made my hometown tick. It didn't tick from the top down, I'll tell you that much!
     The blogs to be published in the coming days and weeks, will be about all things historic and nostalgic, but will occasionally, without apology, delve into the circumstances of a particularly neat antique discovery, or revelation from a found book of Muskoka history, such as a journal, that has never been fully revealed to the public. I love being the first local historian to reveal a previously unknown aspect of the region's chronicle, so I'm ever searching for something exciting to share with readers. I've got some neat stuff coming in the near future, and if promise my sources have given, come to fruition, it should be a remarkable autumn season if you enjoy regional heritage, and antiques with embedded local provenance.
     Here I am again, for a fourth come-back as a blogger. The "Rocky Balboa," of blogging. But honestly, folks, it's never been because of the demands of writing, in the sense of having something to do with an abundant supply of inspiration. The body has taken a beating more so, in this regard, but Suzanne is also taking over as my personal trainer, and correcting my bad posture, the amount I am aloud to write at any one sitting, and even what I can write about - absolutely no pornography or politics; she fears, I think, that otherwise my head might explode, and then I wouldn't be able to take out the garbage on Monday mornings.
     See you again tomorrow.

Don't Take This The Wrong Way, But I Really Have Over Stayed My Welcome; Suzanne and I Are Planning Some Retirement Travels Right Now

November 1964 Life Magazine. See story that follows.

WELL FRIENDS, IT'S FINALLY TIME TO SAY (WRITE) GOODBYE TO YOU FINE FOLKS WHO HAVE KEPT ME COMPANY FOR GOING ON FOUR YEARS

     Let's face it! No one wants to wake up as a ghost, slouching like usual in the office chair, with the publisher hammering on your back, unresponsive, (of course you can't really hammer a ghost, but you know what I mean) about the timeliness of submitting copy prior to deadline. In later years, of course, my publisher was my wife, and she has felt it incumbent, to keep me gainfully writing, because she thinks I will curl up into a ball, never unclench, and smell up the house, without a creative outlet. I used feel this way, but I've had lots of time to warm up to the concept. You see, I want to visit the countryside pubs of England and Scotland. So does Suzanne. She likes her beer by golly. Only kidding, only kidding dear. But she has family from Scotland and we both have kinfolk who started a long way back in England. I don't know when it will happen, but not too long from now. I'm going to do nothing but drink it all in, and possibly from a nice pub stool, looking out over a cobbled lane, with of course a creaking iron sign and rusted old gate.
     In the memory of my two newspaper chums, who by the way, were as deeply committed to the task of informing the public, as any of Canada's top reporters and photo-journalists, working the dailies today, I wouldn't think of hinging my decision to retire from daily blogging because they departed too soon from this mortal coil. That would be grossly unfair. They would be mad as hell with me, because the deal always was, at least by last call at the old Albion in Bracebridge, if one or more was to fall, even off a bar stool, the survivor(s) would carry on with the old standard flying high," satisfying public interest, and informing those who have been kept in the dark, there's a good reason for carrying a strong light! Based of course, on government's opinion Canadians don't need to know everything.
     I did think that I could carry-on writing the way we used to compose our old Herald-Gazette columns, that used to get Brant Scott and I in trouble almost weekly. The more trouble we got into, the closer we got to gaining the reputation, that would pull us toward the national newspapers. We didn't have career coaches. Maybe that's what slowed us up a bit. Yet you know something, the fact that we were all thwarted in one way or another, from having certain of our ambitions fulfilled, what the side-steeps and obstacles meant, is that each of us would find significant others, and start thriving little families, in charming abodes, from Muskoka to Ottawa. In some ways, it was important that those dreams fell to what was providential instead.
     The first loss, was John Black, of Gravenhurst, who was one of the most talented, jack-of-all-trades, human beings, I have known throughout my life, and let me tell you, that is no small number, considering I used to hang around Bracebridge's Downtown Garage, watching the wizards with wrenches; and then while working at the hospital, in Bracebridge, around incredibly talented mechanics and woodworkers like Jack High, and George Jackson. John was in a league of his own, and he never got the respect as a photographer he deserved. I could not have stayed in my job as editor, without the help of both John and Brant; Brant of course, passing away last autumn season, while living with his family in Ottawa. In between these chaps, was our other stalwart reporter, who did all the jobs we hated. Judith Brocklehurst was a talented writer, and she gave the paper a flare none of us could have provided otherwise, and we knew who was keeping us boosted in news stand sales. Her column on Henry the Cat, as a sort of promotion for the first shelter of the Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, was one of the newspaper's most popular columns, and that made us a little nuts; seeing as it was written from a cat's perspective. I think it was W.C. Fields who famously said, it's a losing proposition as far as recognition for your talent, playing opposite either an animal or a kid.
     For most of the past year, the cumulative effect of losing my entire former reporting staff, and they weren't that old by the way, has impacted me on certain days, or during events, that make me think of that tireless threesome, who made me look good, when truth was, my capabilities weren't any less or greater than theirs'. I was supposed to be better. I was the editor for gosh sakes. I hope each of them had enjoyed their storied lives, and, by golly, they were storied people in all ways; because I was that close to them for most of a decade...., oh boy the stories I could tell. But I won't!
     I think what hit me the hardest, was the fact I had to find out about Brant, having passed away almost two weeks earlier, while glancing through the posted death notices in the local weekly. I sat on on the verandah, newspaper folded in my lap, benefitting from the nice weather and trace amount of sun, breaking through the railing; but the only word to have described me, that Brant would have typed onto his paper, against the roller in his old Underwood manual, would have been to advise readers, I was as most definitely, "stunned" as a Norwegian Parrot, thank you very much Monty Python. Of all the people who knew us, as being almost inseparable back then, not one would local friend would let me know my old cronnie had slipped away, after a final rattling of the drum skins the night before. I'm sure his family and close friends didn't do this intentionally, but it was kind of ironic, that as we met, the result of newspaper ink, back in the spring of 1979, I would touch the ink of his obituary as a belated tribute, and apology for not showing up at the wake at least. He knew I had a phobia of attending funerals.
     I have tried to keep the old days and old stories alive just a little while longer, because these were three folks that deserved to outlast their lifespan, in the public eye. They made me a better and more enduring writer, and I have kept their names in the public domain for this very reason. I have no credit to accept for myself. I was sculpted by others, with no regrets for how it all turned out.
     Work at the antique shop, here in Gravenhurst, has been bursting at the seams this summer, and my blog writing has been getting in the way, of my helping out Suzanne. You see, I am real good at picking for antiques, because I am extremely proficient going after what I want, especially finding historic relics, and knowing where I most likely to find them on the local hustings. I'm just not so good at store-clerking. So instead, Suzanne gives me chores to do around the shop, and it's been working pretty good this summer. I didn't think I could work that closely, because we've been at logger-heads for most of our married lives, on who is most important in our business; the antique seller or the antique hunter. I think we've come to a stalemate, on this matter, each agreeing there's no sense having one without the other, if we still plan on operating it as a business.
     I am also tiring out as a writer. Some readers will yell-out at their computer or laptop screens, "My God, I thought the man would never quit!" Even son Robert wouldn't take me seriously this afternoon, when I told him the same thing. I may surprise him afterall. Whether you know this or not, I have a seriously compromised neck and back, that has had a lot to do with too much of a good thing. I have had bad posture since the day I graduated the second level of typing class, and I've committed every violation to my body imaginable, hunched over this keyboard, dating back to the old Underwoods Brant and I used to clack, through the week, in that stuffy former Herald-Gazette newsroom.
     I have nearly made it to the 300,000 mark of views, in the 3 and 3/4 years I've been writing almost daily, cheating part of the time with previously run columns. Suzanne retired from teaching at 59 years of age. I have outlasted her as a writer, by hitting the 60 mark, plus a month. I will still contribute shorter pieces to our antique shop facebook page, and I certainly won't be leaving my editorial post at Curious; The Tourist Guide, a fascinating regional Ontario paper, that has given me large scale coverage since the early days of the new century. I love those people, and their publication is drained from our shop two days after delivery.
     Please accept the heartfelt thanks of a crusty old writer, that being in your company, to share my old adventures, and whacky opinions, have meant a lot to my well being, that's for sure. Writing has always been an excellent release valve for what ails me; what annoys me, and I'm feeling a tirade coming on about the Conservative's behemoth election campaign, and how many Canadians have to use food banks, and social assistance because it is the only way they can survive. I see this election as something Charles Dickens might have written about, highlighting as an election issue, the mountainous class divides, between the rich and powerful, and the destitute. It is at times, hard to feel good about living in this amazing country, when it is considered more imminently important to stroke egos, of the politically elite, and well appointed in this country, than to get to know those families, that are not getting enough to eat; the ugly truth, is that it is a daily occurance for families mired in a vicious cycle of poverty. You know these people exist. Politicians? They would rather sidestep the whole poverty issue, because it's not sexy for campaign strategists, running a federal election. As Charles Dickens ghost, Jacob Marley, roared at Ebeneezer Scrooge, in his Christmas Eve visit to the curmudgeon's house (which was once his own, inherited by Scrooge, "Mankind was our business. Their common welfare was our business." It is the business of our political gad-flys, to fix these problems, but how many votes do you get, ladling out soup if its' not Thanksgiving or Christmas? Best to exit here, before smoke comes out of this keyboard. I like to know I have some passion left, in case one of the dailies calls me up, to fill the shoes of former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, as latent as this is now. My point. No one ever filled Rimmer's shoes. No one.
     I end this final blog, with a short story, based on a 1964 Life Magazine profile, of the newest television star-character, Herman Munster, the crazy, whacky mortician man of "The Munsters" television show that I adored. Sort of appropriate. On most days, I feel like I've been on a slab, explaining my bad back, necks, hips, and chilled demeanour. See you some time down the road.
         

