Haunted Muskoka

2012-01-07T06:46:00.001-08:00

THE GHOST OF A VACATIONER?

JUST HOW DID THE SWING MOVE ON ITS OWN?

MY WIFE AND I HAVE BEEN LOOKING BACK, AT OUR FAMILY HISTORIES, OVER THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS, PARTLY OUT OF THE TYPICAL FROLIC IN THE "NOSTALGIC," AND SOMEWHAT MORE, BECAUSE OF HER WORK ON ANCESTRAL RESEARCH. SHE'S BEEN WORKING ON OUR RESPECTIVE FAMILIES, AS A PATRON OF ANCESTRY.CA, AND OVER THREE YEARS SHE HAS FILLED IN A LOT OF BRANCHES ON THE COMBINED FAMILY TREE. BUT AT THE SAME TIME, AS WE REMINISCE ABOUT SOME OF OUR FAMILY MEMBERS, WE CAN'T HELP BUT STIR UP COLLATERAL MEMORIES…..WE HADN'T THOUGHT ABOUT FOR DECADES. THIS IS A CASE IN POINT, AND IT WAS WHEN WE BEGAN CHATTING ABOUT DAYS GONE BY AT THE FAMILY COTTAGE, HERE IN THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA.

NOW I ALWAYS FOUND THE COTTAGE AT WINDERMERE A TAD EERIE, JUST BECAUSE IT WAS AN OLDER STRUCTURE, DARK, AND IN THE EMBRACE OF MANY TALL PINES, THAT MADE IT LOOK MYSTERIOUS…..AND A LITTLE ENCHANTED. SUZANNE WAS TELLING ME LAST NIGHT, ABOUT AN INCIDENT ON THE COTTAGE PORCH, THAT CONVINCED HER THAT NOT ALL SPIRITS LEAVE AT THE TIME OF BODILY DEMISE.

AS A YOUNG ADULT, SHE REMEMBERS A GENTLEMAN PASSING AWAY AT THE COTTAGE, WHO HAD BEEN THERE WITH FAMILY FOR THE SUMMER SEASON. SUZANNE'S PARENTS OWNED THE OLD FAMILY HOMESTEAD, ON THE SHORE OF LAKE ROSSEAU, AND AS THEY HAD A HOUSE IN WINDERMERE, A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY, AND OPERATED THE MARINA AS WELL, THEY RENTED OUT THE COTTAGE, AND EVEN THE HOUSE, AS A MEANS OF EXTRA INCOME.

THE GENTLEMEN IN QUESTION, HAD EXPERIENCED SOME HEALTH PROBLEMS, AND WAS CONVALESCING AT THE COTTAGE. AFTER WADING IN SHALLOW WATER AT A NEIGHBORING PROPERTY, AND RETURNING BACK TO THE COTTAGE, HE HAD DECIDED TO REST ON A SWINGING BED, WHICH WAS A SPRING WITH MATTRESS THAT WAS HUNG WITH CHAINS FROM THE PORCH RAFTERS. HE UNFORTUNATELY PASSED AWAY ON THE SWING.

IT WAS DEVASTATING NEWS FOR THE FAMILY, AND AS THEY WERE CLOSE FRIENDS OF SUZANNE'S MOTHER AND FATHER, IT WAS A TERRIBLE TIME DEALING WITH THE GREAT LOSS.

ABOUT A YEAR LATER, SUZANNE ARRIVED AT THE COTTAGE, BY BOAT, AND WAS MAKING HER WAY UP THE HILLSIDE TO THE COTTAGE. WHEN SHE CAME CLOSER TO THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING, SHE COULD HEAR THE SOUND OF THE CHAINS AND THE COT, AS IF SOMEONE WAS LAYING ON TOP. THERE WAS NO ONE AT THE COTTAGE DURING THIS PERIOD. WHEN SHE LOOKED CLOSELY, THROUGH THE SLATS IN THE PORCH RAIL, SHE COULD SEE THE BED SWINGING AWAY, AS IF SOMEONE WAS ACTUALLY PERPETUATING THE MOVEMENT. AS SHE TELLS THE STORY, SHE HEARD, SHE LOOKED, AND SHE RAN……AS THIS WAS, WHAT SHE BELIEVED, A GHOSTLY ENCOUNTER OF A FORMER COTTAGE DWELLER, WHO MAY HAVE COME BACK FOR A FINAL SWING.

SHE SPRAINED HER FOOT ON THE HASTY RETREAT.

2011-12-05T17:20:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-03T06:46:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-11-02T04:58:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-09-13T06:17:00.001-07:00

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

2011-05-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-29T07:13:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-04-19T05:43:00.001-07:00

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!

2011-02-10T19:10:00.001-08:00

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......

2011-01-17T07:33:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-11-03T07:29:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-09-08T06:12:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-06-07T07:46:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-05-25T08:17:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-05-10T07:32:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-05-04T06:18:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-03-16T07:53:00.001-07:00

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!

2010-03-09T18:45:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-12T08:18:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-26T08:16:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS AT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE
The former Manitoba Street home of Dr. Peter McGibbon, in Bracebridge, was my residence from the autumn of 1977 until the late spring of 1983. For the first years of my family’s stay in the dwelling, I was privileged to have possession of the attic which overlooked the tree-lined triangle of Memorial Park. It was a magnificent portal to watch out over my hometown.
First of all, as is noted in other entries on this site, the McGibbon house was haunted by many quantities and qualities of the paranormal. And while it’s true I was originally a tad unsettled about the entities encountered, there were so many unexplained activities that it became more the patina and provenance of the house, more so than being just a "haunted house." Working in the attic gave me truly interesting point of observation about the haunts I was writing atop.
It was only days after moving in that I set up my typewriter, on an old desk by the front window. The attic had enough windows that it stayed wonderfully illuminated with natural light from early morning until dusk. It was cheerful enough but it was rather cavernous because of its size and ceiling height, and the fact there were modest furnishings. It was a well insulated room when the door to the back stairs was shut, and of all the places I’ve had writing studios situated, over the decades, none had the ambience of that McGibbon house attic.
The most memorable period writing from that third floor portal, was during the winter of 1977-78. I had just finished my studies in Canadian history, at York University, with a minor in English, and I was eager to begin some serious writing. I dabbled in poetry and short stories at that point, and I wrote a weekly column in a new paper known as the Bracebridge Examiner, on the subject of antiques and collectibles. It was a magic place because only slumber put me out of action. I was able to sit at that typewriter and go mad with composition. It was probably my most prolific period as a writer, and it was the silence and the view that really made this place a catalyst for new ideas. I wanted to write. I’d sit down with a bottle of wine, and I’d work until well after midnight, for at least five nights each week over that winter period. It was a strange feeling of elevation being on top of so much history. Dr. Peter McGibbon and his wife Mabel were two very accomplished individuals and this house had been used as both a medical office and a residence.
It was an early 1900's three story brick house so it was always making some unexplained settling, expansion or reduction noises; whether it was the heating ducts clanging with wisdom from the furnace, or creaking of floor boards from downstairs that I could hear clearly on occasion, even while in the middle of typing at the attic window. What made it strange moreso, was that there were periods of almost entombment when even the traffic below didn’t seem to register within. It could be noiseless for hours and then, as if someone had thrown open a window or door, the sounds were more than abundant. It could change in seconds and I can remember stopping work because it had gone from grave-like silence, to the sounds of a three ring circus. There were many times during these long writing jags that I would be startled by someone talking nearby. In my years in the McGibbon house this was common activity, as was rapping at the doors and jiggling of door knobs. I’d look around expecting that my girlfriend Gail had arrived, and I’d simply missed the opening creak of the door at the stairs. This happened hundreds of times and never once could I attribute the voice to a person in my presence. These were just voices in the air of the house. Voices from the past. Sometimes I would swear someone was calling my name. I can’t remember how many times I ran downstairs, thinking my mother Merle was in some sort of trouble, only to find out she was nodding off on the chesterfield, or making dinner.
It was also not uncommon whatsoever, to feel someone or something looking over my shoulder, as if trying to read what I was typing, feeling as close as one can get without the full sensation of intimacy. I had many taps on the shoulder and the awareness of a footfall behind me, or closer to the back stairs where there was a dim light. There were times when I thought I’d just then witnessed a silhouette passing through the light but whenever I got up for a closer look, all was as empty and unremarkable as before. There were other times when I would get a cold shudder, which my mother used to suggest was "caused by someone walking over your grave from another life." It was the only serious creepy feeling I had in that attic, when all of a sudden I’d find myself with a tingling shiver, as if I should be scared though I was never sure what to be scared about. It was a very friendly house besides being very paranormally occupied.
I can recall being up in the attic one Christmas Eve, initially working at my typewriter, and when that enterprise ceased, wrapping presents for my family on the big editorial table to my right. I can clearly recall a less than harmonious feeling during the wrapping session, as if being told by a resident spirit, that this particular attic wasn’t for such frivolous activities. I did feel a little like Dickens’ Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol," and half expected at any time, for the past, present and future to play out as a film strip, down across my snowy mainstreet panorama. It was the perfect window for Jacob Marley to violently throw open to inclement weather, and command my attention to the ceaseless toils of a struggling mankind below. It was certainly the kind of window that the three spirits would find accommodating in earthly visitation that’s for sure. But it all seemed ethereal in so many ways......some of it could be simply explained by the fact I was looking down at the snowy trail I walked a thousand eventful times as a child, on the way to and from Bracebridge Public School, or onward to the arena for a game of minor hockey. I could see my own ghost, and the figures of my old chums, some who were by that time deceased. It was painfully nostalgic as I did cherish my childhood, growing up in this curious little town, straddling the 45th parallel of latitude.
There were many occasions that evening when I did turn around quickly to catch the interloper, who was trying to see what I was wrapping. The first four or five times I was sure a family member had crept up those steps at the back, and had made a couple of footfalls into the room. I was wrong. After awhile it did become rather oppressive, as if something in the house was dissatisfied with the room being used in this fashion. In retrospect I’m not too sure it cared for the writing jags either. There were cold drafts moving the hanging lightbulb overhead, and so many creaking timbers that it sounded like an actual conversation of complainers.
I did not feel the same accommodation was being afforded me this Christmas Eve, as I had been welcomed on so many other nights when writing was the only task. I finished up my wrapping chores and put the parcels back in bags until the morning. I had no intention of hauling them downstairs through the zig-zag of the dark staircase. When I took one final look out the big front window that beautiful winter’s eve, I found myself quite heartsick, longing for those earlier days when snow angels impressed, in the newly fallen snow, had been made by my chums on the joyous trot home from school. As much as it should have been, and had always been to that point uplifting, the residence seemed oppressed by sadness but with no real accounting. I didn’t know this house as well as I thought....its history, its own family legacy. Maybe I was experiencing a sadness from the house not of my own making. I later found this to be somewhat true, and although I couldn’t correlate it to the Christmas season as such, it did involve the loss of a young girl and the misery of a doting father.
As you will read about the McGibbon house throughout this site of recollections about Muskoka and Algonquin ghosts, this was not a house where malevolent spirits dwelled. Maybe a little though provoking, possibly a little unsettling but in no way was the house occupied by a single entity that wasn’t welcoming overall. It had its peculiarities but nothing that was frightening. Every resident in the house over the years just accepted the comings and goings, and bumps in the night, as of the "ordinary kind." We all lived in an ordinary haunted house. But it was remarkable and memorable in so many ways.
As for my attic vigils, I owe it a giant debt of gratitude. It was a wonderful place to write about history and philosophy, and to be an apprentice bard. It was moody and brooding at times but then so was I, thus there was a balance achieved. I will never forget the wonderful contribution that old house made to a fledgling writer, who cherished the upstairs view of "Our Town."
Merry Christmas!

2009-10-15T07:57:00.001-07:00

More historical research underway into old ghosts, old ways, and grand old haunts in Muskoka
My newest efforts to detail the paranormal characteristics of Muskoka involve much more historical research, as left by some of the well known....and some "not so well known" authors from the era of the pioneer homesteads across the hinterland. I’m up to my neck in old books and loving every moment of it. It just feels right to be in the company of so much important heritage about our region, our province and country.
As a first installment of many more entries to come, I have given a brief overview of our region’s first encounters with the spirit tradition. It dates back to the First People’s cultural beliefs in the spirits of earth and the universe, of nature and storm, sky and season. Take a few moments to visit my newly launched website at www.freewebs.com/hauntedmuskoka , and consult the site regularly for more information about the paranormal heritage of the District of Muskoka.

2009-10-15T07:18:00.000-07:00

2009-08-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

See Ted Currie Ghost Website at
http://hauntedmuskoka.webs.com/

2009-04-09T16:42:00.000-07:00

PICTURE OF A GHOST?
This is a photograph of a ghost? It was taken at the former McGibbon House, on Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, Ontario. (It was torn down a number of years ago). You can read more about the ghost(s) of McGibbon House by referencing back in this collection of blog entries. The black and white image above was one frame of dozens taken with a motor-wind on my news-issue 35mm camera back in the early 1980's. But it was the only frame showing the arc of mist just above and overlapping the door frame itself. It was taken of a doorway into a small hall, where every night at about the same time my cat "Animal" would jump off the small sofa, and stare up at the kitchen wall.
After many months of this happening, and not being able to figure out what was attracting the cat’s attention, I set myself up this particular evening, with a camera, flash and some patience. Within only minutes of my setting up, Animal jumped down and wandered toward the open door, sitting beside the old rocking chair, and on cue looking up. If you see the cat, follow its glance upwards and you will see the misty and curved vapor on the door frame itself. If you draw a line from the cat’s nose to the vapor it’s not far fetched at all to believe this was the object of its curiosity.
I remember shooting about a full roll of 24 frames on this occasion but when my photo technician processed the film the next day, there was only one frame that contained this peculiar half ring of mist. It was determined not to be a light flare or lens flaw as all the other photographs taken with that same camera and lens were perfect......even the ones shot at the same time from the same position.
The event only ever lasted a few moments and just as I was scrambling in my camera bag for another roll of film, Animal had turned and trotted back to the couch to resume his cat-nap. The same thing happened many more nights that year and Animal reacted the same each time. What is curious, if you cross reference stories about the McGibbon homestead, is that my first major paranormal encounter in the house, was experienced on the back stairs several years earlier, just a few feet from where this photograph was taken. I went through the back door into a dark stairway one night, after working at my typewriter in the attic office, and was preparing to head down one more flight of stairs to a lower apartment,.....when without any warning, I walked into a literal wall of damp, chilled, blinding white vapor......contrasted so starkly from the blackness on this second floor landing. It was quite an experience and is detailed in the larger story about the McGibbon House. I suppose this vapor could have been a repeat performance in a very haunted back section of an historic Bracebridge house. Only Animal knew for sure.

2009-03-10T11:26:00.000-07:00

A Writer’s Contentment in a Haunted Woodlands
On the cusp of Christmas, in 1977, I remember feeling pretty contented as a young man returning to his hometown with a university degree and some ambitious plans. My mother Merle used to remind me I possessed an unusually large volume of "vim and vinegar." I guess she approved of my willingness to try just about anything in life. My first intention was to open up a small antique shop on the main street of Bracebridge, which was done before the Christmas season that same year. The second was to embark on a career in writing. By 1978 I had my first published column in the local press, on the subject of Antiques and Collectibles. I was very soon after, to be part of the founding executive of the Bracebridge Historical Society. Yes, I was reasonably contented you might say. Add to this a future editorship with the local press and a curatorial position with the new museum the Historical Society was about to launch. I was pretty excited about being home. And by the way, at that time, most university grads from our ballywick, didn’t think it much of an accomplishment to finish with a degree and then move back home. I could never understand their reasoning but then I’ve always be particularly fond of home and all its nurturing qualities.
On one bitterly cold evening in mid-December, I decided to take a little late afternoon ski on a newly created trail running from what is known as Kerr Park, adjacent to the Muskoka River. My girlfriend wasn’t coming home from Toronto until later that evening so I thought there was plenty of time for a several mile ski junket to enjoy the Muskoka winterscape. It was beautiful in every way. I stopped frequently to admire the painted winter valley and hillsides.
Growing up in Muskoka I had long been fascinated by forests, lowlands, cliffsides, meadows, and all mysterious natural places. If my mother couldn’t locate me on the first few bellows from our apartment up on Alice Street, she knew I’d be over in Bamford’s Woods next-door, either up in a tree or playing cops and robbers with the local lads. It didn’t matter what season it was....I’d be on a hillside, lowside or any side that had trees, rocks, and a plethora of wildlife in all forms. On hot summer days Bamford’s Woods was always at its most enchanting and it was a perfect place for a daydreaming kid to hang-out with a pop in the cool shade, soothingly amidst that magical trickle of mosaic sunlight coming down through the hardwoods and scraggly evergreens.
I have never looked at such magnificent natural scenes here in Muskoka, and not found them sprinkled liberally with what some would call....the paranormal....not the paranormal that would make you feel anxious or frightened. I have always had a rather curious pre-occupation with what surrounds me on nature walks for example;.....what is it about the environs on that occasion which has made it all seem so welcoming and comforting to a weary, long-travelled soul. I’m the same today and there is still a keen attraction for me, to wander about the vast woodlands in quest of mystery and discovery.....and I’m seldom disappointed. If you were ask me if I’d seen any ghosts on my travels.....I’d have to respond, "Of course." The ghosts I witness are not fantastic or frightening enough for the pulp non-fiction racks at the local drug-store. They are subtle ghostly experiences from the interplay of life and nature on our everyday world......the sensation on a countryside stroll that someone is walking at our side, or that a child’s hand has just then brushed yours.....or that a particular scent of wildflowers and wash of wind against your face has reminded you of a deceased family member, a lover, an old and dear friend who might have walked this same path many times in the past. They are as real as if a textbook-defined ghost met you on a dark corner of winding lane or crept out of an old homestead with creaking door and rattling latch. Just because there is no defining image or reality to photograph doesn’t mean an absence of spirit-kind. By being perceptive, and open to all types of sensory stimulation, you will find plenty of company on your countryside strolls.
On this particular skiing adventure, I travelled eastward along the trail for what seemed to be a distance of several miles but I was enjoying myself so much that I didn’t really pay much attention to how long it was going to take backtracking to the ski chalet. I came through a canopy of snow-laden evergreens on what appeared to be a country lane and into a vastly different topography.....a lowland full of dead trees and a sharp, snowless rock wall marking the most striking contrast in landscape, just to my left..... and straight ahead I could see a thickening of trees on the lane and a substantial hillside, with an even narrower path which a few skiers had passed that same day. Most had stayed below and turned to the left to avoid the climb. At about the three quarters elevation on the icy trail I got my first glimpse of the old farmhouse I had been told existed, although I’d never seen it before.....always quitting the outing just short of this barely visible, grown-over path winding up to the front porch. I must admit it was a striking image on a declining winter afternoon, adorned by the wreath of snow on evergreen and the silver crystals of windblown ice making it appear quite legendary.
I stood just below the house for several moments in awe of this isolated old farmstead, thinking about what it must have looked like when it housed a family so many Christmases earlier......and there was a pathetic, sad aura attached that I have never forgotten more than thirty years later. Maybe it was looking for some memorial it had never received; recognition by someone passing by that there were proud spirits here.....strong, lasting memories, lives spent, emotions expended, new lives commenced and futures determined. If none of the others, who had skied by this place, had felt the presence of the spirit-kind on that old homestead hillside, I most definitely did. In fact I remained at the homestead, on that near-Christmas Eve, until darkness enveloped the landscape, frozen white in history. I could feel the kinship of this ramshackle, half-fallen farmhouse that was emanating from within.......and it was as if this windowless old structure was crying that night.
I had watched the contrasts in the winterscape as it effected the patina of this homestead. From the sparkling sunlight and dazzling diamond prisms of frost-laden air, the homestead evolved gradually....poetically in sentiment, from the reality of its modern dilapidation to, in the late afternoon low-light, looking elegantly mournful......and then in the early evening winter-glow of moon reflecting off the snow, the ghosts of the past floated across this hillside as if butterflies across its spring meadow. On many occasions I thought I saw lights-on in the upper rooms of the house but on closer inspection it was the play of the remaining shards of glass sparkling in the moonlight. I thought there were voices coming from behind me a couple of times, and I assumed that skiers were heading home down the trail. But none ever passed where I was standing. When the wind picked up and sent great sweeping veils of blowing snow across the lowland, and bursting clumps from the towering evergreens, this spot on earth was overflowing with enchantments. I could hear sleigh-bells at one point and singing.....even the sound of pots hitting pots from a busy kitchen, which I later thought was most likely an animal rummaging inside the dwelling. This was the perfect place for the mind to play its tricks. It was perfect for the raising of hob-goblins and wee beasties, and might have been a scene penned by Washington Irving or Charles Dickens. Yet it was an honest experience that made one truly appreciate the dimensions of time and space, light and shadow, and the intricate details of man within nature, normal and the paranormal.
It was a Muskoka scene that has remained with me most of my life and it has been documented in quite a few stories and feature articles published over the past thirty years in a variety of publications. Not because it was the most haunted place I’ve ever witnessed.....but because it was the most haunting place I’ve ever studied.....and not actually having experienced anything that was by itself, proof that something paranormal was indeed going on. This was however, the adventure that made me realize just how incredible the interplay of man and nature, and how we have come to ignore so much of what is important and life-enhancing about the world around us. As Washington Irving portrayed the historic Hudson River Valley as being substantially haunted by a myriad of entities large and small, including phantom sailing ships and their ghostly crews, it was easy, in this snowy, moonlit environs to believe in the interplay of nature on the vast dimensions of the supernatural......such that, yes, this homestead was indeed haunted but not in the way every passerby would agree. No ghost was going to stand there in the centre of the path demanding a toll, or that ominous, ill-tempered entities were going to put fear into hearts by sudden emergence from dark places on this hillside. This was a perception deal. If you were sensitive to the paranormal range of activities, then there wasn’t reason to question the house’s internal unrest. If you were disinterested in anything but the physical enterprise of skiing then it’s unlikely the sight of the old home caused much more than a question about its present ownership or whether it still had an outhouse.
What I discovered on that evening which was much more profound, I believe, than if I had actually come in contact with the ghosts of its Christmas past, was this incredible sensation of the supernatural....... as it related to me in this particular location, at this precise moment, to experience in solitude, history, reality, memory and its sensory stimulation amidst a most powerfully moving and lonely landscape of life and after-life’s "light and shadow." Much like what Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson felt while painting the Northern Lights as they manifested in the autumn over the Algonquin Lakes.....and that admirers of his finished studies would eagerly confess made them feel cold and so very lonely. It was very similar to this homestead scene then, being consumed by winter’s haunting calm.....when for this watcher in the woods, even the sight of a ghostly waif in a pale white shroud wouldn’t have surprised or frightened me. I felt in company of many such paranormal entities on the evergreen-wreathed hillside that night, and never once did I feel unsettled or discontent. They needed to confide in me and I needed to know they existed to my perception.
I skied down the winding farm lane to the connecting trail back to Kerr Park, and felt great awe seeing that barrens of dead trees and cliffside bathed in milky moonlight. It was a Group of Seven art panel I was skiing through....and all that was missing on this night was the howling wolves and blizzard that never came. When I looked back at the old house on the hill, I had come down too far to see it clearly once more, though I do remember offering it a Christmas blessing before I finally trundled off down the icy course. The vision of that house is as clear today in recollection, as it was when I first saw it, in the crisp and clear December light in which it had been so mysteriously illuminated, from the dark and ominous background of overgrown pine and cedar.
Washington Irving once wrote, in his sketches from the 1820's, that while botanists and scientists can reduce existence of one and all, flora and fauna, to a most minute reckoning of life’s components, there is still room for the expectation and imagination of those seeking out enchantments, whether they be the fairy-kind or other.....and noting that it would indeed by a very dull world if it wasn’t for the realm of possibility.....and that one day, while travelling the same woodlands as I, you might find the remains of a fairy ring near the mushrooms, evidence that there just may be things left in this grand old world that still can’t be explained......and that’s all right with us dreamers and intrepid explorers who live for discovery.
I have always believed Muskoka woodlands to be haunted. I will always believe Muskoka to be a very spiritual place on earth. As a writer, in the spirit of Washington Irving, and sharing the vision of artists like Tom Thomson, I will carry on enjoying the permeation of lore and legend and enthusiastically receive discovery when afforded me. While I don’t believe Muskoka is any more enchanted than other places on earth......it is none the less, my enchanted home district and I’m enjoying every moment in its kindly embrace.

