HAUNTED BED OKAY - BUT STILL ODD OCCURRENCES

Since bringing home the death bed.....an early piece of Canadiana, that was used for funerary purposes by a former Toronto minister, (purchased from an estate) we have most certainly had an interesting sequence of household disruptions and my wife and I seldom get past 3:30 a.m., without suddenly raising in bed wondering why one woke the other up. We still get radiators starting without being set by thermostat, and leaks of water here and there, strange bumps in the night.....we credit these intrusions to our numerous cats. There really hasn’t been anything paranormal to the bedstead that we can attribute, and our lives here at Birch Hollow are pretty much the same as before. With all the old stuff we have in our house, there’s just as much likelihood a paranormal quality or quantity has hitched a ride with a book, a dresser, a child’s toy, doll or old trunk. We’ve probably got all kinds of interesting spirit-kind here sharing the lives of two musicians, a teacher and a writer. Nothing scary but then we’ve always felt this way about our contact with the alleged other side.

In the coming weeks I will have some Tom Thomson material to share, with regards to a new book just released on the artist’s mysterious death, while traversing Algonquin’s Canoe Lake, in July 1917. Stay tuned. It’s pretty neat stuff.

NOTE TO READERS

After decades, I mean decades of collecting stuff of all kinds, weights and sizes, and giving every appearance of being in line for a stint on “America’s Legendary Hoarders,” this was the summer season of dispersal. It was the time at Birch Hollow when a proper accounting was necessary. It was the time that we realized there was a house somewhere in the mix of old stuff that simply couldn’t be ignored any longer. By golly, we had some upgrades to do on the old Ponderosa.

It began in June with the removal of an old deck, which I determined had to be dismantled following my unceremonious fall through the rotten boards. Suzanne had been asking me to fix it up for several years, but I always seemed to be able to replace a few boards, and cover over trouble areas, that was.....until there were more patches than original boards. From this debacle, the installation of patio stones, and new concrete step up to the back door, and the creation of five major flower garden plots......to show my shame at not doing the repair work sooner.....the work just seemed to go from “lots to lots more.” All summer long we have been working at reducing the burdens on the homestead, and restoring what keeps us all dry and comfortable. And we have had numerous sales to unload the surplus items that grew into the thousands over the past twenty years.

I’m not a very good handyman but Suzanne is more than competent to make up for my shortfalls. We’ve actually worked as a team to fix up the old digs and I’m happy to say the autumn season looks better than we anticipated a few weeks ago, when askew piles of books and paintings only left us a few feet of pathway from room to room. We actually spent most of our time beneath a camping canopy, and occupying a tent in the backyard when the clean-up got too extreme.

So I had no choice but to abandon writing for a short period, to get this place back in shape. After a day’s work in the wicked humidity, sitting at the computer for even ten minutes was too much on this old body. I hope to get back to the weekly journal entries soon. Thanks for sticking with this blog-site.

DEATH BED ACTIVITY MUTED, WE THINK
In the past several weeks, it’s quite true that we have had many, many misadventures around Birch Hollow, although we can’t attach any direct responsibility to the death bed, we acquired this spring from the family of a former Toronto Minister. You can read more about this by scanning back through the last few entries to this site. My wife Suzanne was not impressed with the purchase but so far her initial fear and trembling, haven’t had much foundation in corresponding events.
We have had strange occurrences, such as a pin prick hole in an upper side connecting pipe, to a hot water heater that very nearly flooded our entire basement. Suzanne asked me bluntly if it was the fact we have the death bed in our house now that may have contributed to the watery event. Of course she was kidding. The bed, we must explain, wasn’t an actual death bed, as such but rather a viewing stage for the newly deceased, at family receptions in honor of their lives.....presumably at the minister’s home. It doesn’t make much difference to Suzanne, who has seen her share of ghosts in the houses in which we have dwelled. It is however, a small, beautiful spindle bed, from the shop of a pioneer craftsman, and too much of a cultural gem to cast out because of its macabre provenance.
In this house it’s not uncommon to have falling over books, slipping-over piles of paper, and askew picture frames hung on the wall. We have a number of cats that look after these misdeeds, most of the time. So we can’t really say, that unless a spirit attached with the bed decided to play a prank with the water tank, the bed has changed much at all around here.....except the interior decor. But we’ll keep you posted.
As a side bar, we have a small but significant collection of art work from a recently deceased artist, and where we have it all stored-away for safe keeping, does suffer quite a bit more activity in the falling-over-books category. Possibly there’s a little paranormal energy manifesting within the trunks, in that part of the room. We’ll add this to the list of updates we need to provide for this blog site.

DEATH BED HASN’T SHAKEN ONCE.....YET
It has been the talk of friends and family. Some can’t believe we would bring something like this into our house. Yet there is a peace associated that set this apart from a truly haunted piece of vintage furniture. The recently acquired, and newly employed spindle bed, probably from the late 1800's (a similar bed is photographed in a booklet on heritage bedsteads in Ontario), was used by a Presbyterian, then United Church Minister, in Toronto, to accommodate "the recently deceased" in their home, for a final viewing for family. It was in a small, side-street bungalow, in recent years, not far off the mainstreet of Gravenhurst, Ontario, here in the District of Muskoka.
It’s not every husband who would have the gall to buy his loving wife a "death bed," as the former owner called it without much affection. She had sort of been stuck with it, as an estate piece from her father, and no overnight visitor to the home would dare sleep upon it. While it is true there was some trepidation about bringing a death bed into our happy and healthy home, we are afterall folks who have respect for those who have crossed, and encounters with the paranormal are eagerly anticipated, not feared.
I wanted to give you an update about the bed and its use up to this point. Admittedly there were a few sleep-broken nights getting adjusted to a stiff, custom made mattress for the short, three-quarters width bedstead.....which is gorgeous whether it is haunted or not. There has been a connection with about 3. a.m., when the occupant is awoken by something or other. We can’t really rest any liability for this on the bed itself, or its former occupants. There has been nary a shake or shudder, levitation or tipping. While it is a tad short for us (it’s true they were shorter on an average back then, than us today) it’s none the less comfortable and has a patina of cultural history we adore.
We love history. We love folk history even better. Ghosts. They were folk, once, so we love them too. We’ll keep you posted on the spiritual potential of an antique bedstead, now serving the slumber interests of the family here at Birch Hollow.