NOVEMBER 6TH, 1964, AND I WAS CHANGED FOREVER - I WAS INTRODUCED TO THE MUNSTERS

I WAS HOOKED ON TELEVISION SIT COMS - BUT TO MY KNOWLEDGE IT DIDN'T MAKE ME CRAZY

     I do think that my years watching television, from the late 1950's, has qualified me somewhat, to offer opinions about the shows that changed trends, and influenced the marketplace. I find very few parallels between the family shows of then and now, and honestly, there are shows today that make me blush, when Suzanne and I are sitting in the same room. I never had to worry about that with Leave It To Beaver and the Real McCoys. Sure I'm old fashioned in my likes and dislikes, about what is transmitted into my livingroom. What shows I like are usually cut within a couple of years if that long. I confess being a Seinfeld fan, because I loved the fact it was a show about "nothing - nothing at all," and it put a new spin on normal, daily living in the city. I could live in the city via the show, and never have to leave the hinterland. Michael Richards was by far the meat of that platter, and it was the reason I tuned in every week. I do like the Big Bang Theory, and I've been snared by The Simpsons since about their second year on the air. I fell hook, line and sinker, for the Family Guy, and King of the Hill, with my favorite roll model in a cartoon, Hank Hill. I've become a little convuluted over the years, and my favorite crime show is Blue Bloods, because there's so much outstanding talent on the show, and oh yes, family values. I like The Goldbergs, because I loved The Seventy's Show a decade or so earlier. It's more of a 1980's vantage point.
     We got a small quantity of vintage magazines given to us at the shop today. The re-sale on old magazines is pretty low, truth be known, unless they're back issues of "The Rolling Stone," and that issue's interviews were landmark in music history.
     The cover of the issue had the familiar gilt covered, highly naked, Shirley Eaton, in the James Bond movie of that year, "Goldfinger," captioned as being "the funniest and money makingest of the 007 movies."
     I have meant to put this magazine out in the shop for the past three months. Every time I pull it out, and think about writing up a price tag, I start re-reading it, and by time I know it, I realize there are quite a few quotes I'd like to harvest for future blogs, to highlight something specific for another feature story. I've got a lot of nostalgia to recap before the grim reaper comes whipping around the corner. The first and most significant article, published the fascinating rating updates, recorded for some of the top television sit coms, from the period. I had without a doubt, officially turned onto the command of the boob tube, circa 1964, no doubt about it, although I know I was watching television a lot sooner than this. My most interesting forays, sitting in front, were the early space launches of the 1960's, with Walter Cronkite, and the coverage surrounding the asasination of President Kennedy, right up to the day of his funeral. I saw my mother cry a lot through that week, and I never really understood why.
    I was a latch-key kid, after school, and during my youth, as I've mentioned many times in these retrospectives, I was sick a lot as a kid, and if it hadn't been for the television, I would have bored myself into good health. I realize reading this Nielson overview, that I was one of the subjects of the stats, the glassy-eyed, too-young-for-this-kind-of-madness, television fanatic, who needed my mother to switch off the power at bedtime, which until I was about ten years of age, was always before Bonanza on Sunday nights. By time I hit twelve, this had changed, and I was able to watch the Cartrights institute justice; but by then, if memory serves, Adam was gone, and Candy was the hired hand replacement. Suzanne and I bought the DVDs for the first several years of Bonanza last year, so I finally caught up to the events on the Ponderosa. Before my fifteenth birthday, I had become a bonafied television junkie. So it was interesting to find this small editorial overview of the period that changed my life. And yes, I am still very much a television nutball, but here's the truth. We only have one channel, being CTV. When the Harper government underfunded the CBC, for any number of strange reasons, we lost our signal, and no matter what devices we purchased, to capture the digital signal, it didn't work. I don't believe in pay television, period, and I refuse to buy cable or any other means of jamming my livingroom with more programming than I need, that just might push me into my own version of the Twilight Zone. We cut out cable service during the recession of the 1990's just as my favorite show, "Home Improvement" was taking off, and what really hurt, was the television broke down at the same time. We listened to the radio and records for the next two years, until we could afford a good replacement television. It isn't a hard luck story as much as a natural progression for our family in home entertainment. It hooked the boys on records instead. It was just neat to have this particular article, pinpoint the Nielson's time of my life, when I would get sucked into the vortex of television marketing, and never emerge again clean, from the need to have a television switched-on within earshot.
     "When the first A. C Nielson Co. ratings for the fall TV season came out last week, a week of shock and panic rippled through an industry suddenly turned upside down. Old favorites like Jack Benney and Perry Mason went plummeting. Even the Beverly Hillbillies, undisputed champ for the past two years, dropped from No. I to No. 22. The new No. I unlikely to be uprooted this year, is NBC's Bonanza, which the Nielson figures estimate, has 48 million Americans watching Ben Cartright and his three sons ride the Ponderosa every Sunday night. So powerful is Bonanza's pull that the rival Joey Bishop Show on CBC fell to 96th." (Life Magazine, November 6th, 1964)
     "Newcomers to the sanctified top 10 included Bewitched, a comedy about a comely housewife who uses witchcraft to clean up the kitchen; Gomer Pyle, about a nincompoop in the Marines, and The Addams Family, which is a horror show. A rival for the ghoul trade. The Munsters was rated No. I3, a figure the cast thought was an extremely lucky draw. Serious dramas dropped out of sight. Of the top 20 programs only three - The Fugitive, Combat, and Bonanza, deal with anything more urgent than getting a date for the prom, and all three are holdovers."
      The article continues, "The long smile on network row was worn by usually third-place ABC, which has five of the top 10 shows, and edges out the other networks in average ratings. ABC has an over-all nightly rating of 20 CBC has 19 and NBC has 17.7. But since Nielson reaches figures by monitoring only 1,200 sets of 63 million sets in use every night, it is considered fair game to scalp the ratings if they appear to scalp you. Already CBS is saying that this Nielson report doesn't mean anything; wait until December. NBC says ABC's programs are 'designed for an age group from about 6 to 11.' 'ABC suggested that NBC was merely spouting, 'smoke in the wind, sometimes called sour grapes."
    I was a hardcover "Munster-ite," and there was no comparison with any of the other ghoul and vampire related shows. I liked the Addams family and Bewitched but I would never rank them more entertaining than Herman and Lily Munster, and son Eddy who slept in a cabinet drawer, Grandpa, the vampire who dwelled in his spider web laden lab, entered through a creaking hatchway from the house to the basement, and of course Marilyn, who was quite normal, other than the fact she lived in a monster filled spooky mansion. Herman worked for a mortician, and his car was a customized hearse. Who could forget the intro music? I was hooked after my first show, and I could watch reruns, to within a hair's breadth of my own lifespan. It made me laugh, and hilariously so, and so few programs ever since have had that kind of impact on me. I like My Favorite Martian, because Ray Walston and Bill Bixby were such a perfect fit, for a story about alien life-forms dwelling with the rest of us. I was keen on being entertained, and even if they were re-runs, of for example Gilligan's Island, I couldn't have cared less. The shows were pure fiction, and lifestyle was dramatic enough, that we didn't need it when we were trying to unwind in the evening. It was the period I had most choice, of comedies that we genuinely funny and light hearted, beginning to end, and drama shows were for me to pick and choose. Bonanza was just an endearing show, because it emphasized family, and the "Shane" standard of good guys always finish first. Today, with what's being shoved at us, I'm not sure anymore, the difference between drama and comedy, which at times, seem so intimate to the story line, there is no real division of characteristic, a long, long way from sit coms that were actually what they were supposed to be, and we laughed out loud. I almost think it was the arrival of "All In The Family," that brought heavy drama into the fold of the situation comedy. It pushed the envelope of what the television censors would permit, and because it spearheaded a sort of liberation in new-age television, network management saw those bulging numbers as support for the new way of presenting family life, worts and all. I would never list All in the Family as one of my favorite shows, because I didn't like to be unsettled, and tested about social / cultural issues, in my own livingroom, unless I was listening from my bedroom, while my parents had yet another non-sensical argument about money, or spending to much money on booze. I'm sorry folks, but our house was a battleground a lot of the time, and booze was always involved. So I did need to escape and these situation comedies afforded me this bit of liberation from what I had always perceived as a sort of in-house oppression. A lot of kids had it worse than me. I was never beaten or denied food and lodging. I just hated the arguments and television was my way of tuning out.     Social conscience is never a bad thing, but for me, I want to be able to pick and choose when I'm going to get my dose of drama, which these days, is pretty much the new, pressing, society-altering reality. I watch the news religiously, and that's perfect for me. I watch dramas that I know are going to be dramas; not suddenly take off as comedies. I hate inconsistencies like this.
     A few times each month, I will find myself, tucked into a comfortable studio chair, looking at one of this vintage magazines that has come into the shop as part of a job-lot we've been sold, the magazines just being one small component. I really like viewing the advertisements, but I feel so incredibly dated as a result. Like finding the Chef Boy-Ar-Dee frozen pizza kits," my mother used to make us every Saturday night, to enjoy at the end of the second period of Hockey Night in Canada. Kraft had similar ones but you had to make up the dough, and provide the pan. My mother used to buy extra fixings if we had some extra cash that week.
     Ever since I turned sixty years of age, boy oh boy, here come the honking big retrospectives, flash back through the cobwebs of my mind, of what really motivated me, for all these years to take up writing for fun and not so much profit, and it wasn't the literary work of either Washington Irving or Charles Dickens. I've definitely been wrong about this in the past. I'm more likely to have been influenced by Perry Mason, Seahunt, and The Waltons than all the books I've read. What a staggering public admission, but it's true. Not that I'm not influenced in degrees by the world's great literature, just that I like watching my stories instead. I've never read Dickens "A Christmas Carol," from first page to last, but I've seen the movie a hundred times. For heaven's sake it was the writer of The Munsters leading the way to my lifelong writing jag. Imagine that! What a thunderstorm of contradiction.

Homestead Ghosts and What They've Meant to Voyeurs Like Me

"SEASONS OF THE LILAC" - PART ONE

MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD CHRONICLES AND GHOSTS MET ALONG THE WAY

     THE MOMENT I CONCLUDED THIS BLOG, LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MEANING THE FINAL PERIOD OF ALL THE PERIODS, WHILE WORKING ON THE VERANDAH HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, A RAIN STORM BLEW IN SO FAST, I WAS QUICKLY PINNED AGAINST THE WALL, TO KEEP THE LAPTOP FROM GETTING WATER DAMAGED. ON VERY FEW OCCASIONS, DOES THE RAIN BLOW SOUTH INTO THE VERANDAH. TODAY IT WAS A FLOOD FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES. I DON'T KNOW, BUT THE TIMING WAS WEIRD. MAYBE THAT OLD SPIRITED FARM FAMILY, I WAS JUST WRITING ABOUT, TOOK OFFENCE AT THE WAY THEIR HOMESTEAD WAS BEING REPRESENTED. I CERTAINLY DIDN'T INTEND TO OFFEND THEM. ACTUALLY, THE EXACT OPPOSITE IS THE CASE. IT WAS A MOMENT OF ILLUMINATION, FOR WHAT HAS BECOME A LONG, LONG CAREER AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN. I WANTED TO KNOW ALL I COULD ABOUT THE HOMESTEAD LIFE AND HARDSHIPS, AND WELL, I WAS GIVEN A LITTLE EXTRA TUTORIAL, FOR MY INVESTMENT OF TIME ON THE ABANDONED FARM PROPERTY.

     I COULDN'T SEE THE CHILD'S FACE. YET IN MY MIND, I KNEW SHE HAD BLUE EYES, AND WAS NAMED CHRISTINE. SOMEONE AT THAT MOMENT WAS CALLING OUT THIS NAME, AND I REMEMBER SEEING HER LOOK BACK, WHILE STILL RUNNING ALONG. HER FACE WAS OBSCURED, BY HER HAIR, BLOWING SIDE TO SIDE IN THE WIND, AND THE SHIFTING, VIOLENT MOVEMENT OF HER BODY, AS SHE RAN DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE PASTURE TOWARD ME. I TRIED TO FOCUS, BUT IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE. I COULDN'T IDENTIFY THE FACE OF THE LARGER YOUTH RUNNING DIRECTLY BEHIND. EVEN THE DOG'S FACE WAS OBSCURED BY THE WAY THE TALL, YELLOW FIELD GRASSES, WEAVED BACK AND FORTH AS THEY RAN ACROSS THE PASTURE. I COULD SEE THEIR WHITE DRESSES AS IF THEY WERE GROUNDED KITES, ROLLING AND TUMBLING THROUGH THE YELLOW FIELD, BENEATH A DEEP BLUE SEPTEMBER SKY. I COULD HEAR THEM LAUGHING AND THE DOCK BARKING, AND SOMEONE FROM THE HOUSE YELLING AFTER THEM, BUT THE CLOSER THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN, TO ME ON THAT DAY, THE FURTHER AWAY THEY'D GET, UNTIL I AWOKE, WITH HEART POUNDING, WONDERING IF I HAD JUST SEEN GHOSTS.

     THERE WAS A WELL KNOWN AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER, WHO ASTUTELY CAPTURED THE FINAL YEARS OF STEAM LOCOMOTION, ON THE RAIL LINES OF HIS STATE. HIS NEGATIVES ARE WORTH MANY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS. HE WAS ABLE TO PROFILE A GREAT CHANGE IN TRANSPORTATION, OVER A NUMBER YEARS, AS DIESEL POWERED TRAIN ENGINES, GRADUALLY ANTIQUATED THE STEAM POWER OF THE OLD IRON HORSE. FOR ME, ALTHOUGH I ALSO LOVED THOSE BELCHING, PUFFING OLD STEAM ENGINES, THEY WERE LONG GONE BEFORE I WAS OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW WHAT HAD COME BEFORE DIESEL WORKHORSES. I DID HOWEVER, BY MY LATE TEENS, POSSESS A GENUINE INTEREST IN KNOWING AS MUCH ABOUT MUSKOKA'S PIONEER PERIOD AS I COULD, SOME LEARNED FROM TRADITIONAL ARCHIVES RESEARCH, THE REST FROM ON SITE VISITATIONS WHEREVER I HAPPENED UPON AN ABANDONED FARMSTEAD; DATING BACK TO THE 1860'S AND 70'S FREE LAND GRANTS. I VISITED EVERY ABANDONED FARM HOUSE AND LOG CABIN I COULD FIND ON MY TOURS AROUND RHE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, STARTING IN THE MID 1970'S. I CONSIDER MYSELF FORTUNATE IN THIS REGARD, BECAUSE NOT LONG AFTER I BEGAN WRITING ABOUT THESE PIONEER FARMS, THE OUTREACH OF DEVELOPMENT, WAS BULLDOZING WHAT WAS LEFT OF OUR TRUE HOMESTEAD HERITAGE. BETWEEN THE MID-1970'S, AND THE LATE 1980'S, I HAD SATISFIED MYSELF, A DECENT SAMPLING HAD BEEN TAKEN, IN ORDER FOR ME TO WRITE ABOUT THE HOMESTEAD PERIOD, WITH SOME BENEFIT OF ACTUALITY; HAVING STOOD ON THOSE EARLY HAND HEWN TIMBERS, AND ROCK FOUNDATIONS, SET DEEP IN THE PASTURES AND WOODLAND FRINGES, OF WHAT WE THEN CONSIDERED, VERY RURAL MUSKOKA, EVEN BY LOCAL STANDARDS. MANY SUBDIVISIONS AND NEW HOUSES HAVE BEEN BUILT ON THESE OLD, MODEST CABINS AND FARM HOUSES, BARNS AND OUTBUILDINGS, THAT ONLY SHOW UP NOW, ON OLD SURVEYS AND MAYBE A PICTURE OR TWO, IN OBSCURE PHOTO ALBUMS THAT OCCASIONALLY COME TO LIGHT.