2009-03-08T15:42:00.000-07:00

Folklore and traditions brought to Muskoka by settlers -
Part of Muskoka heritage most often forgotten - neglected - dismissed as unimportant

One of the first major research projects I undertook as a fledgling regional historian, was an in-depth examination of the Icelandic settlers arriving in the Muskoka district during the early 1870's.......homesteading in vicinity of the hamlet of Rosseau, on hilly and rough terrain they called Hekkla, also the name belonging to a legendary volcano in Iceland. It has never really been explained to me whether or not this was a reference to a miserable place to settle or it was just a comfortable namesake from the home region. Considering the damage done by the volcano over the centuries to Iceland, it’s somewhat hard to imagine it being an entirely complimentary reference. Possibly it was the case that if a volcano could be dealt with in the homeland, this treed and rocky terrain could be equally accommodated by adjustment and industrious pursuit.
The settlers landed here with very little understanding of the english language and they arrived in a region known for its particularly dense forests. Unfortunately this was not presented to them ahead of arrival. As Iceland’s climate and active volcanoes limited the number of trees in their country, one might imagine their chagrin arriving in the Canadian woodlands in the cusp of a winter season......and seeing vast stands of pine where they had expected clearings and arable farmland. They had been duped by immigration and steamship-line agents, as many significant promises were broken......from provision shortfalls, to non–existent employment opportunities, and claims of large tracts of good farmland.....somewhere beneath those towering pines and the massive web of roots over a thin layer of rock. Some settlers decided to leave, shortly after arriving, but those who stayed created a strong and neighborly hamlet still alive and well after all these years. They used the forests to their advantage and built log cabins and barns, and gained concessions from the government for clearing timber off planned roadways through the region.
Muskoka had many European settlers arrive here in those early years and a walk through some of the pioneer cemeteries will reveal just how many cultures have been represent in this part of rural Canada since the first settlers of the late 1850's onward. What is often neglected by regional historians is that these settlers brought their beliefs and traditions with them, and while they may have been somewhat diluted from the home country, it is obvious when examining the earliest pioneer accounts, that cultural identities, tradition and religious beliefs brought from the so called "Old Country," were important and most definitely part of every day life and times.
And they brought their superstitions, fears, concepts of ghosts, hob-goblins, witches, the devil, fairies, sprites, leprechauns, ogres, trolls.....the list goes on and on. When you seek out a cultural profile of Muskoka you really do have to consider how it all began and although it’s true there has been a decade by decade diluting of those early cultural differences due to generational influences and modern times, it’s important to appreciate how these beliefs and traditions survived in those early years, making the new arrivals to the region feel they had successfully established "home."
Consider as well that the Town of Bracebridge, in the summer of 1864, was named after a book written by American author Washington Irving, creator of such memorable characters as Ichabod Crane, the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle. The book was called "Bracebridge Hall," and is an intertwining collection of stories generated in part from the grand estate of Squire Bracebridge, the steward of Bracebridge Hall.....this being a follow-up book to the original Sketch-Book of 1919, when the Bracebridge family was introduced into the collection of stories stretching from British soil to the Haunted Hudson of New York State. A Canadian Federal Postal authority in the 1860's, William Dawson LeSueur, (also a well known literary critic and historian in his spare time) borrowed the name as a tribute to Irving who had recently passed away, and gave it to the fledgling community informally known as North Falls, situated on a major cataract of the Muskoka River. As for stories of mystery and legend, Bracebridge got a literary bonus being tied to one of the most famous authors in history......and entitlement to this writer’s curious characters such as the good Mr. Crane and the headless horseman......still celebrated by a few loyalists each Hallowe’en. It has only been in recent years that the connection between Irving and the Town of Bracebridge, has been more thoroughly cultivated and celebrated, with annual Bracebridge Hall Christmas dinners being held as fundraisers for the local theatre.....in honor of this international literary legacy. While the connection has been known for many decades, and Bracebridge Hall dinners have been held previously, the connection between author and town has never been a focal point or of much interest. As author of a book on the subject in 2000, I intended to change this apathy and inspire a more thorough appreciation of what such a connection can bestow upon a willing and interested community. While there are still no Irving festivals being planned, there is a gradual opening-up to the possibilities of this important literary association.
There are several historic references to the fears and superstitions brought to Muskoka from abroad, as contained in a number of important early books that I would like to share with readers. The first is a story of fear for the surroundings and this was quite understandable. As I noted with the Icelandic settlers, the Muskoka vista was one of dense bush, deep, dark and threatening. If you happened to believe in the wee beasties and hob-goblins that dwell in such untouched, mysterious places, Muskoka was loaded to the hilt with the stuff of legend.
Consider as well that many pioneers were from well populated centers in Europe, some having never lived or even visited a rural area in their own country. Arriving in what was frequently called "a God forsaken" region, it’s logical that many were not going to survive......and would either flee to the urban landscape, a new "lesser-treed" region, or perish as the government anticipated well in advance of welcoming these new Canadians to the land of adventure. There is clear evidence that the Agricultural wing of government, even by the 1880's, knew full well there would be many personal tragedies in the homestead grant districts, when they decided to open new lands for settlement, and had as much budgeted for "acceptable loss"of homesteaders......only hoping only that there would be more who stuck-it-out, than those who quit or perished. The outcome would determine if this Muskoka district experiment could work in other harsh environs.....where settlers would overcome almost insurmountable odds to build modest farmsteads. Out of exhaustion and trepidation for a hostile environs, brewed a horror for some......in this particular case, a husband and wife (mid 1860's) who had become lost in the haunted woods, as told by author Thomas McMurray, in his book "Muskoka and Parry Sound. Now imagine if you can the outright terror of being swallowed up whole by the wilderness, where settlers were miles removed from one another.....and rescue was only a slight possibility.
Consider the lost couple’s religious and cultural beliefs.......and what else did they imagine was hunting them through the inhabited woods.....other than the obvious flies, wolves and bears.
"Lost in the Woods.....The following was written some years ago (prior to 1870), on the occasion of Moses Richardson and his wife getting lost in the woods; Draper township was then but thinly settled, and the sensation it created in the settlement was intense; I (Thomas McMurray) happened to be one of the part who went in search of the missing ones. Persons unacquainted with the bush should be careful not to penetrate too far into it, unless provided with a compass. ‘What means this blowing of horns, firing of arms, and the off-repeated Hoop, whoo that greets the ear and arrests the attention of every settler?’ A man and his wife are lost in the woods is the prompt and excited reply. How sad is every countenance, how agitated every breast, how anxious every neighbor! The unhappy pair had gone in search of their cattle, mistaken their way, and got lost in the dense forest; with wild desperation they are forcing their way through the thicket of swamp, or ascending the rugged mountain’s brow, or climbing over logs vainly in search of the home they left; but alas they are totally bewildered and every step they take leads them farther from the dearest spot on earth....home sweet home.
"The neighbors now begin to collect from all points of the compass; they form themselves into companies, and decide what the signal shall be in case the unhappy wanderers are found. Animated by a noble philanthropy they start, cheered by the happy thought of saving the lost; for hours they pursue their difficult task; crossing deep gullies, ascending almost perpendicular heights, then going down steep precipices, they onward go; the sun begins to sink in the western sky, the shades of evening fall upon them, the dark curtains of night at length are thrown around them; to proceed further would be folly; in the dark they might pass the objects of their search; an eminence is sought and a fire is kindled, in order to attract the notice of the lost ones; the searchers gather around it; a little bread and pork, with some bright water from the brook that flows at the mountain’s base, form their evening meal; no levity characterizes their conduct; there is but one expression visible on each countenance, and that is sadness; hemlock brush is cut and spread that the weary searchers may rest themselves thereon; sleep is out of the question; their trouble is too deep to enjoy nature’s sweet restorer of balmy sleep. The solemn words, ‘Let us pray,’ for the first time are repeated in this dense forest; and, on the still evening air, prayer ascends to Him who came to save which was lost. (Prayers answered). Here, many miles from any human habitation, prayer for the first time is offered by white men to ‘The Great Spirit,’ the missing ones are not forgotten and earnest supplication is made that God would direct their steps. But what of the poor wanderers? They are weak and faint; hunger drives them to despair and death; death from starvation stares them in the face; the husband, as the only alternative, urges his wife to cut a slice from the calf of his leg in order to satiate her craving for food; but the faithful wife replied that she would rather willingly die with her husband.
‘Moments of anxiety pass, and the long-looked for morning dawns, and the sun begins to peep in the eastern horizon, and after partaking of some refreshment they again start on their mission of humanity; the burning sun beams upon them, they wipe the perspiration from their brows, and the flies from their necks, and uncomplainingly persevere over logs and swamps; now the coat of one of the party is caught on a snag and rent to shivers, while another man’s pants are almost torn from top to bottom. Hark! Hark! The report of firearms informs them of the fact that one of the companies has found the wanderers; all fire off their off their guns in ecstasy and run in the direction of the firing to catch a glimpse of Moses and his wife. Oh, what a sad sight was then presented to their gaze. Poor creatures, how sad their condition, how weak, how changed, what wildness in their eyes; they are mad with fright, and are starving with hunger, as one pipe of tobacco has been all that they have enjoyed for over 48 hours; the realization that they were lost, the fear of death, and the lashings of a guilty conscience for having gone out on the Sabbath-day in search of their cattle......they had been lost once before by disregarding the sacred precept.....remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy; together with their swollen limbs and bleeding forms, completed their misery and made the sight painful to behold; still there was joy mingled with sadness, every eye sparkles with delight, every countenance is lit up with a smile, all share in the triumph, men embrace each other and weep for gladness, while the forest fills with their shouting and rejoicings. A little nourishment having been administered to the sufferers, the friends form themselves in procession and take turns carrying the weak ones home; after reaching the log cabin and bidding them an affectionate farewell, they turn their steps homewards with a murmur, although they have travelled many weary miles by a burning sun, and as they proceed they inform every one they meet of the good news. ‘They’re found, they’re found!’.....and all join in a sincere and hearty ‘Thank God, thank God!’
One certainly gets the opinion after reading this that the Devil was lurking in those forboding woods for unsuspecting, naive, and vulnerable wanderers......who should have been more keenly observing the Sabbath instead.
In another reference, Thomas McMurray does make an observation that hasn’t been repeated in history.....or so as far as we historians know.....and as a mystery of our region, it is most definitely worth repeating. It happened in area of Muskoka Falls, just south of the urban area of Bracebridge, at a cataract on the Muskoka River known historically as the Great Falls.
"The Grand Muskoka Falls are always attractive to tourists, and much admired by the lovers of nature. In the spring of 1866 a scene of unusual interest presented itself. In former years the spray had formed an arch of the Falls but on this occasion it assumed the form of a cone with a crater, and from its mouth the spray came boiling forth in awful grandeur, ascending at least 100 feet. It might be compared to a mighty, massive silver fountain, sending forth its sparkling waters. Any one who has witnessed Vesuvius burning in his fury may form some conception of this grand site. As I gazed upon the scene a double rainbow spanned the Falls; countless icicles were hanging from the branches of the tall pines as they bent gracefully over the cataract, and I wished that the world might be privileged with the sight. I drove some distance in order to get an artist to take a negative but the spray was so great that a good picture could not be obtained."
There was great reverence to the nature of Muskoka that came in a variety of forms, from what McMurray reported about the ice and steam of the Great Falls, to the story of the husband and wife lost in the treacherous woods.....as if the forest was a hungry, malevolent force looking for anyone who did not have God’s blessing to enter.
In another fascinating story of an early pioneer family, and the first significant reference to the paranormal, in this homestead era of Muskoka, circa the 1860's, family historian Bert Shea, in his book, "History of The Sheas and Birth of a Township," includes the following tale of one neighbor’s unexpected favor to another homesteader in distress: (The Coming of the Lovelys, circa 1865, page 70-71)
"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrated to Canada and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to County of York where he traded twelve pairs of men’s hand-made boots for one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railway Station, who from there, having heard the call of free grant land in Muskoka, with his young wife and family of small children joined, in the great move northward, their destination Watt Township and the Three Mile Lake settlement of Ufford. Journeying by rail as far as their iron run, then on foot, carrying their belongings, stopping somewhere within the boundary of Muskoka for a night’s lodging.
"And in conversing with others, someone inquired where his destination lay, to which Pat answered, Watt Township. ‘Ah,’ says his friend, ‘I would advise you to stay away from there; in that Three Mile Lake settlement, there area a bunch of human savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place is known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves and before you is the centre of it. On your way in you will come over Bogart’s Hill and before you is the place known as the Devil’s Den, and the next big hill you look down is Smalley’s Hill, and that is the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. They will poison your cattle, they will burn you out. You will never get along, you are Irish Roman Catholic and they are all Orangemen. A blast like this to a man on his way to a new home, among strangers, a law-abiding citizen and a young family, was a terrible dampner to his aspirations. Pat stood silent and motionless for a short time in deep thought. Then turning around facing the direction of his journey, in a low voice and Irish accent says he...’I’m going anyway!’
"Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skudded across the sky, borne on the northwest wind. Darkness creeping down as he travelled over Bogart’s Hill and through the Devil’s Den. And over Smalley’s Hill into the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves, to the centre of the valley. And wending in the darkness up the brush trail into his little shanty on the hillside, the naked limbs clashed in the wind overhead, low whirling blasts swirled the dead leaves around, the little shanty door creaked as he swung it open to admit the good wife and children. In the dim light of the little lantern he started a fire on the hearth, that brought light and cheer. This was their fair home.
"It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of wind or the night moanings of the trees. And above all the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts of feelings that may have reigned in the heart and mind of Pat Lovely, prayers were said and all was left in the keeping of the Good Saint and the little family slept, as only they of clean conscience and weary from their travel. The morning broke. Pat and the good woman were astir, the children’s voices were heard and little feet pattered about the shanty. The suddenly from the cover of thick bush walked a tall black-whiskered man. He walked directly to the cabin door. Pat met him at the step, he an Irishman whose face wore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to with arms length of Pat and stopped, looking the Irishman in the eyes, extending his hand saying.... ‘I’m Bill Shea. I believe you are Pat Lovely.’ ‘It’s Pat Lovely I am,’ says he, as he slowly accepted the outstretched hand as a female voice from within the shanty proclaimed, ‘May the Gods in mercy give us peace.’
"What else was said we do not know but from that day on the Lovelys and Sheas were the best of friends. This friendship extended from neighbors to neighbors till Pat became the Irish seasoning in a mixed community. But as time went on, he became regarded by some in a very serious way. As one who possessed certain powers that were mysterious, which he could use in different ways. One most talked of, especially by young people who declared to be true, that Pat had the power to put himself in a 45 gallon oak barrel with both ends closed, the only opening being the two inch bung out of which he would talk to them. (He could also place curses if need be, as was the case with William Kay’s pigs that continually got into and destroyed Pat’s potato crop.....a curse that would last 20 years, and cause a decline in the subject pig population)
"The following account is a true happening and known throughout the neighborhood. Though years have passed since its time, the writer has often heard the aged of the community relate this marvellous affair.
"A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had got seriously cut and was bleeding to death. The bed was soaked with blood. All efforts to save the boy seemed to be a failure; he could not last much longer. The father walked out of the house, leaving the mother and the boy alone; as he stood before the door the thought came to him. He immediately called the younger son, a boy of perhaps nine years old, saying ‘Go over and tell Pat to come over here quick....your brother is bleeding to death.’ The young son fleet as the wind, lost no time on the run and delivered the message. As the father of the bleeding boy stood on the door yard waiting to see Pat’s sturdy body coming hurriedly over the fields. But not so; he appeared from the door of his own house. Before the door, he stood looking over to his troubled neighbor for a short time in whose interval the mother of the bleeding boy rushed out the door to the father saying the blood has stopped. The writer heard the father when an old man declared the truth of the whole affair, saying ‘Pat didn’t need to come over. He could stop the blood from where he was and the boy got better."
The stories collected by Bert Shea are some of the most significant cultural records in the district, and his two books contain many important references to tradition, folklore, cultural heritage and both family and regional history.
A Spiritual Place for Some
A well known writer of considerable acclaim told me one day that artists and poets have long found Muskoka a spiritual place. I must have, in some way offended her with rolled eyes or a look of disinterest, because she grabbed my arm and stated once again..... "This isn’t just my opinion.....it’s the opinion of many poets and artists who found this an inspiring location to work," because of some extraordinary spiritual connection you might say. Not wanting to offend her for a second time, I listened carefully to her explanation. There wasn’t really any tangible list of reasons why she believed in its spiritual effervescence but she finally said to me..... "You know what I mean as a writer yourself, don’t you?" I had to think about it for awhile then.....and in fact, it has been on my mind for the past several decades. In my own opinion she had a valid point but it’s just not easy to explain. I’ve always been particularly susceptible to things that abut or enter the paranormal including the sensation of being in a spiritually charged setting. As a self-proclaimed landscape writer, I have experienced many enchantments up close and personal in the past 30 years of hiking the woodlands of this region. While at the time she had caught me off guard, I did understand her reference to Muskoka’s spiritual ambience. If you’re a writer or artist, musician or philosopher, hobby or otherwise, who has sat along the lakeshore on a summer evening, you’ve known then the subtle, haunting heartsong of the angel’s harp, and the gentle ease by which the spirit rises from its mortal host......the subtle enchantment of solitude, and its gentle play on the creative disposition. Yes indeed, I have long known Muskoka as a spiritual place.....and in the coming blog entries over the next few months I would like to introduce you to some aspects of Muskoka’s artistic, paranormal heritage that is avoided by historians.......because it is by far more spiritual than factual......closer to paranormal than actual......and it doesn’t have a cornerstone mounted on the side with a time capsule insulated inside. The stories are just stories but no less important to the cultural heritage of our region of Canada.
Some of this will, in part, pertain to the curiosity and literary provenance of having Washington Irving’s name associated with the history of Muskoka......and as he examined the phantom ships on the Hudson River, a Headless Horseman and the disappearance of the good Mr. Crane, we’ll have a wee look at some of our own home grown phantoms, sightings, meetings, and other "passing in the night" events........a rail employee who was decapitated when he fell from a moving train north of Bracebridge....who may still be looking for his head, to a phantom lady in a Victorian gown who can’t get used to her final resting spot in a Milford Bay Cemetery.....and gets her hem caught on the fence trying to step out of the graveyard......to voices from a burial ground calling to passersby for their attention to their plight. They aren’t frightening stories but interesting tales worth re-telling.

2009-02-27T16:48:00.001-08:00

Sunset encounters with the lone Algonquin canoeist
My very first trip to Algonquin Park after beginning research on the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, began and ended at the Tea Lake Dam. It had been one of Thomson’s favorite fishing locations, from the rocks bordering the rapids below the old dam. When I made my way down to the water-side that first day, it was as if I truly expected to encounter in one form or another,... his spirit, still hovering in the mist prevailing over that peaceful Algonquin alcove of water, rock and forest. It was as if for a moment in time, I was allowed to walk into one of his paintings to see from the inside out, how his inspiration had manifested by brush and paint onto board. I sat on a fallen log for a long while, listening to the gentle wash of shallow water rushing over the rocks mid-stream. When the sun burned away the morning vapor, the sunlight dazzled on the water as if there were diamonds tumbling along in the current. My sons threw small stones into the dark water to watch the splash and ripples generate in the sunglow, and giggled when the chilled water penetrated their shoes.....and toes. It was poetry in art. It was the comforting natural embrace of a most beautiful place on earth.....a place you could not casually dismiss, or forget amidst the memories of a million other visitations abroad over a lifetime. Here was the portal into legend, an entrance I willingly stepped through, in my own adventures into contentment, as author David Grayson once wrote about spiritual re-awakening, and explorations in nature.
I’ve spent many hours paddling the Algonquin lakes visiting places that had encouraged his studies and invigorated his ambition to capture stirring lakeland scenes from sunset and storm to spring re-awakening and haunted, spirit-full forests. On cold autumn evenings my wife and sons would sit for hours watching the fanning colors of the Northern Lights, over Tea Lake, another quality of the environment that had intrigued Thomson. There were friends and admirers of his work, who paid particular attention to his sketches of these enchanted rainbow lights, some remarking to him that the scenes were "cold and lonely" in appearance, and that pleased the artist, as this is what he had intended.
Whether we have been traversing picturesque Tea Lake, Canoe Lake, Smoke Lake or our favorite Rock Lake near the east gate, there is always a wonderful lingering aura of Tom Thomson....and many vistas around these lakes, at all times of the year and day, can remind one in a subtle way, of an Algonquin sketch made by his hand ninety two years earlier.
Those long time admirers of Thomson’s powerful landscapes may agree that Algonquin is forever haunted by his lake traverses by grey-green canoe. Pleasantly haunted of course. Each year there is a Thomson sighting.....a lone canoeist paddling gently, just after sunset, heading toward the watcher, only to disappear as strangely as it first appeared on the horizon. In William Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," 1970, McGraw-Hill, pages 98-100, there is the first reference to the ghost of Tom Thomson.
There were persistent, year after year claims, all part of the escalating Tom Thomson legend, "that former guides had seen Tom in his canoe in various places in the Park. One such experience is described by a prominent summer resident in Algonquin Park only a few miles away from Canoe Lake. Mrs. Northway, her husband, and daughter Mary were vacationing in their beautiful summer home, Nominigan, on the east side of Smoke Lake. They had as their guest Mr. Lawren Harris, one of the Group of Seven’s leading artists and a close friend of Tom Thomson. Miss Northway recounts the following story, written verbatim as told her by her mother in 1931: ‘It was a very calm day last summer when my guide and I had been in a hidden, hill-locked lake, with the most diabolical modern apparatus to ensnare any unfortunate fish who would be taken in by the flashy advertising on a first class, well-hooked spinner. We had been up at dawn, and had travelled from lake to lake across portages which made my city lungs gasp, and over long stretches of still blue water into ponds where lilies bloomed. The winds had slept all day. We had talked through the hours, my guide and I, for he, as he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, could discourse on many a thing and could weave tales of adventure or truth in which the incidents were all seen as under a strong magnifying glass.
‘It had been a happy day and ever so lazy. At dusk we were coming home, tired, rested, and at peace with the world. It was a tremendously still evening, you could hear the silence sing against your ear. The hills made strange, statuesque, figures against the haunting orange of the western sky, while the first star set its light akindle, as an altar lamp of the universe against the canopy of the afterglow. Even my guide’s tales had ceased, and through my mind drifted fragments of harmonies as if heard from a far away cello. Suddenly the voice of my guide shattered the silence. ‘They’re coming out to meet us from the portage.’ And turning toward the sunset I saw a man kneeling in a canoe that slowly came towards us. ‘So they are,’ I answered. ‘I guess we are pretty late.’
‘My guide turned from his course in order that we might better meet our herald, now a little less than a hundred yards away. I raised my voice and called and waved my hand, while my guide kept paddling toward the camper. But there was no response, for even as we looked the canoe and its paddler, without warning or sound, vanished into nothingness, and on the undisturbed lake were only our lonely selves and the shrieking loon." Miss Northway, in re-telling her mother’s story stated that "My father and Mr. Taylor-Statten, being practical people, on hearing the tale insisted it had been a mirage, but Lawren (Harris), a theosophist, was sure it was the spirit of Tom Thomson. His rationale was that those who depart before their time continue to haunt the lands they loved. My mother was inclined to accept Lawren’s interpretation much to my father’s disgust. A point that was much discussed but never settled, was what colour shirt was Tom wearing when he was drowned. (The ghost paddler had been wearing a yellow shirt)"
According to William Little, "This story of the phantom canoeist has become part of the saga of Tom Thomson. Lawren Harris, one of the last surviving members of the Group of Seven (now deceased), verified the above experience of his friend."
Maybe you are reminded of this curious presence while sitting at fireside, when you casually glance out onto the lake to admire the final rays of the July sun disappearing below the evergreen ridge. Possibly the sound of wind etching down across the hollows of the rock landscape, singing through the pines and knocking about the leaning birches, will remind you of a painter once. And maybe it will be the sound of water in the deep of night, lapping at the shore, that reminds you of the mysterious paddler, traversing the dreamy solitude, looking for a kindred spirit to awaken to the legend in which he dwells. It is not disturbing at all, to be in company of such an acquaintance.....enriching the grandness of Algonquin.
I would be delighted, absolutely enthralled, to have such an opportunity, to witness this spirited traverse of a misty Algonquin lake. Yet I have never visited this enchanted region of Ontario, and not, in some subtle way, been reminded of Thomson’s enduring stewardship of these magnificent lakes and forests.
Visit Algonquin Park this season and enjoy its spell-binding ambience. Just watch for crossing moose and other park wildlife. And watch for the lone canoeist!