GHOSTS COMING WITH THE DEATH BED?
WE DON’T THINK SO -
As we have been working, for the six weeks, selling off a large quantity of historic books and paper, on behalf of a local estate, we haven’t had too much time for anything else other than business and subsequent "rest from business."
One of the prized acquisitions is what the family called the "Death Bed." It is a fairly modest, late 1800's wooden bed, owned by a Toronto Minister. The bed was used from the period of the First World War up to the 1940's, to rest the deceased at the Minister’s home, for families of lesser means to support a more elaborate viewing and funeral. For decades it was used in this capacity, and while it was a conversation piece, set up in a guest bedroom, in a Muskoka District residence, nobody ever slept on it for obvious reasons. For the most of its structural existence, the prior occupants of the bed, were those lodged in eternal slumber.
Why would someone seek out such an item? Well, I love provenance, and I have great respect for the family we represented, and I suppose to also prove a point, stated on this site many times, that we haven’t met a ghost we didn’t like. If this piece has any patina, other than the aging of the wood, we’re quite prepared to get acquainted. It is well documented in paranormal history, that objects can carry with them the essences of the dearly departed. Cradles that rock themselves, rocking chairs without a mortal companion, organs and pianos that play by themselves, and in the case of Mackenzie House, in Toronto, (former home of the great Scot, William Lyon Mackenzie, a pivotal player in the Rebellion of Upper Canada, 1837), where it has been reported his newspaper press might be heard running in the wee hours unattended.
There is nothing sinister about buying this bed or for that matter, residing upon it for a good night’s sleep, which I intend to pursue. Yet if anything was to be haunted, this might be a good vehicle, as it was at the center of great emotion and sadness for many parlor viewings of the deceased. Admittedly it’s a bed that most would find a macabre reminder of old days and simple ways, when on the other hand, I find it a fascinating piece of Canadian social / cultural heritage. Folks didn’t die in this bed afterall. They were placed upon it, instead of being positioned in a formal casket / coffin. They didn’t depart this mortal coil upon its kind mattress. It undoubtedly looked very peaceful, which I believe is the aura still attached. None the less, it is a kind of experiment, to see if we get an enhanced slumber or just a regular old sleep as we would benefit from any bedstead.
When I told Suzanne I wanted to purchase the bed from the estate, she rolled her eyes, gave me "the look," but that eventually turned to a detectable half-grin, as it was pretty obvious I had been keenly interested after hearing the story. I assured her that I would never utter to friends and family that "My wife was on her death bed last night," or that she has "gone to her death bed," as obviously this would be in poor taste. In our collection we have many strange pieces that she has grown quite accustomed to by immersion. I usually drag the item home and it resides here a week or more before she finds it, and then she can’t resist my begging to keep it! I told her she would get the last laugh on this eccentric collector, when she pens my biography after I’ve also fallen from this coil of life. I can just imagine the adjectives she will use to profile my looney actions and reactions for all these years of married bliss. I plan to attach my spirit to quite a few of my favorite pieces, as you probably can imagine.
I am constantly in quest of significant provenance that has a strong human-contact patina, and I imagine how central this humble, modestly appointed bed was, for those few days, intense moments, for those in mourning. Yet it was very much central to the celebration of life, and kinship known and appreciated. As it was a pedestal that brought an unfortunate reality to its prominence, it was the same platform of a spiritual reckoning, that the afterlife had begun, and peace and calm returned to a travelled soul, as before birth. Some have felt us mad for bringing such a piece into our own happy home, and my response remains, that it wasn’t purchased as a novelty, or as a means of inspiring another chapter in our own ghost associations. It is a piece of Canadian history regardless, and it deserves respect for the services it has rendered, to benefit many families by its comfortable embrace of loved ones.
I will duly advise if anything particular or peculiar develops from our new Birch Hollow bedstead. And should it prove a haunted piece, we trust it will be an enhancement like all the others, and be friendly toward us, as we will be respectful of its unique heritage.

WHEN BUSINESS CALLS - EVEN WHEN THE THOREAUESQUE BECKONS....

I must offer an apology for my lethargy as of late. It has been very much the case that business has come before pleasure. And while it is true that I garner great joy working in the antique profession, nothing can trump my forays in writing at Birch Hollow. But as the accountant in this household is currently of the opinion we should balance the books, it was necessary for awhile to put other, more enjoyable pursuits aside.
We have had the privilege of selling off a considerable quantity of interesting Canadiana, antiquarian books, old paper and some wonderful advertising nostalgia. Now we are close to completion and we can honestly say that the past six weeks have been exciting and well worth experiencing. There just hasn’t been much time for anything else, and seeing as I have for long and long subscribed to the philosophy of dear old Mr. Fezziwig’s (Dickens, A Christmas Carol) belief, that "money isn’t everything," I do intend to happily return to my cherished blog sites, of which there are numerous, and pen copiously once again. As a poor writer I shall continue following this life-long path.
Today the forest canopy is filling in, and the lilac buds are growing ever more significant, ready soon to burst into bloom. The ferns are poking their heads up through the soil and our patch of trilliums has almost doubled from years past. There are a few blackflies but not so bad.
Once again, my apologies for this rather unanticipated but profitable hiatus.