     WHEN I WROTE THE ROUGH DRAFT FROM MY ORIGINAL SERIES, "THE HOMESTEAD CHRONICLES," IN THE EARLY 1980'S, FOR THE MUSKOKA ADVANCE, I USED, AS A TEMPLATE, A LONG ABANDONED HOMESTEAD PROPERTY, ON GOLDEN BEACH ROAD, NEAR BANGOR LODGE. IT WAS SEVERAL HUNDRED YARDS OFF THE ROAD, AND WELL HIDDEN BY THE GROWTH OF PINES ALONG WHAT HAD BEEN THE OLD LANE TO THE FIRST LOG DWELLING. IT WAS ALSO USED AS A WORKING MODEL FOR A NUMBER OF STORIES I WROTE IN MY FIRST BOOK, "MEMORIES AND IMAGES," WITH WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA PHOTOGRAPHER, TIM DUVERNET. THOSE STORIES ABOUT MUSKOKA HISTORY, AND THIS PARTICULAR HOMESTEAD, MADE IT ALL THE WAY TO A BOOK LAUNCH, AT UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO'S HART HOUSE, WHERE TIM'S MOTHER, SYLVIA HOSTED A PARTY FOR INVITED GUESTS IN THE SPRING OF 1983 I BELIEVE. SUZANNE CAME WITH ME ON THAT OCCASION, AND IT WAS PRETTY IMPRESSIVE, FOR A COUPLE OF ROOKIES LIKE TIM AND I, TAKING A STAB AT THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY. I REALLY CHERISHED THE FACT THAT MUSKOKA HISTORY WAS BEING HIGHLIGHTED IN TORONTO, WHERE I FELT OTHER HISTORIANS WOULD TAKE NOTICE. OTHER THAN HAVING A GREAT EVENING, THANKS TO THE DUVERNETS, THE OTHER HIGHLIGHT WAS THE FACT MY AUTHOR FRIEND, WAYLAND DREW, GAVE US BOTH A POSITIVE REVIEW, OF THE BOOK, AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, THAT IT GAVE US A WHACK OF CONFIDENCE, WE HAD DONE SOMETHING POSITIVE WITH OUR TIME AND MONEY. IT WASN'T A LANDMARK BOOK FOR MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD PRESERVATION, OR THE PUBLICATION, THAT GAVE TIM AND I OUR STARS ON THE CANADIAN WALK OF FAME. WHAT IT DID ACCOMPLISH, AS WAYLAND POINTED OUT, WAS THAT IT BROKE THE ICE, IN A FIELD WE WANTED TO EXPLORE FURTHER. THIS WAS A PROFOUND, ALMOST PROVIDENTIAL REVIEW, AND ALTHOUGH TIM AND i DIDN'T PRODUCE ANOTHER BOOK TOGETHER, HE AND I, FROM THE OLD DAYS OF THE MUSKOKA SUN, AND THE HERALD-GAZETTE, ARE STILL REPRESENTING, AND PROFILING THE GOOD GRACES OF THIS MAGNIFICENT DISTRICT OF ONTARIO, IN 2014. TIM'S AN EXCEPTIONAL FREELANCE PHOTOGRAPHER, BEST KNOWN FOR HIS IMAGES OF VINTAGE WOODEN BOATS, BUT IN OUR BOOK, HE PROVED HIMSELF A HIGHLY SKILLED LANDSCAPE PHOTOGRAPHER AS WELL. BUT IT WAS THIS FORGOTTEN HOMESTEAD, JUST WEST OF THE UBRAN AREA ON BRACEBRIDGE, THAT STARTED IT ALL OFF, CERTAINLY FOR ME, AS A WRITER, HISTORIAN; MOST INTERESTED IN THIS PARTICULARLY DIFFICULT TIME, OPENING UP THE DISTRICT FOR SETTLEMENT. THERE WAS A LOT OF MISERY ASSOCIATED WITH THESE HOMESTEADS, AS ILL-PREPARED SETTLERS ARRIVED HERE, AS URBAN REFUGEES FROM EUROPE, BEING TOTALLY UNFAMILIAR WITH AGRICULTURAL, AS A MEANS OF SURVIVAL AND ECONOMY. MANY HOMESTEADERS LEFT MUSKOKA AS DESTITUTE AS THEY HAD ARRIVED, UNABLE TO FULFILL THEIR HOMESTEAD OBLIGATIONS; GIVING UP THEIR LAND VOLUNTARILY, OR SELLING IT OFF TO THE EARLY LAND SPECULATORS, WHO FED OFF THESE FAILURES. THERE ARE MANY SETTLER GRAVES DOTTED ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE, ONE DAY TO BE FOUND WHEN A HOMEONWER DECIDES TO INSTALL A SWIMMING POOL OR OUT-BUILDING, AS MANY DECEASED PIONEERS WERE BURIED ON THEIR OWN HOMESTEAD CLAIMS.

     I WOULD GET TO THE PROPERTIES IN THE LATE MORNING, AND WORK UNTIL THREE OR FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, DEPENDING ON WHAT I WAS FINDING OF INTEREST; WITH OR WITHOUT A DIGGING DEVICE WHICH WAS USUALLY A SALL GARDEN IMPLEMENT, VERSUS A SHOVEL. IF I WAS JUST POKING AROUND THE RUINS AND SEARCHING THROUGH THE STILL-STANDING CABINS AND FARMHOUSES, BARNS AND SHEDS, I MIGHT STAY A LITTLE LONGER, BENEFITTING FROM THE AUTUMN LIGHT; RECOGNIZING THE SUN WOULD BE SETTING SOONER, CLOSER TO THE DINNER HOUR. AS THE AUTUMN DAYS SHORTENED IN LATE SEPTEMBER, AND INTO OCTOBER, THE MOOD OF THESE FORGOTTEN PLACES CHANGED DRAMATICALLY, AND ADMITTEDLY THEY SEEMED MUCH LESS CONTENTING AS THE LEAVES FELL FROM THE HARDWOODS, AND THE SCENT OF AUTUMN BECAME MORE INTRUSIVE, WITH FEWER FULL SUN DAYS. I LOVED BEING OUT IN THE FIELD, IN THE AUTUMN OF THE YEAR, BUT THERE WAS A GROWING SADNESS THAT I FOUND HARD TO GET PAST; AND IT INFLUENCED MY OPINION OF A LANDSCAPE THAT WAS BRIGHT AND POWERFUL IN THE MID-SUMMER, BUT DEPENDING ON THE LIGHT, BLEAK AND FAILING IN THE MIDDLE TO LATE DAYS OF OCTOBER. ALMOST TO THE POINT OF BEING OPPRESSIVE. IT WAS THE MELANCHOLY OF THE CHANGING SEASON. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL IN ITS OWN WAY, BUT THERE WAS A FORBIDDING QUALITY TO THE COUNTRYSIDE IN THE LATE AFTERNOONS, THAT MADE ME FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE; AS IF AT THE BEDSIDE OF SOMEONE ON THE VERGE OF DEMISE. IF EVER THERE WAS A TIME, AN OLD HOMESTEAD PROPERTY SEEMED HAUNTED, IT WAS AT THIS LATE SEASON OF THE ROLLING YEAR. I DID DESIRE TO LEAVE EARLIER ON THOSE DAYS, TO AVOID WHAT FELT MILDLY OPPRESSIVE, BUT I CAN NOT EXPLAIN WHY I FELT THIS WAY. I HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN THIS REGARD. IT IS THE SEASON THAT HAS ALWAYS INCREASED MY DESIRES TO WRITE, YET, AT THE SAME TIME, FEELING OVERLY EMOTIONAL; WEIGHED ON THE SENSES, AS IF WEARING A BOAT ANCHOR AS A PENDANT. I FIND IT THE MOST MYSTERIOUS SEASON, SO MUCH MORE POWERFUL THAN SPRING, SUMMER AND WINTER. IT'S THE SEASON BETWEEN LIFE, DEATH AND REBIRTH; THE RECOGNITION OF THE FINALITY, IN ONE SENSE, OF THE NATURAL CYCLE, WHILE CELEBRATING THE CLEANSING OF THE AUTUMN, DURING THE FIRST SNOWFALLS OF LATE SEASON, AND THE EARLY DAYS OF DECEMBER.

     I NEVER TRAVELLED TO THESE ABANDONED HOMESTEAD SITES, WITHOUT A NOTEBOOK. AFTER A LUNCH BREAK FROM DIGGING, IN THE PIONEER DUMP, I'D FIND A NICE SUNNY ROCK TO SIT UPON, OR A SECTION OF FALLEN TIMBER FROM A BARN OR CABIN, AND WATCH OUT OVER THE PASTURE WHERE HORSES, IF THE FARMERS HAD ONE, PULLED PLOWS, AND HEAVY IRON IMPLEMENTS, WHICH GOUGED DOWN THROUGH THE FIELD GRASSES IN STRAIGHT FURROWS. A PLACE FULL OF UNTOLD PROMISE. FULL OF ACTIVITY. I'D FIND MYSELF SLIDING HELPLESSLY INTO THE FRIENDLY ABYSS OF HISTORY, TO THE TIME WHEN THE FOUNDING FAMILY OF THIS FARMSTEAD, STOOD OUT ON THIS NEWLY CLEARED PASTURELAND, AND IMAGINED THE HARVEST A FERTILE FIELD WOULD GENERATE, WITH THEIR FAITH IN GOD. EACH SPRING THEY LOOKED OUT ON THIS SAME LANDSCAPE, AND HOPED AGAIN, FOR A BOUNTIFUL HARVEST, AND IT'S LIKELY THEY WERE CRESTFALLEN, WHEN LATE FROSTS, THE WIND AND RAIN OF SUMMER STORMS, THE PELTING DOWN OF HAIL DESTROYED THE CROPS, AND WHAT SURVIVED, WAS KILLED BY EARLY FROST. YET THEY PERSERVERE. IT WAS THE PATINA, THE SPIRIT OF PLACES LIKE THIS; HAUNTED BY THE REALITY OF SO MANY HARDSHIPS AND HEARTACHE, OF THOSE COURAGEOUS SOULS, TRYING TO EKE OUT SURVIVAL IN SUCH A HARSH ENVIRONS; SHORT GROWING SEASON, THIN SOIL, ROCKS, DEEP ROOTS, AND TREES AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE. BOGS AND WATERCOURSES, DIFFICULT TO NAVIGATE, AND BRIDGE, TO PROVIDE AN ACCESS ROUTE TO TRANSPORT SUPPLIES FROM THE VILLAGE, WHERE THE GENERAL STORES WERE SITUATED. LIVING HERE WAS DAMN HARD, AND THE ONLY REPRIEVE, SADLY, WAS ABANDONING WHAT THEY HAD WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE, FOR AN EVEN GREATER SPECULATION; MOVING TO A DIFFERENT REGION, FOR A NEW BEGINNING.