2009-02-26T07:13:00.000-08:00

Accidental drowning or a case of murder?
The Tom Thomson mystery officially began on July 8th, 1917
By Ted Currie
The water on Canoe Lake this morning mirrors the August sky. There is a deep and limitless blue over silver, wavering in the reflection of paradise on earth. A canoe and paddler silhouettes against the rising sun, as its route crosses a thick background of lush evergreens. It is a haunted lakeland. It’s no wonder Canadian landscape artist Tom Thomson adored this place.
"Mark Robinson (Algonquin Park Ranger) stated that as soon as he heard of the discovery of Tom’s (Thomson) canoe from Charlie Scrim, he began searching the shores of Canoe Lake from Tea Lake dam in the south, up through log-jammed Bonito Lake, a connecting water link between Canoe and Tea Lakes," wrote Judge William Little, in his book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," published in 1970 by McGraw-Hill.
"The search began the morning of July 11th, and continued during the next four days without the discovery of a single clue. A number of local citizens took part in this time-consuming and intense investigation of every bay, inlet, and portage on Canoe Lake. Mark (Robinson), accompanied by his twelve year old son, Jack, traveled miles through the bush as well as back and forth on the portage to Gill Lake, a few miles to the west of Canoe Lake’s southern shoreline," Little notes of the full scale search for Tom Thomson.
"On July 12th George Thomson arrived at Canoe Lake on the evening train. After discussing his brother’s disappearance with Mark (Robinson), who met him at the station, George examined his brother’s canoe and talked with guides and residents of the area. He came to share the general view that it was hardly likely that Tom had come to any grief while on the water, and thought his brother might have left his canoe at a portage while he went to the other side to fish or paint. The mystery was why he would have stayed for so long a period unless he had been hurt or otherwise incapacitated while in the bush."
Judge Little, who had long suspected foul play leading to Thomson’s disappearance, paid attention to the following important details of the failed search: "The guides, particularly George Rowe and Charlie Scrim, were quick to note that Tom’s own working paddle was missing when his canoe was found, and the spare or portaging paddle had been found lashed in a position to portage but had been knotted in a most unorthodox way, as if a much less experienced canoeist than Thomson had tied it. When the guides searched the shoreline they were looking for the working paddle, as well as the artist himself. The paddle was never found which in itself is unusual in view of the concentrated efforts made by the many people working over specific areas. Paddles float."
In the words of Mark Robinson, regarding the failings of the search, "I traveled every day that week in the woods down to the south of us and west of the lake. I covered all that country along with my eldest boy and found no trace of him. I couldn’t find any track or sign of his having crossed Gill Lake. I returned each night and reported to Mr. Bartlett (Park Superintendent). He sent three or four rangers over to help and they traveled the east side of the lake here and the south side, as well as Tea Lake and Tea Lake dam areas. They found no trace of him. Saturday night I’d return late and he (Mr. Bartlett) said; ‘Look Mark, you must be tired traveling so much.’ I said I am but I can still travel more; I’d like to find Thomson. He must have broken a leg or a limb, maybe fallen and injured himself. I have walked all over the bush, I’ve fired shots and I’ve blown my whistle, and he knows my signal with the whistle as well as anyone does, and I have not been able to find him."
In the July 13th issue of the Toronto Globe the headline read, "Toronto Artist Missing In North – Tom Thomson missing from Canoe Lake since Sunday – A Talented Landscapist." The article reads as follows: "Toronto art circles were shocked yesterday at the news received from Algonquin Park that Tom Thomson, one of the most talented of the younger artists in the city, had been missing since Sunday and was thought to have been drowned or the victim of foul play. Mr. Thomson was last seen at Canoe Lake at noon on Sunday (July 8th), and at 3:30 in the afternoon his canoe was found adrift in the lake, upside down. There was no storm, only a light wind prevailing, and the fact that both paddles were in place in the canoe as if for a portage, adds to the mystery… Mr. Thomson carried a light fishing rod and this and his dunnage bag were missing." This contradicts earlier evidence that only one paddle was found awkwardly lashed to the thwart of the canoe.
"On July 14th, George Thomson, in preparation for departure on the evening train, gathered up a number of Tom’s sketches that were among his few belongings," noted Judge Little of the elder brother’s decision to leave before the search had concluded. George Thomson’s departure and removal of some of his brother’s art work continued to be a curiosity to writers such as William Little. It didn’t seem right that he had left Canoe Lake without absolute news regarding the disappearance. George Thomson was fully aware that if his brother had drowned, the body would surface sooner or later, considering the water temperature and conditions of the key waterways. It was one day later in fact, that Dr. Howland, on Little Wapomeo Island, in Canoe Lake, had snagged something or other while fishing, which was most likely Thomson’s submerged body. The next day Dr. Howland spotted something floating in the water in the same general location as his snagged fishing line the evening before. Two local guides passing in a canoe at the time, George Rowe and Lowrie Dickson, were asked by the doctor to check out the object floating in a direct line with Hayhurst Point. It turned out to be the bloated body of Tom Thomson.
What would follow is an impromptu medical examination which would determine that Thomson had been bleeding after falling in the water, meaning it was most likely he had sustained a severe blow to the head but still had a heart beat when he hit the water. There was no water found in the lungs. Yet by Dr. Howland’s autopsy report, the artist had died of drowning. The mystery broadens.
What would be a pivotal decision in the case, was Mark Robinson’s chagrin about leaving Thomson’s badly decomposing body tied to the Canoe Lake shore awaiting the coroner. He paddled to see his superior, Bartlett, and it was agreed an examination and burial that same day, July 17th, should be conducted in respect for the dead. What this did was deny the official coroner, who would come later, the opportunity to examine the body, rather than accepting the autopsy report from Dr. Howland, who had determined the cause of death as accidental drowning. By time the coroner, Dr. Ranney did arrive that same day, July 17, 1917, Thomson had already been buried in the Canoe Lake Cemetery.
Instead of ordering the body be exhumed which he had ever right to insist, he accepted the report of Dr. Howland, and the observations of witnesses at an inquest.
It has long been my own contention, that when those in attendance refused to speak up, after the coroner invited anyone who had suspicions of foul play to present their concerns, the seed of mystery was deeply and profoundly planted in the Canoe Lake community. Many in attendance knew that Thomson was a capable canoeist and the weather of the day had offered no challenge out of the ordinary for such an experienced paddler. They also knew there had been heated words exchanged with cottager Martin Bletcher Jr., the night before his disappearance, at a mutual friend’s cabin; Bletcher suggesting that Thomson should stay out of his way if he knew what was good for him. In fact, the inquest was held in the Bletcher cottager. And no one raised even one concern Thomson could have been the victim of foul play, even though there is evidence some participants in the inquest talked freely of murder once the official part of the meeting had concluded.
If you think the Tom Thomson Mystery is at its end, you’re mistaken. You won’t believe what comes next.
In the meantime, enjoy your travels throughout this beautiful province. Take a drive up to Algonquin Park, and witness for yourself, why the Group of Seven artists found this landscape such a great source of inspiration. But drive carefully and watch for the moose.
Who killed Canadian artist Tom Thomson?
By Ted Currie
The bustle of a summer season in Algonquin Park has become a gentler enterprise around this Canoe Lake community, with the arrival of these first cool days of September. Before the end of this month, the hardwood colors will contrast brilliantly against the evergreens, beneath the calming canopy of azure sky.....beside the tranquil, mirroring water of a legendary Canadian lake, lapping at the bow of a traversing canoe. It is a beautiful time to visit Algonquin.
At this time of year it’s easy to see why Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven artists found Algonquin such a perfect location to paint. Some say that on moonlit autumn nights you can still see Thomson paddling his ghost canoe in those places he haunted during his years living in the community of Mowat. One of his painting colleagues, in a boat crossing an expanse of bay, (sometime after Thomson’s death), claimed he had witnessed his familiar grey-green canoe, and the artist’s silhouette against the last light along the horizon of Canoe Lake. It wasn’t the last sighting either. There have been many since.
It is alleged that Tom Thomson drowned on this lake some time between July 7th and 8th. His body was discovered on July 16th. He was prepared for burial right on the island, and as it turned out, he was buried almost immediately after, on July 17th without a coroner’s inspection of the body.
"The undertakers, Dixon and Flaville, transported the closed casket and rough box to the mainland, where it was placed on an improvised hearse – the Mowat Lodge team-drawn stage that served as transportation for the guests of the Lodge, to and from Canoe Lake Station. It was much more than an open horse-drawn wagon," wrote Judge William Little, author of "The Tom Thomson Mystery."(1970, McGraw-Hill, of Canada, page 61-62). "Due to the rapidity of events and the urgency of an early burial, just over a dozen people attended the interment on the hillside overlooking Canoe Lake, a quarter of a mile to the northwest of Mowat Lodge."
"A hastily organized funeral cortege was headed by the horse-drawn hearse, followed by Martin Bletcher Sr., who was assigned to act as lay minister and read the funeral rites at the graveside; Mark Robinson, Martin Bletcher Jr., his sister Bessie, Mrs. Bletcher, Mrs. Trainor, Mr. Trainor and his daughter, Winnifred, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Colson, a number of Tom’s guide friends, Mr. Charles Plewman of Toronto, and several Lodge guests who were invited to attend. This little funeral party wended its way up the hillside to the tiny Canoe Lake Cemetery. One of the graves dated back to 1897, and contained the remains of a young millhand, James Watson, from Parry Sound, Ontario, who had been killed at the mill on his first day of work. The other grave was that of the young child of a local family, Alexander Hayhurst, buried in 1905 at the age of eight years, a victim of diphtheria. A small picket fence around both plots marked the graves, the only ones known in this area of the Canoe Lake settlement," notes William Little.
It should be noted that Winnifred Trainor was Tom’s girlfriend and it is alleged she was pregnant at the time of Tom’s death. It is also rumored a park cabin had been booked by Thomson for the fall of 1917 as an alleged honeymoon retreat.
One of the sparks of this mystery has always been Little’s contention the body had been hastily buried, possibly to get rid of evidence before the coroner arrived by train to conduct the formal inquest into the artist’s death. He writes, "It has been noted that only a little over 24 hours elapsed between the time Tom’s body was found on July 16, and his burial. The reason for such undue haste is well understood and explained: the state of decomposition was so advanced that the body could not remain unburied any longer than was absolutely necessary. In seeking immediate burial of a friend in such a condition, (Ranger) Mark Robinson did what a sensitive and humane individual might reasonably be expected to do. From a distinctly legal-medical position, the body should not have been buried, however, until a coroner had determined the cause of death, when it occurred and how it occurred.
"The investigation into the death of Tom Thomson was anything but professional or procedural in terms of accepted practice, either at that time or the present. The coroner never saw Tom’s body. No member of his family ever identified or saw his body after his death; although Tom’s brother George, had spent some four days in the area during the search, he did not get to Algonquin Park, nor did any other member of the family before the funeral. Under the circumstances, this was understandable but in no way assists in any appropriate deduction of facts based on accepted practices of normal inquest procedures."
In the words of Dr. Ranney, following the coroner’s report, (keep in mind he didn’t have a body to examine), "There was only one bruise on the right side of the head (as observed by Dr. Howland, who had examined the body after it was discovered), temple region about four inches long. This, no doubt, was caused by striking some obstacle, like a stone, when the body drowned. Dr. Howland swore that death was caused from drowning; also evidence from the other six witnesses points that the cause of death was accidental drowning." Dr. Ranney said at the conclusion of the inquest, "I always like to see a body before making official decisions. However, sometimes it is not possible. This has been one of those occasions."
Those in attendance at the inquest were not unanimous in agreement with the findings of Dr. Howland or Dr. Ranney. When they were invited to speak to the matter however, the room was silent. They openly disagreed with the "drowning" conclusion but let the matter stand, believing they didn’t have enough expertise to overturn the decision of a trained doctor. They were wrong. They most certainly should have noted that Thomson had been in a serious argument the night before he went missing, with Martin Bletcher Jr., and he had warned the artist to keep out of his way if he knew what was good for him." If this had been revealed to the coroner at the time of the inquest, the matter would surely have necessitated exhumation of the Canoe Lake grave. As a matter of some irony the inquest was held in the living room of Martin Bletcher Sr.s’ cottage.
For years there was serious speculation Thomson had been the victim of foul play and most researchers, including Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies, and William Little maintained a focus on several other potential suspects beyond the threats uttered by Martin Bletcher. It is now known that Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser had several spats with Thomson about money owing the artist, and that because of his pending marriage to Winnifred Trainor, the necessity to pool money exacerbated the frayed relationship.
In the next blog in this series, we will examine the circumstances surrounding the mystery-clad exhumation of Thomson’s grave at Canoe Lake, as requested by his brother George, announced on July 18, and conducted by a Huntsville undertaker named Churchill, on July 19th. Churchill was delivered to the site by Shannon Fraser and was left on his own all that night to dig and raise the coffin without assistance. In the 1950’s this same grave was re-opened during an impromptu exhumation by William Little and companions, and the coffin was found exactly as it had been buried with skeleton inside. What had Mr. Churchill removed for reburial at Leith, Ontario (near Owen Sound)?
September is a beautiful month to visit Algonquin Park, the Visitor’s Centre, and of course Canoe Lake. Watch for the moose. Thanks for participating in this latest chapter of the ongoing Tom Thomson mystery.
Frederick Banting and Blodwen Davies researching death of Thomson
Note: As a sidebar to the story of Tom Thomson’s mysterious demise, I would like to include a passage from the biography, "The Side Door - Twenty-six Years in My Book Room," by well known Toronto bookseller, Dora Hood; 1958, The Ryerson Press. In her reminiscences of her many years catering the needs of readers, collectors, philosophers and historians, she notes of one particularly significant researcher and companion, in the following paragraph:
"Fame came, as everyone knows, to Sir Frederick Banting at a very early age. With the perfecting of the discovery of insulin by him in association with Dr. C.H. Best, he emerged from the sheltered life of the laboratory into the turmoil of publicity. When I met him this phase was so overwhelming to one of his nature, had passed an he, through his new friends, the artists of the Group of Seven, had discovered another talent. He revelled in his ability to paint the wild scenery of Northern Ontario and Quebec and this led him to begin his collection of books on exploration. I believe he was happier then than at any time in his short life. Among the friends who influenced his taste was Miss Blodwen Davies. At that time, about the early 1930's, she had won a reputation as a writer on the Canadian scene and was engaged in the task of collecting material for a life of Tom Thomson, the artist who had lately met a tragic end in the northern woods. Many years after Miss Davies told me Banting had helped her in establishing her theory of how Thomson met his death."
What is interesting about this, and the ongoing relationship Davies had with other prominent members of the Group of Seven, throughout her life, including with Thoreau Macdonald, son of J.E.H. Macdonald, was that the "murder" theory she dredged up had apparently upset the same artists she companioned with, including A.Y. Jackson, who never doubted Thomson’s death was accidental.....but the dismay must not have remained for long, as the friendship between historian and artists continued for the rest of her life. Thoreau illustrated some of her books following the release of her controversial biography on Thomson. Thoreau as a boy, had spent many hours with Thomson in his Toronto "shack" where the artist returned each winter to enlarge and improve upon what work he had completed during the spring, summer and autumn season in Algonquin. It was Thoreau and his father who were responsible for the memorial rock cairn to Thomson, situated on Canoe Lake’s Hayhurst Point, overlooking the former community of Mowat. They created the inscription that details the artist’s passion for the Canadian wilds.

Canada’s ninety year old cold case –
Was Tom Thomson a victim of foul play?
"A four-inch bruise or gash on the right side of the temple had been used to support theories that Tom Thomson had been struck with a canoe paddle by an unknown assailant. The fact that one of Thomson’s paddles was missing was put forward as further evidence of foul play. When the body was recovered on July 17, 1917, eight days after Thomson had been last seen, it was reported that fishing line had been tied many times around his left leg and that were was no water in his lungs. To make matters worse, there was also a controversy about Thomson’s true place of burial." page 192, "One Man’s Obsession," by Robert McMichael, (1986 Prentice-Hall, Canada), one of the legendary founders of the McMichael Canadian Collection (Art Gallery) at Kleinburg, Ontario. The co-founder was his wife Signe.
"Thomson was not yet forty years old and apparently in good health, an expert woodsman and canoeist, and a good swimmer. Inevitably, his death on the lake he knew so well gave rise to considerable suspicion and speculation. It had all the ingredients for a mystery which would eventually become part of the country’s folklore."
Robert McMichael notes on page 195 of his biography, in a small section on the life and death of Thomson, that on the night prior to the funeral for the artist, his coffin was "placed in the family parlor by an Owen Sound undertaker. In addition to Tom’s parents and four of his sisters and brothers, Elizabeth, Margaret, George and Fraser, a neighbour and close friend, John McKeen, was present. John Thomson, Tom’s father, asked that the coffin be opened. Although the undertaker was reluctant to do so because the body had been in the water for eight days, Mr. Thomson insisted. A solder seal was broken and the coffin was opened in the presence of Tom’s father and his friend John McKeen. Both men readily identified the body, and, although shaken, John Thomsom expressed relief that Tom’s body had come home. From the time the casket had been opened briefly, Margaret (Tom’s sister) recalled, an unmistakable musty odour pervaded the room."
According to McMichael, "Had William Little (author of " Tom Thomson Mystery") attempted to interview any of Thomson’s surviving sisters or brothers on the subject of the long ago interments, he would have undoubtedly have met the same stoical silence and distaste that Signe and I sensed whenever conversation threatened to approach the painful subject."
Late Autumn, Canoe Lake
At this very moment, it appears as if Tom Thomson’s own poignant brush strokes are creating this powerful clash of wind and current, the ominous bank of dark clouds rolling across the Algonquin landscape, here now in the early hours of this fledgling November. Whitecaps sweep up and along the rising swells, violently consumed again by the frothing, spinning cauldron, restoring itself in the succession of conflicting currents below. When the wind pounds its fury like a fist across this lakeland, it seems to the folklorist, as if Thomson has unleashed revenge for his death unresolved.
The eerie moan of wind etching harshly down over this haunted shore, is the glimpse of Canoe Lake few observe. There are no watchers here now, from this pinnacle above the lake, to witness the rapidly moving storm unclench on this inspirational place on earth. Yet, to this observer, as I expect it was to Thomson, the true measure of storm front, was as beautiful in character and manifestation, as the gentlest, brightest spring day when new life reached up to engage the morning sunlight. Thomson often exposed himself to the rage of an approaching storm, attempting to capture its essence on his paintboards.
As the waves erode vigorously over the rocks that line this point of land, I can also sense the raw, uncompromising beauty within rage, the spirit dwelling between heaven and earth, sending a chill to the very soul of the silent watcher in the woods. It’s as if I am standing here with Thomson, admiring starkness and fury, the violent twist of wind through the evergreens, yet strangely finding peace and tranquility amidst the tumultuous transition of autumn at the first icy grasp of winter.
There is ample evidence that Canadian artist Tom Thomson’s body still rests in the Canoe Lake Cemetery, where he was buried ninety years ago, July 1917. Although it has never been conclusively proven by forensic experts, Judge William Little, author of the landmark book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," made a rather unsettling discovery that placed the deceased artist where he simply..... and according to historic record, should not have been. Little and several mates dug up Thomson’s alleged Canoe Lake grave in 1956. Instead of finding an empty plot, as a Huntsville undertaker should have left the grave after an earlier family-ordered exhumation in 1917, they found a skeleton in a coffin that they adamantly believe belonged to the deceased artist. With a brief forensic examination in Toronto however, comparing photographs of the artist, the experts declared the skull did not belong to Tom Thomson. So if Thomson had been moved to a family plot, in the Village of Leith (near Owen Sound), did undertaker Churchill dump another body in the vacated coffin? Or did Churchill just send a few pounds of Algonquin dirt to Leith, suspecting the family would never open the soldered metal coffin to confirm the corpse’s identity. As Robert McMichael references however, from an opinion given to him in person from Thomson relatives, the coffin had been opened before burial at Leith....and Thomson was indeed within!
When Judge Little’s group exhumed the gravesite in the Mowat site, on Canoe Lake, the fact an occupant was found in a supposedly empty grave confirmed what the party had known for decades. There had been suspicion since July 1917 that the undertaker, working alone exhuming the grave, could not have raised the coffin himself that morning, and by measurement, the tiny amount of newly disturbed earth at the site was enough to raise suspicion Churchill had not fulfilled his obligation to the Thomson family. Yet Churchill had only shifted a few shovel-loads of dirt from the original burial mound. Not nearly the amount of disturbed soil that should have been visible to allow for the removal of an adult size coffin. In 1956, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Algonquin authority at the time, could have demanded a more substantial investigation, as Mr. Churchill was still alive, and could have been thoroughly interviewed regarding the perplexing matter of "one too many bodies." The Thomson family is said to have declined requests then to re-open the grave in Leith, to see if their kin had indeed been moved for that 1917 reburial. There have been many requests over the decades to exhume both plots but family has held to their belief Tom Thomson is resting at peace in Leith.
I have researched this cold-case for well over a decade now and I have held firm to the belief Thomson was a victim of foul play. As it has been revealed in the past few years, the death-bed confession from kin of hotelier Shannon Fraser, implicated not only Fraser but his wife who assisted in the disposal of the artist’s body. It was said in this confessional that an argument had developed sometime before the 8th of July, 1917, regarding money Fraser owed Thomson. It is known Thomson planned to wed later that summer and he requested money owed from the hotelier in preparation for the approaching nuptials. Thomson was pushed down and struck his head on some object either inside the hotel or outside. Thomson wasn’t dead as a result of the injury that apparently only knocked him unconscious.
Fraser went and got his wife, they hauled Thomson down to the dock when it appeared everyone around the hotel had gone to bed, and they prepared to row him, and his canoe out onto Canoe Lake. A guest at the hotel did hear a commotion late at night on the stairs and outside. Thomson’s leg was bound with copper trolling wire and a weight attached to keep the artist on the bottom of the lake forever. The canoe had been made to look as if prepared for travel, and food provisions set in to look as if the traverse to a fishing spot could have been extended overnight. The canoe was rigged according to the perpetrator’s standard, not Thomson’s, and this was duly noted when the canoe was found later, and the peculiarities examined, none of which were characteristic of how the artist prepared his canoe for travel. Thomson and the weight were rolled into the water and the canoe toppled to make it appear a misadventure had occurred.
Judge Little, to the end of his life, believed the smoking gun in this case, was the object Fraser had used to weigh the body down. Investigation into this occurred several years before William Little’s death, but exploratory dives to the bottom, in the vicinity of the lake where the body was recovered, failed to turn up this critical evidence. What Fraser had not counted on was that the current of the water, and rubbing of the copper line against rock as the body twisted and bobbed, would snap the wire quickly, allowing the body to re-surface as it did, almost as it would have naturally during the stages of decomposition. A number of dynamite explosions in the lake were conducted in an attempt to raise the body shortly after Thomson went missing in 1917, possibly adding to the stress on the copper line.
What has always made the Tom Thomson death so curious to me, is this collection of inconsistencies and failures of both the Canoe Lake community at the time, the police, the coroner and those closest to the artist who simply opted to accept the accidental drowning theory, versus pursuing the very real possibility one of Canada’s most promising artists had been murdered. There were those who suspected foul play when Thomson disappeared, and equally there were those who believed evidence pointed to murder after his body was found.
These were the same individuals who refused to address the coroner’s inquest with their suspicions, despite being afforded the opportunity. If even one person in that room, that night, in July 1917, had spoken of a fight Thomson had been engaged the night before with cottager Martin Bletcher Jr., history would surely have been re-inked. The coroner would have had no choice but to order the exhumation of Thomson’s body, which had been buried only hours before the inquest began.
When you consider that there was immediate suspicion that undertaker Churchill had lied about exhuming Thomson’s body, during that midnight dig in the lamplight, it should have been the last straw, influencing one of the silent majority to fess up to suspicion foul play had played a role in the artist’s demise. Yet you must also consider that one of those suspicious of Churchill’s actions was Shannon Fraser, who had other reasons for being concerned about the artist’s whereabouts.
While there was a large amount of hearsay and innuendo that year and for many years after, nothing could make the key players take issue with the inconsistencies. When Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies informed the police of her suspicions of foul play, in the 1930’s, based on this same hearsay, it was quickly dismissed as a matter best left alone. Although she did publish this suspicion in her later book on the artist, the most that came from her inquiry, was the latent inspiration which helped generate William Little’s eventual grave-digging foray, which itself led to an explosive and ongoing interest in re-opening the cold case. Yet, despite the evidence that certainly warranted further investigation, the art community generally and family wished to leave the matter alone, as it has remained ever since.
Despite what the art community considers an historical event and nothing more, wishing not to intrude upon the achievements and integrity of Thomson’s art with the speculations of dastardly deeds and foul play, it is sheer folly to believe for one moment, that the mystery and Thomson’s art, can ever truly be held separate by the biographer. This is especially true for historians who have come to accept that within this important cultural identity, these powerful images and Thomson’s forever haunted character, a mystery unclenches in powerful undertow beneath what appears a calm lake at sunset. Just as this November storm today reminds us of his brush work, with the intertwining of actuality and the unknown, this rugged, exciting scene, and the tumultuous effect of wind and rain, to makes just one clear impression upon the watcher. In this awe of art within nature, we dwell precariously at the mercy of our own fear and trembling. Yet there is joy being here to witness the storm, the soul, the legend.
Thank you so much for joining this lengthy series of columns detailing elements that compose the structure of the now legendary Tom Thomson Mystery. Take a trip to Algonquin this fall and winter, and experience some of Ontario’s most inspiring landscapes. The Algonquin Visitors Centre is open year round, offering a museum display, an art gallery exhibit, book shop, eatery and a magnificent view. Drive carefully, enjoy the view and watch out for the moose.

A Tribute Traverse of Canoe Lake - That Almost Took a Fatal Turn
Since I began researching the mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, in July 1917, we have made many trips up to Canoe Lake from our Gravenhurst home here in South Muskoka. With our two young lads Andrew and Robert, my wife Suzanne and I have enjoyed numerous canoe adventures from early spring to late autumn.....in the winter we often visited the Algonquin Centre. As admirers of Thomson’s Algonquin art especially, traversing Canoe Lake always seemed so amazingly interactive, as if we were studying his art panels from the inside out.
After spending months writing and researching a multi-part feature series being published in The Muskoka Sun, we decided to take one more paddle on Canoe Lake before the warm season ended. When we set out that morning in our old aluminum canoe we call the "Iron Waterhorse," the weather was warm and the water still......a perfect day for a picnic on Hayhurst Point, across from the former village of Mowat, where the Thomson memorial cairn was situated. We had never been to the site and thought it was now appropriate, particularly as the series of columns was reaching its conclusion, to make this pilgrimage to pay our own respects to a talented Canadian artist.
Suzanne paddled at the bow and I took the stern and the boys enjoyed the traverse across an early autumn Algonquin lake. From the Portage Store the paddle took us less than an hour with nary a wave to contend with the whole way. There were many canoes out that morning.....mostly rentals from the store. We landed at the dock and after unloading the picnic gear and the boys, we navigated the Waterhorse to where we could pull it ashore. It was a considerable rocky incline.
We climbed up the hillside and the boys had already landed at the base of the rock cairn which had been constructed shortly after Thomson’s death, to remind people of the artist’s great love for the park and the wilds of Canada. We found a comfortable place to sit and after a period of sightseeing and enjoying the spectacular view, Suzanne set out the picnic lunch. There wasn’t a whisper of wind at this point in the late morning. About mid-lunch Andrew went to the cairn and began tracing out the letters on the bronze plaque with his finger. He read aloud the tribute that had been written by fellow artist and friend J.E.H. Macdonald.......the inscription reads as follows:
"To the memory of Tom Thomson, artist-woodsman and guide who was drowned in Canoe Lake, July 8th, 1917. He lived humbly but passionately with the wild - it made him brother to all untamed things of Nature. It drew him apart and revealed itself wonderfully to him. It sent him out from the woods only to show these revelations through his art - and it took him to itself at last. His fellow artists and other friends and admirers join gladly in this tribute to his character and genius. His body is buried in Owen Sound, Ontario, where he was born August, 1877."
I remember joining him at the base of the cairn and saying something like..... "Be careful Andy, you might raise Thomson from the grave."
I don’t know how long it was from that statement to when I first noticed the wind breaking over the hillside. I know that items were blowing off the picnic blanket and I do recall having to chase my baseball cap across the small plateau. To say this windstorm had arisen from a clear blue sky is truthful. There wasn’t a cloud on the horizon. When we took a look down at the canoe, it was being pushed back and forth at the stern by a succession of white-capped waves now pounding the shoreline. We couldn’t believe the transition. Is it possible we conjured up a ghost in the form of a windstorm by paying our respects to Thomson? It was sudden and severe. When we looked out over the lake we could see dozens of over-turned canoes, paddlers in lifejackets bobbing on the waves. We were hard pressed to help them from our own position. Our canoe offered too much surface area above the water and it was hard to paddle even in a light wind.
We waited as long as we could at Hayhurst Point, and when a lull arrived after about forty minutes, we decided to cross over to the Mowat side and hug the shore up the lake. In the canoe about ten minutes, the raging conditions started up again, and it was everything we could do just to remain upright. We were getting pounded by the waves hitting the shore and then being violently twisted in the roll-back of waves going back out. We weren’t inexperienced paddlers but this was a challenge. We had a hell of a traverse right over the location Thomson is said to have perished, and yes there was a strange aura over Canoe Lake that day. There were countless rescues all over the lake, of folks dumped from their canoes by the unanticipated rough weather. We survived. But after all these years there’s still that shred of wonder......was it a little paranormal intervention, just to let us know he’s still very much a spirit dwelling within Algonquin.
Take a trip up to Algonquin Park this season and see first hand what inspired Tom Thomson. Watch for the moose. Have a safe journey.