ANGEL ON MY MIND
So what’s this pre-occupation with the angel-kind? Well, I’m at least in ample company, as many folks around the globe, and throughout history, have had some kind of association with what may or may not have been a divine intervention. Yes, just like Jimmy Stewart’s connection with his Guardian Angel, Clarence, in the Christmas-theme movie, "It’s A Wonderful Life." Minus Hollywood embellishments of course. I don’t have an angel obsession but rather a bold, etched-on-the-mind dream remembrance, from childhood, which has stayed sharp and clear for almost half a century. How many of you can remember a dream from two days ago?
Earlier in this blog collection, I wrote about a childhood encounter with an angel. I am one hundred percent sure it was a dream visitation, moreso than a chance meeting in real time, in a real place. I’ve never really felt that I had walked to our meeting because at the point the event occurred, sickness had kept me immobile for almost two weeks. There was a time when I did wonder if I had, in a stupor or a sleep-walk, made it out of our apartment alone in the wee hours. I don’t have any evidence now to support this actuality.
Since my fathers’s passing, in January of this year, I’ve definitely been doing some soul searching, trying to more fully appreciate what the ethereal existence might be like, for those who have crossed over. I do believe the alleged "other side" does exist, not because of any religious instruction (I only went to church for three Sundays as a kid) or anything from my family home that I’ve toted along, as a borrowed belief to this point. Well, there was one thing. My wee audience with what I know was something divine. I have indeed kept this memory alive since childhood. There’s no chance of me shedding it without a catastrophic event first. I’ve written quite a lot about this incident based on the fear I might have some future memory loss. I wanted my family, at least, to know just how strange their pop was! And over the past few months of discontent, I admit finding much comfort in this memory...... recalling the seconds (that seemed like hours) in the company of my heavenly message. Every year of my life since, I’ve had dozens of poignant recalls because of the comfort it provides. It’s just as vivid today as it was in the early 1960's. But it’s more than comfort. It’s one of those ethereal situations that is difficult and somewhat precarious to describe. I don’t want to offend any one by understating or poorly describing the attending angel. I’m not an angel expert. Simply stated, it’s a feeling of elation and that despite our earthy worries, pains toils and tribulations, all is well within the universe.
The odyssey began when I contracted a wicked cold-flu combination that gave me a fever, nausea and a gut-wrenching cough. It was one thing to feel like crap, because of the nausea and sore-all-over feelings, but the cough was so harsh I would throw-up each time the hack commenced. I had to have a bucket at my side constantly. I couldn’t hold anything done even the drugs. I couldn’t lay down so I had to sit up in a chair for days, so as not to choke while coughing and vomiting.
I remember one night my mother showing worry on her face when my temperature started to rise, and the symptoms hadn’t abated by even one smidgeon. She kept putting ice packs on my forehead and washing my face and chest with cold water. I had been seen by our family doctor and he felt it was just a case of riding out the bug. I was pretty sure I was going to die in one of these coughing fits, because it was getting harder to catch my breath after. I was in a fitful sleep and would wake up one moment soaked in sweat, and then another time shivering. It was at this time, in one of these half-slumbers, that I met my guardian angel. I’m still here so the helping hand was substantial.
I can remember being in a basement room in our apartment, with all the lights on, yet there wasn’t anyone down there using the washing machines. My first thought was that the lights were way too bright for the basement, a plain, high ceiling room, I knew so well as an always-exploring kid. It wasn’t a blinding light. It was more of a white glow, like standing within the illumination of a cloud, or mist, versus the yellow hue from something electric glowing from behind a glass fixture. When I looked back at the door that had just closed, I saw in the corner of that room, a full-regalia angel hovering in the corner. I probably didn’t think of it then, as anything particularly divine, because I didn’t understand the concept. I know for sure that I never once told my parents of the encounter. And I don’t remember thinking of the dream visitor as an angel until many years later, when I did learn a little more about these heavenly messengers and protectors. She was composed of the same glow that while intensely bright didn’t force me shield my eyes.....keeping in mind it was a dream. There were angel wings that rounded well above her shoulders and down past her arms. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. There was movement as I watched, as if the apparition was floating on air currents up and down.
In this vivid dream I stood, unable to speak, unwilling to move a muscle, staring up at this most amazing sight. I saw her huge, billowy angel wings, a long, puffy white gown, what appeared to be a halo, a very pale skin tone on her hands and face, blue eyes and a most assuring, calming look on her face. It was my first dream in full color. There were no words spoken by my visitor. I felt shivers for the entire period I was in her company but that most definitely could have been my fever breaking. It was such a wonderful feeling of nirvana, and she was of such radiance and beauty that there was nothing to say but stare in awe of what levitated in front.
