MUSKOKA AND ALGONQUIN GHOSTS -

BEING HAUNTED BY THE PAST - THE SHADOWS OF THINGS TO COME - AT CHRISTMAS WE RECALL AND PREDICT - HUMBLED BY FRAIL MORTALITY TO BE ANYTHING MORE THAN CHEERFULLY RECEPTIVE

I HAVE ONLY RECENTLY BEGUN WORK ON A YEAR LONG (OR LONGER) SERIES OF FEATURE COLUMNS ON THE PARANORMAL, FOR A WONDERFUL PUBLICATION KNOWN AS "THE GREAT NORTH ARROW," PUBLISHED IN THE CHARMING VILLAGE OF DUNCHURCH, ONTARIO. THE SUCCESS OF THE LESS -THAN- YEAR-OLD PUBLICATION HAS BEEN PHENOMENAL AND AS ANY WRITER DREAMS OF, IT WILL BRING LOTS OF READERS AND PLENTY OF FEEDBACK. SO FAR, IN JUST UNDER ONE YEAR, I HAVE HAD A FABULOUS RELATIONSHIP WITH THE NICE FOLKS WHO RUN IT……AND MY MANY ASSOCIATE WRITERS. THIS IS KIND OF A THROW-BACK (IN TIME) MAGAZINE, BASED ON OLD AND TRADITIONAL COMMUNITY VALUES, FROM THE ONTARIO HINTERLAND. IT IS A PAPER THAT BRINGS FOLKS TOGETHER, WITH A SHARING OF INTERESTING STORIES, COMMENT, HISTORY, SOCIAL EVENTS, POLITICAL NEWS AND CURRENT EVENTS. BUT IT IS MOST OF ALL, THE KIND OF PUBLICATION I REMEMBER FROM MY OWN DAYS AS EDITOR OF THE LOCAL PRESS HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. IT WAS ABOUT THE COMMUNITY, AND MOST OF THE PUBLISHERS THEN DIDN'T MAKE A BIG WHACK OF MONEY……BUT BEING PUBLISHER AND EDITOR WAS A LIFESTYLE……A WELL RESPECTED WAY TO INVEST THE YEARS OF YOUR LIFE, BRING LIGHT TO THE ISSUES OF HOMETOWN LIVING.

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN PARTICULARLY FUSSY WHERE I CONTRIBUTE EDITORIAL MATERIAL, AND I KNEW I WOULD LIKE THEIR EDITORIAL STAFF BEFORE I WROTE MY FIRST FEATURE COLUMN. THEY HAVE A VERY RELAXED AND FRIENDLY APPROACH TO THE INDUSTRY, ONCE AGAIN A THROW-BACK TO THE DAYS I STARTED AS A CUB REPORTER. YUP, AN OVER-ENTHUSIASTIC ROOKIE-WRITER FOR THE MUSKOKA LAKES AND GEORGIAN BAY BEACON, OUT OF A TINY OFFICE IN THE VILLAGE OF MACTIER…..NOT FAR FROM THE SHORE OF BEAUTIFUL GEORGIAN BAY. I LOVED THAT JOB FOR WHAT IT DIDN'T HAVE……PRESSURE……OUTRAGEOUS DEMANDS ON MY TIME……NO TIME FOR A COFFEE WITH FRIENDS AND NEWS SOURCES. GADS, THERE WAS NO PRESSURE EXCEPT ON PRESS DAY. IT HAD EVERYTHING A ROOKIE WRITER NEEDED TO INCH INTO THE BUSINESS. WHILE I DID GO ON TO BIGGER PUBLICATIONS, MY APPRENTICESHIP IN MACTIER ALLOWED ME TO WORK UP TO THE DEMANDS OF A LARGE CIRCULATION PAPER……WITH MANY MORE PAGES TO FILL.

FOR THE SECOND YEAR OF THEIR PUBLICATION, I'VE BEEN PRE-WRITING SOME "GHOST" RELATED FEATURE ARTICLES, AND I'VE ALREADY GOT SIX DONE IN ADVANCE. ONCE I GET GOING ON A PROJECT LIKE THIS, NOT ONLY DON'T I WANT TO STOP……WELL, FOLKS, I CAN'T TURN IT OFF AS I MIGHT LIKE. I'M VERY SUPERSTITIOUS. I WAS A LONG TIME HOCKEY GOALIE, AND I HAD MORE RITUALS IN NET THAN YOU WOULD BELIEVE. I HAD TO TAP THE GOAL POSTS TWICE AFTER EACH SAVE, THREE TIMES BEFORE A FACE OFF. I WON'T BORE YOU WITH DETAILS BUT I WAS A RIGHT NUTTER OUT THERE, AND IT SPILLED OVER TO BASEBALL AND GOLF. BUT I'M NOT ALONE. AS FAR AS WRITING GOES, I HAVE TO CONTINUE WITH AN EDITORIAL PROJECT UNTIL I GET SOME INTERNAL SIGN…….LIKE A COLLAPSE INTO MY COFFEE…..THAT GIVES ME REASON…..I DARE SAY, "PERMISSION" TO QUIT FOR AWHILE. IN FACT, I'M ON HIATUS RIGHT NOW FROM THE SERIES, BUT THE BLOGS DON'T COUNT THE SAME. THEY'RE CASUAL PURSUITS AT MY DISCRETION. FOR THE COMMUNITY PRESS, I HAVE TO WEAR A DIFFERENT HAT……OF A DUTIFUL PUBLISHED AUTHOR. I LIKE THEM BOTH, BUT WRITING FOR PRINT IS HARDER ON THE PSYCHE, THAT'S FOR SURE.

WHEN I SET DOWN TO WRITE ABOUT GHOST STUFF, THE PARANORMAL, SUPERNATURAL ETC., AS EXPERIENCED BY MYSELF AND FAMILY, THERE IS ALWAYS A MYRIAD OF UNEXPECTED INTRUSIONS, THAT MIGHT THEMSELVES, BE SIGNS (WRITING TIPS) FROM BEYOND, CRASH LANDING UNCEREMONIOUSLY IN THE BACK OF MY MIND.

I've had story-lines tremendously affected by the mood of the moment, and when I get seriously entrenched in thought-to-print work, particularly involving the paranormal, I will start being influenced by all kinds of strange occurrences, around me, above, below, in my ear, or tapping me on the shoulder. I have an idea Dave Brown for example, and aN historical buddy, Charlie Wilson, tap me on the shoulder regularly, as I work on some of these lengthy writing jags. I was very close to both academics, and even wrote Dave Brown's biography. Dave was a career outdoor education teacher and a book collector. Charlie was a bank employee with a strong interest in American history, the Civil War being his favorite choice of study. It started years earlier, shortly after their respective deaths, that I would talk to them as normally, as if they were sitting in the armchair beside my desk. Not on the phone. I didn't need that any more. And long distance wasn't a problem either. I'm saving a bundle from the old days, when I talked to them several times each week. The long distance charges were unreal. Now I just casually speak to the gents, and while the answers are a little thin and vapor-like, things pop into my mind I simply can't blame on anything or anyone else……knowledge about something I knew very little about before I got the message. As if Charlie and Dave were taking turns at dropping hints and information, to help me hurdle-over an obstacle. This may seem a ridiculous exercise, to some, but if you believe in the possibility of communication with those who have passed, all I have done, over time, is validate my own beliefs. I suppose it's a little bit like the fellow who complains to a friend about his brother thinking he's a chicken. The partner says, "So why don't you tell him he's not." The answer, "I would, but we need the eggs." I keep talking to the deceased, including members of my family, because a/ it makes me feel good, and b/ because I get some really neat responses, in various forms. As I don't look upon those who have passed as scary ghosts, out to harm me, it's kind of a harmless pre-occupation, on my part, to every now and again……exchange a few words to let them know I'm still in this mortal coil, laboring away, …….and could use some motivation.