2009-02-25T07:46:00.001-08:00

Tom Thomson’s Algonquin was the depiction of the Canadian North
By Ted Currie
March. A tired old winter holding-on. Yet there is the smell of open earth coming from the hillsides where the sun has been strong and kind. There is the potential a mid-winter snowstorm might soon spiral away the bright cheer of this now sunny lake vista, as Algonquin storms are legendary for their suddenness and intensity. The warm bathing sunglow this morning, in a matter of moments, could be swept into obscurity by wind-driven snow and the darkness of tumbling cloud cover. There is an ominous cloud-bank currently rising behind the horizon evergreens. For the moment, I bask here in this spring-inspired morning sun, and think about the artist who painted transitional vistas such as this, and became as much a legend as the Algonquin landscape he documented.
"Thomson’s sketches had developed with breath-taking rapidity for four years. The climax came in 1917 when he began in early spring to paint a daily record of nature’s changing moods and aspects, even to the flowers. By July, he reported his project as virtually completed. The Frasers at Mowat Lodge saw him leaving in his canoe at noon on July 8 for an afternoon of fishing at Tea Lake Dam. The overturned canoe was found later that day, and his body was recovered on July 16. There were many rumors of foul play and much speculation about how the best-known canoeman of the north could have drowned by accident."
The passage above appears on page 275 of the revered Canadian art history by J. Russell Harper, entitled "Painting in Canada – A History."
In 1925, less than a decade after Thomson’s death, art historian, Newton MacTavish, in the book "The Arts in Canada," wrote the following passage about the artist’s impact on a nation, and on the international art community itself:
"Then came suddenly, in 1917, the news that Tom Thomson had been drowned in Algonquin Park. The occurrence meant, as far as art in Canada is concerned, more than might be suspected, because Thomson, although he lived in winter, in Toronto, almost as a recluse, and in summer as a bush ranger, had a considerable following. For he had attacked the north country with a big and exclusive design. And although he did not teach art, his work was an inspiration to others; and if ever it can be shown that there is in Canada a school of art, the beginnings of that school might be traced back to Tom Thomson."
"I could sit down and cry to think that while in all this turmoil over here there is a ray of light, and that the peace and quietness of the north country should be the scene of such a tragedy," wrote Thomson’s colleague A.Y. Jackson, in a letter to associate painter J.E.H. MacDonald, shortly after he had received word of the drowning. Jackson, at the time, was in England awaiting transport to the battlefront in France, to paint the war record of Canadian soldiers in action, during the concluding years of the First World War. "It seems like the reversing of another tie which bound us to Canada, because without Tom the north country seems a desolation of bush and rock. He was the guide, the interpreter, and we the guests partaking of his hospitality so generously given," wrote Jackson in a letter dated August 4th, 1917." (Letter contained in "Painting in Canada – A History" by J.R. Harper)
Although the winter of 2009 had an early but gentle beginning, the late-winter rage has once again defined in sculpture, the dynamic of a Canadian winter. Standing on the shore of Algonquin’s Canoe Lake, you must not dismiss the remaining weeks of winter potential. It is a most beautiful frozen snowscape, sculpted with the heavy snow and windstorms of February. It was a scene Thomson would have approved, and sought out the right vantage point to more poignantly capture the effects of light and shadow, upon rock, windswept evergreens and late winter sky. It is a curious portal from which to view the natural world. It instills upon the watcher in the woods, a comforting solitude yet offers an immense invigoration of the senses. It was a place of great inspiration to Tom Thomson. Ninety two years ago this rapidly rising figure in Canadian art, was about to make his most intense study of the Algonquin re-awakening which would see the creation of many of his finest paint boards, depicting the colorations of this season of dynamic, vivid re-generation. It would end several months later with his alleged drowning, sometime between the evening of July 7th and mid afternoon July 8th, during a undetermined misadventure on this same lake.
Tom Thomson’s reputation as a representative Canadian artist was emerging slowly by 1917 but there are few critics who would disagree, his ongoing success was virtually guaranteed if he had continued painting past that summer. The fact he died on this brink of fame, and did so tragically and arguably with an added measure of inescapable mystery, has become so intertwined over the years, it is impossible to separate the two aspects of insightful art and sudden demise. If Thomson had died of natural causes, much less attention would have been foisted upon his departure from this mortal coil, and all the focus would have been on his life and art. Like finding a jury member uncontaminated by freely expressed opinion or bias of a particular event, finding an art admirer anywhere who isn’t abundantly aware of Thomson’s sudden and mysterious death, is a rarity today just as it was in the years following the Canoe Lake occurrence.
There are steadfast art historians who wish to remove the circumstances of his death well away from the interpretation of his art panels. Yet a few hale and hearty avengers, in the study of Thomson’s death, feel it is now an inherent, important patina of his work; not to take away from his artistic capability but as a legend within that begs us to take a second look,...... at not only his art but the mortal who so capably captured Algonquin’s natural, supernatural essence. I could stand on this frozen shore all day, feeling the company of Thomson’s spirit. I can easily imagine what it must have been like in that spring of 1917, when the artist first arrived to see that year’s spring emergence from the frozen, barren landscape. He found great beauty in this transition and re-generation of the lakeland.
There are those critics now, just as there were in 1917, and in all the years following his alleged accidental death, who flatly refuse to have anything to do with the so-called "Tom Thomson Mystery," so poignantly and intelligently presented by Judge William Little, in his well known book of the same name. It was the research-based text which formally introduced the full scope of the murder scenario to the Canadian public. His work inspired a landmark CBC film documentary which left little doubt, murder theorists had a great deal of corroborating evidence. In fact, it has been the deniers themselves, who have raised suspicion moreso than the foul play proponents, by their outright refusal to discuss the possibilities,...... on the grounds that it has no business in the discussion or consideration, now or in the future, of Thomson’s body of work. They believe, just as his associate artists agreed in 1917, that the memory of Thomson was not best served dredging up all kinds of nasty allegations warranting unwanted editorial coverage. As this was a profound and purposeful effort to disassociate Thomson from anything criminal, it smacked of a cover-up from the beginning, as uncovered fully by William Little in the late 1960’s. It wouldn’t be the first time that an intentional covering-over of an event, or crime, doubled or tripled the attention of the curious. Dogged investigators couldn’t help but wonder why clear evidence, on the case, was not provided during that summer’s Coroner’s Inquest, held at Canoe Lake.
Many of the participants in the room at that time, suspected Thomson had been murdered but declined to raise their suspicion to the Coroner when given the opportunity. From the day Thomson’s overturned canoe was found in Canoe Lake, the mystery commenced. It wasn’t solely inspired by biographer Blodwen Davies, in the late 1920’s, who was the first to suggest to the public, foul play was the most likely cause of Thomson’s death. It didn’t arrive at the time an impromptu exhumation of Thomson’s first grave, at the Canoe Lake Cemetery, turned up a coffin and skeleton that wasn’t supposed to be there, and it certainly wasn’t created just by the release of the Tom Thomson Mystery. The mystery, and the patina ingrained in the work of Tom Thomson, began moments after his body was found and the rumor mill commenced its momentum of speculation......which has perpetuated through the decades.
In fact there is ample evidence discussion about murder, was taking place before Thomson’s initial burial, prior to the Coroner’s inquest, and those stories carried on from that point, spun and embellished as they become generation to generation. Even if a writer had not touched the story in those early years, it would have emerged into the public domain sooner or later. Too many people had suspicions and were willing to talk about it, or Davies would have had no reason to involve the police in the case in the late 1920’s, during her work on Thomson’s biography. She found numerous individuals in the Canoe Lake community, willing to talk about the possibility a crime had unfolded in the circumstances surrounding Thomson’s death.
One might reasonably conclude there was unresolved guilt, held by many friends of Thomson, who had failed to defend the artist’s honor when afforded the opportunity. They attended the inquest and held their peace so to speak, instead of confessing their suspicions. I’ve heard handed down stories even this past year, from a resident on Canoe Lake, offering unfaltering opinion Thomson was indeed murdered, and the killer was Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser. Whether it was Fraser or not, who had a hand in Thomson’s demise, this will be the mission of discovery for a future column. Were they scared of the consequences of fessing-up? Was their bond with the alleged killer stronger than their friendship to Thomson? We’ll examine these questions in future blogs.
It’s getting colder here now and the wind is slicing painfully through my jacket. It has been an invigorating visit to the shore of Canoe Lake, one of my favorite places on earth. Take the time this summer season to visit Ontario’s Algonquin Park, and the legendary Canoe Lake.
Who murdered Tom Thomson?
Ninety two years since artist’s tragic death on Algonquin’s Canoe Lake
It’s only the first of April but there are clear signs here at Canoe Lake, that the Algonquin landscape is ready to burst with spring rejuvenation. The sunglow off the remaining snow-crust is blinding. The sound of tiny cataracts of run-off water is a pleasant harbinger of spring, as are the bird calls and the sign of fresh animal tracks in the decaying mantle of winter snow. I wonder if Tom Thomson might have found this re-emergence of the lakeland worthy of study? A sketch possibly.
In the spring of 1917 he arrived at Canoe Lake, to watch the spring season unfold across the Algonquin Lakes. He found it an interesting season, the summer being too green and lush to give him the color contrasts he found with a barren forest, and a rugged, craggy lakeshore. The spring sky. The powerful storms that etched across this Canadian landscape. He had eager expectations for the spray of vivid colors, associated with the first wildflowers to arrive in the warming soils of the open areas, on the fringe of the forest and bordering the grassy lowlands.
Ninety-two years ago Tom Thomson would have touched this spring released water, and witnessed this heavenly sky backdropping the rich hue of evergreen, the grey of rock against the rising pulse of dark current, tumbling deeply within this legendary lake. I can’t help but to crouch now, out of respect, to touch this water along the beach, just as Thomson would have, when launching his canoe nine decades ago this year.
The purpose of this blog series is to address what I believe has been an injustice to the memory of a great Canadian artist. When I began my inaugural investigation into his death, I attempted to research my way past the accepted conclusion.......to discover something, anything, a trivial detail overlooked by countless others that would help disprove the theory Thomson had drowned accidentally. Most of the reference books about Thomson have been steadfast regarding the circumstances surrounding his death. Accidental. I have felt it was somewhat insulting to assume that Thomson, on an otherwise clear, still day, could have drowned by misadventure, within calling distance of shore. To suggest, as some have written, Thomson was drunk when he left shore, doesn’t fit his profile that summer. As for him having a pee mid-lake, and subsequently toppling out of the canoe, this is on the very edge of ridiculous. There were cottages and folks all over that shoreline, certainly at the time he was alleged to have traversed the lake, so relieving himself wasn’t within character for such a chap known widely as a gentleman.
Bandied about even up to the mid 1990's, is this unfounded, grasping-at-straws assessment, Thomson had toppled out of his canoe while urinating clumsily mid-lake,....... hitting his head on the gunnel of the vessel on the way down into the lake. It is also alleged he was more than a little tipsy before relieving himself, due to the flask of alcoholic beverage he consumed earlier. Most authors stick to the results of the coroner’s report of 1917, which is, in my opinion, a breach of investigative protocol because any one who has studied the events surrounding, and during the inquest, realize justice was not entirely served. So those Thomson biographers who side with accepted opinion, decided to conclude that death was indeed due to drowning, foolishly agreeing with an incomplete inquest.
Blind acceptance of the inquest’s ruling by Thomson researchers to this point, is evidence these authors have dismissed his death as being of little overall importance to the study of his contribution to Canadian art. A few intrepid Thomson admirers have thought enough of the artist to commit to a full and complete investigation; just as Judge William Little detailed in his book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," and Blodwen Davies before him, in a biography she was writing on Thomson (during the late 1920’s, published in early 1930). Both believed the inquest was shallow and information about the days leading up to his death, and conflicts with area residents, was negligently withheld during the official hearing. The coroner did not have all the information required, to without doubt, attribute Thomson’s death to drowning.
Here’s what’s wrong with acceptance of fact as presented. Canadian art history has been influenced by the mystery from the moment Thomson’s body was found in July 1917, and word initially spread around the Canoe Lake community about the loss of their so-called friend. Even then his mates and even a few enemies pondered the cause of death, and no one (except the Coroner later) believed Thomson drowned. They knew him to be, at the very least, a competent canoeist, who could handle adverse conditions and even an occasional topple-over into the lake. During the day he was supposed to have disappeared, it’s unlikely he would have been under the influence of alcohol, and because it doesn’t take long to get from shore to shore, Thomson had very little reason to relieve himself awkwardly balanced in mid lake, where his body was eventually found.
When the coroner that July did come to the hamlet of Mowat, on Canoe Lake, to conduct the specially called inquest, the examiner discovered Thomson had been buried earlier that same day in the local hillside cemetery. No body! Just the observations made by a doctor, not a pathologist, who originally spotted the floating body, and who later conducted an impromptu lakeshore examination. The body was never taken to dryland for proper examination and in fact, he was prepared for burial, including embalming, right on the island shore where his body had been hauled-upon the day before. So for every author-historian-biographer who has decided to adopt the accidental death theory, and include it for the ongoing distortion of historical record, this is the reason a wrong must be corrected. Thomson did not die as a result of drowning.
Thomson while an emerging talent on the Canadian art scene, by the summer of 1917, was also embroiled in a few personal conflicts, which some well known authors believed could have inspired thoughts of suicide, although this has received thin investigation over the decades. It has also been revealed by an historian in Washington State that Thomson, during his stay there with a brother working in the commercial art discipline, may have generated a child with a prominent Seattle family, and then been forced to make a hasty retreat back to Canada. It has long been alleged that he had another child on the way with a local Huntsville woman, and there is evidence he was preparing to enter into marriage to make the situation right. It is said he reserved an Algonquin cabin as a honeymoon retreat for later that summer season of 1917. It is also known Thomson was in some financial peril despite the fact some of his work was selling and he was living frugally in Mowat. There are a few biographer "busy-bodies" who believe Thomson was owed money and that tension was building over several weeks that spring season, as he made demands for re-payment.
There are literally hundreds of details concerning Thomson’s final days and demise that require forensic scrutiny. After reading every book, article and document I can find about Thomson, and his painting during the spring and early summer of 1917, one can ascertain that he was both content and prolific at his art work, producing many paintboards, and feeling satisfied he had captured the spring re-awakening in Algonquin.
What is also well established is that he could be argumentative and drinking possibly too much for his own good. The evening before he is said to have drowned, he had a serious dispute with an American cottager, Martin Bletcher Jr., which ended with a modest amount of pushing but no actual fisticuffs. Bletcher was considered a suspect in Thomson’s death shortly after the body was recovered. First of all, those who were in company with the artist and Bletcher the night of the argument, remembered the cottager telling Thomson to stay out of his way, if he knew what was good for him. Secondly, it was Bletcher who first spotted Thomson’s over-turned canoe but did not report it immediately to Algonquin authorities. He claimed that it was not uncommon to find overturned canoes in the lake, many having accidentally drifted away from encampments. It was pointed out to Bletcher, by some of his neighbors that only Thomson’s boat had that particular hue of (oil paint) green attached, noting that no one could have mistaken the overturned canoe for anyone else’s property.
It was also rumored about difficulties manifesting between Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser and Thomson, who resided frequently at the hotel, regarding money owed. I’ve heard both sides, one that Thomson owed Fraser money for lodging and supplies and had refused to make restitution. Other sources have explained it was actually Fraser who owed Thomson, and that because the artist needed the money to proceed with the wedding that fall, the requests for payment became more rigorous. Today it is pretty much accepted thought amongst those who disbelieve the drowning scenario, (despite the accidental death theory mainstream authors continue to publish as fact) that it was Fraser who killed Thomson. Not on purpose, but the end result of a brief, violent skirmish, when Thomson fell in the midst of physical conflict, and struck his head on a stone hearth. As "dead-men-tell-no-tales," Fraser decided to dispose of the body and make it appear as if the artist’s disappearance was the result of poor canoemanship.
A death-bed statement by kin of the Frasers, of Mowat, claimed that Shannon and his wife, in the wee hours of the summer night, dragged the artist’s unconscious body out on the dock and rolled him into the canoe. They then tied their rowboat to the canoe and propelled themselves through the darkness toward a mid-lake target-site to purposely overturn the canoe. What is revealed by William Little’s book is how inept the Frasers were in replicating the canoeing habits Thomson employed, including how one paddle was awkwardly lashed to the thwart and a second paddle that was never found despite an extensive search.
Within only moments of seeing the evidence and visible tampering, and then the condition of the artist’s body, the guides who attended Thomson did not believe it was in any way accidental drowning. Consider the fact that the impromptu autopsy on the island shore, determined that Thomson was still bleeding when he went into the water, not being quite dead when unceremoniously abandoned to the bottom of Canoe Lake.
The mission of this multi-year research project regarding the death of Tom Thomson, is not to sensationalize his death. It is however, to refute completely the idea the artist was the victim of accidental death. In this the 92nd anniversary year of his demise, it is a fitting time to set the record as straight as it can be, without going the complete distance and having his body exhumed for forensic investigation; which would be a much more precise examination today with DNA profiling. Keep in mind there are two graves, one in Algonquin and one in Leith, Ontario, said to possess the artist’s remains. One body, two graves. This is going to be an exciting series of feature blogs. Don’t miss a single one.
In the meantime, make a point of visiting Algonquin Park this summer season, especially this beautiful area of Canoe Lake. There’s lot to do up here, particularly the museum display at the Algonquin Visitor’s Centre. Drive safely and watch for the moose!
92nd Anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death
The spring of 1917 gave Thomson the perfect Algonquin study
I so clearly recall the restorative, invigorating freshness, the post-ice chill of water that day, as I experienced my first touch of the legendary Algonquin Lake. I had spent all that winter season reading about Canadian artist Tom Thomson, and his outright joy living and working in this beautiful and enchanted place. Kneeling down to let the water run through my fingers connected me at last, to one of Canadian history’s most enduring mysteries. How did Tom Thomson meet his end? Was it an accident? Or was it Murder?
My first adventure to Canoe Lake was the beginning of an enduring relationship for our entire family. From the first touch of the lake which we all participated somewhat ceremoniously, on that particular spring day, we have camped, paddled, hiked and motor-toured through the park each season of the year. We would be hard pressed to tell you which season is most impressive, each being magnificent with its own natural adornments. You won’t find a landscape more spectacular than looking out over an Algonquin lowland after newly fallen snow. Just as compelling is the fabulously colored autumn landscape, and then the lush greens and heavenly blue skies of a hot July.
For Thomson, the spring regeneration was an important season to study. He wasn’t particularly fond of a green landscape prevalent in the summer months, so the spring season offered the visual contrast of a stark topography left by recoiling winter, yet the daily rejuvenation of plant life and hardwood foliage across the lakeland. It was in the spring of 1917 that Thomson made an impressive, profoundly ambitious attempt to capture the re-awakening Algonquin woodland. He put together a much more rigorous painting regimen than was his hallmark as a painter, in Algonquin, during the years previous. At the time of his death it is said by some biographers and critics that he had just about wrapped up a complete study of the spring season and was painting less and fishing more. It was as if he appreciated his mission had been successful. A few writers with paranormal overtones believe Thomson was tidying up his painted biography on the brink of his own anticipated demise. There has long been the suggestion Thomson may have taken his own life, although I’m not one who believes this assessment.
Thomson was particularly concerned about the accuracy of his depictions. He demanded the colors be realistic. It is said that when someone would remark of a finished paint board, the colors of a flower, for example, reminded them of a patch of wildflowers they’d seen on a walk, he would appear delighted to hear he had captured the correct hue. When someone would say that his painting of the Northern Lights made one feel cold and alone, he was equally enthralled, as it was very much his intent with the painting, to inspire a spiritual awe in the presence of something so awesome. When a park ranger approached Tom Thomson, while painting a scene from an island on Smoke Lake, and commented that the art panel clearly reminded him of all the natural attributes witnessed while traversing that part of the waterway, the artist invited the gent to partake of a freshly baked blueberry pie; made by Thomson in a crudely fashioned reflector oven.
Thomson had his critics who didn’t care that he was an artist and who wouldn’t have taken a panel if afforded one as a gift. Some acknowledged him when an impromptu meeting took place in Mowat, on Canoe Lake, or on one of the many portages in the vicinity. He wasn’t a friend to all. Thomson was opinionated, some said he was arrogant and argumentative, and a few others make mention that he drank too much and wasn’t beyond becoming physical if that was demanded to defend someone’s honor. Most who knew him felt that he was pretty average. He was generous to those he respected and was well known for handing over studies to those who remarked about liking the art panels. He gave away many paintings, some to people who he believed could benefit sometime in the future, by selling the subject painting.
When Thomson got into a heated argument with Martin Bletcher Jr., on the night before he went missing, it wasn’t an event that stirred much interest amongst the cronies at Mowat. In fact it didn’t even get one moment of scrutiny at the inquest into Thomson’s death, even when the Coroner asked whether any one (of many in the room) had information relevant to the artist’s mysterious demise. Afterall it was noted on initial inspection of the body by Dr. Howland, that Thomson was still alive after disappearing down into the black lake, as he continued to bleed from his ear. Corpses don’t bleed as such.
So seeing Tom Thomson in an argument of one kind or another, as others participated as well, didn’t spark any particular sentiment that this was an isolated or unusual event.
It is reported that Bletcher, a German-American, who cottaged with his family on Canoe Lake, had a disagreement with Thomson regarding events and involvements of the nations embroiled in the ongoing battles of World War. Thomson was said to be sensitive about the war effort, and about his inability to join the ranks of Canadian volunteers because of problems with his feet. Many of his artist colleagues had gone overseas to paint the events on the battlefields, and it was felt by some biographers that Thomson felt guilty at not having a role to play abroad. The context of the argument is largely speculation although at the conclusion Bletcher did warn Thomson to stay out of his way in the future, if he knew what was good for him.
There are others who knew there had been an ongoing conflict over money, going on between Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser and Thomson, and that it was also at a precarious level prior to the artist’s disappearance. The coroner heard nothing of either conflict at the inquest, even thought there was ample opportunity to raise the matter. It is known that there was grumbling and hearsay before the inquest, even in whispers while it was in session, and again after it was over, something that was picked up by Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies more than a decade after the death. She was so certain that the police would want to know about this now seasoned rumor of foul play, that she helped open up a cold case file. It was quickly dismissed and the file shoved back into the obscurity from which it was "dredged-up," a reference made by some members of the Group of Seven artists upset by Davies’ murder allegations regarding their colleague, Thomson.
In the coming blogs in this series, I will present some of the key facts of the Thomson mystery you are currently not aware, so that you can decide for yourself if justice was served in 1917, when the Coroner, without a body to examine, declared his death was the result of accidental drowning, a shortfall of criminal inquiry that has haunted this case for the past 92 years. And we’ll try to determine Thomson’s final resting place. Currently he is said to reside in two graves. The Thomson family believes he rests in a small cemetery in Leith, Ontario (near Owen Sound), and others believe he was never exhumed and moved in July 1917 (by order of Tom’s brother George after the initial burial), and still rests in vicinity of the old village of Mowat, Canoe Lake. We know for fact there is a skeleton buried in Thomson’s original casket at Canoe Lake, as it was uncovered in the 1950’s by a group of men including Judge William Little, author of "The Tom Thomson Mystery."
Take a motor trip up to Algonquin Park this spring, and put your feet into the sparkling waters of Canoe Lake. There are great places to dine, to hike, swim, canoe and observe. Don’t miss the opportunity to visit the Algonquin Visitor Centre Museum and Gallery, on the way to the East Gate. It’s great for the kids, and there is an impressive Tom Thomson exhibit.
Drive safe, watch for crossing deer and moose, and enjoy the wonderful view!
92nd Anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death -
Was it a case of murder or accidental drowning?
If you haven’t experienced a sparkling June day in Ontario’s Algonquin Park, you’re missing one of life’s truly amazing adventures. Here now on the shore of Canoe Lake, the water laps soothingly up over the sand in a gentle rhythmic wash. There are canoeists preparing for day-trips from the Portage Store dock, and voyageurs checking into the park office to register camping trips into the interior. Those having breakfast in the café above the lake, have a fantastic view of the bay and the expanse of this historic Algonquin waterway. I’m here now because of my interest in the Tom Thomson mystery. My wife calls it my obsession. My boys Andrew and Robert don’t really care why they’re in Algonquin, just that we are afforded two canoes and provisions for a day on the water.
It has long been considered fact that legendary Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, drowned in Canoe Lake on July 8th, 1917. It is also recorded that Canoe Lake Hotelier Shannon Fraser saw Thomson alive, "and even checked his watch – 12:50 p.m. – as Thomson set off in his canoe from the Mowat Lodge dock," notes author Roy MacGregor, on page 287 in the softcover reprint, (re-named) edition of "Canoe Lake," formerly known as "Shorelines," an historical novel that came the closest, at the time, to the personal details surrounding Thomson and his love interests that fateful year.
"The presumption has always been that Fraser was the last person to see Thomson alive, and, in fact, the death of Tom Thomson has always been recorded as July 8, 1917. What, however, if Thomson had returned from his afternoon fish and the fight happened on the eighth," asks MacGregor, in the final pages of his book, which updates research into the circumstances surrounding the artist’s mysterious demise. "All Daphne Crombie (a guest at Mowat Lodge) knew was that Tom had gone missing, and since Fraser and (Mark) Robinson (Algonquin Park Ranger) claim they’d last seen him around noon on the eighth, she would have assumed that the fight Annie referred to had occurred the previous evening. Thomson’s canoe, however, was not reported missing until the ninth, and not found until the following day, July 10th. While Robinson’s sighting of Thomson has been used to disprove Crombie’s contention of a fight the night before Thomson went missing, it is entirely possible that both were right if, in fact, Shannon Fraser was lying about the last time Thomson was last seen alive at Mowat Lodge. He may indeed have checked his watch at 12:50 p.m. on July 8, as Thomson paddled away. He may also have had his argument with Thomson later that same day, following Thomson’s return to the Lodge." (2002, "Canoe Lake," Roy MacGregor, McClelland & Stewart, page 287)
Roy MacGregor’s novel, "Shorelines," originally published in 1980, was one of the first books I was told to read, by a book shop owner also interested in the Tom Thomson Mystery. He suggested that MacGregor’s fictional account was particularly close to what had actually happened in both his native Huntsville, in and around 1917, and the circumstances enveloping Thomson in the Algonquin community of Mowat. By MacGregor’s own admission, revealing his own family connection to the Thomson story had a number of personal consequences. "When this book was first published in the spring of 1980, there were still people alive who had known Tom Thomson and had been at Canoe Lake that fateful summer of 1917. I personally know nothing of what happened. I only know, for sure, that this book so upset certain members of my family that it cost our relationship. I understand their response. These are disconcerting speculations, but they can not be ignored if sense is ever to be made of what happened that warm July at Canoe Lake." (Canoe Lake, pg. 289)
If you are interested in knowing more about the final days of Tom Thomson, and wish to be introduced to the characters that played important roles in his life at the time, Roy MacGregor’s book is a necessary beginning. It has long been considered, even by some oldtimers in this region of Ontario, to be a fair account of what actually took place in that last year of Thomson’s life. This book is still available at new book shops, and you can find a copy of the 1980 novel "Shorelines," on either the Advance Book Exchange or in the Out of Print section of online Barnes & Noble.
"Exactly how Tom met his death probably no one will ever know. The following is the account given me (William Little – author of The Tom Thomson Mystery), by Mrs. J.S. Fraser, 1953, with whom Tom was living at Canoe Lake when the tragedy occurred. Tom was staying at Mowat Lodge. On Sunday, July 7, 1917, he made preparations to go to Tea Lake dam to fish, and he left with his lunch at about 1:00 p.m. Mr. Fraser last saw him as he was letting out his copper fishing line while paddling through the narrows to the right of the twin islands. About 3:00 p.m. when Martin Bletcher and his sister Bessie went down the lake in their little put-put motor boat, they saw Tom’s empty canoe drifting near the far end of the second twin island (belonging to Dr. Bertram and Mr. Pirie). They did not stop but on their way back they towed Tom’s canoe to Mowat Lodge and put it in their boat house. Nevertheless, they did not mention the fact, probably thinking it belonged to the hotel on Joe Lake. (Thomson’s canoe was of such a color, nobody who lived on the lake could have confused ownership) Tuesday morning Charlie Scrim discovered Tom’s canoe in Mr. Bletcher’s boat house, and then the hunt for Tom began. (Mrs. Fraser’s account has inconsistencies). The canoe contained Tom’s lunch, some supplies, and cooking utensils, which Tom always carried, while the paddles were placed as if for portaging but this could have been done by Martin Bletcher to hold them in place. The copper trolling line was missing." (Page 220, The Tom Thomson Mystery," William Little, 1970 McGraw-Hill). A question that was never put bluntly to Bletcher was whether or not he knew it was Thomson’s canoe, by its peculiar color (Thomson is alleged to have used his oil paint to color the hull...green). According to Thomson’s close friends there was no way anyone on Canoe Lake could have mistaken the artist’s boat, including Bletcher. Finding Thomson’s canoe adrift should have caused Bletcher, and his sister (also in the boat) to report the event right away, sensing a potential serious misadventure.
One of the most important books regarding Thomson’s demise is the sleuthing expertise of William Little, who takes what Fraser stated above, and the observations of many other witnesses, known facts and events surrounding the mysterious death, and presents a compelling argument that the artist was not the victim of accidental drowning but indeed had been murdered by someone in that Canoe Lake community, whether it was Martin Bletcher Jr., as suspected for many years, or Shannon Fraser, the Mowat Lodge proprietor. This book is also available through online out-of-print book sellers, such as "ABE" and others, should you be interested in reading more about Little’s sleuthing.
"Thomson got his canoe ready for the trip (Sunday, July 8th, between noon and 1 p.m.), and stowed away food and utensils for a meal or two. He had no bread at the cabin so he drew up at Mowat Lodge dock, while Fraser went up to the store for a loaf. Thomson tucked it away under the bow. The morning had turned grey. There was a light east wind blowing, with a drizzle of rain. Thomson bid the crowd that had gathered on the dock a gay farewell and in a very engaging mood set out on his mission," wrote noted Canadian biographer Blodwen Davies, in her 1930’s privately published text simply titled "Tom Thomson."
"Mowat Lodge stood on the shoreside of Canoe Lake. A short distance down the lake and separated from the mainland by only a narrow channel is Little Wapomeo Island, the property of Taylor Statten, who had a cottage on it. At the time the cottage was empty. The channel between the island and the mainland was choked with drowned timber, so Thomson paddled around to the east of Little Wapomeo and its sister island, Big Wapomeo, apparently with the intention of hugging the main shore until he came to the portaging place by which he would cross over into one of the little lakes where big trout were to be found," writes Davies. "When Thomson did not return that night, there was no alarm on the part of any of his friends. If they discussed it at all, they must have concluded that the fish were not biting and that he was challenged to continue. He had food and a ground-sheet."
"The Coulsons of Algonquin Hotel, at Joe Lake, had reported a canoe missing from the foot of the portage at Joe Lake Dam. On Monday morning, (July 9) Martin Bletcher Jr., one of the campers who lived near Mowat Lodge, reported that on Sunday afternoon (July 8) he had seen an upturned canoe drifting between Little Wapomeo and Big Wapomeo, which might be the lost Coulson Canoe. Charlie Scrim, of Ottawa, another camper, and a friend of Thomson, paddled down to have a look at it. There was consternation when he returned and reported that the canoe was Thomson’s. Thomson’s friends were puzzled. That some mishap had befallen him was evident, but the idea of drowning they did not entertain at all. He was too expert a swimmer to come to grief there. The only possible explanation was that he had landed somewhere, gone inland and had an accident – broken leg, perhaps, and his canoe had in the meantime drifted free. A search was organized to cover the adjacent woods and the news was sent out that Thomson was missing." (pg. 95-96 "Tom Thomson", Blodwen Davies).
"The cottage on Little Wapomeo had been rented and just after Thomson’s disappearance, Dr. Goldwin Howland took his family there from Toronto for the holidays. The weather continued to be wet and grey and the newcomers had to keep to the island. The morning of Monday, July 16th, was a little brighter and Dr. Howland took his small daughter out trolling on the lake. It was about nine o’clock when the child felt something heavy on the end of her line," reported Davies. Dr. Howland’s daughter had snagged the body of Tom Thomson. Davies asked the question, "Did Thomson’s body take eight days to rise in a shallow lake in the middle of July?"
It is suspected, by the length of copper line wrapped around Thomson’s ankle, that his body had been connected to some heavy object, to keep it from surfacing naturally, which would have taken less time in, as Davies describes, a shallow lake in a warm summer month. It is likely the copper wire rubbed against another object on the bottom of the lake, and the current’s twisting of the body caused the line to break free of the weight. This detail was one of the contentious issues that led Davies to contact the police, during her research, to suggest they should re-open the case that had been improperly labeled "death by accidental drowning." While it was given minor scrutiny, it was quickly dismissed by police.
"The mystery surrounding Thomson’s death will never be cleared up. Was he drowned in the quiet waters of a small lake? A man who had paddled all over the Park, generally alone, in all kinds of weather, run rapids, and carried his canoe over rough portages and made his camp in the bush in wolf-ridden country? There were theories – suicide, heart attack, foul play, but the verdict was "accidental drowning" – not very convincing; but with no evidence of anything to the contrary, it stands and must be accepted," wrote A.Y. Jackson (member of the Canadian Group of Seven artists) as an inclusion in the text of Davies’ 1967 reprinted text, published by the Mitchell Press of Vancouver. It is possible to find a copy of this book online as well.
In the next blog submission, I would like to present you with a contrary collection of facts and assessments to disprove Jackson’s assertion that there is no evidence to support theories other than accidental drowning. Quite a few writer-researchers have refused to surrender to Jackson’s suggestion, "it stands and must be accepted." Judge William Little for one, believed there was nothing accidental involved in Thomson’s demise. It was a clear cut case of murder and its cover-up. Join me for a stunning look at one of Canada’s best known legends. Will it ever be solved? I believe so!
Take a trip up to Algonquin Park this summer, and visit some of the locations that Tom Thomson captured on his paint boards, particularly in the area of beautiful Canoe Lake. Don’t forget to visit the Algonquin Visitor Centre where there is an impressive Thomson display, amongst many other historical and nature displays to enjoy.
Drive safely and enjoy the amazing view. Watch for the moose!