At this age I had minimum exposure to television. I had no real knowledge of what an angel might look like. We didn’t even have a nativity scene for our Christmas tree, and I don’t believe we had a single ornament with an angel motif. I don’t believe I could have concocted, via a dream, all that I saw and experienced in that undoubtedly short visitation. Although there were no words actually spoken, I felt restored in health. The aches that had even been part of my dreams for days, were suddenly absent. I awoke with my mother at my side, who told me the fever had broken, (I didn’t know what that meant either) and that the worst part of the sickness was sure now to be over.
I have had many days recently, when I have tried to more thoroughly revisit my meeting with this alleged angel. I would know her face in a split second. I have looked through many books on angels, and religious paintings dating back centuries, hoping to find a similar face, a particular expression I could relate to for reference. Alas there are features of all, part of the face I knew. I can find thousands of parallels in part but not in whole. I have even begun trying to sketch from memory, what she looked like during that sickness induced slumber that provided one of my life-long memories. I have even pondered asking an artist friend to make a few attempts, based on my description, because frankly I have no talent to draw anything let alone an angel. I guess my only possibility is if being touched by an angel gave me some sensory advantage with pen and paper, to depict what I experienced. I’m just not sure what I would say to the artist, so as not to generate any weirdness between us. I’m kind of a controversial guy at the best of times, and expect pensive looks from many of my colleagues when I talk of new projects, but painting an angel from a 50 year old dream? "Ted, you’re a nutter!" Possibly. This was one unearthly encounter however, that parallels the dreams experienced by millions of people over centuries. Mine isn’t all that spectacular. It was nice though as dreams go!
When people I know ask about this old, many-times-told story, I do feel they have a genuine interest in what that might be like.....having an in-person audience with an angel. It’s certainly a minority of our population that can say they had such an intimate meeting, in real time or dream time. They want to know what it felt like, and all I can answer them is that it was a feeling of "safe harbor," and that my visitor made it clear by calm and an imposed solitude, that "I was not finished my journey yet.....and that everything would be well again." On the hour my fever broke, I had experienced a vision of being in company of an angel, who let me know by sensory perception, my life had been extended. Yet the truth is, and it is what I have felt since my father’s death, the greater sensation than restored health in my angelic dreamscape, was a strange enduring sadness that I wasn’t going with her instead. Almost as one would feel a love lost. She had, by her presence alone, removed any fear of an ultimate demise. I was resigned and prepared to touch her robe and turn heavenward at her beckoning, I realize in retrospect, although I wasn’t at all sure then where I might soon arrive.
In moments since, when I’ve been worried about health issues of family members, and well, questing in my mind for the meaning of life, I have come back to that curious visitation in an apartment basement, and truthfully, my fears diminish to a manageable concern from outright fear. It is the reckoning I called upon frequently during Ed’s illness. For those last minutes of life, I told him many times in a low voice, to go to his wife Merle, who was waiting for him on the other side. While visibly altered and non-communicative, he repeatedly held up his arms heavenward to someone or something visible to him. The attending nurse watched the same gestures. I had even mildly admonished my mother Merle, for not showing herself to him sooner, as he was in great distress, and need for comfort beyond what we could provide. He was alive for only a short while after this. Strangely, I had the feeling my angel had returned, as I knew she would, and when I clasped Ed’s hand for the last time, I felt a strange sensation as if another hand had come over-top of ours. But this time, there was no life to spare. It had run out of its time in this mortal coil. There was a peace with this mutual understanding, and parting of ways.
I was saddened by his demise but satisfied he was in a more peaceful, gentle environs, without the pain he had suffered up until the final moments. It was at his bedside for those last minutes that I thought about my own guardian angel, and what her presence in this situation might mean. As I had supposed, for my dad, well, it was time to go, and his journey was now over. It was a calm, warming embrace of belief and affection for all the details of our lives together, and I felt that all was indeed well within the universe.
I am still not a religious man and we are not a particularly religious family by the strict definition of organized religion. But whether we believe in the soul’s ability to cross over, we have felt the evidence clearly enough, to have shed our most significant doubts. I have described my encounter with a guardian angel many times to my wife and lads, because I want them to feel the peace and joy I celebrated way back,...... when a child’s heart and mind were open to all the possibilities of heaven and earth, life and beyond, and the interplay of the spirit-kind upon us all,...... if and when we choose to believe in the dimensions of existence in one form or the other.
I have never related this story for a cent of profit. I could not. I have over a lifetime, felt a great privilege having had this dream encounter. I can not explain why it has stayed fresh in my mind for all these years. I for one, have had great need of my guardian angel, and I’ve never once been abandoned in a time of need.
As a final note of clarification. I have never, despite my keen awareness and study of this childhood dream, been able to beckon my divine visitor to my bedside for a repeat performance. I trust this is due to continuing good health!