     SO THERE WAS ALWAYS AN IMBEDDED AURA OF SADNESS, EVEN ON SUNNY DAYS, ON THESE DISTRICT-OPENING HOMESTEADS, LEFT TO ERODE BACK INTO THE LANDSCAPE FROM WHICH THEY HAD RISEN, WITHIN THAT DARK WREATH OF THICK PINES, BLOCKING OUT THE SUN FOR MOST OF THE DAYTIME; UNTIL THEY COULD BE CLEARED, A CABIN CONSTRUCTED FROM THE TIMBER. THOSE WHO ONCE CALLED THIS PLACE THEIR HOME, AND CELEBRATED IT AS ANY HOME, WHERE HAPPINESS WAS SHARED AT HEARTHSIDE, AS WAS THE HEARTBREAK OF SICKNESS AND LOSS, FREQUENT IN THESE BACKWOODS, ISOLATED ENCAMPMENTS; WHERE THE COMING OF THE WINTER WAS ALWAYS FEARED, HEIGHTENED BY THE SEASON'S FIRST SNOW, DUSTED OVER THE DEEP GREEN PINERY. IN THESE MOMENTS OF SOLITUDE, LISTENING, AND BEING TRANQUILIZED BY THE SOFT BRUSH OF WIND OVER THE DRY AUTUMN FIELD GRASSES, THAT SWEEP, AND ROLL, LIKE OCEAN WAVES, IN THE GENTLE AFTERNOON BREEZE, IT DOES SEEM LIKE A PARADISE, AS THOREAU MUST HAVE SEEN THE LANDSCAPE OF HIS WALDEN POND. IT IS AN ENTIRELY PAIN-FREE, SLOW FALL INTO THE SOFT GRACEFULNESS OF THIS AUTUMN REMINISCENCE; A SOLITUDE, THAT TRICKS THE VOYEUR, INTO A DENIAL OF THE SENSES. FROM A COMFORTABLE DISTANCE, THE WATCHER HAS BECOME MUCH AS THE SPIRIT-KIND, IN THE SWIRLING, DREAM-LIKE ENERGY OF TIME PAST. THE PAST HAS RETURNED. I SWEAR TO HAVE HEARD THE LAUGHTER OF CHILDREN, AT PLAY, WHERE NO CHILDREN WERE PRESENT; HEARD DOGS BARKING THAT WERE NOWHERE IN SIGHT, HEARD THE THUD OF HOOVES, FROM THE HORSEDRAWN CART, RATTLING UP THE DIRT LANE TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. FEELING THE PRESENCE OF ENERGY, WHERE THERE WAS ONLY OPEN FIELD, A FALLEN HOMESTEAD, AND THE AROMA OF A RETIRING SEASON. ONE MOMENT, I COULD SWEAR TO HAVE SEEN THE MOVEMENT OF PEOPLE NEAR WHERE THE BARN ONCE STOOD, AND HEAR THE DISTANT SOUND OF SING-SONG BUT NO SOURCE BEING VISIBLE. IT WAS A HAUNTED VISION, INSPIRED BY MY OWN IMMERSION. MY WILLINGNESS TO SEE THE TRUE PROVENANCE OF A PIONEER ENCAMPMENT, A MUSKOKA FARMSTEAD. IF I WAS TO TELL YOU I FELT A HAND ENTER MINE, WHEN NO ONE WAS NEAR ME, WOULD YOU THINK ME MAD? IT WASN'T UNCOMMON TO FEEL THE BRUSH OF SOMEONE OR SOMETHING, WHILE SITTING ON THOSE AFTERNOONS, OR EVEN TOUCHING SHOULDERS WITH AN ENTITY, WHILE WALKING BACK UP THE LANE, TO THE DIG-SITE, WHEN MY SOJOURN HAD ENDED. THESE WERE UNSETTLING MOMENTS, YET I NEVER ONCE FELT AN URGE TO FLEE, OR REAR-UP IN FEAR, HAVING BEEN IN ANY WAY STARTLED BY WHAT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED, BY A MEDIUM, AS A FULL SPIRIT ENCOUNTER. I NEVER VISITED THESE ABANDONED FARMSTEADS, WITHOUT FEELING I WASN'T ALONE ON MY TRAVELS, OR MY RESPITES, TO ENJOY THE DAY. THEY WEREN'T THREATENING EVENTS, BUT INTERVENTIONS THAT MADE ME APPRECIATE, THAT SOME FORMER RESIDENTS, HADN'T ALOUD THEIR DEATHS, TO SEPARATE THEM FROM THE GROUND THEY ONCE TILLED, TEARING THEIR MUSCLES, AND ANGERING THEIR NERVES; FIELDS PLANTED AND HARVESTED FROM, IN THE FINAL DAYS OF THE SUMMER SEASON. HERE I WAS, A SPECTATOR TO ALL OF HISTORY, THAT HAD OCCURRED HERE; REMARKABLE EVEN IN ITS INHERENT COMMONPLACES.

THE LILACS AND THE HOMESTEAD

     Have you ever stopped, on a walk through a dark pinery, and heard the gentle windsong through the needles? Felt the presence of something mysterious, on an early evening walk by a churchyard, or along a grown-over path, by the ruins of an old mill, or barn, as if, someone was close to you, or watching from some portal nearby? Yet nothing is visible to you. You might hear someone talking, or calling out your name, or the sound of footfall following behind, when no one is present. Anywhere. You stop frequently to check. Then we are kindred spirits. I hear and see, and feel, and touch back, at mysterious interventions all the time.

     I usually found the fallen-in log homesteads, by looking for the stands of lilacs. The pioneers found this hardy species, a pleasant decoration for what was plain and colorless about the simple cabin or shanty. It was the same with grave sites. The settlers would transplant lilacs by the rough hewn crosses and slab, wood and rock monuments. There was always something significant, to the planting of lilacs, as if it was a sort of folk art statement, about who they were, and what they found pleasant amongst what could be vicious and unpleasant. In the fall, the lilac leaves would be curled and blackened by the long summer, although they would last against the frost and sometimes, continue to hang-on to the branches until after the first and second snows of the late autumn.

     There were lots of occasions, when I'd be walking back along the far fence line, and swear someone was walking right behind me. I'd stop, look back quickly to see if there was anyone following. Sometimes, I'd just stop in my tracks, and listen first, before turning around, much as if I knew it was a ghost, that would disappear as soon as I was able to turn. Maybe it would continue walking past me, if I just stood still. I could feel a little chill, when this happened, because what I was hearing was the full footsteps, in boots, of a substantial human close behind. I'd suddenly think of Washington Irving's famous "Headless Horseman," from his book, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and feel, momentarily, as if I should flee, in order to keep my head where it belonged; up there on my shoulders.

     It was often the case, walking around the long abandoned homesteads, that I'd hear someone call out my name, and it did send a chill, because there was no mistaking who I was. I'd turn a corner, near the fallen drive shed, and catch the scent of sweet grass, one moment, and baking bread the next. There was the aroma of preserves, such as chili sauces steaming on a woodstove, near the house, with no visible source. No fireplace, woodstove, or a room that was still standing, to support any cookery activities. I can remember smelling burning coal oil in many places, around the old farmstead, as if I was in vicinity of numerous illuminated lamps. There were none. Why would there have been an ignited oil lamp? But it was exactly what burning coal oil smelled like, because I had, at the time, over fifty vintage lamps myself.

     In those years, I was more interested in the heritage of these places, and a determination to highlight the pioneer period in Muskoka, that I felt had been seriously neglected, and terribly misunderstood. The possibility these historic places, dotting the landscape, might have carried paranormal energy, of those first families, never really entered my mind. After bottle digging, I'd be absolutely exhausted, so even if I had run into a ghost, face to face, I likely wouldn't have had any energy left to run away, and I'm not the kind to scream. I like ghosts. Most of the time.

     It was the afternoon I sat on a sun-baked hillside, before the long walk home, with a loaded packsack of old glass vessels, that I felt the first significant presence of something I truly didn't understand. I can only parallel it to a half-slumber, where if I'd been in full recline on the matted field grass, sleep would have overcome me quickly. It was so warm and peaceful in that soft patch of former pasture, and I was tired after a long dig, and longer walk. I began to dream about this place, as if I was seeing it as it was, in earlier years of occupation. Like an abstract painting, but one that was moving like a film projector, I could see the the clothes on an outside drying line, fluttering in the wind (but there was no wind on this afternoon). I could see blankets on the line. Red ones, and white gowns side by side. I could hear the laughter of children running in the tall grasses of the pasture, and occasionally see their bobbing heads with golden hair, rising above the sweeping, weaving motions of all the plants that grew in this field. I could see smoke coming from the cabin chimney, and I remember twigging all of a sudden, to the reality I was visualizing the farmstead itself, as I had been imagining it looked. Or did I have any hand in it's determination at all? It was a light slumber dream, with a permeating reality of pasture aromas, but not the ones I recalled from the field on that day. There was the distinct aroma of manure, where there wasn't a single beast to be held accountable. I saw a person waving from the doorway of the farm house, and smoke coming from the chimney, and someone yelling near the log barn to my right. I heard the rustling of the field grasses, as if multiple runners were coming toward me. There was laughter, and in the background, the sound of an axe hitting wood presumably, and then the hooves of horses on the dusty dirt lane twenty yards in front of me. I began to appreciate that I was having a sort of prolonged, deep daydream, and it was becoming a little too real. I could feel my heart racing, as if I had figured out, there was something wrong with my sensory perception; much as if my dream had been hijacked by the imbedded energy of this old family farm.

     I think back, and recall that I was getting bitten by insects, possibly because of where I had been sitting, and suddenly coming back to reality, and knocking away the critters that had snuck up my pant legs. My heart was still racing, as if I had just escaped a nightmare, yet there was nothing whatsoever, nightmarish about anything I had been daydreaming about. I did wonder, if I had some how been infiltrated on that occasion, by the still strong aura of this place, as it once existed. I probably had spent more time on the property than anyone else in decades, and possibly, I was scene as a sympathetic voyeur, who would understand the message if it was given. When you think about the length and breadth of the humanity, and its spiritual ingraining, that etched down hard here over the centuries, where I have been walking for these many hours, probably raised the dead so to speak. Was I their kindred spirit? Was I being allowed, through my brief daydream, to see what this place looked life, when it was full of life and enterprise? Had the spirits that hopelessly wandered these former pasture trails, looking for their former way of life, given me a gift of experience. Or was it just a daydream, without a crumb of what could be considered of "the paranormal"? But I knew things about this homestead, that I don't think came from just poking around, and digging in the old dumpsite. I don't know how I would have imagined all that I experienced in that several minute half-slumber, and from that point, on all my visits that fall, and for two years following, I never lost what that daydream had provided me, during the momentary hiatus, on a warm hillside, in the September sun. It wasn't a sad or mournful vision. It was quite the opposite. As if I was being afforded, because of my own compassion, a look back on what these warm spirits had been engaged, when the homestead was new, and their hopes were high.

     On the way out the old gate, heading home that afternoon, I couldn't help but take a look back, to see, if perchance, my vision would return, and I would see the painting of a new homestead, as the former residents, the family, had known it in those first years of residence, on that hilly terrain, several hours ride by wagon to Bracebridge for supplies. I was a little bewildered because I wasn't tuned to the ways and means of the spirit-kind making contact with the living. I might have been able to explain the daydream, but the voices, footsteps, the wafting scent of oil lamps, fresh bread and lilacs, was beyond what I could easily figure out; but then it wasn't particularly important. It became less important each time I visited, to dig at the dump-site, because it became a sort of normal fare, to hear my name being called out, and feel as if someone was standing at my back, when I had my head down, looking into the excavation, where there were old medicine bottles, seal jars and crockery jugs. I put it down to an over-active imagination. But regardless of how unsettling the interventions were becoming, I never felt scared in any way; but I confess to having my curiosity peaked many times, especially when I would feel a hand slip into mine, as if a child wanted to lead me somewhere on the property I needed to visit. On these occasions, which happened dozens of times, I'd just stop in my tracks, and try to figure out if my mind was playing tricks, or I was having some kind of muscle spasm, considering the shoveling I had been working at for several hours. Each time, it felt as if it was a warm, soft little hand, and of this, there was not confusion. I remember once, that I actually stopped breathing, as if I expected, at any time, to be pulled to the ground by a greater power; a force from beyond, that did not appreciate my snooping about the homestead. After awhile, I would think of the sensation of the hand, in mine, as a sort of friendly gesture, of one spirit to another, and squeeze what wasn't there. It never squeezed back. I'm not sure what I would have done, if this had happened. I did feel a strange comfort at this homestead, that was different than the others I visited, over the coming decade of local excavations, on abandoned farm properties. If I had indeed, been exposed to a paranormal experience, on all those occasions, then honestly, I would feel quite privileged, that I had been invited to share their existence; the net result, inspiring me to more thoroughly research and write about the pioneer settlement period, of the history of Muskoka.