2009-02-12T07:23:00.001-08:00

Muskoka Winter –
Spending my time this winter with the memory of Tom Thomson
Back in the mid-1990’s, during a brief writing hiatus, I found myself by strange and coincidental circumstance, delving into the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson. The legendary painter perished in July 1917, the victim of apparent drowning in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake. After a CBC documentary in the early 1970's, based on Judge William Little’s theory Thomson had been murdered instead, the arguments were so compelling that I was one of thousands of Canadians who began to see the Thomson misadventure as a cold case instead......some saw it simply as murder most foul with a host of suspects from the cast of characters circa 1917. It was writer and Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies who first raised the suspicion of murder in the late 1920's, while researching his activities in the Canoe Lake community for a future book. She found numerous people who resided around the lake, who also suspected Thomson had run into an adversary somewhere at Mowat (on Canoe Lake) on the night before his over-turned canoe was found floating near shore.
For me, the writer without a project, my interest was sparked (mid 1990's) after I read a biographical column written by well known Algonquin region guide, and trapper, Ralph Bice, published in a Muskoka weekly newspaper. As a long time admirer of Tom Thomson’s art, one column caught my attention moreso than the others in the series. It was a latent rebuttal of a theory put forth many years earlier by Judge William Little, in the text of his then controversial book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," alleging the artist had been murdered. Mr.Bice, revered for his tales from the bush, contended the artist, who may or may not have been intoxicated at the time, simply fell out of his canoe, possibly while relieving himself mid-lake. He believed it was most likely, as other researchers have similarly concluded that Thomson simply whacked his noggin on the gunnel of the canoe as he fell, being knocked unconscious before actually hitting the water.
It wasn’t just Bice’s column alone that inspired years of preoccupation to find the murderer. It was the collection of strange coincidences that continued to happen during those first two years of research. (Many that still occur today while I continue to delve into reference material about the artist’s life and times) It was one particular coincidence and its spin-off that hooked me early in the Thomson story. It happened shortly after reading Ralph Bice’s column regarding his theory the artist’s death was the result of misadventure. Within a few hours of reading the column, I found an autographed copy of Judge Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," on the shelf at the local Salvation Army Thrift Shop, here in Gravenhurst. It could be evidence of serendipity at play but I think in this case it was just plain old coincidence. Or if you believe in the capabilities of the so called "other-side" to communicate with the living, well, maybe Thomson had a plan for this writer without a project! Add to this the fact William Little had only recently passed away. It was from this point that coincidence made up a weighty portion of my work, which has led to numerous feature series in local publications, as well as other papers in Southern Ontario, including online sites. What really generated interest above all else, was that Ralph Bice had written the column about Thomson’s death being finally resolved, at a time when Judge Little could not offer a counter point. After consultation with several members of Judge Little’s family, I let them know that I wanted to defend the "murder" theory put forward by their father, a man I greatly admired, and respectfully re-submit information contained in the Tom Thomson Mystery, to balance, at least locally, what Mr. Bice contended was accidental drowning without the shadow of doubt. I just didn't think it was fair Judge Little couldn't counter these claims being made by Bice. The first short series of articles appeared in Muskoka Today and was well received by the local audience. I began getting all kinds of clippings and stories sent to me over quite a number of weeks, with some insight about the 1917 case I hadn't previously known. Of course it was early in research so this is to be expected.
After the first collection of columns had run as a sort of teaser, and I announced plans for a larger series in the future with more information, I began getting a significant number of letters, envelopes stuffed with old news clippings about Thomson, offers of Canadian art books for reference, and many words of advice both supporting William Little’s murder theory, and just as many on the side of Mr. Bice, convinced Thomson, an unskilled canoeist had simply drowned. There has been considerable debate whether or not Thomson was a skilled paddler. Some maintain he was indeed a proficient canoeist who could handle any serious weather out in the open and there are just as many who claim he was still a green-horn paddler who could easily have made a fatal mistake by being over-confident with his own apparent prowess.
Over a two and a half year span of time, I spent hours each week reading and re-visiting editorial material submitted, and other documents I found on my scrounging missions to libraries and old book shops. I can’t remember the final tally of articles I had published but it added up, by the pound and the hours spent, to be the most I had ever researched or written continuously on one subject. As an editor-columnist for the local press for many years, I was pretty much set on short pieces and summary histories, versus lengthy, over-written and ink burdened chapters "beating about the bush" to get to the bottom line. The Thomson story didn’t have the satisfying feeling I had anticipated, at the conclusion of each one of the specially prepared series; the sense of successful completion a writer normally experiences when the paper, as they say, is "hot off the press," and finally hitting the public domain. It has haunted me in the same way ever since. The job isn’t done yet! I told my wife Suzanne, in an historian’s typical frustrated rant and resignation, (while one day staring over the pile of Thomson clippings and research notes), that "it’s as if Thomson himself is asking me to carry-on and resolve the circumstances leading up to his death." Admittedly there have been moments of frustration when I have sworn-off having anything to do with the story ever again. A period of blunt, honest resignation that I have been defeated by the story......a hiatus which usually lasts about a week before I'm open to possibility again......that somewhere out there the truth exists.....in the grave, in the water, in the copious notes written by someone at some time.
If there’s one over-riding reason I haven’t abandoned the project, in nearly a decade of on-again off-again research, it is in the troubling reality Thomson’s death was a clear instance of "justice denied." While there was evidence he was murdered, a poorly run coroner’s inquest, (without the body…. which had already been buried) hastily ruled the artist had drowned accidentally. His tragic death is entrenched in the history of Canadian art, whether critics care to believe this or not; a mystery, a legend that in many ways, has and will continue to influence impressions of his art work. I would challenge my critics with this question……is there anyone, any art buyer since Thomson’s death, who hasn’t been influenced even to the smallest degree, by what has long been considered a mystery and tragedy rolled into one biographical overview. An exceptional painting, a death unresolved. Even days after the discovery of Thomson’s body in Canoe Lake, those close to the artist made claims about foul play, so the hearsay of murder is, as his death, at a 92 year anniversary.
One of the nation’s best known artists, his work having influenced so much of the national art consciousness of the past century, remains the shade of unresolved, nagging mystery. I have always be perturbed by the fact so little has been done, with the exception of research by William Little and before him, Blodwen Davies, (the first Thomson biographer), to properly address the inconsistencies surrounding his death that were covered-up and ignored by so many authorities and historians ever since. Maybe as some mediums claim of unresolved, discontent spirits, it’s the case Thomson can’t rest in peace until the exact cause of death is determined. I’ve certainly felt like a conduit over this past decade. I feel it’s critically important to keep, in front-line consideration, the important findings of both Davies and Little, both revered for their attention to detail and their characteristic reliability to treat fact reverently, and use the critical approach to prove or disprove a theory. I'm tired of generalizations that are the result of untutored and sloppy opinion that have little if anything to do with hard fact.
As Tom Thomson’s art work continues to attract higher prices at auction, with more record prices anticipated in the future, I’m of the stubborn belief Thomson’s memory deserves as much respect, and as a researcher I believe Canadian art history would be shaken to the core, if it was finally, and totally accepted our most revered artist was murdered, and not the victim of death by peeing (overboard) misadventure,...... as it prevails as accepted fact today in most of the authoritarian biographical texts.
The point of this lengthy little preamble, is to let readers know that I will be spending most of the frigid Muskoka winter, holed-up here at Birch Hollow (our Gravenhurst home), preparing editorial copy for a lengthy series of blogs to recognize the 92nd anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death 1917-2009. It will be the most thorough investigation into the artist’s death to date, and hopefully it will enlighten readers about the inconsistencies of the "accidental drowning" theory, and clearly prove there is enough evidence in the public domain today to finally sink the coroner's report of July 1917.....as unfounded speculation and nothing more.
From the snowy woodlands of Muskoka, farewell for now! More on Thomson yet to come.

Accidental drowning or a case of murder?
The Tom Thomson mystery officially began on July 8th, 1917
By Ted Currie
The water on Canoe Lake this morning mirrors the August sky. There is a deep and limitless blue over silver, wavering in the reflection of paradise on earth. A canoe and paddler silhouettes against the rising sun, as its route crosses a thick background of lush evergreens. It is a haunted lakeland. It’s no wonder Canadian landscape artist Tom Thomson adored this place.
"Mark Robinson (Algonquin Park Ranger) stated that as soon as he heard of the discovery of Tom’s (Thomson) canoe from Charlie Scrim, he began searching the shores of Canoe Lake from Tea Lake dam in the south, up through log-jammed Bonito Lake, a connecting water link between Canoe and Tea Lakes," wrote Judge William Little, in his controversial but well received book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," published in 1970 by McGraw-Hill.
"The search began the morning of July 11th, and continued during the next four days without the discovery of a single clue. A number of local citizens took part in this time-consuming and intense investigation of every bay, inlet, and portage on Canoe Lake. Mark (Robinson), accompanied by his twelve year old son, Jack, traveled miles through the bush as well as back and forth on the portage to Gill Lake, a few miles to the west of Canoe Lake’s southern shoreline," Little notes of the full scale search for Tom Thomson. There was still some hope Thomson had just gone further afield and would soon make an appearance at possibly the Gil Lake Portage looking for his canoe. There were others who knew it wasn’t like Thomson to abandon his canoe.
"On July 12th George Thomson arrived at Canoe Lake on the evening train. After discussing his brother’s disappearance with Mark (Robinson), who met him at the station, George examined his brother’s canoe and talked with guides and residents of the area. He came to share the general view that it was hardly likely that Tom had come to any grief while on the water, and thought his brother might have left his canoe at a portage while he went to the other side to fish or paint. The mystery was why he would have stayed for so long a period unless he had been hurt or otherwise incapacitated while in the bush."
Judge Little, who had long suspected foul play leading to Thomson’s disappearance, paid attention to the following important details of the failed search: "The guides, particularly George Rowe and Charlie Scrim, were quick to note that Tom’s own working paddle was missing when his canoe was found, and the spare or portaging paddle had been found lashed in a position to portage but had been knotted in a most unorthodox way, as if a much less experienced canoeist than Thomson had tied it. When the guides searched the shoreline they were looking for the working paddle, as well as the artist himself. The paddle was never found which in itself is unusual in view of the concentrated efforts made by the many people working over specific areas. Paddles float."
In the words of Mark Robinson, regarding the failings of the search, "I traveled every day that week in the woods down to the south of us and west of the lake. I covered all that country along with my eldest boy and found no trace of him. I couldn’t find any track or sign of his having crossed Gill Lake. I returned each night and reported to Mr. Bartlett (Park Superintendent). He sent three or four rangers over to help and they traveled the east side of the lake here and the south side, as well as Tea Lake and Tea Lake dam areas. They found no trace of him. Saturday night I’d return late and he (Mr. Bartlett) said; ‘Look Mark, you must be tired traveling so much.’ I said I am but I can still travel more; I’d like to find Thomson. He must have broken a leg or a limb, maybe fallen and injured himself. I have walked all over the bush, I’ve fired shots and I’ve blown my whistle, and he knows my signal with the whistle as well as anyone does, and I have not been able to find him."
In the July 13th issue of the Toronto Globe the headline read, "Toronto Artist Missing In North – Tom Thomson missing from Canoe Lake since Sunday – A Talented Landscapist." The article read as follows: "Toronto art circles were shocked yesterday at the news received from Algonquin Park that Tom Thomson, one of the most talented of the younger artists in the city, had been missing since Sunday and was thought to have been drowned or the victim of foul play. Mr. Thomson was last seen at Canoe Lake at noon on Sunday (July 8th), and at 3:30 in the afternoon his canoe was found adrift in the lake, upside down. There was no storm, only a light wind prevailing, and the fact that both paddles were in place in the canoe as if for a portage, adds to the mystery… Mr. Thomson carried a light fishing rod and this and his dunnage bag were missing." This contradicts earlier evidence that only one paddle was found awkwardly lashed to the thwart of the canoe.
"On July 14th, George Thomson, in preparation for departure on the evening train, gathered up a number of Tom’s sketches that were among his few belongings," noted Judge Little of the elder brother’s decision to leave before the search had concluded. George Thomson’s departure and removal of some of his brother’s art work continued to be a curiosity to writers such as William Little. It didn’t seem right that he had left Canoe Lake without absolute news regarding the disappearance. George Thomson was fully aware that if his brother had drowned, the body would surface sooner or later, considering the water temperature and conditions of the key waterways. It was one day later in fact, that Dr. Howland, on Little Wapomeo Island, in Canoe Lake, had snagged something or other while fishing, which was most likely Thomson’s submerged body. The next day Dr. Howland spotted something floating in the water in the same general location as his snagged fishing line the evening before. Two local guides passing in a canoe at the time, George Rowe and Lowrie Dickson, were asked by the doctor to check out the object floating in a direct line with Hayhurst Point. It turned out to be the bloated body of Tom Thomson.
What would follow is an impromptu medical examination which determined that Thomson had been bleeding after falling in the water, meaning it was most likely he had sustained a severe blow to the head but still had a heart beat when he hit the water. There was no water found in the lungs. Yet by Dr. Howland’s impromtu autopsy report, the artist had without doubt perished by drowning......no serious concerns being raised about the obvious bump on the side of Thomson’s head......and whether it could have been the result of an altercation leading up to his positioning in the watery grave. While it may have been suspected there was more to the story of Thomson’s demise, and some suspicion about foul play, there is no record of murder being suggested at this point, and in fact, it never did arise even at the eventual coroner’s inquiry. What is known, as Blodwen Davies found out more than a decade later, is that a goodly amount of innuendo about murder had surfaced and was still simmering in the Canoe Lake community. Not everyone had bought into the accidental death scenario. What is obvious over the decades however, is that there was a refusal to publicly debate the issue within that community. The mystery broadens.
What would be a pivotal decision in the case, was Mark Robinson’s chagrin about leaving Thomson’s badly decomposing body tied to the Canoe Lake shore awaiting the coroner. He paddled to see his superior, Bartlett, and it was agreed an examination and burial that same day, July 17th, should be conducted in respect for the dead. What this did was deny the official coroner, who would come later, the opportunity to examine the body, rather than accepting the autopsy report from Dr. Howland, who had determined the cause of death as accidental drowning. By time the coroner, Dr. Ranney did arrive that same day, July 17, 1917, Thomson had already been buried in the Canoe Lake Cemetery.
Instead of ordering the body be exhumed which he had ever right to insist, he accepted the report by Dr. Howland, and the observations of witnesses at an inquest.
It will long be my own contention, that when those in attendance refused to speak up, after the coroner invited anyone who had suspicions about other factors that could have led to the artist’s demise,.. the seed of mystery was deeply planted in the Canoe Lake community. Many in attendance knew that Thomson was a capable canoeist and the weather of the day had offered no challenge out of the ordinary for such an experienced paddler. They also knew there had been heated words exchanged with cottager Martin Bletcher Jr., the night before his disappearance, at a mutual friend’s cabin; Bletcher suggesting that Thomson should stay out of his way if he knew what was good for him. In fact, the inquest was held in the Bletcher cottager. And no one raised even one concern Thomson could have been the victim of foul play,...... even though there is evidence some participants at the inquest talked freely of murder, and potential suspects once the official part of the meeting had concluded.
If they had truly been friends of Thomson as many were quick to claim, it might seem their bond of friendship, that would have prevailed upon their honesty at the inquest, had its weakness in the face of an unspecified retribution for speaking their minds. Did they know the killer then and simply refuse to reveal it to the coroner? Or possibly they weren’t Thomson’s friends at all!
The 92nd Anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death-
Where is his final resting spot?
"Dr. Ranney had not returned to his home in North Bay to complete his official report of the inquest (regarding the death of Tom Thomson), before Shannon Fraser (Mowat hotelier) received a telegram from a Huntsville undertaker, Mr. H.W. Churchill, saying that he was coming to Canoe Lake (in Algonquin Park), to exhume the body of Tom Thomson. Shannon told Mark (Robinson – a park ranger) of the telegram and both men were puzzled about when this exhumation was to take place, and who ordered it to be done," reported William Little, in his book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," published in 1970 by McGraw-Hill Ryerson. The up and coming Canadian artist had reportedly drowned on July 8th, and when his body was discovered floating in Canoe Lake, it was hurriedly buried due to its advanced state of decomposition. Or at least that was the reason given. The decision to bury Thomson before the Coroner could examine the body has become one of the pivotal points of conflict that has given the murder theory so much momentum over the years. Not only is it true that "Dead men tell no tales....." "Buried men conceal evidence." While there has been the suggestion that the war-time stresses on the medical community at home, which created manpower shortages in every community, represented at least part of the constraints on Dr. Ranney, (somewhat justifying his refusal to order an exhumation of the Thomson plot), it is still the lingering question in this new century, as it was in the last, that never gets a satisfactory answer. Today this would not have been allowed. In Dr. Ranney’s day it wasn’t allowed either but somehow the Thomson inquiry just kept getting more muddled as time and people came and then left.....with a heck of a mystery spiralling in the wake.
Shannon Fraser’s horse-drawn stagecoach, which had been used to transport Tom’s body to the gravesite (Canoe Lake Cemetery), made regular runs to Canoe Lake Station to meet incoming guests, and also to transport those returning home to trains leaving for the southern parts of the province. Shannon visited the station shortly before 8 p.m. to meet the eastbound train. He made the trip to the station with the coach empty save for a trunk that was to go out on the morning train. He was surprised to be met by a tall dark man dressed in undertaker’s garb complete with bowler hat and long dark coat."
As I stand here now on the shore of beautiful Canoe Lake, the autumn scene this morning is at a stunningly beautiful maturity. The water surface is still and reflective mirroring the tranquility of both heaven and earth. One can easily imagine the lone canoeist in a silent traverse of this autumn paradise, the wake a thin ripple disappearing into the quivering silver of an enchanted lake. Maybe it was the ghost of Tom Thomson paddling that spirit canoe toward a favorite fishing spot. Maybe it was just the mind playing tricks. The natural splendor of this place does it to me all the time. I inadvertently get lulled into complacency at a time when we’re supposed to be investigating a 90 year old cold case. Was Tom Thomson murdered in July of 1917? Some say it was death due to drowning. Others believe it was a whack on the head which led to his death. Murder? Disposal of the body! And so many other mysterious goings on, to this point in our story......but the confluence of interesting details continues.
"Introducing himself, the undertaker announced, ‘I’m Churchill from Huntsville; you received my telegram I expect? I have the metal casket here on the station baggage wagon. If you’ll give me a hand with it we can put it on your coach.’ Shannon eyed the plain metal box and took the lower end in his strong arms and lifted it with considerably more ease than the undertaker. Mr. Churchill’s black valise was placed in the passenger section, while the undertaker himself climbed up beside Shannon on the driver’s seat. ‘You’ll be doing your work tomorrow I expect,’ Shannon averred. ‘Tonight,’ was the terse answer. ‘Tonight?’ exclaimed Shannon. ‘I can’t get you any help at this time of day.’ ‘I don’t need any help, just get me a good digging shovel, a lantern and a crow bar and I’ll do the rest. I want to get out on the morning train and get this coffin off to Owen Sound by tomorrow.’ ‘You’ve got your work cut out for you, and I don’t envy you,’ boomed Shannon, keeping his eyes on the curving road ahead." This passage appears on page 84 of Judge Little’s "The Tom Thomson Mystery."
This is an integral point in understanding the Tom Thomson mystery. The Thomson family wanted a proper burial in their own community cemetery in Leith, Ontario, near Owen Sound. It was an understandable request seeing as they had not been given time to attend the impromptu Canoe Lake burial. What was more than a little unusual was that Churchill planned to exhume Thomson’s body during the night by himself. When Shannon Fraser arrived the next morning the metal shipping container was ready to go, according to the undertaker’s word the night before, although it appeared only a small amount of the grave site had been disturbed by the shovel. It seemed to Fraser an impossible task, for him to have raised a hardwood coffin in a cedar rough box without having made a much larger hole. Mark Robinson, who inspected the site later, also had difficulty appreciating the handiwork of the Huntsville undertaker. When Fraser helped lift box with Thomson’s body onto the cart it didn’t seem much heavier than when he had unloaded it at the cemetery.
It is reported that Park Ranger, Mark Robinson, accosted Mr. Churchill at the train station, according to a chronicle of the events presented in a CBC film documentary circa 1970, asking by what authority he had to remove Thomson’s body from Algonquin Park. Churchill said he had approval from the Thomson family and that was all he needed. The body was loaded onto the morning train and shipped on schedule to Owen Sound and then on to Leith, as it is understood for re-burial. It is believed the casket was never opened by family or the undertaker in charge of funeral preparation. Reportedly comments were made that there was a musty odor permeating from the box, whether that meant its contact with the Algonquin soil or a scent from the body within. There is another story told by a reliable source that Tom’s father had requested the lid be removed from the box so that he could see his son one last time......and the artist had indeed arrived home to Leith.
So why is this integral to the Thomson mystery? In 1956 William Little and three companions, acting on information from a variety of sources who steadfastly believed Thomson’s body had never been moved by Churchill that July night in 1917, decided to seek out the artist’s burial spot in the small Canoe Lake Cemetery. They eventually found the plot and dug up the coffin that had supposedly been removed by Churchill. It was identical to Thomson’s, including the name plate that had been left blank in the rush to get the body buried. There was a skeleton inside, the skull having a hole in the left temple area, consistent with a blow to the head visible on Thomson’s body when examined by Dr, Howland. Had Churchill lied about moving the body to Owen Sound? What was in that metal traveling coffin? Algonquin soil?
Here’s the problem. When the skull was examined by several forensic authorities, relating it to photographs taken of Thomson, it was ruled the body in the coffin wasn’t the deceased artist circa 1917. Who was it then? The Thomson family did not agree at that time, or any time since, to have Tom’s grave in Leith exhumed to prove beyond doubt the artist had arrived home in the summer of 1917….such that it still remains in the minds of many, a controversial delivery from Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake. William Little, to the end of his life, believed the skeleton found in the Canoe Lake plot was without question, Tom Thomson, which certainly begs the question, "so who is buried in his grave in Leith, Ontario?" Why would Churchill have left the body in the original grave when he could have been exposed by the family in Leith, if they had demanded the coffin be opened…..only to find good old Algonquin soil and nothing else. There is nothing to suggest Churchill was dishonest in any way so it does seem unlikely he would have made this attempt to shortchange the Thomsons of their son, risking certain financial ruination. He probably did know that Thomson was a rising Canadian artist, by news carried in the local Huntsville press after he had been reported missing. Either it is true that the elder Thomson had been satisfied with a viewing of the open coffin or that it had not been opened at all. There was nothing to suggest Churchill hadn’t fulfilled all his obligations. My own opinion of Churchill has changed substantially from my first foray into the story when I believed his actions were less than savory. I do admit believing Thomson’s body was transported to Leith and that Shannon Fraser’s account may have been tainted because, as it turns out, he was one of the prime murder suspects.....possibly having reason to dump on Churchill when questions of Thomson’s body surfaced much later in the ongoing investigation. When Churchill was approached decades later about the transfer of the body, it was apparent his age and prevailing illness contributed to his confusion about the case yet he would not agree to the two grave scenario. He had indeed transported Thomson to Leith. So why is there a skeleton in Thomson’s plot in Algonquin Park? Could it be Judge Little and companions that day had simply dug up the wrong plot and the remains were not Thomson’s? It did take them numerous attempts to find an occupied plot. Was it another man instead? Afterall forensic studies in the 1950's revealed the bones had belonged to a native person, ruling out Thomson. This point was refuted by Little but as far as scientific testing, the case was closed,..... the skull returned to the grave at Mowat.
A number of years ago an undertaker from the Owen Sound area had allegedly offered the Thomson family a free exhumation and reburial in a new coffin, if they would agree to resolve this ages old puzzler.
For many years, during the summer months, cut flowers regularly appeared on his former plot at the Canoe Lake Cemetery, with nary an explanation yet plenty of speculation. In more than ten years working on this story, I have had at least ten times more testimonials that Thomson is still in Algonquin Park, as compared to those believing he had been re-located to Owen Sound by the good Mr. Churchill.
The wind has begun to caress this rock and evergreen shoreline, and the reflective solace of only moments ago, has been diminished in the preamble of an autumn storm. Yet in storm and seasonal change, comes a new, even more profound experience, standing on this Canoe Lake shore, watching the last leaves being ripped from the hardwoods, being dashed onto this now cauldron surface, to traverse in the waves like Thomson, to another place and another time.
Take an autumn visit to Ontario’s enchanting Algonquin Park, and be sure to see the museum and art gallery display at the Visitor’s Centre not far from the east gate. You’ll enjoy a magnificent drive through Algonquin’s painted forests. But watch out for the deer and moose.