I'm so used to hearing my name being called out, and getting touched on either shoulder…..or having the sensation that someone is just then grabbing my hand, that I suppose the other side gets fed up trying to cut through the party-line of my busy little mind…..to toss out some reminder about something of mutual interest. When I get really intense with a project like this, I'm bombarded by "signs," and it gets humorous after awhile…..because I have to stop and ask them to "hang on guys……one message at a time." I don't hear voices and directives from the nether world, telling me to "be a golf pro," or to begin training for the winter olympics. They don't tell me to make a peanut butter sandwich, or ask me questions about their other friends still on planet earth. It's always very subtle, even the taps on both shoulders, and on the top of my head. They're not conversations or lectures, but flashes of ideas and word associations, that make me think of times and discussions we had in our relationship. I can always differentiate who is sending what vibe, and although I'm not always very swift on the up-take, I can usually figure out the symbolism attached to the tweak. Sometimes I have to ask my wife, Suzanne, why, for example, I can't get the name "witch-hazel" out of my mind. Seeing as it kind of drops there for no apparent reason, I have to ask her if it rings a bell in her family history. Sure enough, she'll tell me about something her mother used to say or do that involved the word or words I've been thinking about. "Will you please talk to your mother dear…..she's driving me crazy," I respond.

The reason for writing this, is that my belief in the existence of another plain, and the very real potential of "those who have crossed over,' being able to communicate with those mortals left behind, seems to enhance my work on a project by project basis. Not many writers or paranormal researchers would find this anything but crazy on my part. I've never been good at compliance anyway. So it doesn't bother me, that my critics think I've lost the marbles I was born with……because most interested in this kind of thing, would never confess to having casual relationships with the deceased. It's more in fashion apparently to be scared to death by these taps on the shoulder……as hands from the grave, versus a pat of affirmation from an old friend. That I could maintain friendships and family links when most of my cronies are in the great beyond, makes them suspicious I'm a charlatan. But folks, I'm not making a dime off my editorial contributions. I do it for sheer enjoyment. As well, I make no claims to be clairvoyant, or a medium, and have no aspirations to become anything more than a good writer, who can attract a curious reader…..or baker's dozen. The fact that, while writing about ghosts, I may have them hunched over my shoulder, reading the screen, isn't unsettling in the least. I'm glad I've got their attention. I need all the inspiration I can muster, here, there and anywhere else it might be held in reserve. So maybe you'd like to grab up a copy of The Great North Arrow this Christmas, and over the next year, to catch some of these spirit-enhanced feature columns. They're not spooky. Why would they be? Ghosts are for Hollywood and old country castles. Mine are more of a spiritual advisory board. I will re-run some of the revamped columns at a later date, on this blog-site, as I have promised exclusivity for the Arrow publisher on all first run columns.

Dave Brown just now, suggested it's "coffee time." I heartily agree.

And by the way, have a Merry Christmas, from our family to yours.

Homestead Chronicles

OLD MUSKOKA HOMESTEADS - THE GHOSTS WERE MANY

The confluence of creative enterprise can be complimentary or destructive. One current might over-take and snuff-out the other, or they might thwack into each other forcing the kind of stalemate that arises here frequently, when I simply can't make my mind up. Should I create an art piece, a sketch, a sculpture, or start on a writing jag, the ones that usually end up with me suffering from a headache, stiff neck, and frustration. I've always been able to strike a balance. In fact, seeing the environs with an artful eye, and as a writer, has had its advantages over the decades. Feeling the presence of ghosts? Spirits? Assorted other hobgoblins and wee bandy-legged beasties? Here's a little story for you, to understand my creative process, my passion for art, and my senses about what may be going on with the interrupted paranormal of a house, a barn, graveyard or pasture.

Just prior to entering university, in the summer of 1974, I had begun bottle-digging. I was looking for old medicine and soda bottles, buried long abandoned Muskoka homesteads. I have been a lover of old stuff most of my life but it has nothing at all to do with my family's influence. They couldn't have cared less for antiques or collectables, except the old standbys of family photographs, and personal keepsakes, jewelry etc., and a few prints and paintings that had belonged to their respective parents and grandparents. We lived in a relatively modern apartment, at the time of the late 1950's, and there was nothing they had, or were interested in particularly, that sent me in the antique direction in later years. They did take me to historic sites in Southern Ontario, and in the United States, but I was pretty young at the time to formulate much of an opinion, as to whether these were great places to visit, or just curious stops along our travels.

As I pointed out in a recent blog, about my early exploration of an old estate in Burlington, that was in the final stages of demolition, and the sense of occupation and history in those sad old rooms of a once elegant house, it probably is accurate to say, it was pretty much a case of self-motivation by immersion. I found the old house alluring, and "haunted," even before I knew the implications of the word. Before I had the burden of knowledge and insight, here was a kid with eyes wide open, in a huge Victorian house, in its final days as an architectural entity, and I felt the presence of many former residents. I didn't see them. I knew they were there, and I told my parents about it later. All they could think about was that there son was a trespasser, and a thief, as I had hauled home some keepsakes that had been broken and strewn over the floors. I could have shown them teeth punctures in my neck, from a vampire, and they'd still have been more concerned about the fact I'd defied their order to stay away.

When I'd wander back to an old homestead, somewhere in the Muskoka lakeland, tromping around the old farm fields to find the lumped, tinny ground, of the family dumpsite, I was always influenced by the aura I encountered. I might not have got much from fields, in general, except if I caught evidence, in the grass, that a bear was nearby, but as soon as I found the old dilapidated cabin or farmhouse, mind over matter created a lot of images from the past. It wasn't a frightening experience, and I enjoyed sitting for awhile, on some old fallen log, or piece of farm machinery still stuck in the field, and celebrating the lives of those who had once tilled these fields…….put the fire in the hearth, lit the candles on the harvest table, and served up meals to those who called this place home. In fact, I'd be working away, digging in the homestead dumpsite (long since grown over with thick sod), and swear to hearing the voices of hikers coming up behind me, and then discovering there was no one near. Many times I'd stop, believing someone was standing right beside me, and look around quickly, to find a wavering wildflower, or windswept bunch of ferns brushing together.

I had so many of these experiences, sometimes even seeing a person in the field below, or on the hillside above, when in reality I was quite isolated and alone, that I penned a series of fictional stories, for a local summer publication, that I entitled "Homestead Chronicles." It wasn't a lengthy series, and may have only run in ten or so issues of the paper, but it was full of ghostly encounters, all from those field explorations…..all of them on old homesteads, some that had their own unmarked gravesides that I was also careful to avoid with my shovel. I remember one old-timer, taking me aside, when we met in a local shop, and telling me how much he and his wife were enjoying the series, as it reminded both of them about their old childhoods, growing up on a similar homestead in north Muskoka. "Ghosts? There are lots of ghosts out there; sad very sad," he told me. "There was a lot of hardship, and a lot of folks suffered a lot, trying to survive. Then there was the illnesses. You know, it wasn't uncommon to have whole families wiped out in one night of sickness. It was terrible," he told me, and I believed him. As a regional historian, by this point, I did know a great deal about those difficult homesteading years, in a very unforgiving region. I thanked him, and wrote a few more columns that year, before I was buried by new editorial responsibilities. For years after, I'd meet up with the same gentleman and his wife, and they'd always ask me if I planned to continue the series in the future. Both these folks are gone now, themselves, and I've thought many times about taking another turn at the series. It haunts me you see. And that's very real.

In essence, it was about the life of a young girl, living on an isolated homestead with her parents and siblings. But it is the reminiscences of a ghost. The writer / voyeur finds an unmarked gravesite, where a number of folks were undoubtedly buried (shape of the depression in the earth usually gives it away), and the guardian of the plot, this young lady, becomes the story-teller. This was a long way back in my writing career, and it seems very profound to me now that I companioned with a fictional ghost to build the story-line. Truth is, I know that what was in that column series, had more foundation than the word fiction suggests. I'd often sit, on breaks from digging, on a similar rise of land, overlooking the original homestead pasture, and let my imagination go…….dropping all pre-conceived notions. I've never been at one of these homestead digs, that this didn't happen, my thoughts infilling quickly about the lives invested in this land, and the heart and soul still remaining, despite the clear vacancy of house and land. These were very haunted places but I never felt repelled. A wee bit nervous about coming between a bear cub and mother, but never about malevolent spirits, not wanting my intrusion. I always felt comfortable in the environs but my mind overflowed with impressions about what it had been like, in its heyday.