Three Cemeteries and Pioneer Superstitions

"THE SEASONS OF THE LILAC," PART 17 - VISITING UFFORD CEMETERIES IN THE RAIN - WITH LEAF SHOWERS

THAT HAUNTING FEELING, YOU'RE BEING WATCHED

     OUT MUSIC OBSESSED LADS, ANDREW AND ROBERT, WITH THEIR GOOD FRIEND, AND TALENTED SINGER, BETTY SMITH, WERE IN TORONTO TODAY, TO TOUR A WELL KNOWN MUSIC STUDIO, FOR THE INSIDE SCOOP, ON THE RECORDING INDUSTRY, AND TO TAKE IN A SPECIAL "TRAGICALLY HIP" OUTDOOR PERFORMANCE, AS PART OF THE PRE-GAME RALLY, FOR "LEAF NATION," PRIOR TO THE SEASON OPENING, TORONTO-MONTREAL HOCKEY GAME, THIS EVENING. THEY HAVE A HUNCH A BANDMATE FRIEND, WILL BE ABLE TO GET THEM BACK-STAGE. WITH THEM IN TORONTO, WE CLOSED OUR GRAVENHURST SHOP TODAY, BECAUSE WE KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING ABOUT VINTAGE GUITARS AND SOUND EQUIPMENT. IN ORDER TO OPEN OUR ANTIQUE SHOP, WE'D HAVE TO OPEN THE MUSIC COMPONENT AS WELL, AND ALTHOUGH SUZANNE AND I MAY, OR MAY NOT HAVE, BEEN AT WOODSTOCK (IT WAS A PRETTY CRAZY GIG), WE NEVER GOT INTO THE FINER DETAILS, OF WHAT MUSICIANS ACTUALLY USE TO MAKE THEIR MUSIC. WE JUST LIKED WHAT WE HEARD. SO PLEASE, DON'T ASK US THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GIBSONS AND FENDERS, UNLESS YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT OUR NEIGHBORS ON SEGWUN BOULEVARD. I HOPE THEY HAD A GOOD DAY, AND ARRIVE BACK EARLY TOMORROW SO WE CAN GET BACK TO WORK. OH WELL, YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE THE OCCASIONAL DAY OFF, TO FOOL AROUND. OF COURSE, OUR IDEA OF FOOLING AROUND, THESE DAYS, IS TO BURY OURSELVES IN HISTORY; AND VISIT THOSE WHO HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN BURIED. HERE'S WHAT WE DID FOR OUR DAY'S SOCIAL / CULTURAL RECREATION.

POKING AROUND IN GRAVEYARDS

     "THEY WASHED THEIR BODIES SO WHITE AND CLEAN, THOSE MEN OF THE PIONEER DAYS, THEIR BLOOD THEY LEFT TO SET IN THEIR VEINS, IT WAS THEIRS, AND IT IS THERE TO STAY." THESE WORDS WERE WRITTEN BY MUSKOKA LAKES FAMILY HISTORIAN BERT SHEA, IN AUGUST 1962. THE REFERENCE TO BLOOD LEFT IN THEIR VEINS, MEANS FIRST OF ALL, THAT THE BODY PREPARATION AND BURIALS WERE CONDUCTED WITHOUT THE PROFESSIONAL ASSISTANCE OF AN UNDERTAKER, AND THE CORPSES WERE NOT EMBALMED, WHICH WOULD HAVE NECESSITATED THE BLOOD BEING REMOVED FIRST. MANY UNDERTAKERS IN THE EARLY YEARS, DIDN'T OFFER EMBALMING, AND EVEN WHEN THEY DID, SOME FAMILIES REFUSED THE PRESERVING PROCESS, PREFERRING THE BLOOD REMAIN WITH THEIR KIN AT THE TIME OF BURIAL.

     "THEY COMBED THEIR HAIR AND FOLDED THEIR HANDS, THEIR EYES THEY CLOSED WITH CARE, AND A CLEAN PRESSED VEST THEY GIRDED ON, AND COMBED OVER THEIR WHISKERS THERE. IN THE CASKET MADE FROM CLEAN WHITE PINE, THE CHOICE FROM THE FOREST GROVE, WITH PINS OF OAK TO JOIN IT TIGHT, BY STROKES OF THE HAMMER DROVE. SO THEY LAID HIM THERE, TO REST IN PEACE, WHILE THE YEARS IN HURRY FLY, TILL THE DAY WHERE EARTH AND TIME SHALL CEASE, TO WAKE AT THE TRUMPET'S CRY. AND THERE HE IS RESTING IN SILENCE LONG, HIS SLUMBER UNMARRED BY THE CLAY, THE STORMS PASS ON, THE SEASONS CHANGE, AND THE WILDFLOWERS SPRING WITH MAY. BUT STILL THERE IS A MURMUR AT EVENTIDE, AS THE BREEZES WHISPER LOW, AND MEMORY STEALS O'ER THE GRASSY SPOT, AS SOFTLY AS THE FALL OF SNOW. THEY HAVE LAID HIM THERE WITH LOVING CARE, AND THEIR TEAR DROPS, DAMPENED THE SOD, AS THE GOOD MAN COMMENDED HIS BODY TO EARTH, BUT HIS SOUL, IS AT REST WITH HIS GOD."

     ON OUR APPROACH OF THE UFFORD CEMETERY, NORTH ON THE DOHERTY ROAD, WE RAN INTO WHAT I CAN ONLY DESCRIBE AS A MINI CYCLONE, THAT WAS ENERGIZED BY A WICKED WIND COMING FROM THE WEST (NO WITCH ATTACHED TO THIS), AND WITH THE TORRENTIAL RAIN AND THE TWISTING, SPIRALLING-DOWN OF HARDWOOD LEAVES, AND HORIZONTALLY DRIVED PINE NEEDLES, SLAPPING FLAST AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD, IT BECAME SUDDENLY DARK, AND BLINDING FOR SEVERAL MINUTES, WITH THE WIPERS GETTING CLOGGED, WHILE THE WEATHER CELL MOVED QUICKLY OVERHEAD. I HAD TO STOP AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD FOR SAFETY REASONS, BECAUSE IT WAS HARD TO SEE THE ROADWAY, AND VISIBILITY DOWN THE LANE WAS ONLY A FEW METRES AHEAD.

    THE CLOUDSCAPE, WHEN WE COULD SEE IT THROUGH THE WIND-DRIVEN LEAVES, WAS BLACK, AND WE WONDERED IF THERE WAS A TORNADO BREWING WITHIN. AS QUICKLY AS IT SWEPT OVER US, IT SOON VANISHED, AND THE SUN POPPED OUT FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS. IN THE CEMETERY, HAVING A WALK-ABOUT, IT HIT AGAIN BUT MUCH LESS AGGRESSION, AND BEFORE WE GOT BACK TO GRAVENHURST, THERE WERE AT LEAST THREE MORE OF THESE WEATHER EVENTS, THAT FORCED US TO STOP AT ROADSIDE UNTIL IT CLEARED. EVEN NOW, WORKING OUT ON THE VERANDAH OF BIRCH HOLLOW, WE HAVE JUST HAD FIFTEEN MINUTES OF BRUTAL GALE FORCE WIND, SENDING LEAVES ONTO MY LAP, AND ALL OVER MY CANINE COMPANION, BOSKO, WHO IS SNORING AWAY, AT MY FEET, CONTENTLY OBLIVIOUS TO NOW BEING COVERED WITH WET YELLOW, RED AND ORANGE LEAVES; AND DOZENS OF PINE NEEDLES BLOWN HERE FROM WOODLANDS JUST ABOVE THE BOG. NOW FOR GOSH SAKES, IN MERE MINUTES AFTER THE GALE HAS SLAMMED OUR HOUSE, IT'S BEAUTIFULLY SUNNY AND MUCH WARMER THAN EVEN A FEW MINUTES AGO. A TOUCH OF NOVEMBER IN OCTOBER. THE WIND HAS REALLY STRIPPED A LOT OF THE TREES, THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN OUTSTANDING THIS COMING WEEKEND, WHICH OF COURSE, IS THANKSGIVING. LOTS OF FOREST WATCHERS AROUND HERE. OH WELL, THAT'S HOW IT GOES IN MUSKOKA, ONCE YOU GET WITHIN A WHISKER OF THE WINTER SEASON; AND I'M TOLD BY THE OLD TIMERS, TO GET MY SHOVELS AND RELATED SNOW REMOVAL GEAR READY TO GO....VERY SOON. THEY EXPECT ANOTHER BRUTAL ASSAULT BY MOTHER NATURE. WITH WHAT WE SAW TODAY, BY GOLLY, IT'S GOING TO BE A WILD RIDE. I'M STILL CATCHING UP WITH HYDRO PAYMENTS FROM LAST YEAR'S DEEP FREEZE.

     WE TOOK A LONG RIDE THROUGH THE TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES AND BRACEBRIDGE TODAY, AND DESPITE THE SUDDEN DOWNPOURS AND HIGH WINDS, THERE WAS ENOUGH SUNSHINE POKING THROUGH, TO THOROUGHLY PAINT THE AMAZING LANDSCAPE, IN THIS PART OF THE DISTRICT. SUZANNE AND FAMILY ARE FROM THE UFFORD AREA OF THE TOWNSHIP, AND SHE WAS RAISED A LTTLE FURTHER WEST, IN THE CHARMING VILLAGE OF WINDERMERE, ON LAKE ROSSEAU. SO WE DID THE LOOP, AND WE WERE BOTH SURPRISED BY THE CHANGES TO THE LANDSCAPE. LOTS OF NEW HOUSE BUILDING GOING ON OUT THERE IN THE RURAL CLIME. GOOD TO SEE. WE USED TO DRIVE THOSE ROADS DAILY, WHEN WE LIVED AT THE FAMILY COTTAGE ON LAKE ROSSEAU, AND CONSIDERING WE VERY NEARLY BOUGHT THE PROPERTY BACK THEN, TO USE AS A PERMANENT RESIDENT, WE WOULD HAVE HAD TO BE VERY RICH NOW, TO AFFORD THE TAXES, FIRST OF ALL, AND THEN GAS TO GET TO OUR RESPECTIVE PLACES OF BUSINESS; SO WE COULD THEN PAY OUR TAXES. WHEN WE LIVED THERE IN THE LATE 1980'S, SUZANNE WAS WORKING AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, AND SHE SPENT CLOSE TO AN HOUR AND A HALF DRIVING EVERY DAY. I HAD A SECOND CAR THAT USED LESS GAS, BECAUSE IT FREQUENTLY STALLED AND LEFT ME STRANDED. THAT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A HEAVY BURDEN OF INCONVENIENCE, DOES IT? TODAY IT WOULD BE TWENTY TO THIRTY BUCKS IN GAS TO COVER BOTH WAYS, FOR EACH VEHICLE, (BECAUSE WE HAD DIFFERENT TIMES TO GET TO WORK, AND I WORKED EVENINGS, AND HAD TWO TODDLERS) DEPENDING ON THE VEHICLE. WE CAN WALK TO WORK NOW, SO I'M NOT INTERESTED AT PRESENT, IN MOVING TO THE OUT-BACK, ALTHOUGH I LOVE IT WITH ALL OF MY HEART. I RESPECT ANYONE WHO LIVES RURALLY, PAST AND PRESENT. A GREAT WAY OF LIFE THAT'S FOR SURE. I'M JUST TOO OLD AND GNARLY TO BE STRANDED IN THE WOODS WITH A FLAT TIRE, OR A FALLEN-OUT TRANSMISSION; AND SUZANNE HAS LOST SOME OF HER VIGOR AS AN OUTDOORS PERSON. AT LEAST FROM THE DAYS WHEN WE USED TO PADDLE MUSKOKA AND ALGONQUIN LAKES EVERY OTHER WEEKEND, JUST TO STAY IN SHAPE. I TRIED TO CLIMB INTO THE OLD RETIRED PORTAGE STORE, "IRON WATER HORSE," (ALUMINUM CANOE) THE OTHER DAY FOR FUN, SAFELY POSITIONED ON DRY LAND, (JUST TO SAY I COULD GET INSIDE) AND SUZANNE THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO CALL FOR THE FIRE DEPARTMENT, TO BRING THE JAWS OF LIFE, TO EXTRACT ME FROM WHAT I ONCE FIT INTO, LIKE A GREASED PALM IN A FINE LEATHER GLOVE. SHE HAD TO ROLL ME OUT OF THE CANOE, AND THANK GOD THE NEIGHBORS WERE AT WORK. "TED, WITH YOUR WONKY HIP, CANOEING IS A THING OF THE PAST. YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO SETTLE FOR YOUR BILL MASON VIDEO, 'WATERWALKER,' WHENEVER YOU GET THE URGE TO PADDLE SOMETHING. YOU CAN HOLD ONTO THE PADDLE IN YOUR CHAIR, AND PRETEND YOUR GOING THROUGH RAPIDS." WELL THIS MADE ME FEEL MORE LIKE A TOOL THAN USUAL. BUT LIKE MOST UPSETS THESE DAYS, WHEN I FIND MYSELF TOO MUSCLE-WEAK TO DO WHAT I USED TO, IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS, SUZANNE HANDS ME A PIECE OF PIE. I LIKE THAT. IT MAKES ME FORGET MY MORE RUGGED FORMER SELF, RATHER WELL.