HAUNTED ARTIFACTS, ANTIQUES, BOOKS AND PAINTINGS
It might be the case, because I can’t back it up with newly gathered statistics, that most antique dealers would deny that spirit-kind play any role in their trade. You could ask a hundred dealers whether or not they believe in ghosts, or have had any paranormal experiences, and it’s probable, well more than half will bark out a loud, and unwavering .... "No!....Are you nuts?"
If you were to win over their confidence, and put down anything that looks like a recording device, electronic or pen and paper, (so they won’t have to say "off the record") over the course of a discussion, even those who are secure in their beliefs, will demonstrate a modest appreciation for the ghosts of antiquity. If they adore reading Dickens, "A Christmas Carol," or Washington Irving’s tales of the haunted Hudson River, and the frightening story of the "Headless Horseman," at Sleepy Hollow, they might fidget a little, make a few faces but it could well sneak out in modest proportion that, "Why sure, I’ve seen things.....!"
I’ve been in the antique trade since the late 1970's. I’ve lived in a haunted house, worked in a haunted office, operated a haunted museum, and I’ve had many vintage articles having a wee bit of the paranormal attached. I’ve hunted through old houses during estate sales and auctions, and I’ve never attended one in more than 30 years, even outdoors, that I couldn’t say with assurance, "Something other than the living was watching." Yet after so many years in the company of the qualities and quantities of "those who have crossed-over," I always expect a certain number of interventions wherever I go. First of all, my wife Suzanne and I are not ghost hunters. We don’t have to hunt them because they always find us. We’re not resistant to being approached and we’re quick to relay messages between us, when it seems particularly relevant to the task we are performing. Hunting through old properties with a huge bank of history, will usually provide a few good stories when we finally get a chance to sit down for a pop at the end of the quest.
Now most dealers are practical folks who are interested in historical conservation, and of course, just being around old stuff. Some in the paranormal field might suggest there’s a reason for this beyond just adoring antiques. Possibly we in this trade are like-minded enough, to feel a compulsion to rescue history because of some inner ambition we don’t quite understand. How, for example, did I grow into the antique trade when as a kid, my mission was to play professional sports. Side by side the sport’s ambition was an unquenchable urge to seek out significant heritage items. I may well be able to trace back my antique hunting to my public school years, when I’d come home with pockets jammed full of found items. My mother thought it was troubling and warned me that if I kept doing this, I’d become a "riding the rails" hobo-type and all I’d ever have in life was a bindle-stick full of odds and sods. Frankly I was okay with that, and it made her crazy.
If I was to sit my sons down today, and tell them that "ghosts make me collect stuff," well, antiquing dad might be heading to the home for old dealers. It’s just not a rational argument to them, even though they know full well, my eccentricities trump normality. Yet they would be able to explain to someone else, why their father, out on a tramp through an estate sale or auction, will latch onto a piece(s), and for no particular reason of value, or purpose, (such as fitting into a collection), insist on making the purchase. It might seem a ridiculous purchase, but for some unexplained jolt of interest, some dog-eared piece will be hauled home for posterity.
I have always been open to impulse and yet I’m not really an impulse buyer, who will finance anything that turns my crank. There’s something more in the connection. I can look at five old paintings, of similar period, subject, artistic merit and condition, and decide to make a purchase based on two impulse. One is for attraction. Which one, or more, held me spellbound? Which one, or more, had an unexplained allure beyond artistic competence? Which ones could I sell for a profit? I’d like to buy everything based on spiritual connection but I’d soon be broke. Well, in the case of the paintings, I might decide to buy one or more for profit. I might decide to make an offer on the easel or the stool with the paintings, because of some particular aura that sets them apart from the others. Is this nuts or what? If you live with as much stuff as we do, and you’ve got to get along, well it just makes sense to buy what you like, and it’s doubly good when it also translates into eventual profit.
This lengthy diatribe isn’t to suggest that a haunted piece means that it will fly around the house in the wee hours of the night, or re-arrange itself in a room for a lark. These are pieces that when you first see them, you know there’s a lot more than meets the eye. There’s a beckoning to touch it, handle it, examine and potentially, buy it! You may not have a clue at the time why this is important, or what you think it represents. I think there are spiritual attachments to some heirloom pieces; a modest possession of strange historic aura that may not be strictly considered a paranormal experience....... but at the same time can’t be written off entirely as just a frivolous emotional surge to purchase. I’ve had pieces in my hand that radiated paranormal vibes, such that it would be impossible to ignore questioning its provenance. It could be something about the look of an old doll or teddy bear, a flash-back sensation when clutching a beat-up old toy, from a child’s room at an estate sale or auction. You instantly feel connected to another life, another time, and it’s not just a nostalgic sensation. It might even be the case you can visualize the child at play with this gnarled old buggy or doll house. Rather than feel creepy, most antique dealers welcome the aura but don’t ask them whether or not they believe in ghosts.
My association with what I believe are paranormally influenced items, has ranged from old books, Bibles, diaries, photo-albums (always a way to pick up a ghostly traveler protecting their heritage), chairs, paintings, framed photographs, games, toys, jewelry boxes, assorted collections created by one individual, and clothing. The practical and realists amongst us, will brush off these paranormal vibes as irrelevant.....caused by an undigested bit of potato from lunch, or a second cocktail at dinner, maybe a restless night’s sleep. For many of us who validate the "other side," and those who have "crossed over," and don’t get freaked out by paranormal activities, connecting with a piece that has its own strange aura is fantastic, and something to be shared and enjoyed. While it is true that antique hunters have occasionally found a cradle that rocks itself, paintings that refuse to hang straight, books that like to topple off shelves for attention, and dolls that fall despite best intentions of their new owners, the majority of paranormal experiences seem to be of the modest, non-threatening variety. We had a hair wreath, done as a memorial tribute to a loved one, hanging in a museum where I worked, and there was no doubt in my mind it radiated the essence of the dearly departed. A majority of sightseers to the property kept well away from this shadow boxed memorial, as if they were informed by an audible whisper to stay clear. Only a few guests ever went up to study it closely. When they’d ask what it was made of, that usually influenced them step back in disgust. It was common practice in the Victorian era. Those who side-stepped it entirely, never even asked what it was made of....the aura emitting from that wreath was enough to thwart most "up close and personal" contact.
If you think back in your own life, to times when you marginally believed in something of a paranormal characteristic, even if it was getting scared telling ghost stories around a campfire, the disconnect is often as illogical as thinking of ghosts as an impossibility. You want to believe in ghosts or you wouldn’t have any fun at the campfire. There can be a lot of fun getting scared out or your wits. It’s the basis of roller coaster design. Yet when it comes down to the science of ghosts, and the reality we can’t make ghosts dance on command for the camera, many simply opt out of the discussion because it’s uncomfortable. You don’t want to be laughed at, or thought a nutter! At the campfire, when you had to hug your mates for safety, what exactly were you afraid of anyway? Ghosts aren’t real, are they?
I’ve lived an open life, ready to experience whatever I come upon, and so far, I’ve survived pretty well without any tragic ghost or paranormal encounters. I’ve never once been afraid to avail myself to a paranormal experience, whether it comes with the patina of an old china cupboard, a jam packed recipe book, a family Bible, a portrait, doll collection or teddy bear. I’ve seen ghosts but they’ve never once raised a finger to hurt the intruder. I’ve heard ghosts, and they’ve never once uttered a foul word. I’ve awoken at night to find a ghost standing in my room, and never thought it necessary to run or hide under the covers. I’ve watched, listened, touched, and enjoyed their interventions. And after all these years as a collector / dealer of antiques, I can still be swayed into a purchase by the strong aura of any piece.....the provenance attached that takes me back to the many former owners who have enjoyed the article before me.....most of them of course, in the rank and file of the deceased.
If you research ghosts and paranormal activities around the globe, you will find lots of references to spiritually enhanced antiquities, that the dearly departed haven’t quite finished with yet, for their own good reason. That’s for the new owner to interpret and resolve. The rocking chair I once owned, that carried its own rhythm through the night.....well, it kept the cat company.....and the room always feeling occupied.