Even now, after a long, long relationship, writing about the paranormal, and reading every book I can on the subject, I can't seriously relate these impressions, to any sort of spiritual imposition. Maybe there was, and I just never recognized that detached voices, and the sensation of hands on my shoulder, footsteps in the tall grass, could be my hosts that particular day. It just never crossed my mind. I do think about it more today, and wonder if I was simply too detached myself, as I was pursuing the bottle dig, for one, and planning future writing projects, at the same time. Could it have been the result of an over-active imagination? Of course it could have been the case. Here's the thing. There are few people, who know me, or who have known me for some time, who aren't familiar with my intensity. When I work at something, I am absorbed. You pretty much have to hit me hard, to knock me off a writing project. So while bottle digging, I was always consumed to the last molecule of concentration, with getting on with the job. Finding the next great soda bottle or torpedo bottle which meant "a really good profit when sold." So for me to be aware of someone touching my shoulder, or standing beside me, during a dig, is something to more seriously consider.

When I go back and look at some of the circumstances and situations I've been in, over the past thirty-five odd years, I can look a little more objectively and sensibly at what may have been paranormal contact, that I had dismissed as an over-active imagination….or the jitters of being in the wilds with a lot of critters. Crossed paths with bears many times.

As I continue this series of blogs, I will go back, from time to time, to places where it may have all begun…..this long relationship with the alleged spirit-kind…….that I find so remarkable and interesting……but not frightening in the least. In the past 35 years of writing, I have been consumed…..and I mean consumed, by writing what I call landscape pieces……as an artist would sketch on paint-board, a scene that seems inspirational. I've never known what exactly compels me to merge art and writing, with these landscape depictions in print, but I think it may have something to do with that early immersion, young and impressionable, and those Homestead Chronicles I started…..but never really finished.

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

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

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

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

On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, and daring before we decided to muster the bravado to challenge what our parents had instilled in us about private property, and no trespassing, and see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time when old house and kid exchanged glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, to make a friendly visit. Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was. My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.

The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak.

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

What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle in echo through the empty rooms. Then I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, then sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race, as if my soul had met something ominous I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie within a short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en dressed up with a sheet with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way.

Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the feel of an occupied house and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura of the human / structure relationship, that attempts to warn and advise us about the prevailing circumstances, or what has happened in the past. I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and the occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.

When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects. I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets, ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold.

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

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

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

More adventures to come. Please join me.

SUMMER GHOSTS AND AUTUMN HARVESTS

This summer season, while terribly hot and humid (at least for me), Suzanne and I spent a lot of time pursuing antiques and related art pieces. It's our retirement business, and it's been in the preparation stage since the late 1980's, shortly after first son Andrew was born. The idea was that when Suzanne retires from teaching, our antique trade will be humming along…..with all the smoothness one expects of a multi-decade enterprise. This year, as Suzanne gets ever closer to her new reality, we were forced to get serious about the buy-sell thing, and spent many hours on the road, and scouring the shops we found along the way, looking for interesting vintage pieces. It was a successful haul, and I enjoyed our time together. And we had some neat experiences out and around. Not too many were of the ghostly kind but there were spirit-enhanced moments I will explain later. We have had many haunted antiques in the past, and I think we may have found a few more over the summer. I'll share these stories this fall. But just being out there, wandering the wonderful pathways through our beautiful province, was spirited in the most pleasant, nostalgic way. I haven't felt this way about the antique business since I began, way back in the late 1970's; when every hunt, every trip was enthralling and exciting. It was a great rekindling. I found some old ghosts I'd forgotten…..and they were my own from days gone by. I'd forgotten, you see, just how important it is to Suzanne and I, to protect the past, as we have done for so many, many years now. We bask in the warmth of antiques with provenance. And it can get pretty animated. I'll explain more about this in future blog entries. Thanks for joining me. Stay tuned for a harvest of spirited tales upcoming in October.

Ghosts and Wee Beasties

HAUNTED MUSKOKA IS THE ALLURE - WHAT KEEPS THE WRITER - THE WANDERER, CONTENT - NOT THE TYPICAL FARE

I have tried on several occasions, to make public presentations, depicting our picturesque region as “visually, characteristically, and spiritually haunted.” While my wife can attest to the fact, we’ve never actually lost any of the museum audience to outright slumber, or feigned illness.....or the sudden necessity to take-off and walk a dog.....any dog, when you begin a half-scholarly discussion, regarding the paranormal, you pretty much expect the sceptics and the realists to bolt for the door. I’m not trying to make converts at these lectures, so I’d just as soon they did leave. It’s a little humbling having folks depart early, from a presentation, but when you’re talking about ghosts, folklore, legend and other wee beasties and strange entities of the woodlands, it’s quite important to have an audience of the patient and tolerant. Versus those who are irritable with indigestion, and dislike anything that doesn’t rap like a hammer and nail in regards to historical accuracy. It’s a hard sell. Ghosts? Are you nuts? Maybe!

My mother claimed to have seen the ghost of her mother but would argue vehemently against such things. My dad, who saw great tragedy at sea, during his years in the Royal Canadian Navy, had no use for any discussion about paranormal anything. The two people I was closest to, when educating myself about ghosts and such, were not all that approachable on the subject. When I did begin writing about ghosts etc., and our family factored into a number of nationally-told stories about paranormal encounters, they would roll their eyes in a curious, but editorializing look that said, without a word being spoken; “Can you believe these people? Where did we go wrong raising Teddy”

I’d gotten used to this early in life. When I first began writing, during my inaugural year in university, I did so as a poet. I was featured frequently in a local publication, and because my father named me after himself....(not my fault) well, a lot of his lumber clients, at Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge, were pretty hard on the old guy. Amongst a tough group of loggers, lumbermen and contractors, and a merciless staff in the trade, poor Ted Senior got a razzing just about every day. So I changed my first name to the proper, “Edward,” but the fact was, he didn’t even like having to tell these ever-joking associates, his son was of the “poet-kind.” The girls sort of thought I was a latent beatnik and that wasn’t gay. My dad assumed that poet and gay went together. So here I am, looking forward to a life as a poet, and my father’s freaking out, about his potentially gay son,..... and that some of his more suspicious friends still think it’s really him......reciting verse in the closet. Geez what a mess. Instead of being congratulated as a young writer, getting some credits, my father thought I should join the navy to toughen up. I was offended at the time but I came to understand his perspective. His generation and his choice of friends, probably couldn’t have named a poet anyway. But there was this thought that being artsy-fartsy had a lot of problems associated. I was in for it, because I’ve never given in to my critics. It started then and continues.

So when, later in my writing career, I began working on paranormal-themes, and living the life of a hobby ghost-hunter, I’m pretty sure my parents thought about the hospital nursery, and the very real possibility their boy had been switched at birth. It wasn’t just my parents weirded out about having a poet / philosopher in the house. My girlfriends couldn’t figure me out either. Every girl I went out with, before Suzanne, tolerated my bard-like musings, my thoughtful wondering through the woodlands, and my lengthy diatribes about life and beyond. I was their Jim Morrison but I couldn’t sing. Marion didn’t know I was a budding poet. She didn’t understand the notes I used to slip her. I thought it was a romantic gesture. She didn’t! Linda was a sweetheart in every way, and she thought my jottings were amusing.....which they weren’t supposed to be, but I couldn’t correct her. She was very sensitive. Gail was totally indifferent to whether I wrote a little or a lot, as long as when we went out, I was just a regular guy who would defend her honor. She was a huge realist and had little if any use for a hanger-on philosopher. I could never discuss my devotion to the study of the paranormal, or supernatural, with Gail, because it wasn’t relevant to partying or shopping. Unless I could have produced a ghost for her close inspection and analysis. She would have put that poor ghost through the mill, and probably still been undecided, after a battery of tests, whether it was a real ghost or a figment of imagination. Marilyn was a born-again Christian, and a wonderful gal, but she didn’t want to hear about paranormal anything. Only the Lord. Barbara was another charming girl who had no interest in my theories about anything, and it was a short-lived relationship.