2009-02-04T07:10:00.000-08:00

Miles David Brown and the Thomson Mystery
Dave Brown, of Hamilton, was not only a well known outdoor educator in Ontario, he was an accomplished historian, book collector of considerable acclaim and had spent many years as a summer camp instructor. He was familiar with the lakes of Algonquin and his canoe had traversed hundreds of miles on these waters in quest of logging relics of which he possessed a significant collection.
Dave was a frequent house guest of hours while up on his camping excursions, and we enjoyed many conversations about nature, history and his favorite subject "outdoor education." Before Dave passed away after a short illness, I had agreed to be his biographer. His was a life well-lived, and he had so many interesting stories about people and fascinating places in this province, and oh so many adventures, that it warranted a much larger study than what I was able to provide without extensive interviews. He passed on just as we were in the planning stage of what was supposed to be a co-operative effort. While I did complete his biography it was only half what it could have been if Dave had been at my side.
I had talked to Dave many times during my early foray into the Thomson research, about whether or not the Canoe Lake Cemetery plot, that was once occupied by the deceased artist, was still "occupied," as was determined in the 1950's, during and impromptu exhumation by William Little, Jack Eastaugh and friends. The grave that was supposed to be empty wasn’t quite.....the broken sections of what appeared to be Thomson’s original coffin was found in the excavation, as were human bones. Everybody including family was surprised by Little’s revelations. I don’t believe they were happy about any of the publicity, and who could blame them. Tom had been a unique and fascinating character in life and his work was gaining huge acclaim at the time of the exhumation. It was obvious any information contrary to what had been accepted fact of his demise would have a sensational zing.
The problem with this is that shortly after Thomson was buried in July 1917, an undertaker by the name of Churchill, was sent by the Thomson family, to remove the coffin with his remains from Algonquin, to be re-buried in a family plot in the Village of Leith, near Owen Sound, Ontario. Churchill wasn’t aware at the time of his arrival at Canoe Lake, that the coffin had already been buried in the plot near Mowat, during a hurried ceremony earlier the same day. There has been concern over the years the undertaker didn’t quite fulfill the terms and obligations he was sworn. It has long been alleged that Churchill had only transported a box of Algonquin earth in the sealed metal casket, having decided not to go to the effort of digging up Thomson’s coffin....although he always denied this allegation. The metal coffin was tightly sealed and according to some witnesses at the funeral in Leith, the box had a musty odor but was never opened to confirm Tom was inside. There is another story that maintains Tom’s father insisted the coffin be opened, and it was, revealing the remains of his son. There are however, suggestions the seal was never broken on the metal casket and definitely not opened.
While we will go into this situation with more detail later in this series of columns, the "two grave" scenario, factors large in the Thomson mystery. According to Judge Little, Thomson is undeniably still buried at the Canoe Lake Cemetery. Even though forensic tests on the skull revealed it to be the remains of a native male and not those of Thomson, there are still concerns the testing did not go far enough before the remains were re-buried in the Algonquin cemetery. The plot in Leith has never been investigated.
Dave Brown was a friend to all, and he knew many folks with long histories at Canoe Lake and in Algonquin Park, from guides, Park Rangers, to cottagers. One evening shortly before his death, after asking me how my research was going on Tom Thomson, he told me quite bluntly that he had it on good and trusted authority, Thomson’s body was still in his original grave as he was committed in July of 1917. When I pressed him for more information he said he couldn’t betray the trust of his sources but said it would be hard to deny that these particular folks had a much closer connection to the circumstances of Thomson’s demise and initial burial. "I just wanted you to know that I have solid information from a number of people I have known up there, who believe Thomson was never moved from Mowat....and that the undertaker hauled back a metal coffin full of dirt to avoid digging the coffin up. To these people it’s not much of a mystery at all....he was injured during a fight, knocked unconscious, taken out onto the lake and dumped to make it look like he drowned. He didn’t. I’m telling you, he’s still in Algonquin Park....sorry I can’t help you any more than this."
Dave wasn’t a story spinner as such. He told a good story but he had the historian’s need for accuracy so when he told me this, while it wasn’t particularly useful to prove or disprove....because I couldn’t follow up with his sources (some were already deceased), it at least gave me some confidence there were dissenters who didn’t buy some of the information about Thomson’s death and burial.
I would have loved to pursue this with Dave but within weeks his condition had deteriorated and there was no chance of recovery. It is really the last full discussion I had with Dave and although it wasn’t a pivotal amount of information it at least let me know I wasn’t a fool to be following this up......as had many other researchers over the decades from Blodwen Davies in the early 1930's onward to Judge William Little and others to the present.

The Inner Storm of Tom Thomson
Note: When I initiated my research foray into the circumstances surrounding the death of Canadian artist, Tom Thomson, which commenced for me back in the mid 1990's, I had no idea that my interest in the story would be self perpetuating and offer no clear final chapter. In reality the story of Thomson has occupied my attention for more than fifteen years. Not solely the mystery of his death but his art work and life. His life is a most fascinating study. From the time I began a more intensive examination of his alleged accidental drowning, there were many splendid examples of serendipity playing a weighty role in discovery. One good source would direct to another, then another, and even unrelated sources often times provided some unexpected Thomson or Canadian art information that did influence the course of research. As an active regional Ontario historian for many decades now, serendipitous discovery is pretty much an anticipated part of the quest for information. We come to count on accidental findings to give us a hand up. Admittedly it can get a little spooky how these connections come about. For most of the first year there were few days that didn't have a Thomson intrusion in one form or another but it was all very welcome.
After my preliminary article on the death of Thomson (drowning, Canoe Lake, July 1917), carried by Muskoka Today, published in Gravenhurst, and then a larger series of columns in The Muskoka Sun in the late 1990's, I was getting help, advice and information from all over and much of it was in support of the murder theory versus the long accepted verdict by a coroner's inquiry, of 1917, that ruled Thomson had drowned. There were times during research and preparation for these columns that I very much felt the artist's presence..... as if he was as interested in my story-line..... as much as the readership was demonstrating, by offering me a plethora of clippings and personal opinions about the cold case. My wife Suzanne said to me one day that it was almost as if Tom was "sending a message from the other side." There are circumstances surrounding this story and these years of initial research, that did seem to border on the paranormal, particularly experienced on a canoe venture to Canoe Lake and a visit to Thomson's memorial cairn on Hayhurst Point. I will present the story of this unsettling traverse of Algonquin's best known lake, later in this blog collection.
This is not a story about Thomson's ghost. Although there have been sightings in the past, one in fact, by a member of the Group of Seven artists visiting the park sometime after his death. It is the accounting of an admirer's mission to shed more light on the Thomson mystery, as others have in the past......and how a wonderful artist's life, his work, and demise affected us, and other researchers intimately close to his story. My work on Thomson has been based on the utmost respect for the artist and I have never once received a penny of remuneration for any of the research and composition work I've published over the past 15 years, the last series running in Curious: The Tourist Guide, over 12 months in 2007. From the time I began working on this story in the mid 1990's, there has never been any attempt to sensationalize or to make a profit from content. It was written with the unfaltering respect and credit for those who broke trail on the research, such as Judge William Little (1970's book The Tom Thomson Mystery) and Blodwen Davies the first writer, in the early 1930's, to question the theory of accidental death versus murder most foul. It is a fascinating and compelling story....a Canadian legend that in some way or other makes it to print each year in some Canadian locale. Each year some camper will tell the story of seeing the ghost paddler on the cusp of nightfall, in that silent traverse of the Algonquin Lakes he was famous for. Most of all, it is out of a sense of awe for his art work, that I continue to find great inspiration to not only follow his canoe path but to re-visit some of the places he haunted, and depicted so powerfully on his wood panels.
The short piece you are about to read was written in the mid 1990's at a time when I had only just begun my research into his mysterious demise. I penned these observations while sitting on the shore of Canoe Lake with my family, watching a storm front-push over Algonquin. Tom Thomson would have adored the scene as it unfolded upon the lakeshore, finding a great deal of power in the confluence between the currents of air and water pounding like fist against this evergreen bordered, etched-rock shoreline. It was from our perspective, a Thomson day in Algonquin!
By Ted Currie
Each bold, smooth, wave of brush stroke, laps dark and deeply into the long furrow of emerging wake. The voyeur can feel its undertow reaching for his soul. The traverse imprints a profound and contrasting depth and breadth of shadow, paint and coloration, as impression whirlpools from the surface into the black confluence of the lake's history.
The paddle is thrust in a furious rage, deep below the surface of the boiling lake. Paint streams in a twist of art, fate and nature in a silhouetted passage across an open, mirrored universe. The manifestation upon the painter’s board began in this violation of event against reflection, as the paddle-stroke evermore propels the canoe toward the open bay.....the twisting event of storm unfurling along the horizon pines.
In this storied sanctuary, in the sage scented basin of legend and spirits, the artist finds the portal to oversee creation. A hallowed place to live and paint, one side in the actuality of Algonquin, the other in the ethereal current of ecstasy. The poet is the artist, the environs the pinnacle of enlightened observation, between realities and illusion, natural heaven and hell.
The devil stirs against a subtle divinity of calm. Above the contoured rocks on the distant shore, actuality is painted an ominous black against green. Demons generate free-will within the cavernous tomb of autumn storm, just this moment blocking away the sun. There is a threatening free-fall earthward of fear and trembling; a deep, vibrating roar beyond the jowls of stormscape. A hard, piercing, rythmic drumming of wind and rain, growing deeply fertile, fueled by the inspiration of still-warm air that spans the lakeland.
The first bite of ill-fame has clearly cut with a dagger point, across the uneven expanse of this once still life. The gale generated whitecaps rage along the blunt rock shoreline. Seeking refuge from the painter’s intent, the wind’s malevolent passion, the canoeist turns sharply back toward shore. The precarious balance between paddler and storm stages mortal and artistic co-habitation. It is the will of artist. The traverse must end. The cyclonic force at the heart of creative storm, will paint, without mercy, without apology, a soon-fatal blow. The paint-board presents this tragic wake, the biography of evasive yet found immortality.
A gallery voyeur has just taken a step-back, mindful that art and artist demand space in which to thrive. What then is this unsafe passage of imagination, but the cruel play now of creator on the unsuspecting?
This thrusting, bitter October wind pounds down against the Algonquin woodland with a brutal force, snapping limbs off the bare old hardwoods and sending the fallen leaves into a filmy crimson sheet, draping across the hazy passage ahead. The deeply rolling waves pummel the canoe, bashing against the stern, the wind and current beneath wrenching the bow toward the sawblade of rock.
It became impossible to make any progress up the shore toward Mowat. The bounce-back of waves off the rocks had become severe, and the only way to avoid capsizing, was to pull into the first shallow inlet. At times the manifestation of wind and whitecaps was so powerful that the wooden canoe seemed to lift fully into the air, a precarious, spirited flight across the peaks and valleys of this unfolding legend.
The irregular, unpredictable, violent thrusts of autumn gale, strike down upon this haunted lake with a murderous, determined, unfaltering stroke. A mournful, darkened sky tumbles along the horizon, the true rage of Algonquin storm yet to unfurl. The shrill and haunting windsong, of air current through the tight embrace of towering evergreens, enchants in a warning voice. There is no safe passage. The sharp slap and cascade of waves upon silvered rocks, the creak and groan of aged docks, holding as schooner planks in high seas, peaks the voyeur’s sense that the spirit-kind are at work, sculpting in essence the bust of a tragic hero.
Adrift in this cauldron of tugging undertow and battering wave, a tightly clenched fist of wind jerks stern then bow, inward hard against the rocks. Long canvas shards engrave windward, giving the appearance of razor-cut paper in the flight of a kite. A clench of malevolent history strikes upward against the wooden hull, now shattered and torn open violently to the flood of dark twisting current. There is an evil succession of crashing waves, a tangle of green serpents diving one through the other, in this constant, wicked caress of nature’s most evolutionary intent. Drowning in this abstraction of legend, the canoe-mate disappears into the fictional depths of our own spirit lake. The challenger of nature, the ignorant transgressor, is overcome today by manifestation of art and artist, brush stroke and inspiration.
The creator stops work abruptly, resting hand and brush on the open paint box, as if he has been suddenly disconnected from prevailing realities. It is necessary to re-acquaint with the storm’s fury, still etching across the white and black contrasted bowl of Canoe Lake. As the overturned canoe, wood against stone, bobs like a corpse in the foaming inlet below, the bare knuckle of storm-surge bashes down like a lover spurned. In the slow but profound fade of life-shade into death, at this precise moment of sacrifice, the protocol of legend has been satisfied. An ominous, transforming darkness encroaches upon the watcher’s soul; brush is returned to oil and board, as if carried by wind and wave; a spirited rush of energy from earth beneath, into conflict, toil and creation.
A poignantly haunted lakeland emerges in this new warm light exposed, over the cold clasping rigor-mortis of life imitating art.
Just when it appears a typhoon might at any moment unfurl from the deepest black of spiraling cloudscape, the trace golden lines of sun enhance in thin cuts, along the deep green and blue hollows of afternoon horizon. Striking imprints, curious painted evolutions of storm and legend, are roughly hewn from contrary environs of wild reality yet enduring sanctuary.
Suspended at this moment is a raw cocktail of vigorous inspiration and sage advisory, the firmly brushed imprint of fiction against actuality; the uncertain oblivion that exists between canoe and storm, reality and impression, and the artist at the mercy of raging emotion. A cold, wicked penetration of arctic air stabs into the flesh, while the warm intoxication of creation keeps artist at task.
In earnest devotion, and unfaltering faith, it is mindfully acknowledged by the creator, the story has been successfully composed. A re-animation of the dead, you might say. A fatal traverse of life and times, captured for posterity. The last brush stroke, an illusion, has chaptered painter within the storm. Fear and trembling, blood and soul, rock and sky, our mutual surrender to Algonquin in transition.
In the glow of a gallery light, the fury manifests anew, as if released in our presence, the passion and glory of ecstasy bestowed.
With every paddle stroke against the current, we revere the legend that brought us here. Faithful, silent witness to the spirit within the storm.
In tribute to Canadian landscape painter, Tom Thomson.