HAUNTED MUSKOKA
GRANDPA STOOD AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BED
Following the recent passing of my father, Ed Sr., we have had many family chats reconciling the unfortunate events and the circumstances of his final days of poor health,.... as well as reminiscing a wee bit about the death of my mother, back in May of 2008, something that he never really got over. They had been married for 60 plus years.
As we certainly subscribe to the belief that the spirit "crosses over," after death, and that this parallel existence allows for communication between the living and the deceased, we of course have been paying particular attention to signs, of which there were numerous, following Ed’s death. (Some are included already in this blog collection). But the lengthy discussions part of the traditional mourning process, did remind me quite suddenly.....as if my mother had just then tapped me on the shoulder, that our family had experienced paranormal visitors in the past. We just didn’t make a big deal about it! Which is true because we’ve had a lifetime of interesting encounters that we’ve pretty much heaped, quite unceremoniously, into our family album of "believe it or not," manifestations.
My mother was from a religious family that spent considerable time at church, and she maintained a strong sense of belief in the afterlife until the end of hers. I wasn’t brought up to be a regular church-goer. For whatever reason, she gave me the choice of attending or not. In fact, of my own interest, I attended several months of Sunday School at Burlington United Church, until I decided formal attendance, each Sunday morning, wasn’t for me. It didn’t mean I grew up without a strict belief in God because that was definitely not the case. I just wasn’t interested in attending Church as part of a regular congregation.
Merle was the same, and I dare say my father Ed had his beliefs, and I do think they were the same as my mother’s. Merle didn’t believe in ghosts, as such, although she liked to watch movies with ghosts. If I told her I saw a ghost, she’d say "Isn’t that nice, now go out and play and let your mother have some peace and quiet." Yet she was religious to the point of respecting the difference between a soul’s fate in either heaven or hell. Ghosts just didn’t enter into the equation, in part because they couldn’t be slotted into the heaven or hell category. She didn’t want to acknowledge a ghost that might have the Devil’s commission. It was just better to defer all discussion about ghosts, and simply enjoy them on the silver screen.
But Merle did have a ghostly encounter and she was quite perplexed. She would never admit to seeing a ghost, so she decided that depicting an unearthly visitor, as a vivid dream, covered all areas of her paranormal reservations. Merle explained to me one morning that she had awoken to find her father standing at the end of her bed......just standing. It was well after his demise....which happened on the steps of a church in Florida, when he suffered a fatal heart attack. This alleged visitation happened six months or more after his passing. As she explained it, he had a beautiful look on his face, and she wasn’t startled by the appearance or fearful in any way. She just continued to look at him until the vision eventually faded into the darkness of the bedroom. There were no lights on but my grandfather had been illuminated.
As she was trying to convince me that it hadn’t been a ghost at all, she couldn’t help but confess that it was exactly the same visitation, she’d experienced after her mother Blanche’s death, back in the early 1960's. I suppose she thought it was odd that both had appeared in the same pose, standing at the end of her bed but she still attributed it all to a very life-like dream. And possibly this was the case. Still she footnoted that Blanche as well, had possessed such a peaceful expression, hovering at the end of the bed. On the first occasion, she had called out to her mother but there was no response....just that eventual fading into the darkness of the bedroom in the wee hours. Up until shortly before her death, if you had asked if, during her 88 years, she had ever seen a ghost, she would have vigorously shaken her head. If you asked if she had seen her mother and father’s spirit after death, she’d possibly wink, if that, and shrug her shoulders, not agreeing entirely but not disagreeing either. Merle believed in the spiritual qualities of afterlife but she was nervous of offending God by being overly presumptuous about what was his domain afterall.
I have not witnessed either Merle or Ed, stationed at the foot of my own bed, just yet, but there have been plenty of small signs we believe were spirit-generated. You can read about them on this blogsite. One evening, just recently, while sitting watching the television, and thinking about Ed momentarily.....and having asked him for any signs he could spare to validate the existence of the other side.....by golly, I felt this blowing against my ear.......and there wasn’t any other reason or source of this sudden gusting of air. It was a funny way to represent the afterlife. But I’m pretty sure you’ll appreciate, having the sensation someone is strongly blowing in your ear, is a stretch to concoct even with a vivid imagination. As for my dad doing such a thing.....sure he would. He was a performance kind of guy.
I’m pretty sure Ed, Merle and the rest of our passed family members, are chortling in that spirited way, teasing as they did in life.....the kid who always took things so seriously.....that would be me.