Suzanne enchanted me because she believed in woodland fairies, and had heard their singing in the sunlit woodlands of Muskoka. She knew about fairy rings and moonlight revels, about Queen Mab, and all the other lore and legends I have adored for long and long. She had seen ghosts, known haunted places, understood that some things in life and times defy clear and total definition. And she was the lady who would teach our boys woodland lore, and about Aloicious, or something like that, the hobbit-like creature that lived in a hole at the base of a venerable old tree. Andrew and Robert went on hundreds of woodland hikes, looking for trolls and fairies, leprechauns and wee ghosties that drift through the moors of Muskoka. Suzanne put them in situations to arouse their curiosity and utilize their imaginations. They were invited to see the differences, up close, between what is real, and what is supposed. They weren’t discouraged from finding truth in either, and letting it all into their hearts to fuel expectation. As musicians today, writing songs regularly, I’m pretty sure they owe some of their creative enterprise, to a mother who let them imagine and dream, and concoct to their heart’s desire.

While my girlfriends of once, used to watch me work at a typewriter, or journal, and scowl, Suzanne has afforded me the freedom that a writer, poet, ghost hunter needs to hone his skills. She is never surprised by my assertions, of having just seen a ghost, and in all likelihood, she will reply, in response, “the one I saw had red curly hair,” or “was yours wearing a yellow shirt.” Suzanne has seen numerous ghosts, and together we have shared dozens of paranormal experiences, from encountering strange angelic singing, in the dark of the forest, to an actual visit with a guardian angel. We don’t think each other strange or obsessed by the so-called paranormal. We’ve shared the same page since we married, back in the mid 1980's. If I told either of our boys, that we had seen a ghost that afternoon, it would be equivalent to watching any current event for any other person they know. They wouldn’t think it odd whatsoever, because they have witnessed the unexplained themselves. Andrew was only a wee lad when he claimed to be see a little boy, looking into his window every night, at about the same hour. It was the same house in Bracebridge, where Suzanne had two sightings of a little blond-haired boy, standing in her kitchen. It was the same house, where I had a bizarre dream about a little boy being killed in a bike-car accident, out front of our house. When I awoke in a sweat, from the early evening nap, I rushed to the window to see if either of our boys had been hit, and saw them both, with Suzanne, playing in the driveway puzzled by my chagrin. Both boys have grown up appreciating that there’s a lot we don’t know about life and after-life. We’re not foolish enough to box ourselves in, and know that the universe is a spectacular place in which to dwell.

A lot of folks I know, people from our neighborhood, already think we Curries are pretty odd. They will also tell you we have never asked for their opinion, or frankly care what they think. We aren’t interested in racking up converts. As I opened this blog with a few lines about lecture-events, I’ve attended, the reactions are pretty typical.....the same as if you all of a sudden said to a family member, friend, work-colleague, something like, “Oh by the way, I believe in ghosts, do you?” They may make the sign of the cross and step back from the “nutter” you. Yet when I’d start getting into the meat of my presentations, of Muskoka legend and lore, Suzanne and I (we always worked together) could hold them spellbound for about two hours. I always brought lots of props. Not ghosts or wee beasties for their scrutiny, but rather, some allegedly haunted antique pieces, a portrait of a little girl comes to mind, along with compelling stories about things that go bump in the night, and the reasons we should open our minds to those who have crossed over......and who still wish to communicate with us, still spinning through this mortal coil.

When I used to climb up on the hillside of Grey’s Rock, in Bracebridge, with my neighborhood chums, I could sit up on that bald, windswept lookout for the whole sunlit day, and never run out of inspiration.....often necessitating a passionate begging, for just a few more moments from my mates, anxious to move on to new adventures. They had no interest in knowing that for those precious moments, I was in company of the gentle arms of the paranormal, legend and lore drifting over the contours of smooth rock, as the wind sang in the outstretched evergreen boughs. I knew that the ethereal sensations were pulling at my heartstrings to create, to explore, to believe in what wasn’t tangible.....but to allow the imagination to drink it all in, much as what I believe motivated artist, Tom Thomson, standing on the shore of an Algonquin Lake, as a storm approached, seeing the spirit-side of legend, manifest in natural art form. When I’d climb up a particularly steep hillside, near the Muskoka River, with my girlfriend Gail, I’d pull away from a lover’s embrace, because I needed to feel that awe of being close to the edge, looking out over a sparkling lakeland.....to see the gnarled old trees and etched rock of history, and feel the spirit of the land surrounding me, in a sudden, unexplainable nirvana, making it necessary to jot observations, and wax poetic, deflecting romance as if it was a negative intrusion on a sacred moment. I never blamed Gail for getting cross with these mindful, unanticipated sojourns, when I truly invested my soul, to soak-up the inspiration so generously offered the bard-in-waiting.

I was to take Gail to dinner one evening, the first winter I’d moved home, after graduating university. I had been on a late-afternoon cross country ski traverse, on a remarkable trail through an old homestead property in Bracebridge. I got so pre-occupied with the enchantments of the early winter landscape, I wound up out in this barren field, below a huge ice-covered rock face, with only the moonlight to illuminate my lengthy trip home. I was in a time warp, I swear, because that old abandoned homestead came to life. Of all the places I’ve travelled, and studied in Muskoka regionally, this was my most poignant spiritual adventure. Since the winter of 1977, I have written hundreds upon hundreds of editorial pieces, from short stories and poems, to feature articles for many publications, about and influenced by that old haunted homestead......where I witnessed a team of horses pulling a sleigh up the snow-covered lane.....saw lights in the half-fallen farmhouse, and heard Christmas carols being sung, when there was nary a soul other than the one on skis, who by the way, must have had a look of shock on his face the whole time. Trying to explain why I was late for our date, didn’t really fly. Telling your girlfriend you were delayed by companion ghosts, just isn’t credible to someone who has no such belief in the paranormal. Suzanne would have begged me to take her to the homestead......right then! Gail just rolled her eyes and ordered her dinner.

I have arrived at this comfortable station in life, here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, where I can finally ghost-hunt, delve into the paranormal, run amuck through legend and lore, and get away with it! Over so many years living and working in this pleasantly haunted region of the world, and having my mind so full of the tales of the Historic Hudson River, as told by Washington Irving (Bracebridge Ontario, was named after Irving’s book, Bracebride Hall,) that I’m only too happy to seek out ghosts and hauntings across the region, hoping to find at least one headless horseman, or a phantom ship on the Muskoka Lakes. I haven’t come upon them just yet, but I’ve got a few years left to search.

In retrospect my old girlfriends would undoubtedly find it quite humourous and anecdotal, to find out their mate, of once, is still un-gainfully employed sleuthing out mysteries, hunting out suspected haunted houses, looking for fairy rings at first light, and cavorting with the rest of the allegedly undead, in this or that, all these years later. Suzanne, my editor, will sit down at this keyboard, and scan through the copy, making corrections or suggestions at the very least. We will possibly go for a hike in the Bog later, as the mist rolls and spirals-up through the lowland....our English moor in the Ontario hinterland, and stare out at the moonlit scene in front, and rejoice at its grandeur and dimension.......and think about all the glorious possibilities of earth and universe, the paranormal and supernatural, ghosts and sundry other specters that glide over this misty lakeland, as they have for centuries. And we will feel fulfilled, strangely enough, that we have enjoyed an enchanted existence, in spite of the drudgery of normalcy we shall return to soon, of hearth and home, work and capitalist society. Still no humour for poets and musings.

Please join me for new lakeland revels and woodland hauntings in coming blogs.

GHOSTS IN THE CLOSET

A REMINDER FROM JOHN COLOMBO’S BOOK, “MYSTERIES OF ONTARIO.”

The blog entry, most recently,...... a work of fiction....a titch of biography, an abstract portrait of a struggling writer in a haunted residence......was re-introduced to me this week, quite by coincidence. Son Robert, on a trip to Ottawa, and while scouring a book shop, found John Colombo’s book, “Mysteries of Ontario,” released in 1999, and decided that because it had a photograph of dear old dad, he’d pick it up for the family archives. I wrote a piece for John, on a haunting at my former Bracebridge residence, and my mug is featured on page 53. The heading of the story is “McGibbon House,” named after Dr. Peter McGibbon, former Muskoka Member of Parliament, and one of the founding doctors of Bracebridge Memorial Hospital, back in the late 1920's. I appreciated Robert buying this copy, as my own signed first edition was loaned out and well.......my friend liked it so much, well, it was never returned.