     WE TREATED OURSELVES. STOPPED FIRST AT THE BRACEBRIDGE SALVATION ARMY, AND PURCHASED SOME NEAT VINTAGE BOOKS. HAD A NICE VISIT WITH STAFF, TALKED ABOUT LOCAL HISTORY, AND THEN HEADED, WITH BELLS ON, TO MARJ'S RESTAURANT IN BALL'S FLATS, FOR BREAKFAST. PICKED UP A NOTEBOOK FROM THE DOLLAR STORE, (BECAUSE SUZANNE FORGOT TO BRING ONE TO MAKE COPIOUS NOTES), AND TOOK THE BACKROADS OFF SOUTH MONCK DRIVE, TO FALKENBURG, OVER THE OLD PIONEER ROAD, AND THEN ONTO BARDSVILLE, UPTOWN AND DOWNTOWN, CONNECTING WITH THE DOHERTY ROAD, AND STOPPING FOR A VISIT AT THE UFFORD COMMUNITY CEMETERY. WE WERE DELIGHTED TO SEE THE NEW WHITE PICKET FENCE AROUND THE ROADSIDE CEMETERY, FOR THE LOST MEMBERS OF THE PIONEER DOHERTY FAMILY, WHICH IS LOCATED A SHORT DISTANCE FROM THE UFFORD GRAVEYARD, WITH AN ATTRACTIVE NEW SIGN ANNOUNCING IT AS "THE DOHERTY CEMETERY." WHAT'S SIGNIFICANT ABOUT THIS, IS THAT SUZANNE'S GRANDFATHER, JOHN SHEA, A FORMER MUNICIPAL CLERK WITH WATT TOWNSHIP, FELT THE FAMILY PLOT, LOCATED ON A SLIGHT ELEVATION OF LAND, THIRTY TO FORTY YARDS OFF THE TRAVELLED PORTION OF THE DOHERTY ROAD, DESERVED TO HAVE A FENCE ERECTED AROUND THE OTHERWISE UNMARKED PLOTS. HE DID THIS MANY YEARS AGO, (1950'S) AND WHEN SUZANNE AND I VISITED THE SMALL GRAVEYARD IN THE MID 1980'S, THE FENCE HAD FALLEN OVER AND MOST OF IT WAS BEYOND SAVING, ON ACCOUNT OF ROT. THE WAY WE FINALLY LOCATED THE OBSCURED, OVERGROWN PLOTS, WAS BY FOLLOWING EXACTLY, HOW SUZANNE'S MOTHER, HARRIET, HAD IDENTIFIED IT BEFORE-HAND, AS BEING WHERE THERE WAS AN OLD STAND OF LILACS. THE LILACS WERE IN PRETTY BAD SHAPE BY THIS POINT, BECAUSE THE MUCH LARGER EVERGREENS, IN THE VICINITY, HAD BEEN BLOCKING OUT THE SUNLIGHT. THE LILACS HAD BEEN PLANTED AT GRAVESIDE, SHORTLY AFTER MULTIPLE MEMBERS OF THE DOUERTY FAMILY DIED, AS A DIRECT RESULT OF EITHER A DIPTHERIA OR INFLUENZA OUTBREAK IN THE AREA. THE WELL KNOWN TRAVELING ANGLICAN MISSIONARY, GOWNAN GILMORE, WHO ASSISTED MANY OF THESE STRICKEN FAMILIES, DURING THE HEIGHT OF ILLNESSES, KNEW OF CASES WHERE WHOLE HOUSEHOLDS DIED AS A DIRECT RESULT.

     AT THE TIME OF THEIR DEATHS, EITHER THREE OR FOUR IN ONE NIGHT HAVING SUCCUMBED, THE UNDERTAKER'S CREW, TWO MEN WITH A TEAM OF HORSES AND WAGON, CAME AFTER THE DEATHS, TO REMOVED AND THEN BURY THE BODIES AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. THEY DID NOT WANT ANY MOURNERS OR NEIGHBORS TO BE AT THE GRAVESITE, DUE TO CONCERNS ABOUT POTENTIAL CONTAMINATION; AS THE ILLNESS COULD SPREAD QUICKLY, AND IT WAS EXPECTED, IT WOULD DO SO WITH EVEN MINOR CONTACT. THE UNDERTAKERS, USUALLY CONTRACTORS EMPLOYED BY ANOTHER FUNERAL DIRECTOR, WORKED OFTEN LATE AT NIGHT, PICKING UP THE DECEASED, AND THEN CARTING THEM AWAY FOR IMMEDIATE BURIAL. IN THE CASE OF THE DOHERTY CLAN, IT EXPLAINS WHY THEY WERE BURIED CLOSE TO THEIR HOMESTEAD, ADJACENT TO THE ROAD, AND NOT AT THE UFFORD UNITED CHURCH CEMETERY, THAT WAS OPENED IN THE EARLY 1870'S, A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY. THE UFFORD COMMUNITY CEMETERY, ACTUALLY ON DOHERTY ROAD, WAS OPENED IN THE EARLY YEARS OF THE 1900'S. WE HAVE BEEN RESEARCHING THE ACTUAL DATES OF THEIR DEATHS, THROUGH THE ONLINE RECORDS WE CAN ACCESS THROUGH ANCESTRY.CA, OF WHICH SUZANNE IS A SUBSCRIBER. SHE'S GOING TO BE CHECKING OUT CENSUS RECORDS IN THE NEAR FUTURE, TO UPDATE INFORMATION ON THE DOHERTY FAMILY SITUATION, AND IF THERE WERE ANY SURVIVING MEMBERS THAT FATEFUL NIGHT. IT'S NICE TO SEE THE TOWNSHIP OF MUSKOKA LAKES, LOOKING AFTER THIS SPECIAL PROPERTY, THAT HAD BEEN LEFT OBSCURED AND OVERGROWN FOR DECADES, SINCE JOHN SHEA'S PICKET FENCE ROTTED AWAY, AND THE BURIAL GROUND SEEMED TO BE LOST IN TIME.

     BY THE WAY, IT WAS OFTEN THE FRIGHT OF FOLK TALES, TO REMINISCE ABOUT THE SOUND OF THE HORSE PULLED CART, WITH THE UNDERTAKERS, TRAVELING THE DIRT LANEWAYS THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE, FOR THOSE LATE-NIGHT APPOINTMENTS.

     SUZANNE AND I THEN MOTORED THE SHORT DISTANCE DOWN TO THE UFFORD COMMUNITY CEMETERY, WHERE OUR FAMILY IS WELL REPRESENTED, INCLUDING HER MOTHER AND FATHER, HARRIET AND NORM STRIPP, FORMERLY OF WINDERMERE. HARRIET WAS A MEMBER OF THE SHEA FAMILY, HER FATHER BEING JOHN SHEA, THE ABOVE-MENTIONED BUILDER OF THE FENCE. SUZANNE WAS ABLE TO FIND THE MARKER FOR JOHN LILY SHEA, WHO YOU MIGHT REMEMBER FROM THE PREVIOUS BLOGS THIS WEEK, INVOLVING THE RESCUE OF THE NEAR-FROZEN ENGLISHMAN, MR. GILL, ON LAKE ROSSEAU'S TOBIN'S ISLAND, AND THEN YESTERDAY, WHEN I WAS WRITING ABOUT THE FIRST (SQUARED LOG) CHURCH IN UFFORD, CIRCA 1869, ON LAND HE DONATED TO THE METHODISTS. THIS INFORMATION CAME FROM BERT SHEA'S WELL KNOWN BOOK, "HISTORY OF THE SHEAS - BIRTH OF A TOWNSHIP." IT WAS A PROFOUND EXPERIENCE FOR ME, STANDING ON HIS PLOT FOR THOSE FEW MOMENTS. I HAD JUST READ ANOTHER HANDWRITTEN NOTE ABOUT JOHN LILY SHEA, THE EVENING BEFORE, REGARDING THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE PORT CARLING LOCKS. WHEN THE FIRST HAND HEWN TIMBERS WERE USED TO WALL THE NEWLY CONSTRUCTED LOCKS, IN THE 1860'S, CONNECTING LAKES MUSKOKA AND ROSSEAU, FOR THE ADVANTAGE OF STEAM NAVIGATION FOR MR. COCKBURN'S BOATS, THE INITIAL JOB FAILED DUE TO LEAKS THROUGH THE JOINED TIMBERS. JOHN LILY SHEA, ONE OF THE BEST HEWERS IN THE DISTRICT, WAS CALLED IN TO REMEDY THE SITUATION; AND HE DID, AND THE LOGS LASTED, ACCORDING TO THE HANDWRITTEN RECORD, UNTIL A LOCK RESTORATION IN THE 1950'S. IT WAS JOHN LILY WHO DID THE DOVE-TAIL CORNERS, AND SQUARED THE LOGS FOR THE PIONEER METHODIST CHURCH. SO YES, I WAS VERY HONORED TO FINALLY MEET UP WITH A MAN I HAD READ SO MUCH ABOUT, IN BERT SHEA'S FAMILY HISTORY. JOHN LILY SHEA WAS SUZANNE'S GREAT-GREAT UNCLE. WE ALSO VISITED ALL THE OTHER SHEA AND VEITCH FAMILY GRAVESITES, BECAUSE THE FAMILIES INTER-MARRIED OVER THE GENERATIONS

     FOLLOWING A WET AND STORMY HIATUS AT THE UFFORD CEMETERY, WE TRAVELLED-ON TO SEE THE UNITED CHURCH CEMETERY, THE ONE MENTIONED ABOVE, AND HIGHLIGHTED IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, (YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO READ IT). THE ORIGINAL LOG CHURCH WAS CONSTRUCTED ON THE EAST SIDE OF THE PROPERTY, AND THE CEMETERY ON THE WEST. THERE ARE ONLY SEVERAL GRAVESTONES VISIBLE TODAY, INCLUDING THE LITTLE LAMB-TOPPED TOMBSTONE FOR MARIA MACINTOSH, FOUR YEAR OLD DAUGHTER OF DONALD AND SUSANNA (NEE SHEA) MACINTOSH. SEEING AS I WROTE ABOUT HER IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, I COULDN'T RESIST PUTTING MY HAND ON THE CARVED LAMB ON TOP OF THE MARKER, AND INTRODUCING MYSELF AND SUZANNE, AS HER DISTANT FAMILY. THERE WERE ALSO MARKERS TO ONE OF THE CHURCH FOUNDERS, JOHN LACY OLDHAM AND HIS WIFE (WHO HAD PASSED AWAY WHILE IN MICHIGAN), AND OTHER OLDHAM KIN. THE GRAVESTONES WERE BADLY ERODED AND DIFFICULT TO READ. THE CEMETERY WAS DEDICATED TO JAMES SHEA, JOHN LILY SHEA'S FATHER. SUZANNE FOUND A PROBLEM WITH THE ANCESTRY AFFORDED HER GREAT,GREAT, GREAT GRANDFATHER, (ON A BIG BRASS PLATE AT THE CEMETERY) AND HAS SET TO WORK TO MAKE THE CORRECTION. SHE A STICKLER FOR DETAIL, AND THAT'S A GOOD QUALITY WHEN YOU'RE A FAMILY HISTORIAN. I'LL GIVE YOU UPDATES ON WHAT HAD TO BE REVISED; A LITTLE TOUGH WHEN IT'S WRITTEN ON A BRASS PLAQUE, BOLTED TO A ROCK. SO SHE HAS TO BE CAREFUL WITH HOW SHE HANDLES THE NEW INFORMATION, WHICH DEBUNKS SOME OF THE FAMILY LINEAGE CLAIMS. IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME, THAT WHAT WAS ACCEPTED AS FACT, IN FAMILY HISTORIES, IS DERAILED BY ADDITIONAL ARCHIVES MATERIAL, WHICH BECOMES AVAILABLE THROUGH OTHER, DISTANT FAMILY MEMBERS, WORKING BY COINCIDENCE ON THEIR OWN ANCESTRAL RESEARCH. SO YOU HAVE TO BE PREPARED, AS A FAMILY HISTORIAN, FOR TRUTHS THAT MAY MAKE OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS ANGRY. THE TRUTH IS WHAT IT IS!