ED ARRIVED - WE’RE PRETTY SURE HE’S CONTENTED
To someone familiar with the nuances of the paranormal, someone who believes that the departing soul "crosses over," to that other dimension we refer to as heaven, the revelation that my father sent some reminders to us, following his recent death, isn’t front page news. While we like to think our family members do things in a big, or special way, truth is the signs we received that Ed had passed-on, were wonderful to experience but just not the "oomph" and flickering lights, paranormal researchers are going to get excited about. Afterall, Ed didn’t pass this mortal coil to prove a point, or to make a big production of entry into the hereafter to benefit psychic research. It was pleasant, these few signs, enough, in a soft low key manner, to give us a feeling of completion of this cycle of life and death, and validate that there are some mysteries of this life and death thing we need to be open minded about.
As it happened with my mother Merle, and father-in-law Norm, we had many signs in advance that a crisis was imminent. Several weeks before Merle had a major stroke I began to have serious flashbacks to our old hometown, Burlington, and people I hadn’t thought about in decades. While I’m an unrelenting daydreamer, known as incorrigible even back in my school days, this isn’t uncommon. It was all centering around Merle. This isn’t particularly psychic on its own but in concert with many other events that eventually led to my mother having a major stroke, and a heart attack, following unanticipated surgery within several weeks. As we have long subscribed to the theory that the spirit does cross over to a new realm, and communication is not impossible, every now and again leading up to the event, I confess having asked some of my friends and family, floating weightlessly on the other side, if there was anything about Merle I should have a heads-up about. Just more visions of Merle but there was something undefinable at the time, lurking in the old subconscious that seemed to warn about a threat to her health.
She survived. The reminiscences faded. She pushed past the grave illness although she had poor quality of life ever-after, disabled and residing in a nursing home for quite a number of years. Just prior to her death I began having the same intrusions upon my normally mundane daydreams. I once again asked the other side if there was something I needed to know about Merle. Well, they don’t answer quite like that......no cell phone range here! When we got the call from the home that May morning in 2008, I knew from the first ring that my mother was deceased. Not still alive. While the attendant felt she was still breathing, I knew without question she had passed because of the sensation of peace I felt at that particular moment. Suzanne, my ever-thoughtful wife, tried to hurry us all out of the house that morning to be at Merle’s bedside. I told her it was too late but that this is what Merle had wished anyway. She still didn’t believe me. When we arrived at the home, my father was sitting by the top of her bed, with a very serene look on his face, and after a few moments told us that she had passed away even before he arrived, and he had only been about four blocks away.
When Suzanne’s father passed away, Andrew, Robert and I were sitting on our front deck, while she remained at his bedside, at the hospital, as his heart began to fail. With nary a whisper of wind, we heard the tinkle of glass from the wind chimes hanging over the railing. There was no other explanation at the time. I told the boys, "Your grandfather has just passed over." I felt the same feeling of peace I’d experienced before with the deaths of family members and close friends, and it was no surprise what-so-ever when the phone rang moments later, and it was of course, Suzanne, to tell us Norm had just died. What made the windchimes significant for Suzanne, is that these had been sold by the family marina, in Windermere, when they operated it as a family business in the 1960's and 70's, and there were always windchimes tinkling at the family cottage on Lake Rosseau. Not only was his last action a notification of passing, it was also very appropriate to the memories of cottage times in Muskoka.
When my good friend Dave Brown, of Hamilton, passed away, I knew before Suzanne picked up the phone that Dave had indeed died. I’d had a strange feeling for several days leading up to this and although he had been in hospital, I never thought it was a mortal situation. Suzanne hadn’t told me the whole story from the last time she had talked to Dave. He had insisted on talking to her and not me. He used to get mad at me from time to time, so that was quite understandable. Dave and I were rigorous book collectors and historians, as well as outdoor enthusiasts, and our intertwined lives were always scholarly and always fun.....but we could argue until sunrise about certain points of fact and fiction. Dave had an aura that would almost knock you over. He was intense all his life. If any one was going to communicate from the other side it was going to be David Brown. So I started talking to him the moment I heard he had died, and truth is, I’ve never stopped making little comments about my work and home chores. He just doesn’t argue back! He’ll let me know if he’s pissed. Dave used to visit after a wilderness expedition, and he loved to sleep on a couch down in my archives. When I was working on his biography, as he was indeed one of the movers and shakers of the Outdoor Education Program in Ontario, I never once believed that the composition of the text was Dave-free. He had asked me to do the biography in his last two months of life but when I accepted the job it was my assumption he would be a major, real-life partner. I had to go on with the project because I believed in it so much. I can so clearly remember on the night I finally sent off the first shipment of finished books to his colleagues in Hamilton, when coming from those familiar archives he loved so much, I felt his hand on my shoulder as if he was within arm’s length. I said, "Hello Dave.....did we do a good job?" Well, the only response I got, was actually what I didn’t get, that made me believe we had indeed fulfilled a promise to each other. Dave could have been furious with me for some of the revealing content I felt compelled to include, and I’m pretty sure that instead of a pat on the back, I’d have received a hardy kick in the arse.
For years now I’ve been asking Dave’s help to find things around the homestead here, books, papers, documents that have disappeared, and while nothing is ever immediate with the other side upon request, inadvertently and mysteriously, I’ll stumble upon what I need maybe even weeks after they were sought-out. No, it’s not really Twilight Zone material. My own experiences with this validation of those who have crossed over, inspired by the work of Medium John Edward, isn’t all that exciting or remarkable over the long haul. In fact it doesn’t enter into it anymore that we may be talking to dead people. We’re just big believers in keeping our options open and being keen to things, possibly signs, forewarning, reminding, and contenting, that admittedly seem tiny and coincidental to most.....but add up to us.
Just before Ed passed away, I asked those who have crossed to look out for the dear old fellow, and that most definitely included a request to Dave and Merle, and others, to make sure he was comforted in those abstract hours in another dimension. "Ted, you’re nuts, plain and simple," offer my critics. Those who believe, or are open to possibility, confess they’ve done exactly the same.
With my own father, I began having similar flashbacks about our early days in Burlington, Ontario, about two weeks before his mid-December collapse in his Bracebridge apartment. After about a week of remembering events and gad-about with my parents back in my youth, I confess to wondering aloud to my wife what was coming next. Ed was fine and looking forward to Christmas....particularly the traditional shopping days with our sons, Andrew and Robert, that date back to when they were five or six years old. Even as 20 somethings they still made their dates with grandpa for the Christmas adventure that would involve a dinner out and a long day of shopping. They boys wouldn’t miss spending this time with Ed.
On the night of a huge snowstorm just prior to the middle of December, son Andrew and his friend James had the misfortune to be stuck on Highway II, in Bracebridge, the result of an accident further along the windswept stretch. They were coming home from a work assignment at a local theatre, and had been told by police the Highway was clear. Not so. But then almost all the roads that night were clogged and blowing over further. It was a disaster. When they phoneed us well after midnight, and told us they could be there indefinitely, we were understandably concerned that they might freeze to death. Shortly after talking with Andrew we phone Ed to tell him of the situation, and asked if it would be all right if the boys, when they got themselves free of the traffic tie-up, could stay at his River Road apartment. He was eager to help and said he would stay up a while to get updates. Andrew phoned him from the car as well, and everything was in order. They had food and extra clothing to don if their ordeal was to last longer. They did actually get free within several hours but could not re-enter the cut-offs back into Bracebridge. Suzanne had to phone Ed later that morning, (no he hadn’t been up all night) to explain how Andrew had made it safely back home, and that I wouldn’t be able to make it in that morning for our usual coffee date. He sounded fine and understood that the storm was even going to keep him in that Friday.