John was a great source of inspiration, when I began my own gathering of personal stories, about our family’s life-long encounters with the paranormal. As I have great respect for the huge amount of research John has done, in his amazing career as Canada’s most accomplished “hunter-gatherer” of tales of the supernatural, paranormal, extra terrestial, UFO encounters, legends and lore.....when he suggested I should jot my experiences down, as well, it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse. In fact, I was delighted when John offered to write an introductory column, to a ghosts of Muskoka feature series, I was preparing for The Muskoka Sun, some years back. It was a great honor to be associated with this important Canadian historian, and his enlightening work over many decades.

I have included a graphic of the book’s cover. McGibbon House was certainly a component of the biographical art piece, I wrote this past winter. As a struggling writer, in those first years, wondering if it was in the cards or not..... I can so clearly remember sitting at my desk, overlooking Bracebridge’s Memorial Park, wondering what the future held in store for a young university graduate........while nothing was being tapped onto that huge white sheet of paper in the typewriter carriage. I’d start to fear writing, and the waste-paper basket was full to overflowing. When I did write something, I hated it before the ink had time to adjust to its new reality. I’d come up those attic stairs full of vim and vinegar, with ideas abounding. As soon as I’d get settled, the typewriter pulled close on the desk, and the view given a cursory glance, the big freeze would commence. I have no idea how I broke that spell of non-productivity, other than to say, what began as a standoff has merged, quite remarkably, with a hugely prolific span of authordom, and although I can’t show many books for my efforts, I’ve had thousands upon thousands of articles published in a wide assortment of publications, and have a solid audience today viewing these online blogs. I have five different blogs, on diverse subjects, that keep me hopping. I just love to write. Back then, the demons within, told me I couldn’t write. But I’ve never been one to follow instructions.

The wee bit of fiction had its basis in two realities. I was living in a haunted house, and I was a writer looking for inspiration. Despite the perceived presence of demons in that house......came the unfettered appreciation that the demons were of my own creation.....not cast upon me as a curse, by my place of residence. While it was indeed a haunted house, if ever there was one, it was a friendly, kindly haunting, and with its history and view of uptown Bracebridge, it was an inspirational portal from which to watch out at the world passing. I adored writing from that house, especially the apartment directly below the attic, where I lived while editor of The Herald-Gazette.....the job I never wanted to end.

I am still a prolific writer in residence. The McGibbon house was torn down quite a number of years ago now. Funny thing, my son Andrew attended a federally funded young entrepreneur’s course there, one fall and winter, after he graduated high school. He was in class directly below where his father used to write, day-in and day-out, and where there was once the sound of a regular footfall on the attic stairway.....from a resident unknown and unseen. I will never get that house out of my mind. On the other hand, why would I want that! It was the source of inspiration that has given me a lifetime in my chosen profession. And when I was about to quit altogether, it was the McGibbon House, and all its inmates, some visible, some not, that re-generated my interest in writing. I soon sat at that attic window typing like a madman, celebrating every minute of creation......and thanking the big old house for its many accommodations to the writer in residence.

Thanks Robert for reminding me my past wasn’t so bad. Just a little bit bad.

BIOGRAPHICAL - THE REAL TITLE IS “THE CURATOR”

Early in January I started playing around with fiction. Even though I have been committed to a fiction-free writing career, once in a while, I’ll just sit down at this keyboard and write, and write and low and behold, one or two pieces each year are tiny, tidy works of fiction. The short piece below fits the ghosts of Muskoka blogsite, because this is exactly what inspired it.....the memories of living in an old house, with a resident ghost or seven, and starting out on a professional writing career......the battle between the non-fiction writer and the novelist. I have recurring dreams to this day about the mainstreet house, and while it’s true that the residence has become a composite of many old dwellings I’ve known in my life, most of the attributes are from the Bracebridge, Ontario house, that stood overlooking Memorial Park. The house is gone now but the memories are as fresh as when I was holed-up in that attic, watching the town come and go, throughout the rolling year. I loved that house, although it might not be reflected this way, in the tome to follow this introduction. It was a house that inspired me at a critical time. It still inspires me but it is all history now. The piece is entirely biographical. It is about starting out as a writer, carrying on in the profession, and the dilemma of biography we all think about in our declining years of productivity. What have I accomplished? Have I led an interesting life? Will any one remember my work? What does it matter anyway?

This is what matters to me, now, in my own retrospective, whether it is needed or not for validation. It is how I have felt for many years as a writer......who started off his career, penning stories from a haunted house. The baggage? What do you think?

A RESIDENT EVIL, THE WRITER’S MUSE

The beast.

The hunt, the kill.

As narrative, the pen runs dry.

Poison drips from needle fangs. A concoction of stirred fate. Brewed from sulphur and evil. Contempt. The scribe will not survive this intrusion. A cataclysmic fiction overwhelms.

Raging red eyes, set deep within its vapor, pierces the shield.

It makes a powerful, rabid lunge. I fall. There is no defense.

Courage drains from a gaping wound. A stench of evil fills the room. The slithering recoil of the viper, tightens to attack. No retreat. Surrender. Escape is death. It is understood. A final searing pain. Then mortal release from my resident evil, hungering for a still-warm soul.

Awaiting the fatal impact to sever this mortal coil. The wounded will suffer no longer. Anticipation, my lingering death knell. Left to quake without exclamation.

The death-blow is not delivered. There is no execution today. Nothing set free, except evil itself, laughing at my chagrin. Being spared is mercy denied! The audience of revellers is disappointed. It is my punishment. To know the antagonist has vaporized into the abyss of fiction, leaving reality to dust itself off, to begin anew. Another day. Another night. A fight to re-connect, an outcome of hell’s evocation.

The attic has suddenly become empty and silent. Only an eerie echo of literary anecdote. As if I had again, been the victim of a cruel prank. Not the honorable survivor, a wounded soldier, of a life and death struggle, as I preferred to write of this misadventure.

It passes over me as a cold, eroding wave of sea water, as it explodes a child’s sand castle. The beast is gone. I’ve survived. With clear recollection of the conflict, and heart pounding in the chest. Like a wretched, sour bile, that burns the throat, I lay there reliving the ordeal. The taste of a personal horror. The discomfort repeats without mercy, as new memories now etch upon the soul..

I open my eyes into the dark bedroom. I see the tracer blue lights of the clock, on the DVD player. The moonlight shines through the window, onto my blanket-rumpled, sweat soaked bedstead.

A therapist touches pen nib to tongue, as if ready to jot notes. But it all begins again before pen hits paper. Exhausted, battle-weary, I succumb. To dream once more.

On the ground floor, of the old house, I will become aware of a force field, undulating somewhere above. An out of place surge of power that all of a sudden shoves me toward the staircase. It doesn’t matter how much I resist. I will be forced to climb to the upper level, to confront the occupier. It won’t be a gentle encounter.

I know what dwells at the top. I’ve been here many times before. I prepare for battle. The mortal, paranormal struggle, between author and tormentor.

The attic lodger knows I’ve entered its domain. A battle of will-power. Good versus evil. I call it out, as a knight commands the dragon from its lair. I’m scared what will emerge. As the historian prostitutes to embrace the novelist’s whim of self-destruction.

The closer I get to that long, dark room, at the top of the stairs, the more chill in the air. The closer I get to smashing open the door, the more undaunted I become. Like a soldier climbing out of a deep trench, with bayonet fastened, prepared for the uphill charge. I know my foe will cut me down with a slicing blade of fire. But I do it anyway. Fear becomes the tempest within.

Nightmare after nightmare, I wake up terrified. Sweating profusely. Absolutely sure it wasn’t a dream. I can come within inches of this nebulous, powerful entity, but never see its true form. Just a moving, multi-layer of yellow vapor, hovering at the far end of the empty room. And its penetrating gaze, the flaming eyes, like two deep holes looking backwards into hell.

Several times each month, I meet the beast. I will feel on the brink of destruction, but be renewed in that cold disheveling of a spent nightmare. Broken but resolved, to soldier on. Spirituality hasn’t failed me. I fear it might. The waste basket overflows with strategies, for self preservation.