2009-01-14T08:22:00.000-08:00

A HAUNTING I CAN’T GET RID OF - BUT WOULD KING OF LIKE TO
I’ve been writing about the paranormal in the Muskoka district of Ontario, since the early 1980's, during the period I was editor of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge. Members of the writing staff always like to have three or four meaty features "in the bag" (composed and ready to use) just in case the ad reps made some last minutes sales, and the pages of the weekly edition were bumped up. Even four more pages could swallow all our reserve copy. I was never very good writing under the gun, especially with a production manager breathing down my neck..... so I was a big believer in banking editorial copy just in case.
I used to delve through the archives downstairs to find story ideas, and there were always lots of out of print Muskoka books to tap into for history-based features. So from my first years in the local news business, when having a lot of surplus copy available made your stock rise, I kept about a half dozen lengthy pieces on-tap. Many of these explored Muskoka mysteries and legends, and did delve five or six times a year on a paranormal event past or present. With the help of an expert photographer, Harold Wright, one of the finest artists I’d ever been professionally associated, we offered Herald-Gazette readers a full page collection of photographs and feature articles regarding local haunts. I think it was about 1981 if memory serves. Harold was able to do a time exposure of a little girl walking across a room, behind a table, and it was a dynamite image to catch readers’ attention. Of all the published work regarding the paranormal here in Muskoka, this feature earned me the most response. More than a few thought I was nuts to attach my name to the "belief in ghosts" thing, yet I never once confessed, at least in the early going, to actually believing in ghosts. It’s one thing to have a sighting and to relay this message but another thing to adamantly confess to "Yes....I do believe in ghosts for sure, for sure!"
Over the years I’ve talked to many people who have had substantial encounters yet they have made it clear....."I don’t believe in such things." Odd? Not really when you think about the stigma associated then (1980's when I began my research) and even now to being one who openly believes in ghosts and their kind.......it’s to be expected someone at home or work will use "nutter" and your name in the same sentence. My wife and I both find that younger folks today are more interested in the paranormal, and as a teacher she is often asked to reflect on ghosts and such......after of course students have read about her encounters with the other side published nationally in Barbara Smith’s book on Canadian Ghosts. The book became available here in the local grocery store and that’s where young staffers were getting hold of the story, and identifying their Mrs.Currie as the story teller. Hers was the recollection of Herbie the ghost-child of Golden Beach Road. Suzanne doesn’t really like to re-tell the story, because she was troubled by it for many years. I found it more fascinating than disturbing but I understand her reluctance to delve into it all again.
I’ve never worried about it frankly because some very significant scholars and researchers, and well versed individuals over hundreds of years have attached their names to widelyl known sightings and experiences. I have many antique and out of print books telling of these amazing ghostly interventions misting forth from castle towers to haunted rectories and chapels. There are thousands of tales of haunted hotels and mansions, ghost-dwelling gardens and forests, spiritually inhabited cemeteries, opera houses, theaters, industrial buildings and the halls of universities and museums. To worry that an individual in my ballywick thinks I’m odd for confessing a relationship with numerous spirited entities doesn’t phase me one bit. As for those who don’t believe in ghosts but have made their sightings known regardless, well, that’s just the kind of information about the paranormal I seek out most aggressively. From a purity level, when I find someone who accidentally came upon a spirit in passage, a ghost standing in a hall, beside a bed, or on the stairs of an old house, and then disregards it as anything particularly serious.....I want to hear as much as possible because it will usually be void of emotion and embellishment.....because afterall, they don’t believe in ghosts; or so they say! They’re going to give me the straight goods without any reason to elaborate or inflate the story.
As I have lived and worked in many locations that were considered "haunted" by something or other, I do suffer from an "amalgamation" syndrome, I believe, and it tends to manifest in reaction at least once a month in a most peculiar way. While I don’t spend every day writing about ghosts, or researching the paranormal, I do spend a lot of time thinking about the many roads and curious places I’ve visited in my life.....call it a foible of the historian/author who finds pleasure in the days of yore more stimulating than the relative commonplace of modern times. The problem I have created in part, is that of pulling composites of these places and circumstances together without really appreciating the snap-back human nature I was tickling. In other words I have arrived, I believe, at a subconscious reckoning of all places....an emotionally contracted, yet awkwardly put together Frankenstein model of all the curious, haunted places I have visited thus far in 53 years. So according to my dreams in analysis, I have defined a location, a nicely contoured and garden-rich property, a Victorian era building which is usually a house, with interior features that are borrowed and spliced into the dreamscape reminiscent of about ten old houses I’ve known intimately. For example, I will dream about a building that for all intents and purposes appears to be the former McGibbon House on Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, Woodchester Villa (Bracebridge), a family cottage on the shore of Lake Rosseau near Windermere, houses on Ontario Street, Golden Beach Road, Quebec Street and another location on Dominion Street. When set in one of my repeating nightmares, the property is always roughly the same.....there are sprawling lawns and beautiful gardens and the aura is late Victorian. But it isn’t one identifiable property that would let me say...."ah, yes, it is the McGibbon house or Woodchester Villa. It’s all a composite but the grounds are the combination of only several properties unlike my collage impressions of the haunted house, which is composed of numerous architectural details, of many houses and buildings I have been associated over the decades, here in central Muskoka. And although I can honestly claim to be unafraid of paranormal situations and encounters, at least so far in this mortal coil, I do acknowledge that these particular nightmares are in full terrorizing regalia. But there are other common aspects to the events. There is never any conclusion, which is pretty normal as nightmares range, and I’m always the aggressor, trying to rid the building of an attic-dwelling entity that is both unpleasant and dangerous. And I’ve always got this itch to piss the entity off, and I’m no sooner in the house than I’m starting the battle for willpower supremecy. I begin with a pretty good crowd of other folks at the beginning of the dream but finish with nary a soul anywhere near. I have that affect on people in real life.
The nightmares don’t relate necessarily to any research or writing jag I’ve been occupied with at the time, and although I might have had weeks of work to feed the dream-void, I have never been able to link my day-job in this case, to a seeded paranormal-themed dream-state. I can’t recall one of these nightmares that came after writing about the paranormal yet in the memory bank I suppose it’s logical to assume the perceptions and information within, can by the brain’s mischief, be utilized during the period of greatest requirement.....the construction of a really good nightmare to scare the crap out of the unsuspecting sleeper....ME!
The nightmares began about a decade ago and have repeated many, many times since with only small variations. I have no idea what precise involvement seeded and nurtured the repeating theme of the nightmares, and there hasn’t been anything particularly earth shattering in that decade to blame for these oft repeating and unsettling visitations. I will wake up in fear that the end is near......as anyone startles back to recognition they’ve just then been part of a full-fledged incident of night-time terror. I’m anxious, sweating, actively seeking an explanation in mind and by scanning my physical surroundings, with some trepidation whether it was an encounter of a dream state or it was as real as my racing heart beat.
They all start the same. There will be a lead-up scenario that will not resemble anything more than a run-of-the-mill visitation, meeting of friends and associates, in a mundane, non-exciting environs most of which is pretty much an insignificant backdrop. Within a few interesting scenes no better or worse than a made for television movie, I will somehow encounter "The Building." It is most often a house but not always. It is however, always three stories, four including the Attic which is also a constant in these nightmares. As an example, the foyer and initial identifying features usually appear antiquated and cluttered, with large Victorian parlor chairs and massive sideboards, similar to what I used to deal with as museum manager at Woodchester Villa (Bracebridge) every working day. In the dream state there is an oppressive feeling I sense just stepping into this hallway which always has association with an old and steep wooden staircase. There are rooms to the right and left of the staircase but once the decision is made, in the dream haze to climb up toward the attic, there is only one room having importance and that is at the top of the stairs....that attic .....where a particularly nasty and quite invisible entity is holed-up. I have just experienced a huge shiver just thinking about the fear opening that attic door and looking into the dimly illuminated room, expecting the full wrath to bellow forth from that unhappy, rather nebulously appointed beast within.
For whatever reason my mind places me as the conqueror of all evil spirit-kind, which I don’t understand, I do not enter any of the composite buildings of which I have spoken, without full knowledge I’m about to antagonize the wee beastie upstairs. What makes this quite strange on top of all the other weirdness I’m about to relate, is that I do not at any point have a plan to physically oust the paranormal quality and quantity from the attic should I prevail. I will however, attempt to beat the crap of it with my mind. If I win, well, this just simply doesn’t come up in the run of the nightmare, so I really never have any thought of how the entity will be finally cleansed from the house....or just left as an ugly clump of paranormal in the corner of the attic. Before the first step up, and with several folks around me, some I know and others I don’t care to know, I begin concentrating on what I know will anger the lodger most. I start taunting it with a mental push and shove that will eventually become a storm of mind on mind fisticuffs. At first I’m really just toying with the entity to see if I can get a response, which sometimes results in a cold, gusting and loud retaliation that gets my attention.......and the message sent that it’s going to be a long and nasty battle of willpowers.
The closer I get to the upper section of staircase, the more intense my ambition to obliterate the unkown but powerful attic dweller. And as I intensify my focus on what lurks behind the door, the creature roars like nothing I’ve ever experienced or heard.....at least beyond this dream state. It is terrifying yet I can’t stop challenging it until I finally crash through the attic door, confronting the enemy like Hollywood’s "Shane," pounding his way to justice at the expense of every thug in the bar-room. And when I get a glimpse of the spirited force I’m planning to reckon with, it is like the image of the all and powerful Wizard of Oz, and instead of charging ahead....well, I’m staggered by the (always in color) spiritual spectacle. It is amazing to see this manifestation rising from a back wall into a most ominous and unclenching force, as if I was at the ground zero of an F-5 tornado. The point is that I only reach this pinnacle of confrontation, in the attic, once out of every for or five nightmares of this same composition and character. I usually don’t get all the way up the stairs before I awaken in a bath of sweat.
There are a variety of other scenarios that take place around the subject property....stories within stories you might say. It will be well removed from anything spooky at all and then for some unexplained reason the whole mood of the situation will evolve from a pleasant, non-threatening dream to the confrontational "Please excuse me....I have an attic to clean out," emotional roller-coaster. One minute I’m wandering through a beautiful Victorian inspired garden, actually enjoying the scent of many wonderful flowers, and then the next reality is that I’ve entered the house and spotted the staircase where evil apparently always lurks.
As a partial explanation I did have a number of events at Woodchester Villa that did place stairs as the divide between safe passage and the unexpected. In the early years of museum operation, particularly the period of the early to late 1980's, we suffered many false alarms due to the gnawing activity of squirrels in the attic area of the restored octagonal museum building, otherwise known as the "Bird House." There are other stories in this blog collection related to my days at the museum. Well, apparently, the coating on the wiring had a licorice-like taste and it greatly appealed to the critters on cold winter nights when there was nothing else to consume. We would get a call from the alarm monitoring company and meet up with an officer from the Ontario Provincial Police to search the buildings for a potential intruder. There were many late night trips over to Woodchester where we would have to conduct a room by room search, up to the attic, hoping quite frankly to find the house unoccupied. It wasn’t until the alarm wiring was changed that the squirrels stopped their dining habits. So I had more than a few tense moments with officers searching Woodchester, and going up the stairs quietly always seemed so much more dangerous and threatening than searching rooms on the level. I was always looking behind me as if to expecting the intruder to attack from behind as it was where we were most vulnerable. I have had many other staircase incidents in old houses, one actually that involved a paranormal event (documented in this blog series - see McGibbon House), so I can see how this staircase fixation may have been seeded decades ago as being somewhat precarious....no matter what the building.
So there I am "mind-fighting" this paranormal entity which is bigger and more determined than me, and the wind is howling, hair and fur flying, and the ghostly-mortal combat at its peak, and bloody hell......I wake up having done nothing more than earned yet another stalemate in the life and death struggle for attic supremacy. Crazy or what? It will take me about a half hour to settle down after I awaken but once I do slumber again, there is no chance I will revisit the attic in question for a re-match until many weeks and months later.
I think what is so unnerving about the nightmare, is that I truly believe I have the power to battle evil by thought process and rigorous contemplation.....concentration focused like a laser beam on the enemy. Maybe as a writer, and a long time editorialist for the local press, I started to believe my arguments were on the cutting edge of truthfulness, that could penetrate even the hardest shell of my adversaries. Possibly. Yet when I start each quest to oust the rogue entity, I know in advance that at best I’m only going to stir up complacency.....letting the alleged attic beast know I’m a die-hard trouble-maker....which is pretty much my reputation as a regional writer/historian. I usually have to stir the pot awhile before I hear the first sabres rattling above, and long before I get to the attic region of the building, the howling wind and roar of anger hits me on the bottom stairs and continues the bluster all the way to the top. I very seldom catch the creature off guard. It has happened in a few nightmares but it’s not typical. I’ve never been hurt by the entity and I guess it’s safe to say I haven’t hurt it either. Yet we still feel obliged to duke it out.
The fact that I am never successful in ousting the paranormal entity, and I’ve never actually been defeated myself, leaves me pondering the eventual outcome if the nightmares continue. And while I’ve never once recalled saying to the beast "The power of Christ compels you," it’s pretty much that kind of thing I’m blasting forth in these mind waves, and it’s exactly what antagonizes my opponent most. We’re not arguing about housekeeping matters here, or who left the pizza box and crusts on the stairs. We’re determining which creature is the strongest, and there just isn’t a conclusion that makes me feel at all content. Yet I believe that in one of these nightmares, there will be something more conclusive...either I’m going to fob this spirit off to another dimension or it’s going to liquidate this intruder. Who knows? I’ll keep you posted on any new nightmares I’ve had the displeasure of experiencing.
When I talk to my wife about these dreams she doesn’t seem all that surprised. "Well, Ted, you sit here amidst thousands of books, scribbling notes till after midnight, read about ghosts, hauntings and murders and watch movies about the paranormal.....it is more likely an oddity why you don’t have ten times more nightmares than you do!" Suzanne is so sensible about these things. She’s right of course. But it’s what historians and writers do.....can’t see myself changing habits on the off-chance I can reduce my nightmares from attic attacks to triple bogey scenarios on the dreamland golf course....or something like that.
What I’m pretty sure of, is the unfinished nature of my research and the ongoing requirement to re-visit many more attics in old buildings, to square off against my rather nebulous, mystical but all powerful arch rival..... will require the "kicking of each other’s arses" for some years to come. Maybe I’ll sort it out eventually and confront the entity with something more effective than mind-waves. Maybe not. I guess it’s an occupational hazard of delving into the expansive, complicated, perilous dimension of the paranormal. Yet truth be known, I’d much rather live with the frequent nightmares than abandon this most fascinating research.
THE WRITER-ADMIRER AND THE SERENDIPITOUS, STRANGE AND ONGOING RELATIONSHIP WITH THE MYSTERY OF TOM THOMSON
There is a lot to appreciate about serendipity and the researcher/ historian and discovery. In the mind-science realm, much of what we consider to be messages from the spirit-kind, are potentially no more than accidental and coincidental occurrences carrying along a theme of interest. For example, it is known that many of the world’s great discoveries, from medical cures to the landmarks reached by the legends of exploration, had helpful, somewhat accidental, serendipitous interplay.....one discovery, influencing the founding or location of something else.....strangely related but an unexpected find at the time. In my own research work it is pretty much a constant, so much so that I look forward to each prevailing discovery to have great influence on my next most significant gain or enlightenment. I’m seldom disappointed.
When I first turned on to the mystery of Tom Thomson, an artist who helped inspire the future Group of Seven Canadian artists, it was only several weeks into the project.....as a reasonably seasoned historian and researcher, that coincidences started happening all over the place.....and the more I reached into the musty old files containing information on his alleged drowning death in Algonquin Park, during the summer of 1917, the more I became convinced this would be the one project that would be a work in progress for the rest of my life. That was in the mid 1990's, and now in about the 13th year, and many published articles later, I’m nowhere near what I feel is the point of completion. And while there were many, many gains made by serendipitous discovery, there was a nagging and altogether strange sensation that Thomson wanted something more from me.....to keep up the questioning in the public’s mind about his murder. From the first day of research it was clear that the theory of accidental drowning was ill-founded and should never have been allowed to stand. In my opinion, a murderer succeeded in proving that "dead men tell no tales." Until that is..... pesky researchers refuse to accept what history presents as fact and take what ever serendipity wishes to contribute.....to prove or disprove accepted thought. Following are formerly published columns written several years ago, regarding the Tom Thomson mystery, presented by "Curious: The Tourist Guide." It was singularly the most well-read and responded-to series of columns I’d ever written. They are not ghost stories as such but if it is possible for a spirit to reach from the beyond, I have no doubt Thomson’s memory was causing this itch.....and one discovery of inconsistency led to another, and it did become a story about an investigation that was corrupted from its commencement in 1917. Coming soon will be a full length feature on the good Mr. Thomson’s case circa 1917-2009.

.

2009-01-08T04:37:00.001-08:00

The Antique Store Shopper Who Really Wasn't
While it might seem from the plethora of gathered stories so far that our family eagerly embraces the paranormal to the point of invention, we're still not at the point where ghostly encounters have meant anything more than a slight deviation of life's normal course. I'm reasonably sure many people have had paranormal experiences throughout their lives but opted to avoid even the most basic analysis or cross referencing, in order to authenticate the activity. I'm of the firm belief many of these experiences are a long, long way from what might be considered intrusive and frightening. Most are pretty passive events and nothing more than everso delicate messages from those who have passed. We in our house tend to be more receptive and attentive to activities surrounding us on any given day. I don't sit around waiting for something paranormal to present itself but I don't run away scared if all of a sudden a smell of lilacs or a bell mysteriously ringing goes otherwise unexplained. And we don't blame everything on the paranormal and are quick to find any other source that could explain our sensory intrusion. Quite a few are accepted but largely unexplained but always welcome none the less.
I've had exposure to strange encounters most of my life, and Suzanne has had a few but none that were the fuel of public notoriety such as to facilitate the inking of a movie deal. If you have read many paranormal stories, and are familiar with ghostly encounters yourself, our stories are about as run-of-the-mill as you can get. Nothing particularly spectacular when compared to stories about haunted castles and spiritful misty moors. Ours are really what might be expected of interesting, somewhat hard to explain encounters.....none of them threatening although possibly a tad unsettling. What we do have is an open minded approach to new and interesting things in this crazy old life. We couldn't possibly rule out the existence of ghosts or Unidentified Flying Objects or for that matter goblins, fairies, trolls, and other assorted wee beasties writers have been telling us about for centuries......we just haven't worked to disprove their existence because frankly it doesn't bother us either way. If we found a fairy in our garden we wouldn't try to snatch it up as a trophy. We'd just be delighted our garden was good enough to provide habitat.
In every single encounter we have had individually or as a family, we have never been led in that particular direction by, as an example, having just watched a horror flick, or just prior to...., reading about a haunting, or anything else that would have made us anticipate something lurking in the shadows. The encounters have all been when, as they say, we would least expect anything out of the ordinary. There had not been any stimulus to invent paranormal discovery. It just happened out of the blue or the dark depending on the time of day. Each time we have had an experience we might label in the paranormal domain, or at least close, we always try to find reasons it might have been mind over matter. And we never suggest for a moment that what we have witnessed, or sensed, is clear fact the paranormal has been at work.....because as researchers recognize, it isn't that easy to bag a photo of a wayward, passing by, or lodging-in-your-house "spirit," for proof you've been touched by the paranormal. We don't as a rule hunt ghosts or try to get rid of any we do find. Live and let haunt I hear some folks say. As historians by profession however, we cross reference fact and very often find fiction lurking within, and we adore refuting long held historical claims by applying good research skills. We've ticked a few folks off in our ballywick who preferred the old and trusted histories of the region, very much disliking those historical activists who delve too deeply. Thusly, when we put forward our tales of the paranormal, they are just that.....tales, because we can not prove beyond doubt that what we encountered is the work of the spirit-kind. It would be daft to swear on the Bible that we have been intruded upon by Catherine the ghost child. We can suspect a haunting but we simply can't offer proof beyond doubt.
One such strange but unproven encounter, that developed twice (only one of us experienced the mystery shopper), occurred once again at our former antique shop in Bracebridge. On the first occasion it had been a busy afternoon with a lot of tourist traffic passing through the basement shop. It was a strange location in many ways. Our shop was situated in a modern storefront addition that had been built onto the front of a large Victorian house that had once been occupied by the local undertaker. You couldn't get into the house from the addition and the original building had been divided into apartments. The creaking and groaning of the modified building never stopped, and it was common several times a day to hear footsteps coming down the stairs only to find no one arriving in the shop. In the early years of the store our sales desk was in a larger second room to the left, a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, such that we couldn't see who was coming in until they rounded the corner into the main shop. If they went straight into the room at the bottom of the stairs, we might only hear the tinkling of china or pinging of crystal, as a shopper(s) tested the wares. Lots of times we would get up and actually go to the room to see if any one had actually belonged to the footfall. We just wrote it off to a settling building and the constant pounding of heavy traffic up the main street.
Late this particular afternoon, Suzanne looked up from bookwork at the counter to see an elderly bearded man in an old coat standing a few feet in front. She was about to say "hello" to the sudden guest of the shop, when the figure simply vanished into thin air. Yet she could describe his facial features and clothing, his height and expression as clearly as you would any customer who appears at your sales desk with an enquiry or a request to purchase. Several weeks later, in pretty much the same circumstance as the first encounter, Suzanne felt a presence near the counter, looked up to see if someone needed help, and saw the same gentleman standing in front as before. She thought at first that she had been too quick to judge the gentleman's visit the first time as a ghostly encounter, due to the fact he was obviously interested in something in our shop. As she pulled up from the chair to properly address the chap, still standing within a few metres of the counter, he simply turned and vanished as quietly and mysteriously as he had arrived. It did leave my wife rubbing her eyes wondering just how the lighting in the store was creating this illusion of a short bearded man in a frock. In retrospect what she did see was not a chap from the 1990's, but someone dressed characteristic of many decades previous. It had the usual trappings of "I've seen a ghost." Suzanne was looking for another sale for the day and instead got a twice disappearing customer on the cusp of something or other. She just didn't understand the message you might say.
There are many stories about the folks who used to dwell in this particular Victorian era house, one being that a sickly relative had lived and suffered from a long and serious ailment alone in the attic, over many years, eventually passing away in that same section of the old home. Once again as historians, we have not varified this claim by a former resident. Suzanne has no doubt about the man she saw but whether it was the deceased attic-dweller, we will probably never know. I never saw the chap in my days at the store but I did hear the phantom footsteps at least once every day for more than five years. Still, it was a good location for our shop and during its run we enjoyed a pretty good volume of sales. We gave it up to pursue new business opportunities in Gravenhurst, a town ten miles south of Bracebridge but we still have a soft spot for the Birch Hollow location of once.
Woodchester Villa's Storied Past - My Favorite of all Haunts
It was in the late summer of 1977, the year I graduated from York University, in Toronto, that I decided to get involved with a move in Bracebridge, Ontario, to save an historic octagonal home built by Woolen Mill founder, Henry Bird, closely following a design put forth by American Orsen Fowler.....who believed in the restorative, health-promoting, life-sensible qualities of living within an octagon. Many folks across North America did buy into his belief and designs for better living, and there were two such examples in Muskoka, one a lakeside cottage the other Woodchester Villa, or as it was better known to the local citizenry as..... the "Bird House," in reference to the founder of the hill-top estate.
I was part of the first board of directors of the newly established Bracebridge Historical Society, and I do consider myself the chap who put forth the idea to commence the group in the first place, which after a few years of hardy labor down the road, proudly opened the newly acquired museum (in the early 1980's). After a short hiatus due to out-of-the-area employment, I returned as a member of the Board a hair's breadth into the new museum's mandate, which was to both preserve local heritage and entertain visitors. I remained at Woodchester in one capacity or another for the better part of the decade, as both the Society's President and later Museum Manager during the period of the late 1980's.
I worked many long hours at the museum and each member of our family spent their summers, during that hectic decade, tied in one way or another to the site. We looked after a lot of the maintenance issues from mowing the lawns to painting the decking, weeding the limestone walkways to running educational and entertainment programs throughout the two summer months. There was a tight budget from the beginning of the museum to the time I ended my association. We had many Strawberry Socials on the lawns at Woodchester, and two sensational "Theatre in the Round" performances, thanks to the actors connected at the time to Muskoka Festival, then operating each summer from the Gravenhurst Opera House. They did the shows for free and it helped our attendance figures which were at the time failing for many different reasons. First of all, we had few if any dollars to spend on advertising. We got by each summer on the kindness of so many generous volunteers and folks who left donations to help us offset costs.
We guided many school tours through the years, and had special open houses at Christmas and then a "Christmas in July," program for kids during the summer season. We even had impromtu musical events offered by concert and otherwise accomplished pianists who would just happen by the parlor as part of the tour.....then be unable to resist tickling the ivories.....that's right....they would just start playing and a crowd would soon gather nearby. From this kind of unexpected but always welcome entertainment, we'd range upwards to hosting the full regalia, Provincial Salvation Army Band on the side lawn. We tried everything at least once, and it was particularly tough because we suffered most of the time from too few volunteers, too much work expected of us.... and we had two tiny tots to contend with at the same time. Now try to repeat that last line fast. Talk about a tongue twister but it's all true. It was a crazy time of our lives as a family and I dare say my wife was pondering the sensibility of marrying an historian. I can remember Suzanne having to hold son Robert while demonstrating butter-making for the "Christmas in July" event. In fact, I used to set up the playpen in the museum annex, for son Robert, and I let Andrew play with his toy cars on the museum floor in the restored former Presbyterian Church, while I worked from the back office. It was a daily thing. My boys grew up in a museum. It somewhat explains their interest in old stuff now, I suppose. (The former church site by the way, is now the Chapel Gallery.....of which I helped initiate to the site in the initial plan for the museum's business upgrade from poverty status to sustainability). We worked in every area of the museum and knew it incredibly well. I used to sneak folks up to the Widow's Walk, which was accessed through a trap door at the uppermost peak of the roof, where the view to the river and main street was magnificent. I wasn't supposed to do this but I did it any way! It was an insurance issue moreso. It was safe to my standard but not by their reasoning.
Woodchester Villa had its share of curious attributes. None that were particularly troubling but it was obvious to any paranormally sensitive occupant or visitor, there was an aura, an unseen energy within which gave you the constant feeling of being watched. We weren't the first to experience these sensations, as it was noted by other residents of the property from year's past, that it was a dwelling of many strange noises and curious unexplainable occurrences. While it wasn't enough to scare any one from the building there were occasions when we all would ask ourselves, "did you hear that," "who turned the light on," or "where are those barking dogs?" I seldom if ever walked up to the Widow's Walk without feeling someone was coming up right behind me. I'd even feel a tug on my ankle but nobody else was on the narrow staircase when I would look down. It was probably mind over matter in this case because it was kind of a spooky, dimly lit part of the house to traverse in all kinds of weather and times of day.
The first documented case of unusual sounds in the house, was reported by museum staff in about the second year of full operation. Several staff members told about being in the second floor curator's office, and hearing the sound of barking dogs. The windows were closed and there were no dogs barking when staff stepped out to investigate. I had heard them as well, so I didn't have any reason to doubt that they had also heard the nearly non-stop howling and barking as if the hounds were in the house itself. I never really thought about it until the young ladies on staff, started to look for these barking dogs. None could be found. If there was barking heard in the house, by taking one step out the door at the front or back, the racket would suddenly cease. At that time nobody mentioned the "barking dogs" as being any kind of paranormal encounter. It was just annoying. In the middle of book work I'd get up and stick my head out the window, like most on staff for those years, and yell "Shut up....shut up you stupid dogs!" It didn't work. The paranormal connection came a short while later, while students who should have been at work guiding, dusting and conserving, took a particular interest in the spiritual essences of the estate. They commenced an unanticipated, unwarranted and non-sanctioned exploratory adventure to determine just how many ghosts dwelled within the octagon of Woodchester Villa. I was in for a rude introduction to their handiwork when the electronic media showed up to record the hauntings which even included what turned out to be an invented murder scenario, the students believed had occurred on the estate. It was a public relations coup on one hand, because it did get us needed publicity but the Bird family was not impressed by the suggestion foul play had occurred on the upper staircase......as the spirits had somehow relayed to the teenage tour guides. It is said a guide was threatened on the staircase by some invisible entity, and told to get out of the house. It was pretty much what I told them but I wasn't a ghost....just a pissed off public relations director trying to mend fences as fast as they were smashing them down. It began as calmly as this......
It was the same year that I was working on behalf of the Public Relations Committee, that I had my first run-in with ghosts and those who wished to identify them as unique qualities and quantities of the Victorian estate. A reporter on staff of The Herald-Gazette, of which I was editor at the time, went to do a story about the alleged haunting of the Bird House. I didn't really think too much of it, until it arrived on my desk for approval.....and as content overseer, I had to weigh content and adverse impact before I passed it on to lay-out. It wasn't breaking news or anything and it seemed harmless for a page four insertion. What I assumed was to be a light feature article, and possibly a kindly bit of publicity for a new museum, had a much more dire story-line. It seemed that in response to the annoying and ongoing din of barking dogs, which lasted a few years on and off, the staff decided this time to allow Ouiji to sort it all out. One young lady brought the board in to see if the staff could make contact with the spirits, still holed-up somewhat comfortably in the century old octagonal house. Well, one thing led to another, and all sorts of weird stuff was being reported, and what was to be a one-time feature story for the fun of it, became a lengthier series of articles......because the reporter's initial interest generated more delving, questions to the "other side," and a playfulness with the television reporter who picked up the feature story and decided to approach staff directly. It was a slow news period...you're right!
As a short sidebar to this story, I let an acquaintance of mine, during casual after-work conversation, in on the most recent debacle happening at Woodchester.....she was a highly sensitive young lady with a particular awareness about paranormal characteristics and habits, and who knew all about seances, and the inherent dangers of a Ouiji Board in the wrong hands. She scolded me soundly for allowing the girls to play around with the Board, and taking a chance that every wayward spirit, good and nasty, would feel warmly at home in these new (old) digs. I happened to mention it to her just as plain old, run-of-the-mill conversation, regarding the kind of day I was having as both a museum director and editor...... being weighed down by the chores of the day. To her it was a far more serious matter....unearthly you might say. "By using that Board you've invited a lot more spirits than were probably ever lodging in that house, to come for an extended visit, and never, never want to leave," she said with unflinching confidence that we'd made a giant welcome sign to "party-on dudes." We didn't really want a sideshow up there afterall. This female friend, who shall remain nameless, told me that one of the great faults of using such a board, is that you can inadvertently invite any old wayward spirit into the mainstream without having a chance to check credentials at the door. "You can draw in a lot of spirits you don't want in your house.....and this is their portal back into our world!" I just nodded because that's the first I'd ever heard of that particular conduit between this world and the great beyond. I don't know whether she was right or not.....but life and haunting did get somewhat more involved after the board was used....moreso than just the sound of barking dogs.
I was watching the nightly news, sipping a nice cold beer, when all of a sudden a film clip appeared on-screen of Woodchester, with a story about an unsolved mystery unfolding in Bracebridge......and it may have involved murder. What staff had been up to went way beyond the Ouiji Board and the feature story we ran in The Herald-Gazette. Now staff was investigating an unresolved murder in the house and an empty grave in the local cemetery. Geez, they were hired to work as museum interpreters and now it was turning into an episode of "Murder She Wrote." What was worse is that they started naming names, and it involved a prominent family......the first family of the house in fact, and to hear about it on the nightly news didn't amuse any of the kin who caught the reference. The story was that a young family member had been pushed down a flight of stairs, probably coming from the attic, and had been killed by the fall. It was assumed the burial plot held the secret and short of digging it up, a lot of inuendo had been cast unceremoniously around town. Just the kind of slanderous stuff that can get a museum and staff into serious legal trouble, and give a public relations director some wickedly strong heartburn. I was on the phone mending fences right away. I was having lots of meetings with lots of people, and my reporter was called in to re-assess what he had helped fan into the nightly news.
We found out that it had begun when one of the staff members reported that he had been audibly told to "get out of this house,"
by some unseen entity, as he was descending the attic to third floor staircase. A little unsettled and building on a theme already stemming up from a strong root of suspicion, the next ill conceived project was to find out if the voice and a grave marker discrepency someone else had found, added up to murder-most-foul. The bottom line here, is that there was no murder, no foul play whatsoever, and we had many apologies to bestow to family .....and a Ouiji Board to remove from the house.
It took a few years for this to blow over. It doesn't mean the house wasn't paranorally endowed, and it may have even been quite honestly interpreted that an entity within wanted the subject staff member to "buzz off," but there was no murder. No mystery. Just the life history of an old house fussing up from time to time....creaking timbers and settling ground and yes a few quality moments of barking dogs from somewhere quite unknown.
One of the most significant paranormal events came when a director of the museum, a guy who wouldn't budge for any wayward spirit, got the idea to tape-record old 78 rpm records from the parlor gramaphone so that we could play them through the day by using a speaker insert in the cabinet; the recorder actually placed in an unused bathroom nearby. So instead of wearing out the needles on the gramaphone, or stressing the critical main-spring with daily use, it afforded us a great option to bring music into the parlor by what appeared to be a whirling Victrola but was actually an extension of electronics. Guests believed it was an actual record being played and seemed to enjoy the ambience it created in the otherwise stuffy parlor.
What happened was that while the records were being recorded, some curious knocking and other noises in the house were being picked up. When he played us the tape we could clearly hear the knocking as if someone was at the adjacent door....that's how clear it was recorded. Yet he had no actual interruptions throughout the recording session over several days. He often went out of the room, even out doors while the record was spinning and despite his best efforts to identify the sources of the knocking (he heard later on the recordings), he could offer no explanation for their existence. The records themselves were fine as was the machine. He listened to all the records over again and never heard problems with the actual pressing, that would have accounted for the knocking. He firmly believed the sounds to have been external and not a technical problem with either the tape recorder or Victrola. I used to play that same tape over and over during at least three years, and I always got a kick out of hearing the knocks myself. They weren't really disturbing or unsettling but it did seem to be the case something was trying to get attention on that particular day of recording.
On another occasion I intruded quite accidentally on a conversation of a young family coming down from the second floor of the museum, in a rather animated discussion about "The Room," and "Did you get that feeling we shouldn't step inside?" I asked the guide what room the family had felt uncomfortable in, and she pointed me to the children's quarters at the right of the stairs. I wandered in and looked all about, studied the period toys strewn on the floor, as if children had just been at play, and dismissed anything paranormal whatsoever. I chatted at some length with the guides who told me that many visitors to the second floor would not go into the room, despite the fact we had taken down barrier ropes during my tenure as director manager. "They find it occupied," said one of the guides. "They enjoy looking at the master bedroom and the other exhibits in the bedroom at the front of the house but they don't like going into the children's room." We decided to do a little survey. Without telling any one about our interest in the room, and why it seemed oppressive, we jotted down remarks from people leaving the museum and asked them specifically which rooms they enjoyed the most....and the least.
We of course found that a majority of visitors that summer did not like the child's room. They said it appeared "sad and lonely," the toys being unplayed with. It was my wife's own refusal to enter the room that made me ever-more interested in finding out what it was that inspired these feelings of forboding. We tried to change-up the toy display, putting some away and tidying up the floor space to allow visitors full entrance to the room. Suzanne still felt the room was occupied and suggested it had nothing at all to do with the decor. She felt there was a strong presence of a child in the room and there was no compassion to share the toys. I have stood for hours in that room on bright days, where light was brimming into the room, and on dull days when rain splashed against the glass pane.....and never, not even for a second, did I feel unwelcome in those quarters. It doesn't mean everyone else was wrong because by averages of people avoiding it, I was the one being paranormally numb-founded you might say.
My most significant paranormal experience in that house came on the day of an open house during a Christmas in July program. Both Suzanne and I were feeling poorly that day the result of the flu, or an illness from something we had consumed, and we were painfully putting together the day's materials in order that the event could run as planned. Suzanne was setting out a massive cake in the upstair's porch area, while looking after both Andrew and Robert. Staff were setting up chairs for the band yet to arrive, and I was in the downstairs kitchen making up lemonade for the several hundred guests expected. In the basement area you could hear footsteps above but not clearly. You certainly couldn't hear anything outside because the thick stone walls insulated out the noise of the neighborhood. As for the barking dogs, you could only hear them in the upstair bedroom we used in those days as the office. In the abutting open area to the kitchen we held our regular board meetings. I was stirring the lemonade when all of a sudden I could hear a child in near hysterics, crying loudly enough to be in the adjoining Victorian-era kitchen part of the original home layout. I went running over to see if a youngster had snuck downstairs and hurt themselves by some misadventure. There was nothing. Yet I could still hear the crying. I looked out the basement door and there wasn't a sound or person visible. Back through the door it was clear again. Then I felt a cold shiver when I thought of Suzanne and the boys in the porch area upstairs. Thinking maybe one of the boys had been stung by a bee, I raced up the narrow stairs, jogged through the parlor, the hall, jostling a few volunteer helpers along the way, only to find Suzanne with Andrew on a chair, Robert asleep in his stroller, and their mother cutting the cake into several hundred squares.
"Who was crying," I asked an obviously startled wife. "What are you talking about....no one has been crying....though I feel like it," she retorted. "Where did you hear crying?" she asked. "Downstairs. I was stirring the lemonade and heard a kid crying.....I thought it was coming from the next room but it wasn't." "Outside?" she asked. "No, I went out the back door half expecting to find someone with a skinned knee but there was nothing." There had been no crying child that we could find on the premises indoors or out. But I heard crying regardless. My imagination? Even when I was moving around in that kitchen, and heading from room to room, I could hear the crying. It only stopped when I put my head out the bottom door. Once inside again I could hear the same crying. When I hit the top of the stairs to the first floor, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. This was the first serious encounter I had experienced at Woodchester. It was a little unsettling. I thought then about the child's room on the second floor, and wondered to myself whether there was indeed an unhappy child left in that house from another era.
There were many other smaller incidents of curious nature that I encountered during my tenure as museum director and then manager but nothing that would have ever scared me from my task or spending hours working on projects within. I did feel there was someone watching from that house, especially when we were working outside. While raking the leaves or grass clippings I'd often get the feeling someone was watching out over the garden, and when I'd sneak a peak back toward the upper level of the house, I'd find everything as it should have been. No wavering curtains. No mysterious face looking out. Yet it was the one constant feeling working around the property, and even inside there seemed to be a guardian of the site, possibly the spiritual aura Fowler believed would have a place in an octagonal building. I never felt bad-will at Woodchester, and I was never told by any entity to "get out our else!" I think somehow the spirit of the dwelling knew we were kindly folks, looking after its earthly haunt, and cut us a little slack. It's possible it just didn't like some visitors and made them feel unwelcome in certain areas of the house.
I adored my years working at Woodchester Villa but after more than ten years involved with the project, and having a badly neglected young family, it was time to turn over the responsibilities to another curator and guiding volunteers. All us Curries still have a soft spot when it comes to remembering time spent at Woodchester Villa and Museum. It was an important part of our lives for many years and we will never forget its strange but welcoming aura. Make it a point sometime soon to visit this charming old hillside estate! Judge for yourself whether there are resident spirits, or not!