The unraveling for Ed had begun. I just didn’t know how badly. While I had good intentions to make it to Bracebridge that following Saturday, our trip from Gravenhurst ended when we looped back along a precarious snow-bound stretch of Winhara Road, very narrowly surviving the return trip without need of a wrecker. On District Road 4 there was a sea of mired-down trucks and there was no way of passing the carnage into downtown Bracebridge, so we doubled back home.
When we got back to Gravenhurst, I insisted on a visiting a local book shop. As an avid book buyer I absolutely have to seek out evasive titles at least three times a week or I’ll vaporize. Seeing as I had been blocked from my favorite Bracebridge shops, my bibliophile’s mission was to make a significant find right at home. And I did. The book that almost fell off the shelf into my hands, (highly visible even without a dustjacket) was the hardcover, illustrated book "The Ships of Canada’s Naval Forces 1910-1985," a book I had once given my dad because his ship, the "Coaticook", the River Class Frigate he served on, was photographed in the text. I had to have this book for my own collection. I intended to get Ed to sign the page of the photograph. I was always so proud of his naval service, and loved to hear him tell stories about those precarious days on the high seas dodging U-Boats. What I didn’t know, or maybe I should have, if I’m in-touch with the other side as I think, was that Ed was in the first stages of a stroke, one that was minor enough yet debilitating, to give him the next three days of torturous struggle for help. Was it a sign that I missed. For sure I had many occasions since that snowstorm to call him, to find out if his power was on but when Suzanne had called the day before, he was in good spirits and presumably reasonable physical condition.
One of the strangest situations was that Tuesday morning’s visit for our usual coffee. For the first time in months, eldest son Andrew had come as well. Work had been demanding a lot of time this fall for Andrew, and it was going to be a nice visit with grandpa with our boys. The snow removal effort was slow and there was no place to park. I let the boys off in Bracebridge at the local thrift shop, and I told them it might be awhile before I’d join them, as snow removal had killed most of the mainstreet parking. I was also on empty. As close as you can get without actually walking. No fuel. After driving around the block for about ten minutes, Andrew finally came out, and I told him I was on gas vapors at that point, and to hurry up his brother. No go! Robert was still at the cash register. I couldn’t stop. Andrew phoned to tell him we were heading out District 4 to the gas station I knew would be accessible in a pinch. Feeling frustrated at the weather’s inconvenient dumping of snow on Muskoka, I asked Andrew to phone his grandfather, to see if I’d even be able to park at his apartment building. Just before we arrived at the pumps he informed me his first call had been unanswered. I asked him to please keep calling because if he didn’t answer, and I could not be assured of parking at his building, there was no way I was going to stop. We’d have a coffee another day. After filling up the tank, and heading out the driveway of the station, Andrew told me that he had talked to Grandpa, and that he had asked us for help, as he couldn’t seem to get out of bed. I thought about it for several seconds, then asked him to call 9-1-1 for medical assistance at the apartment. He suggested this might be nothing serious and that we should wait to see for ourselves what Grandpa was experiencing. I knew that for a stubborn old sailor, that to admit he was in need of help to get up, it was serious enough to warrant a medical response. I asked Andrew again to call the emergency number. We arrived at the apartment only seconds ahead of the ambulance, and because Andrew had his apartment keys, as he had once lived with Ed while at school, we were able to access Ed in mere minutes. We found him inside the door, slumped on a small sofa, looking very week and distressed. If Andrew had not been with us that morning, it would have taken quite a bit longer to find the landlord and the pass keys. As it was his heart rate was pretty rough and it was obvious to us he had experienced a recent stroke. We would find out later that he had experienced his first bout on Saturday morning at about the time I open that book, and poured myself into the great stories he had spun about the Frigate Coaticook. Coincidences. On the surface, with no thread between them, yes, they were all convenient coincidences. To those who believe in such things, there was a little more attached. Maybe there was providence to it all, a forewarning. A subtle tweak of fate.
From the beginning or his hospital ordeal, which lasted more than a month, it didn’t matter whether the medical staff admitted his illness was mortal, I knew it was inevitable. Not simply because I read through the up-beat reports, or expected tests would reveal a treatable condition but because the feeling from all the myriad recollections and feelings ,.....of ease from whatever paranormal factors were at play, if indeed they were, suggested to me Ed was on the brink of a fabulous adventure on the other side.....and I knew how pleased he would be to see his wife again because despite our best intents, we could not stave off his loneliness during that past year and a half.
When on the Tuesday before his death, I saw in his face a resolve to leave his pained body, a resignation in his hand grip to his son that he was truly ready to go, I had no reservation whatsoever directing a new protocol of comfort medication, to ease his suffering. While I had resisted this final protocol over the month, it was only then that Ed gave me clear instruction without a word being spoken that it was time to say our farewells. On the day of his death, I held his hand and asked Merle to help him cross over. I watched him raise his arms, as if to clutch something but at that time there was no real conscious communication with my father; ....as he was, in my estimation, already hovering over the bed and did not have any mortal way of getting my attention beyond a secure grip of hands. There were a lot of curious vibes at that moment but they didn’t involve me. I was unimportant in this transformation.
Our kind nurse informed me that it was likely he wouldn’t survive through the night. I let her know that when I had to leave, I always made peace with my father during that hospital stay, as it was possible many times that month, he could have succumbed. I had to pick up my wife from her place of employment, and we left it open as to whether we would go back to the hospital right away, or have dinner and relax for a few moments. The spirits knew where we were if required. And it was pretty much up to that dimension of life, as the medical options had run their course.
While we were sitting watching the television news, our dog Bosko, a dog dearly loved by Ed Sr., sat up and went to Suzanne’s knee begging for a little cuddle. She doesn’t do this often, I can tell you, and most often Bosko sits at my feet. This night, Suzanne was the friendly knee to drop a chin on. It was a brief preamble to a shiver Suzanne had that even I noticed as a reaction. When she looked at me I said "Do you think that was Ed?" "I’ve never had a shiver like that before.....and look at Bosko,....why now!" she said. The dog had continued to beg more head-patting. Suzanne, still feeling the chill of moments earlier, went into another room to work for a few moments, and no sooner had I settled down to read the paper than the phone rang. It was our wonderfully kind nurse informing me that Ed had passed, quietly, gently, and oh so peacefully to a background of soft music. Why was I not surprised? Relieved that his suffering was over, yes indeed. Had we received a message from Ed as he was passing the places and people he loved on earth, during that departure from the living? This is up to you to decide. We’re very contented this was the case, and we are pretty sure he has comfortably crossed over.
In the week since, particularly tough because it involves the last stages of apartment-takedown and storage of his many keepsake furnishings and bric-a-brac, we have experienced many coincidental signs that Ed wishes us now.....to free ourselves of mourning, and that he, in spirit is okay. From the strange, sudden sniff of a perfume Merle might have used, to forgotten sayings that all of a sudden come to mind without any preamble explanation or initiation. And while nothing replaces the handshakes we shared in those final days, when he dearly wanted to escape to the outside world for a coffee (but was denied because of illness), we all share the belief Ed’s in a good and safe place......and we occasionally remind the good Mr. Brown to check up on Ed to see that he hasn’t borrowed any of his past plumes as a sailor, (kind of a rough tradition) to regale the folks on the other side. A dram of whiskey. I’ll have it for him as a salute to a good and long life with many wonderful memories to cherish. Godspeed.