EARLY SETTLERS AND THEIR SUPERSTITIONS - WHAT WAS FEARED ON THE MUSKOKA HOMESTEAD?

A BELIEF IN WITCHES? YOU BET!

     I HAVE BEEN SITTING OUT ON OUR VERANDAH, FOR THE PAST HOUR,  ENJOYING ANOTHER AMAZING FALL DAY, HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. EARLIER, SUZANNE AND I STOPPED BY MUSKOKA BEACH, OVERLOOKING LAKE MUSKOKA, AND IT WAS A BREATHTAKING SUNSET......ONE OF THE MOST DAZZLING I'VE SEEN.

     AS I WROTE ABOUT SEVERAL DAYS AGO, I WAS ABLE TO SECURE A FASCINATING NATIONAL MUSEUM OF CANADA BOOKLET, ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1850, ENTITLED "FOLK-LORE OF WATERLOO COUNTY, ONTARIO," AS ORIGINALLY PREPARED BY W. J. WINTEMBERG, WHO DIED BEFORE THIS FINAL MANUSCRIPT WAS PREPARED. BUT THE RESEARCH WORK HE INTIATED, PROVIDED EXCEPTIONAL FINDINGS, AND THE NATIONAL MUSEUM DECIDED TO PUT IT INTO BULLETIN 116, OF THEIR ANTHROPOLOGICAL SERIES, LISTED AS NUMBER 28, IN CASE YOU WOULD ALSO LIKE TO HAVE ACCESS TO THIS MATERIAL.

     THE BOOK DEALS WITH AN EARLIER PERIOD IN THE HISTORY OF SETTLEMENT IN UPPER CANADA, AND THOSE HAVING IMMIGRATED TO NORTH AMERICA FROM GERMANY AS WELL AS BORDER AREAS. ALTHOUGH MUSKOKA DIDN'T HAVE A LARGE GERMAN INFLUX, DURING THE FREE LAND GRANT AND HOMESTEADS ACT PERIOD, FROM THE LATE 1860'S, THESE SETTLERS DID ARRIVE IN GROWING NUMBERS AS SETTLEMENTS GREW. AS THIS SERIES OF BLOGS IS LOOKING AT THE FOLK-LORE OF THE REGION, WHICH HAS BEEN LARGELY NEGLECTED BY HISTORIANS, SOME MATERIAL IN THIS PUBLICATON WILL RELATE TO BELIEFS HELD BY CERTAIN RESIDENTS, NEWLY ARRIVING IN THE HAMLETS AND FARMSTEADS, DOTTING THE MUSKOKA COUNTRYSIDE IN THE LATE 1800'S. THERE WERE A WIDE RANGE OF SUPERSTITIONS AND BELIEFS IN THE PARANORMAL, THAT THESE SETTLERS BROUGHT TO THE CANADIAN WILDS, AND MUCH EVOLVED WITH THESE STRANGE FICTIONS, WHEN CULTURES INTER-MARRIED, AND EVOLVED THESE SUPERSTITIIONS INTO MULTI-CULTURAL BELIEFS. I HAVE INCLUDED PORTIONS OF A CHAPTER ON "WITCHES AND WITCHCRAFT" FROM THE WORK OF W.J. WINTERMBERG, THAT MAY HAVE HAD A PLACE, IN THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THOSE HOMESTEADERS OF GERMANIC ORIGIN. THE STORIES ARE FROM EARLIER IN THE 1800'S, BUT IT IS LIKELY THEY WERE STILL AROUND BY THE TIME MUSKOKA WAS BEING SETTLED, LATER IN THE CENTURY. NOW IN THE WORDS OF THE STUDY'S AUTHOR:

     "BELIEF IN WITCHES AND WITCHCRAFT WAS QUITE COMMON IN THE RURAL PARTS OF ONTARIO IN THE EARLY DAYS, AND ESPECIALLY SO AMONG THE GERMAN SETTLERS IN WATERLOO COUNTY. THE NUMBER '99' IS CALLED 'HEXE-G'WICHT,' MEANING 'WITCHES' WEIGHT."

     THE AUTHOR REPORTS THAT, "A SHARP SHOOTING PAIN IN THE SIDE, BACK, OR SHOULDERS IS CALLED A 'HEXE-SCHTICK,' I.E. 'WITCHES' STAB. THE MILK OF A BEWITCHED COW SHOULD BE PUT ON THE HINGE OF A DOOR SO THAT EVERY TIME THE DOOR IS OPENED AND CLOSED, THE WITCH WILL BE TORTURED. TO KEEP THE WITCHES OUT OF THE STABLE, A SPRIG OF CEDAR BLESSED BY THE PRIEST WAS PLACED ABOVE THE STABLE DOOR ON PALM SUNDAY. PUSSY WILLOW SPRAYS WERE USED FOR LIKE PURPOSE.

     "ON THE LAST DAY OF APRIL, A CROSS WITH THE NAMES OR INITIALS (USUALLY THE LATTER) OF THE THREE WISE MEN OF THE EAST, - CASPAR, MELCHIOR, AND BALTHAZAR - WAS MADE ON THE DOORS OF THE HOUSES TO KEEP WITCHES OUT. THE BELIEF THAT BLACK CATS ARE THE ASSOCIATES OF WITCHES WAS AT ONE TIME WIDESPREAD. A YOUNG MAN (THE SON OF A GERMAN CONJURE DOCTOR) OFTEN TOLD HIS FRIENDS THAT WHEN HE PASSED BY AN OLD WITCH'S HOUSE, AT NIGHT, HIS PROGRESS WAS IMPEDED BY A HOST OF BLACK CATS, AND HE WAS SOMETIMES FORCED TOTAKE TO THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD TO REACH HIS HOME. THIS OCCURRED IN THE VILLAGE OF NEW HAMBURG NOT MANY YEARS AGO."

     W. J. WINTEMBERG WRITES, "IT WAS FORMERLY BELIEVED THAT A HORSE THAT APPEARED TIRED OR RESTLESS IN THE MORNING HAD BEEN RIDDEN HARD BY WITCHES. IT WAS ALSO BELIEVED THAT THESE WITCHES SOMETIMES ENTANGLED THE HAIR OF A HORSE'S MAIN IN SO INTRICATE A MANNER THAT IT COULD NOT BE DISENTANGLED. SOME BELIEVED THAT WITCHES HELD A MIDNIGHT ORGY OR FESTIVAL EACH MONTH, AND THAT DRINKING VESSELS USED AT THESE FESTIVALS WERE COW-HOOF CUPS AND BOWLS MADE OF HORSE'S HOOFS. ABOUT 1880 THERE LIVED AN OLD WOMAN NOT FAR FROM THE VILLAGE OF NEW DUNDEE WHO WAS SAID TO HAVE BEEN A WITCH. SHE IS SAID TO HAVE POSSESSED THE 'SIXTH AND SEVENTH BOOKS OF MOSES,' AND IT WAS BELIEVED THAT SHE COULD TRANSFORM HERSELF INTO ANY ANIMAL SHE CHOSE. SHE SOMETIMES TRANSFORMED HERSELF INTO A CAT AND PROWLED AROUND HER NEIGHBORS' PREMISES.

     "ONE DAY A SOW, AND HER LITTER OF TEN LITTLE PIGS, BELONGING TO A WILMOT TOWNSHIP FARMER, STARTED TO RUN A CIRCLE AROUND THE BARNYARD; THE PIGS FOLLOWING CLOSE ON HER HEELS. EVERY FEW MINUTES ONE OF THE PIGS FELL OVER AND DIED. THIS CONTINUED UNTIL ONLY A FEW PIGS WERE LEFT. THE FARMER THEN CONSULTED AN AMISH WITCH-DOCTOR NAMED LUGOBULL. THE DOCTOR BROKE THE SPELL THAT THE WITCH HAD CAST OVER THE PIGS, AND TOLD THE FARMER THAT THE WITCH WOULD SOON CALL TO BORROW SOMETHING, BUT HE WAS NOT TO LET HER HAVE IT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, FOR THUS SHE WOULD REGAIN HER POWER OVER THE PIGS. THE WITCH-DOCTOR'S WORDS PROVED TO BE TRUE, FOR BEFORE LONG A WOMAN CAME TO BORROW SOMETHING AND HE REFUSED TO LET HER HAVE IT. SHE CALLED SEVERAL TIMES BUT WAS ALWAYS REFUSED AND HER PLANS WERE THWARTED.

     "ONE DAY AN OLD WOMAN CAME TO A FARMHOUSE IN WILMOT TOWNSHIP AND ASKED FOR SOME FOOD, WHICH WAS REFUSED HER. SHE LEFT, MUCH INCENSED AT THIS REFUSAL, AND AS SHE WAS GOING DOWN THE LANE SHE CALED THE COWS, MEANWHILE HOLDING UP THREE OF HER FINGERS. THE FARMER DID NOT THINK MUCH ABOUT THE MATTER AT THE TIME, BUT WHEN THE WOMEN BEGAN TO MILK THEY FOUND THAT ON EVERY COW ONLY ONE TEAT PRODUCED MILK, THE OTHER THREE BLOOD. THE FOLLOWING MORNING THE SAME THING HAPPENED AGAIN AND THE FARMER, BECOMING ALARMED, CONSULTED AN AMISH WITCH-DOCTOR WHO CURED THE COWS BY A PROCESS OF CHARMING."

     THE FOLK HISTORIAN WRITES, "ANOTHER FARMER'S COW WAS BEWITCHED, THE MILK BEING THICK EVERY TIME THE COW WAS MILKED. A WITCH-DOCTOR WAS CONSULTED AND HE ADVISED THEM TO PUT THE MILK INTO A PAN AND SET IT ON THE STOVE TO BOIL, AND THEN THEY WERE TO GIVE THE MILK A THOROUGH WHIPPING WHILE IT BOILED. THIS WAS DONE, THE COW WAS CURED, AND THE WITCH'S POWER WAS DISPELLED. ONE DAY TWO YOUNG MEN WERE LOADING HAY IN A FIELD WHEN A WOMAN CAME WALKING ALONG THE ROAD THAT PASSED NEAR THE FIELD. THE WOMAN WAS A WITCH AND SHE BEWITCHED THE TWO YOUNG MEN AND THEY COULD NOT PROCEED WITH THEIR WORK. ONE OF THE YOUTHS THEN THREE HIS FORK IN THE AIR AND IT STUCK THERE, BUT WHEN HE PULLED IT DOWN AGAIN THE WITCH RAN AWAY. (TOLD BY A YOUNG AMISHMAN)

     "THE MANGERS IN THE SETTLER'S BARNS WERE MADE FROM HALF A HOLLOW BASSWOOD LOG, WITH BOARDS NAILED ACROSS THE ENDS, AND HOLES WERE BORED THROUGH THE SIDES, JUST AS THEY ARE NOWADAYS FOR FASTENING THE ANIMALS. OLD KUTLER HAD A NUMBER OF CALVES FASTENED IN HIS STABLE IN THIS WAY. THE CHAINS AROUND THE CALVES' NECKS WERE QUITE LOOSE, BUT NOT SUFFICIENTLY SO AS TO ALLOW THE ANIMALS TO GET FREE. ONE MORNING WHEN HE WENT OUT TO THE STABLE HE FOUND THE TWO CALVES FASTENED TOGETHER WITH ONE CHAIN; THAT IS, IT LOOKED AS IF ONE CALF HAD SLIPPED ITS HEAD INSIDE THE CHAIN OF ANOTHER CALF, AND THUS BECOME SECURELY FASTENED. THE CHAIN WAS SO TIGHT THAT IT COULD NOT BE REMOVED, AND SO THEY HAD TO CHOP OUT THE END OF THE CHAIN WHERE IT WAS FASTENED TO THE MANGER AND THEN FILE APART ONE OF THE LINKS. KUTLER CLAIMED THE CALVES HAD BEEN PUT IN THIS POSITION BY A WITCH, BECAUSE THE UNITED STRENGTH OF TWO MEN PULLING ON THE CHAIN COULD NOT RELEASE THE CALVES. HE SHOWED MY FATHER THE NOTCH IN THE MANGER WHERE THE CHAIN HAD TO BE CUT LOOSE. THIS HAPPENED ABOUT 60 YEARS AGO. KUTLER WAS AN ALSATIAN SETTLER IN WILMOT TOWNSHIP.