Upper Manitoba Street. An exciting place. A business neighborhood with a mix of old brick veneer residences. Estates with sentimental porches and well lit foyers, with cut-glass chandeliers, once belonging to prominent citizens of considerable means. A trail of people and cars pass in front all day, and well into the night. Some folks look in, as if watching for a ghost. Me staring out!

September 1977. A new place to call home. A recently refurbished estate, perfect for our newly launched antique business. There was an attic room with a view. A place to write. Looking down on my hometown. It was my portal of discovery. My muse, as architecture.

The attic room was cheerfully illuminated, from late October, until the full canopy of maple leaves by early June blocked the sun. The towering maples shaded the front of the old house, in the summer, and made this alcove pleasant but dark through those same months.

The window looked down over a small park, with a bandshell, and an iron-gated war memorial. The voyeur could see north and south along the main street, for about a block either way, and the protruding theatre marquis shone until midnight, well after movie goers had finally ambled away.

It was pleasant to sit by the window and watch the march of citizens, along the sidewalks and pathway, reaching through the park. The school kids trundling slowly in the morning, with a zip to their step at day’s end. A privileged vantage point for any town watcher, interested in curious comings and goings. Clandestine meetings and strange misadventures, alcohol induced domestics, and unrepentant vandals, who loved to spray-paint x-rated slogans, on the yellow bandshell pillars. Youngsters made snow angels in the December snow, and a few drunken teens, who got caught short, from party to home, frequently urinated on the snow laden shrubbery. Some collapsed on the way, and might have frozen to death. No angels. I made emergency calls.

My imagination was peaked, looking out from that portal onto the world. My senses were keen to the scent, and texture, in the march of days, season to season, drought to storm. As if I could feel the tingling of ice crystals on my outstretched hand, when flurries spiralled down through the venerable, guardian trees. Just as I could faintly smell the lilac blossoms in late May, catching, in sparkling crystals, the morning dew. Feel the warm spring rain that hit and streaked down this looking glass, and be soothed by the fragrant summer breeze, and then the romantic’s smoky autumn mist. A poetic remnant of a late harvest. The great bard’s would have celebrated this view, from here, with passionate verse and good theatre.

It was a place that nurtured imagination, and rewarded observation. I lived and worked as a voyeur. Just beyond this flawed old glass. It did, at times, seem an invasion of privacy. Yet I was compelled to watch. Sitting at the window from morning to late night. Most entertaining when the street offered up, both the rambunctious and strange.

I often felt a spiritual presence in the house. As did other residents living in smaller apartments, in the wings of the old estate. I couldn’t write anywhere else in the house, as poignantly, as in this office, shared with a supernatural taskmaster. Greedily I took the inspiration afforded me. I suppose, as repayment, I had bartered my soul.

My desk was positioned to the north side of the window, so that I could look south along the main street, and see the theatre marquis, as captivating as Gatsby’s, “Eyes of Eckleburg,” made famous by Fitzgerald. I had a beat-up paperback copy. The first book on that first desk, in that first writer’s den.

Not long after moving into the house, there were paranormal events. Rattling of door knobs, footsteps up the back steps, to voices calling out names. My name. A usual fare. Raps on the door, lights turning on and off by themselves. It was the character of all old houses. It didn’t bother me. Residents shared stories and encounters. It was a storied homestead.

The attic was calming. Outside noise was muffled, except for sirens, jack-hammers or loud yelling, when it occurred in front of the house. I would occasionally hear the old, clanging plumbing, when a toilet was flushed. When the heat came on, vents vibrated with air pressure. I could work undisturbed. Ever watchful of the world below. At times, this was the distraction.

The windows were nailed shut. Even if they hadn’t been, the layers of paint would have required a huge amount of gouging to free up. It wasn’t of great consequence because even on the hottest day in July, the attic was surprisingly moderate. I didn’t write much at all through the summer season. I thrived on the bright attic that returned in mid October. Long after the leaves had blown clear of the outstretched maple boughs. The ones that snapped hard against the window pane, in November wind storms.

In that first full year, living in the doctor’s house, I was whacking out reams of copy. I got a start on my first novel, and was approved for a weekly newspaper column on antiques and collectibles. A sort of advertising trade-off with the weekly’s publisher, instead of any cash changing hands.

Only a few days following New Years, after our first full year in the house, I had my first significant attic incident. I was working late, half-watching a talk show on a small black and white portable. Typing during commercials. It was shortly after ten, when I decided to leave the balance of the copy, until the next morning. I flicked off the television, my desk lamp, and headed for the staircase, at the back of the cavernous room. There was one overhead light, positioned about ten feet from the door to the stairs. There was no illumination from that point, except a dim bathroom light on the second floor. I’d meant to fix that situation but hadn’t at this point. It was precarious coming down the rickety steps but there was guiding light enough for safe passage.

Once on the second floor landing, I’d reach, out of routine, into the adjacent bathroom, and turn off its light. The kitchen lamp on the first floor, offered enough glow so that I could safely navigate the remaining flights.

Shortly after turning off the last switch, and stepping slowly onto the first step down, I was suddenly consumed by a most startling white mist. I could see, feel, taste and smell its musty essence. I began to shiver, as if I’d come out of a freezer. It moved slowly, seemingly through my body. There was no doubt, on that dark staircase, that while I was going down, something of paranormal ilk had been coming up.

The attic door slammed shut. I felt the vibration run down the hand rail. I retreated with extreme prejudice. A quick distancing from a force, with intent unknown.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I sat down on the bottom step. An unsettled contemplation influenced by fear and trembling. Had I encountered a resident ghost? Of course I had! I knew I wasn’t the only occupant of the attic. That was clear the first night.. Was I in harm’s way? Collateral damage? I still think about this, when I wake up in a cold sweat, following an attic duel in dreamland.

From that point, I never walked up those creaking steps, or through the attic door, without expecting to meet the manifestly undead, or the helplessly transient, in that limbo known as our office space. This had been a doctor’s house and medical clinic, back in the 1920's. Possibly the doctor also retreated to the loft, after a busy day, to watch over the bustling mainstreet, as a sort of self-appointed guardian. As I also fancied myself, its historian.

It’s not just in dreams I re-visit this haunted place. I feel its subtle influences often. Sometimes on moonlit walks, on winter nights, I will remember what it looked like, all aglow, when I’d be hiking home through the snow. It’s lit windows making it look like a Hallowe’en pumpkin, fire-lit eyes, against a deep, consuming darkness. Think about it on stormy nights, when the wind rattles the raspberry canes and lilac branches, against the glass of my new home office. Just as it had rapped the maple boughs against the glass, so many winters ago, during those late night vigils. Storm and house groaning in a haunting harmony.

I can still see it so clearly, as the sun would penetrate its inner sanctum, in late April; the joy mixed with melancholy, as light fades to shadow, and nightfall intrudes in the cycle of existence. At times we even seemed to enjoy each other’s company. House and author in that strange embrace of ambitions and history.

Sometimes I wonder, after suddenly waking from this nightmare, if my departure from that house, had generated a sort of paranormal discontent. Like the ill fated pact that gave Dorian Gray, his eternal youth. Possibly my own portrait had been painted with an implied tithe? Could I have so foolishly, in a writer’s madness, made a pact with that house. To remain faithful forever? In return for its generous inspiration. A feeling of sudden abandonment, and hatred, that a broken partnership can conjure up. Maybe I denied it, in my haste, a proper farewell. A respectful acknowledgment that its kindnesses had afforded me a prosperous writer’s life. A deep well of creative ambition.

It gave me a place, a solitude, a spark. The reason to create. Just as I’m undoubtedly creating these manifestations of beast and battle, the bitter sweet reckoning of broken prophecies, and a path strewn with the shattered glass of all broken promises. I was being hunted by a perplexing guilt.

The nightmare, in all its complexity and contradiction, of battle, victory and defeat, was a stabbing reminder our partnership was never severed. We’ve still got much to write about......this haunting and me. Apparently, as fortune or misfortune may have it, partners to the end.

And I thought it was just a nice old house with a big attic. My biography. This narrative. Complete!