     "OLD MAN MERKLINGER, WHO FORMERLY LIVED NEAR STE. AGATHA, WAS A HEXE-MEESHTER OR 'WTICH DOCTOR,' AND WAS LOCALLY KNOWN AS HELL-DEIFEL, I.E. 'HELL DEVIL.' IN ONE FAMILY OF ALSATIAN SETTLERS IN WILMOT, OF WHOM I HEARD SOME YEARS AGO, THE FATHER WAS SHUNNED BY HIS OWN DAUGHTER BECAUSE SHE BELIEVED HE WAS A WIZARD. HIS SISTER HAD THE REPUTATION OF BEING A WITCH, ALTHOUGH THERE WAS NOT A MORE KIND-HEARTED WOMAN IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD. THE WRITER'S MOTHER ONCE HAD THE QUINSY AND THIS WAS SAID BY HER EMPLOYER TO HAVE BEEN DUE TO THE MALICE OF TWO OLD WITCHES WHO LIVED BY. AFTER SHE HAD RECOVERED, SHE RETURNED TO HER EMPLOYER'S PLACE, BUT ON THE VERY DAY OF HER RETURN, THE TWO OLD WOMEN HAPPENED TO BE THERE AND ONE OF THE SAID, 'YOUR THROAT WILL BE AS SORE AS EVER TOMORROW,' AND SURE ENOUGH IN THE MORNING THIS WAS SO. IT WAS BELIEVED THAT THE WITCHES HAD BEWITCHED HER AGAIN, AT LEAST THAT IS WHAT HER EMPLOYERS BELIEVED; AND THESE PEOPLE ACTUALLY MOVED FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD TO GET AWAY FROM THE BANEFUL INFLUENCE OF THOSE TWO OLD WOMEN. CHILDREN COULD NOT BE INDUCED TO EAT EVEN AN APPLE GIVEN TO THEM BY EITHER ONE OF THE SUPPOSED WITCHES."

     THE AUTHOR CONTINUES, BY NOTING THAT, "THE WRITER'S MATERNAL UNCLE WAS SAID TO HAVE BEEN BEWITCHED BY AN OLD WOMAN WHEN HE WAS A BABY. ONE DAY WHILE HE WAS LYING IN HIS CRADLE A TALL, GAUNT-LOOKING WOMAN, A PERFECT STRANGER, CALLED AT THE HOUSE AND WENT TO THE CRADLE AND THE CHILD BEGAN TO CRY AND DID NOT STOP UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING WHEN THE STRANGE WOMAN LEFT. ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A SHOEMAKER IN ALSACE, WHO EMPLOYED SEVERAL ASSISTANTS, AND THESE HAD TO WORK AT NIGHT. HE SOMETIMES WAS ABSENT FROM HOME, SO HIS WIFE, WHO WAS A WITCH, TRANSFORMED HERSELF INTO A CAT AND WENT INTO THE SHOP TO WATCH THE MEN. THEIR DOINGS ALWAYS BEING REPORTED TO THEIR MASTER, THEY BEGAN TO SUSPECT THAT THE CAT WAS THE MASTER'S WIFE, AND SO ONE NIGHT ONE OF THEM CUT ONE OF THE CAT'S PAWS WITH A KNIFE. THE NEXT MORNING THE WIFE HAD ONE OF HER HANDS BOUND UP.

     "THE WITCHES HELD MONTHLY ORGIES OR FESTIVALS. IN ALSACE THE CHIMNEYS OF HOUSES ARE VERY WIDE, AND IT WAS THROUGH THESE THE LEFT THE HOUSE WITH OUT BEING SEEN. AT A CERTAIN FARMHOUSE THERE WERE TWO WOMEN - MOTHER AND DAUGHTER - WHO WERE WITCHES. WITH THEM LIVED AN INQUISITIVE YOUNG FARM-HAND. HE HAD NOTICED SOMETHING UNUSUAL WAS TAKING PLACE IN THE HOUSE EVERY MONTH, SO ONE NIGHT HE HID IN THE KITCHEN AND WATCHED. ABOUT MIDNIGHT THE WOMEN CAME AND STOOD NAKED BEFORE THE FIREPLACE, BENEATH THE CHIMNEY, AND AFTER ANOINTING THEMSELVES WITH AN OIL THAT THE GERMANS CALL HEXENFETT, (I.E. WITCH'S FAT), UTTERED SOME MAGIC WORDS, AND UP THEY WENT THROUGH THE CHIMNEY. THE YOUNG MAN THEN EMERGED FROM HIS HIDING PLACE AND SEEING THE VESSEL CONTAINING THE OIL, HE ANOINTED HIMSELF TO SEE WHAT EFFECT IT WOULD HAVE ON HIM. HE HAD SCARCELY PRONOUNCED THE MYSTIC WORDS WHEN HE WENT UP THE CHIMNEY WITH A SUDDENNESS THAT WAS SURPRISING, AND WHEN HE REACHED THE GROUND HE FOUND HIMSELF ASTRIDE A LARGE BLACK SOW, WHICH CARRIED HIM WITH GREAT SPEED ACROSS THE COUNTRY. THEY SOON ARRIVED AT A BROAD AND SWIFT-FLOWING RIVER, BUT THIS DID NOT HINDER THE ONWARD ADVANCE OF THE SOW, FOR IT CLEARED THE BROAD EXPANSE OF WATER AT A SINGLE BOUND. THE YOUNG MAN LOOKED BACK, AND, ADMIRING ITS LEAPING POWERS, HE SAID TO THE SOW, 'THAT WAS A LONG LEAP YOU MADE,' BUT AS HE SPOKE, THE SPELL WAS BROKEN, AND THE SOW DISAPPEARED, AND HE FOUND HIMSELF IN A STRANGE COUNTRY MANY MILES FROM HOME."

   ONCE AGAIN, THE INCLUSION OF THIS MATERIAL, GATHERED ORIGINALLY FROM THE WATERLOO AREA, OF THE PROVINCE, DOES NOT APPLY STRICTLY TO OUR AREA, BUT HAS BEEN USED AS A MODEL FOR COMPARISON, AGAINST FOLK-TALES TOLD IN THE FARMSTEADS AND HAMLET RESIDENCES OF PIONEER MUSKOKA. THERE ARE MANY PARALLELS TO THE STORIES ABOVE, AND SOME FAMILIES HAVE TAKEN THE TIME TO RECORD THEM, IN PERSONAL JOURNALS, AND SOME ON TAPE WHICH IS OF HUGE SIGNIFICANCE.....BEING ABLE TO HEAR THE VOICES OF THE STORY TELLERS FIRST HAND....AS RECALLED FROM THEIR ANCESTRAL CHRONICLE. THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF SIMILAR STORIES THAT SHOULD BE CONSERVED AS PART OF OUR CULTURAL HERITAGE. MAYBE YOU KNOW SOME FROM YOUR OWN UPBRINGING, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE. PLEASE WRITE THEM DOWN, AND IF YOU EVER WISH TO SHARE THEM, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SEND ME A NOTE. I'D LOVE TO INCLUDE THEM IN THIS BLOG.

     WHEN FOLK HISTORIAN BERT SHEA, RE-TOLD THE STORY OF "BLACK" BILLY CROWDER, DURING THE SPRING LOG DRIVE (CIRCA 1890'S), ON THE DEE RIVER (DOWN FROM THREE MILE LAKE) THE REVELATION THAT HE HAD SHOWN SUPERNATURAL CAPABILITY, WHEN SHUTTING THE WATER DOWN, RAGING OVER THE DAM, DEMONSTRATED A GENERAL BELIEF OF WITNESSES,  IN THE PARANORMAL. DESPITE THEIR RELIGIOUS CONVICTIONS, THEY SAW SOMETHING BEYOND COMPREHENSION, TAKE PLACE ON THAT NARROW DAM OVER THE FALLS. CROWDER HAD EXHIBITED SUPER HUMAN STRENGTH AND AGILITY, IN ORDER TO RESCUE HIS NEPHEW, WHO HAD FALLEN INTO THE CHURNING WATER AND RUNNING LOGS BELOW. WHILE HE WASN'T SUCCESSFUL IN SAVING HIS LIVE, MANY OF THAT LOGGING CREW, SAW THE MAN PERFORM THIS FEAT OF STRENGTH AND ENDURANCE.....EVEN IF IT WAS ONLY TO RECOVER HIS SISTER'S SON, WEDGED BETWEEN THE ROCKS BELOW. DID IT HAPPEN EXACTLY AS BERT SHEA WROTE THE STORY? I EXPECT IT WAS EMBELLISHED OVER TIME, AS MOST FOLK TALES WERE. THAT'S WHAT MAKES THEM INTERESTING. NOT THE HISTORICAL ACCURACY, BUT THE HUMAN, CULTURAL CHARACTER WITHIN. THE SAME AGAIN, WITH THE STORY OF PAT LOVELY, AND HIS ARRIVAL IN THE HAMLET OF UFFORD, TO TAKE UP A FARMSTEAD IN AMONGST A CLUSTER OF IRISH PROTESTANTS; THE SHEAS, KNOWN AS THE LEGENDARY "THREE MILE LAKE WOLVES." THE LOVELYS WERE AN IRISH CATHOLIC FAMILY. WHILE THEY APPARENTLY GOT ALONG, IT WAS SAID PAT LOVELY COULD BEWITCH A NEIGHBOR'S LIVESTOCK IF HE WAS SO INCLINED. HE CONVINCED THE LOCAL YOUTH, VISITING HIS FARM, THAT HE COULD MAGICALLY SHRINK DOWN SMALL ENOUGH, TO ENTER A WOODEN BARREL, FROM WHICH HE USED TO TALK TO THEM. PAT LOVELY COULD OBVIOUSLY THROW HIS VOICE, AND THAT WASN'T REALLY MAGIC AT ALL. BUT THE STORY ITSELF IS MAJGICAL. THESE ARE THE STORIES WE NEED TO BE AWARE OF, NOT BECAUSE THEY'RE PIVOTAL IN THE APPRECIATION OF LOCAL HISTORICAL ACCOMPLISHMENT......BUT BECAUSE THEY REPRESENT, LIKE RELIGIOUS BELIEFS, HOW OUR FOUNDERS NAVIGATED EACH DAY ON THOSE LONELY, ISOLATED FARMSTEADS; AND DEALT WITH THE RIGORS AND HARDSHIPS OF MAKING A FARM-LIFE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONS. THESE ARE FASCINATING STORIES AND WHAT THEY LACK IN FACT, THEY MORE THAN MAKE UP WITH CHARACTER......THAT MOST OF US DIDN'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT.

     THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THESE FOLK-TALES ABOUT WITCHES, FROM OUR PIONEER HISTORY, DOES NOT MEAN TO BE CRITICAL OF THOSE WHO CHOOSE TODAY TO PRACTICE THEIR BELIEFS IN THIS REGARD. THIS SERIES, IS NOT DEALING WITH CONTEMPORARY BELIEFS OR CHOICE OF RELIGIONS, FAITH, OR LINGERING LOYALTY TO SUPERSTIONS AND ANCIENT LORE. IT IS AN ATTEMPT TO UNDERSTAND, BEYOND RELIGION, WHAT THESE EARLY SETTLERS BELIEVED, HUDDLED AROUND THOSE CABIN HEARTHS, AND TOLD AND RE-TOLD ON COLD WINTER NIGHTS, ISOLATED ON THEIR MUSKOKA ACREAGE. JUST LIKE US, THEY HELD FIRMLY TO THEIR LIFE-LONG BELIEFS AND VALUES......AND THAT INCLUDED WITCHES.....AS DID MOST CULTURES AT THAT TIME.