DRAWING ON A VISIT FROM AN ANGEL

In my father’s last few moments before he was medicated for the pain, he held his arms up from the hospital bed, much as if to reach out to someone bending over the end of the hospital bed. I tried a couple of times to grab his hands, because I thought he was trying to get my attention but was unable to see where I was standing. If he was blind at that moment, regardless, he saw something he wanted to embrace. His eyes were wide open. He saw then what he wanted to see. Each time he’d pull his arm free again, and continue this upward reach, with a look on his face as if he clearly saw what he was reaching toward. Even the nurse seemed to find this unusual. Not that she hadn’t seen it before, in other patients but not in the context of what we had been chatting about moments earlier.

It was at this point, that we (my son Robert and I) decided, on the nurse’s recommendation, to request the doctor immediately prescribe appropriate medication to ease Ed’s pain for the last moments of his life. As a family believing very-much in the afterlife, I had mentioned to the nurse that it was my belief his spirit was thusly preparing to cross over. The last mortal action was to reach up with his arms, possibly toward what he perceived to be the grand, forgiving light of heaven (as we know it), sensing the image of his wife Merle awaiting him to cross. The only time he stopped reaching up was when the medication calmed him for those final moments. But there was no question in our minds, Ed was eager to leave his tired old body and reach for something that was attainable.

I didn’t stay for that last bit of his life because it was obvious there was nothing left of the mortal coil. His spirit was gone and it was just a host of tubes feeding that “flesh on bones” remnant of human existence. Shortly after we arrived home, the dog came over to my wife, put its head on her knee, and looked up at her as if led by his old friend Ed, on this last adventure on earth. Bosko never does this unless begging to go out or for food. I said to Suzanne, Ed has just passed. The phone rang seconds later. We knew what to expect.

You see, Ed loved that dog....and although he couldn’t have his own, in the rental apartment he lived-in, we made sure to bring Bosko whenever we visited. We’d let her go when we got out of the elevator, and it was a most joyous trot down the length of hall to his open door. Ed delighted in treating Bosko, and after a drop and roll, so he could scratch the old belly, she wouldn’t stop nuzzling under the knee to get him up from the chair. It was biscuit time. Bosko is part Border Collie, and I told Ed she treated us all like sheep....herding us to where she thought we were supposed to be. It was quite appropriate that Ed used Bosko to break the news to us that he was crossing over.

Ed had a terrible fear of two things in life. Going to a dentist and a doctor. He loathed hospitals but was fine as a guest. It hurt him through his life, and a number of times he’d be forced to go because of a medical emergency.....one he might have avoided if he had gone for a check-up now and again. But as an old sailor, from the famed North Atlantic Squadron of the Second World War, he had seen a great deal of death at sea. He had faced it many times before when his ship, the Coaticook, came under fire from above and below. He was a lot tougher than I gave him credit for......because his reluctance to go to a doctor had always seemed, to me, more cowardly than anything else. In that last month in the hospital, Ed would have done anything to get out of that situation.....even knowing he wasn’t going to survive for long. He’d have just as soon died reading the paper at home, or walking uptown, or better still, having a final cool beer as he loved in life. The problem for Ed was that at the same time, he was in and out of dementia and it meant he could have caused harm to others especially if he had conned his way out of hospital care.....and found his car. We had to hide his keys after several escape attempts nearly succeeded. In moments of clarity, he knew full well his apartment was only a block away. If Ed had the chance then, he would have driven that car as far as it would take him. It was the inevitable accident, if he did drive again, we were determined to stop..

For the past several weeks, I have been sitting at hearthside, here at Birch Hollow, with a pad of paper and pencil, trying to sketch the image of an angel. The one I witnessed in a dream, during a serious childhood illness. While it may seem strange, on top of strange, but it was the clear memory of an event that may have happened half a century ago, that helped me through the loss of both parents, in just over a year.

I have made an attempt several times, over the past year, to sketch the angel I witnessed. I can see her so vividly. Just not enough to be able to get a satisfactory image on paper. Some features look alright but the distortion of others is laughable. When I finish it looks like an eagle with a human face. But then I’m a pretty poor artist. It might have been a fifty year old dream-visitation but it’s one I will never forget as long as I live.

I can remember standing over Ed, on one of the many visits, and noticing a couple of the nurses looking at me, with a sympathetic glance, that suggested they knew it wouldn’t be long. I’m sure they’d have had some kind words for me if I’d all of a sudden burst into tears, or begged a willing ear. On a number of these occasions I thought to myself, I wonder how many people in this hospital right now, including staff, have had an audience with an angel in their lives. I imagined that, of those who would admit it, the number wouldn’t have been all that substantial. And I thought that the calmness and resolve I felt, was, in some part, attached to this early liaison, that has stuck with me for most of my days. It is an ongoing sensation of gentle recognition that there is something beyond.....despite what can’t be explained......abstract versions and unscientific claims that can’t do anything more than marginally pacify mortal curiosity.

Earlier in this series of blogs on the paranormal, I wrote at some length about a dream visitation with my guardian angel, so I won’t repeat it entirely here. You can look back yourself if interested. If you believe in such things, or have had similar experiences, it might be a source of validation. A lot of folks think I’m mad......and possibly I am. But I’d never trade my experience for anything else.....because the sense of that event has been at my side through many, many trials. Such as the near death of our son Robert, who choked on vomit during a seizure which hit him when still asleep. When I couldn’t revive him, I know I called upon an old and dear friend.....and it was this calming angelic influence that kept me sane for those first critical hours of emergency care. It had happened during one of the heaviest snowfalls of the year, and our roads were unplowed. Even the ambulance got stuck on the way out our road, on the way to the hospital. Robert was diagnosed, at about eight years of age, with epilepsy. He’s only had two major episodes but both were during sleep, which can be deadly because of similar choking.

When I told my mother that I had seen an angel in my dreams, she explained to me that it had been a sign that the fever was finally breaking. I woke up that morning soaked with sweat. Merle told me I’d been talking in my sleep at the peak of the fever, and this may have been the time I was dreaming of the angel-kind. I see it somewhat differently after many years thinking about it. It’s just something you want to explain rationally, such as fever, but have a nagging suspicion it may have been something much more. Why else would I remember this all these years later, such that I can recognized every detail....and in color, of my visitor’s heavenly presence.

I had been sick for weeks with a horrific cough, and on and off fever. Every time I coughed I vomited. I couldn’t keep anything down. I’m not sure what the doctor gave me to fight the illness, but he informed my mother that if it didn’t clear up soon, I would have to be admitted to hospital. Whatever the illness was, it was horrible. I had to sit upright in a chair for most of a week for fear that I’d choke myself with vomit. I was weak. I remember thinking that evening, I was sicker than my parents knew. I don’t know why but a kid’s intuition kicked in. My body was wracked with pain because of all the coughing and throwing-up. I wasn’t too familiar, at that point, with the sound of death’s door being knocked-upon. I’m suspicious about just how close I might have been to Mr. Reaper. Before I awoke again, I had experienced a dream that certainly seemed stranger than most. I really didn’t have a good understanding about heaven or angels at that point, so I can tell you, I must have had help filling in the image I saw before me. There she was, with curly blond hair and such an incredibly kind and loving expression on her face, hovering above me, without any movement of these huge white wings, rising above her head and shoulders. But there was unmistakable movement. I wasn’t looking at a static image. She was moving her arms in gesture, for me to come closer. And I did as she requested. There was an aura of calm, an aroma of flowers, and a coolness to the atmosphere.....a coming down from a fever I supposed, with a cold cloth on my forehead....sitting in that livingroom chair. It was a feeling of near nirvana, as I think back on it, as if I was floating, weightless, to meet her level. Possibly I was that close to departing this mortal coil. Maybe she was helping me out of my human form......but I’ve always believed it was the case that she was letting me know that it was not yet time to leave, and that my body would recover. Rather than a dream, I believe it was at a time of near spiritual departure that we came to meet.....and I was influenced, so gently, to return and live life as Teddy the wunderkind of Burlington’s Harris Crescent. And I did. My mother was at my side when I woke up. She had been sleeping on the couch beside me. I had survived, and with a really interesting story. Do you think so? If you think I’m a nut, well that’s okay too!

For more on this recollection, feel free to dig into the archives of this blog.

I’m still trying to create an honest depiction of this vision, on paper, and if there’s truly interventions from the other side, maybe one day I will get the divine image I’ve been dreaming of......or, possibly it is never to be. It’s an image in my mind, my soul, and I’m good with that......

THE PARANORMAL IS ALL QUITE NORMAL

I don’t criss-cross the continent, as some ghost sleuths do, looking for cold spots in old houses, buildings, theatres, government buildings, courthouses, hotels, motels or on golf courses.....where I’m told there are a few hackers (like me in life) who don’t know they’ve expired this mortal coil. They’re still trying to lower their handicap. While I do read the tomes of those who have sought out wee ghosties, on moor or highland, from cemeteries to musty attics in venerable old homes, I just don’t actively hunt them out, and have never tried to do so, as I respect their privacy as they observe mine. Unless of course they have an agenda to resolve. If I happen upon a spirited traveller, beyond the present hard realities of life as we know it, I certainly don’t look away or tremble with fear. If we accidentally run into one another, or it’s a planned visit or lasting occupation of the premises etc., well that’s my kind of ghost sleuthing. Easy access.

Since my father Ed passed away a year ago, it has been pretty quiet on the ghost front. As I do believe in the work of medium John Edward, and his advice to validate those who have “crossed over” as being spiritual qualities and quantities, there isn’t much necessity, I suppose for any spirited intervention. My wife and I are fully cognizant of the spirit-kind, and we aren’t afraid of occasionally tossing our family and friends who have passed, a random “hello.....how are you Dave, or Ed, Merle, Norm, Harriett, Uncles John, Jack, Vince, friends Charlie, Dave, or Randy. We don’t get an “other side” pat on the back or anything but a feeling that they are aware of our acceptance of their existence, in one form or another, in the great beyond. I have always believed in life after death, although never having been particularly religious. My cross-boundary chatting, and it can be in mind if not voice, has come since watching John Edward’s “Crossing Over,” and fully appreciating what it means to validate those who have passed. It’s as simple as believing there is more to existence than what we see in our daily lives. And by giving it all the benefit of the doubt that there’s acceptance and accommodation on both “our plane,”...... and there’s. I validate these spirit-kind, each day, by simply acknowledging that they continue on, and can make contact. I don’t need a seance or a visit to the cemetery to communicate my sentiments.

Two friends in particular, who passed away some years ago now, are always in mind when I’m working on a research project. Dave Brown, my outdoor education chum, (I wrote his biography).....who was my mentor, in both history and vintage book collecting, is on my spiritual speed-dial. As I trusted Dave’s judgement in life, I value his input just as much from “the beyond.” I can’t tell you how many books the man has helped me find since his death. I’m not shy about asking him to help me find an evasive book or file folder in my cluttered archives. Nothing happens immediately. I don’t think those who have passed are on-the-clock if you know what I mean. From a week to three in waiting, nine times out of ten, I will trip, or spill a coffee, topple over a stack of books, and low and behold.....the evasive book is revealed. As for the statistics that it is not a manifestation of spirits at all, just stupid coincidence, well.....call it what you will. It won’t stop me from asking for help in the future. There are other times I will just say hello to my research partner, Charlie Wilson, a dear man and talented writer, who I worked with on a sport’s biography back in the late 1990's. He’d call me several times a week, and we’d talk for an hour about history and research obstacles, and about his life as a front line reporter in an American city, back in the days of widespread civil unrest. I learned so much from these two gentlemen, and I’ll tell you, whey they passed, each was a huge blow to my own writing work. It’s why I simply refused to distance myself just because of death. Heck with that! I needed their inspiration plain and simple. So I started to mindfully greet them whenever I sat at this keyboard, and needed a spark of motivation..... or requireed some strategy for researching something that had or has now become stubborn and unyielding. Both men were doggedly determined to succeed, no matter what they were working on. I can still so clearly hear their friendly voices on the telephone.....while I was sitting, or pondering without luck, at this same desk.....tapping at this worn-out keyboard. While my critics will call me delusional, and that you can not talk to dead people.....well, I guess there’s worse things in life, as long as don’t start clucking like a chicken or chasing vehicles down the road like a wayward dog.

Suzanne and I have both had many encounters with wayward spirits......at least “wayward” to us. They obviously remained in dwellings we have lived and worked, and didn’t move out entirely, you might say, with their respective friends and family. Back through this extensive blog you will find these references, and we attest to the truthfulness of each experience. Yet by far, our encounters generally, are from subtle inspirations and messages from the other side, that are by no means unsettling or unwelcome. Some will say these are “hauntings” none the less. We see it as the result of being “okay” with death, and confident, that in this big, complicated universe, there’s a lot more stuff science has yet figured out. Such as parallel dimensions. Until we find the “other side” by using the investigation of science, we will, in the meantime, continue to acknowledge, out of a sense of good will and kinship, those we wish to include as part of our contemporary existence. We certainly don’t let out a roll call each day, and maybe only once every three or four months, will I make a point of rattling off a larger greeting to include more friends and family......because coincidentally I was thinking of these departed souls at the time, for any number of reasons. If I think about Dave Brown, I will validate the reminiscence with a simple greeting......much as I did when Dave’s canoe-laden truck arrived here for summer weekends, and he ambled up the driveway with an arm load of books for our kids. When I recall a neat moment with my dad, because of some parallel I’ve been exposed to, I don’t worry about any prescribed protocol but rather, exercise what I feel is appropriate.....and if I vocalize it......chances are it will sound like, “Hi Eddy....what’s going on?” Now if you hear me say that, and you notice there’s nobody around me, be polite and let a man have his fun. My dad and I had a lot of memorable “bull sessions” shooting the breeze over a lifetime. And we’re still communicating but he just doesn’t make the coffee any more.

Some people do consult this blog series looking for traditional ghost stories. There are a few of those printed here, and being open to paranormal potential, validating that there is indeed a dimension that allows ghosts to wander about, we expect a full life of future spirit-full encounters. We just don’t get scared about visitations. Rather we look forward to contact and have not had bad experiences.....just a few we didn’t understand at the time......but dealt with after preliminary research and a heaping helping of open-mindedness. It might be the sudden aroma of lilacs in the middle of winter, the wafting scent of fresh cookies from the oven, when nothing is being baked, or the strange thought of a name or word that seems so wildly out of place. One day, as I was shovelling snow, I all of a sudden had a reference to “witch-hazel” repeating in my mind. Now how the heck does that happen? I’m pretty sure I know but do you? I knew nothing about witch-hazel other than my most basic school-day knowledge of it as basic countryside flora and fauna. I knew it had a medicinal use but I couldn’t tell you what it treated.

After about an hour of this, I went and asked Suzanne whether or not her mother could be trying to get us a message by using a reference to “witch-hazel” in order to jog our memories. The short answer is “yes.” It seemed Harriet and family did have something or other to do with this old remedy for infections and skin irritations.....but it also got Suzanne thinking about many other situations and activities that could have had witch-hazel as a guidepost. I had an infection, at this time, on my index finger, and after hearing this said, “Well, why don’t we go out an buy some, and see if it works.” It did. We now use it all the time for a variety of conditions and it has always worked. Now I don’t think Harriet was trying to administer first aid to my injured finger by introducing witch-hazel to my mindset that day. It did spawn some reckoning and parallels for my wife, and so this intrusion was welcome and useful. Some are a little annoying because we can find no legitimate parallel. I get things like this happening all the time. I always apologize to the other side, that if they are indeed trying to communicate some message to me, the should please allow for the fact I’m a little slower on the pick-up these days..... so I suggest they “leave a message and I’ll get back to you!”

In the new year we will be making occasional entries on this blog-site, of experiences we haven’t yet documented and new ones encountered along the way. But these accounts should not chill or frighten you, as they didn’t shock us when they happened. We are all a wee bit wary of the unknown and that’s a good thing. Blind acceptance isn’t good either. I will never chase away a ghost. I will beg of it to stay a while, and let me in on its secrets and aspirations here on earth. But I will, most importantly, validate them.

Thanks for visiting this blog site. I have some more Tom Thomson material in preparation for later this spring. Cheers.