2008-12-17T06:54:00.000-08:00

Woodchester Villa was a marvelously adorned haunt at Christmas-time

Shortly after graduating York University (circa 1977) with a degree in Canadian history, I moved back home from Toronto with the intent of opening a small antique business in my hometown Bracebridge. I anticipated getting involved in local heritage conservation in my spare time. I just didn’t think it would be the case I would get myself hooked into every project going....up to my eyeballs in community volunteerism. I never do anything half-way which according to my wife is also my downfall...... good in many ways....not so good in many others. She’s an expert on this because everything I volunteer for involves her......because I apparently don’t mind imposing my conundrums for her to solve. I believe in sharing, you see!
At the same time I began a column on antiques and collectables in the newly launched Bracebridge Examiner, and within months I was the project leader of a Muskoka heritage project for the local Board of Education....where we gathered interviews on tape of many of the district’s oldest citizens who had deep roots in our region of Ontario. It was a great job and the tape resource collection is still being used today as a teaching tool by the Trillium Lakelands Board of Education.
Another way of using my interest in Canadian history came in the form of the first ever Bracebridge Historical Society, of which I was a founding director, and then the restoration of the former home of local woolen mill founder, Henry Bird, the late 1800's octagonal estate on the hillside overlooking the rapids above the Bracebridge Falls. This Victorian era house based on the model set forth by Orsen Fowler, was by its octagonal nature supposed to enhance the lives of residents by promoting good health, efficient household management, air circulation, heating and of course spiritual well being. As we have heard about the healing and spiritual powers of the pyramid for example, the octagonal design was supposed to possess similar qualities and quantities. Did it? Really don’t know! But it is a spiritually enchanted dwelling place whether it is the result of a compelling design or just that it falls into the category of a regular old haunt from the Victorian era.
Later in this collection of blogs I will have much more information on my years spent operating this unusual community museum that was quite haunted but acceptably so.......having spent many, many hours alone in this house in the 1980's at all times of day and night, there is no doubt in my mind the house was occupied spiritually yet it was never prevailed with any discernable negative aura. Sometimes visitors would say they felt a presence in one particular room but it wasn’t enough to have them fleeing the site because of some horrible occurrence. I will deal with this in depth in a future column in this series of Muskoka haunts.
In the mid to late 1980's, during my term of presidency of the Historical Society, and then as an operations manager in the late years of that decade, we never let a Christmas season go by without an open house, where guests were invited free of charge to enjoy a Victorian celebration in one of the few remaining Fowler homes in North America. In retrospect it was a great commitment of time and personal effort for our family and the few hardy volunteers who would show up regularly for on-site events. Yet there was no way we could let the house down.....and this is exactly how we felt.....by not having a Christmas celebration within. It could be so easily transformed from a dark and melancholy vestige of another century to a twinkling, happy and inviting Christmas venue....with only a few trimmings of evergreen boughs and bows tied to the stair railings and door frames.
What makes this story interesting to me.....a regional historian who has had contact with many spirited places and circumstances, was that Woodchester’s unknown but active entities were pretty influential for most of the rolling year......accept at Christmas. If I was raking leaves on the sprawling grounds in the autumn, I always felt as if someone was watching me from an upstairs window. If I was making lemonade for a summer social, I’d hear a baby crying when there was no one else in the house, and in the late afternoon I could hear a kennel full of dogs barking yet when I’d step outside, nothing at all could be heard. I would be downstairs in the tiny staff kitchen and hear footsteps in the parlor above and on the staircase to the basement. No one would be there when I’d go up to check if a visitor had come early or a volunteer had entered the building. Nothing and no one! After years of this I just took it all in stride that the unexplained intrusions were simply the character of a grand old family home in the heart of beautiful Muskoka., living-on regardless of the modern day conservators. I left employ of the museum because I couldn’t stand the town’s indifference to the site not because the place was haunted that’s for sure. I would gladly take the spirit-kind over my ill-prepared, "never on the right page" managers.....who wouldn’t step foot on the museum property unless it was for a grip and grin photo for the local press.
At Christmas this beautiful old home was at its most congenial, quiet and peaceful time. On one occasion I decided to play the audio from the movie based on Charles Dickens book, "A Christmas Carol," starring Alistair Sim, and we placed the tape recorder in the small bathroom off the parlor and had a speaker in the cabinet of the old Victrola next to the grand piano. I let it play while I tended a few additional decorations my wife Suzanne had sent over as last minute inclusions to what I thought was now becoming a seriously over-decorated homestead. About ten minutes into the recording, I just had to sit in the parlor and listen to the dialogue. If there was any moment above all others at this Bracebridge landmark that was truly remarkable, it was at this point...which was by the way the last Christmas event my wife and I held at Woodchester. It was as if all at once the spirits and the lone human had settled for this gentle moment in time, strangely appreciative of each other’s company, as a general peace and calm prevailed.
I anticipated that the resident spirits of the house, which were as much its historic patina as the aging of the woodwork itself, would let me know whether my decision to run the script was in good taste or unacceptable. It was quite the opposite. I sat there in one of the big Victorian chairs, and listened for more than an hour, and felt a great peace come over the place. Whether the old haunt was satisfied with this interpretation of Dickens great work, or that we were on the cusp of another public open house to recognize its period elegance in this festive time of the year.....I don’t know.....but it is a feeling I have held these many years since....that it was a home that very much appreciated hosting events and the local citizens.
The event as usual drew several hundred visitors over the course of that afternoon, and all the cookies, the cakes and candies had been happily consumed by what I perceived had been an entertained audience. Just before I closed the front door for the last time before Christmas, knowing I wouldn’t be back until later in January, I offered my thanks for once again welcoming our event......and it’s true that I wished it and its inmates a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I felt a contentment doing so and that was all that mattered at that point in time.
It wasn’t long after that I decided to resign my position and move on with other professional challenges in Muskoka history and conservation. I did so with the same feeling of connection.....and on that last day, I slapped that front porch that I had painted and re-painted many times.....and thanked it for many wonderful years of friendship. Although I have no doubt in my mind, and by experiences accumulated over the years, that Woodchester has resident spirits.....never once did this patina of past lives make me feel uncomfortable or unwelcome. In my years of tenure I accepted them, even verbally addressing them when I sensed they were in an active state for whatever reason, and they as much accepted me as their protector for that period of our relationship. It was a haunt I learned to love and it was painful having to walk away.
I would like very much to wish all my friends and colleagues who visit this site, a wonderful winter holiday, a Merry Christmas, a safe and Happy New Year. From our homestead here at Birch Hollow, to yours, best wishes of the season. Please join me for more tales of Muskoka and regional hauntings upcoming in the new year.

2008-11-27T08:36:00.000-08:00

The tale of "Katherine" and the legendary crooked portrait
Shortly after moving into our new and present home here in Gravenhurst, that we now officially call "Birch Hollow" (we've used this name for the past three homes but this one has more claim to the title than the others because of the birches), the strange and mysterious events of the past seemed to have hitched a ride to the new digs We didn't think it had enough history on its own, to warrant even a minor haunting. It was a newer home from the early 1980's, and to the best of our knowledge it wasn't built on a lost burial ground or place of any great historical anything. It was a typical hilly pasture for a Muskoka homestead of the late 1800's. (Of course it was part of the outer security zone of the former German Prisoner of War Camp, known as Calydor, situated on the high rocky shore of Lake Muskoka, from 1939 to 1946). The closest historical events were two German officiated funerals for two prisoners who had died at the camp during this period. Funderal processions, soldiers wearing their full regalia German military uniforms, marched up Lorne Street on the way to the nearby Mickle Cemetery. Lorne is in our backyard. But this is moot to what might foster a paranormal event in our house. In this case we believe it was our antique enterprise that may have contributed to a few extra characteristics being added to an otherwise normal family household. We aren't the first to suspect that an antique item could carry the burden of a former owner's emotional tie into a present household.
We are opposite a beautiful 20 acre urban paradise, a bogland that is full of Muskoka-style quick sand, which we were warned to be aware of on nature walks with our young lads. Apparently there have been some lost animals and family pets succumbing to the bogland's muck. We are bordered by this great natural heritage and yes we've had a few wolves and owls that added some unsettling calls in the wee hours of misty, moonlit nights. As far as a haunted house on this lovely moor, well, the only way it could possibly house a spirit other than our own, was if we brought one in with us. This brings up the point of travelling spirits inadvertently brought into an otherwise safe haven. It can inspire some strange encounters and playful actions.
As antique dealers, collectors and historians, we have, as taste would have it, always brought home curious, often grotesque pieces into our household inventory ranging from funerary pieces to old, some would say oppressively designed Victorian furniture, that always added a funeral-home atmosphere my wife Suzanne deplored. As a former Victorian musuem manager, who had to deal with oppressive feelings every day on the job, it kind of grew on you over time, and slipping down into the soft padding of an old high back chair was like dropping onto a cloud. Some people find this furniture uncomfortable but with my aching old back I found very few pieces in the museum's parlor unworthy of my much-enjoyed lounging after a long day of guiding tours.
It is known amongst some of the more paranormally sensitive antique dealers that it is possible, every now and again, to unexpectedly, get a hitch-hiker when hauling home an antique purchase. Funny thing in the fictional, entertainment department, that during the haunted house ride at Disney World in Florida,......while enroute on a track through the rooms, you will find that when you look in a mirror ahead, a wee ghostie has hitched a ride in your moving car. This is a bit of video magic courtesy the enchanters at Disney World but it's sort of what we've experienced in our years spent in the antique trade. Instead of finding a ghost beside us in the car, we usually find out later that a doll, a picture, a cradle etc., is the means of transport from estate auction to Birch Hollow.....where the fun begins in our abode. There have been many reports over the years that hauntings related somewhat to articles versus the dwelling as a source. There is what may be an urban antique legend here in Ontario, with the story often repeated in the early 1990's, about a haunted doll crib that allegedly rocked itself. It had belonged to a little Victorian era lass who perished in a house fire. When the family was being evacuated from the burning building, the little girl snuck back in and went up the stairs to retrieve her dollie. By time she got the doll and attempted to exist, the smoke knocked her unconsious. She was found in the burned-out building a few feet from the cradle which had not been destroyed by the flames. After being hauled from the ruins, the family we assume kept the piece until it finally found its way, some decades later, onto the open market. When an antique shop acquired the cradle and subsequently sold it, the small wooden piece only lasted a few weeks in the buyer's home, being brought back to the dealer for of all things....being haunted. It seemed that no matter where the cradle was placed in the home, it would eventually begin to rock as if being manipulated by the hand of a playful child. After a period of trying to find the conditions that were influencing the cradle, the family decided it was a cursed piece and something they could do without. Each time from then on that the dealer sold the cradle, it was brought back for basically the same reason.
Eventually, or so the story goes, the store owners sold it to another dealer who put a sign on the piece that it was indeed haunted but that it was definitely not for sale. Well, we think that piece continued to be sold and returned but we can't tell you where it finally wound up. Would you find it surprising that a piece of wood, the hollow of a simple cradle, could be the accommodation of a ghost? What caused the cradle to rock? Even on level ground with nary a breeze from the window, or a vibration from below to set it in motion. Well, we had our own haunted piece.......a Victorian era portrait of a little girl we named Katherine.
We had been ghost-free since our former house in Bracebridge and life in the new bungalow seemed at first to be pretty tame in comparison to the paranormal acitivities of Golden Beach. It was expected life and the paranormal mix would provide an inert situation where a strange balance would prevail, at least for awhile. We had attended an auction sale in the community of Milford Bay, near Bracebridge, one Sunday afternoon in the autumn of the year....it was probably 1992 if memory serves. It was an estate sale and there were some neat pieces. On a tight budget, everything I was interested in that day went for way more than I had to spend. Our antique business in Bracebridge was just making rent at that time and I couldn't justify going crazy on any of the items at this sale.....which were all pretty much run of the mill pictures, prints, tables, dressers, and bric-a-brack. In fact it was one of the most discouraging sales I've been to, and it didn't even help that I was good friends with the auctioneer. That should have entitled me to a few favors....for a loyal patron. He was getting big bucks for damaged items and it was obvious the visitors to the region, with deeper pockets on this day than my own, were greatly influencing the upper limits of some pretty typical antique pieces. There were about ten major items I had told Suzanne we were going to acquire, even if we had to break the bank..... and even she (the tight-fisted accountant of the family) agreed we could be somewhat flexible......we just wouldn't eat for the next couple of weeks.
I lost ten out of ten. If I bid on twenty items in that final ten minutes of the auction, I wasn't even close on 19. There was however, one break in the action, and it wasn't intentional. I got mixed up about the item being auctioned, and found to my initial chagrin that I was bidding on a Victorian portrait of a little girl "with attitude"....a pout of epic proportion captured by the photographer of the day. It was in a large plaster and gilt frame with its original glass, and it did appear to be in good overall condition. But it was not what I wanted as store inventory. I won the bid. The one thing I got all day was an item I was bidding on by mistake. Get this.....I was writing an authoritarian column for the local press about auction sales, discussing how to bid, when to bid, what not to do, auction protocol and how to weasle into the best buys for the finest items. Well sir, I was pretty unhappy about my accidental purchase, (although I never let any one know it was accidental until this revelation today) and it was a twenty dollar or so expense I greatly begrudged handing over. I mumbled and complained to myself but certainly wasn't going to admit to Suzanne that I'd goofed and bought something I didn't want. I had a parallel look on my face to the little girl I was toting. Apparently we were kindred spirits. She didn't want to sit for the photographer and I didn't want to carry home a pouting child in a frame.
She had an intense snarl etched on her face and the color enhancements applied by the photo studio did nothing to neutralize the emotion of an angry kid. With that look and the feeling of being quite stupid as a bidder, I simply didn't look at her....... and she pouted in silence for quite a few days into our impromtu relationship. Now rather than being considered a wild story teller, by confession, I have previously indicated (in other published stories about Catherine) that I very much wanted the image because I'd been short changed and beat out all afternoon at this particular sale. It was pride you see that invented that tall tale. No I wasn't interested in the Victorian portrait because I needed store inventory, and these old framed photos are notoriously hard to sell. Who wants the portrait of a kid or adult you don't even know hanging in your family room. So as far as it goes, I was stuck with the wee lady. Suzanne wasn't impressed either because money was tight then and I had purchased a DUD! nothing to help net a business profit. We certainly didn't get off on the right foot. I decided that Catherine was going to adorn an empty wall in our house in spite of it all, and it didn't matter who was unhappy about it either. Turns out the feelings were mutual and this may have sparked the incidents I'm about to relate.
Admittedly, I have a first impressions problem. I often find myself unhappy with a purchase or the quality of a piece after I've bought it at auction. I've kicked myself alot in the proverbial arse over ill-conceived purchases. After about a week of staring at Catherine leaning against the fire place, pouting defiantly back, she actually started to appeal to me....for whatever reason. After a few more days I decided to hang her above an old washstand in the area of our living room, closest to two of three bedrooms, and beside the bathroom door. We had recently purchased a nice Victorian jug and bowl set with all but one of the pieces, and Catherine's portrait above would look strikingly museum-like. Suzanne wasn't thrilled but warned me repeatedly about the importance of properly hanging the heavy frame such that no matter what the conditions nearby, whether gale-force wind or banging bathroom door, it wouldn't fall down onto the expensive jug and bowl set. Well, you know us home handy-men who aren't really all that handy at all.......being about as "handy as a foot" my wifes chortles. I believed without question the picture was up forever which is about "four weeks" for any antique dealer who changes interior decor about a hundred times a year depending on the latest acquisitions. I tested that sucker ten or more times to see if it showed any weakness on the nail pounded into a wall stud. No wobble. Perfect stability.
About a week later, when we arrived home one Saturday night after a long day at the Bracebridge shop, we found Catherine had come off the nail and wound up face-down in the middle of the floor, having missed altogether the jug and bowl set directly below. The heavy picture appeared for all intents and purposes to have been lifted off the nail and thrust down on the floor, with the portrait facing up. How she managed to fall away from the wall, with the nail still in the stud and the wire struck across the eyelits as it was when hung, is an ongoing Currie family mystery. How it then rolled into the centre of the floor is quite beyond explanation. So what does a doting owner of a Victorian portrait do? Hung it right back in the same place. A week later it fell again, this time dropping straight down onto the floor behind the washstand and jug and bowl set, without failure to either wire or nail in the wall. There wasn't even a detectable movement of the china jug and bowl set....showing no influence from Catherine's tantrum. She obviously didn't like being hung above the washstand in our living room. So how were we going to make the waif content in our modest abode?
She was thusly headed downstairs to the family room and my library-office.
A Crooked Lady and a Stint in Theatre
From the beginning of her tenure in our house, even when she was hanging prominently in our living room, she seemed determined to hang crooked in between unceremonious flights to the floor. I would straigthen our Victorian lady at least once a day if not more because she obviously knew, in a spirit sense, that I have a phobia about anything askew, from piles of books to art on the wall. I've even been known to straighten pictures as a guest in someone else's abode. So indeed it was making me mad that no matter how I fixed the wire on the back or made sure it was unmovable except in the case of earthquake, Catherine continue her taunts.
For whatever reason, and I'm not sure that it was her spirited falls that made me want to unload the picture but I finally decided to take Catherine to our antique shop in uptown Bracebridge. I hung her above my counter on the back wall of the smaller first room in the two room shop. I didn't put a price on the picture because I wasn't sure whether I should sell it, or just let her look pretty and companion the other portraits I did have for sale at the time. People regularly commented about her sad face and asked if I knew who she was, and if she had been from a local family. I had a few offers to purchase but I just could commit to a price. As I had rescued her from the auction (or at least this is what I thought I had done for a waif in distress), there was some unspecified respect and admiration for the image gained over the first year of our enduring relationship. And as I may have been on her spiritual wave length, she possessed an aura of some discontent at being on display upon a wall she didn't approve. Every morning, and I mean every single morning, Catherine was hanging crooked. I blamed the building moreso than her impish behavior because it was old and full of curious knocks, creaks and vibrations from passing traffic on upper Manitoba Street. Maybe it was moreso the vibrations of main street traffic overnight causing the tilt in her posture. Yet strangely, over the course of a business day it was never askew, as it only happened when we were not present.
After the first week, and simply adjusting the frame each morning as a matter of routine, a number of my wife's restored 1960's dolls were found toppled over when we turned on the store lights. The dolls stood on the floor, some of them being quite large, and out of ten in a line, four might have fallen-over at night. To knock over these big and heavy dolls would take a fair bit of body mass and although I suspect we had a few mice around, it didn't seem the handiwork of rodents. This went on for weeks. On some mornings there would be one or two dolls face-down on the floor, and on other days it could be five or six which would have taken a cat or larger to get behind and topple over. While Catherine remained as crooked as ever, we really didn't tie the doll incidents into the spirited child. After awhile however, with numerous investigations into what was going on here in the wee hours, we simply decided it must be Catherine crying out for attention. Once we recognized that this was a case of mischief, and asked Catherine directly why she was doing this, and what she wanted from us, the midnight follies ceased. The case of the "falling dolls" had come to an unexpected halt. Although our Catherine continued to hang askew, her activity was reduced from every day to only several times a week.
When I would answer people who asked if Catherine was for sale, I'd routinely say, "Do you want to bring a ghost into your house?" Well you wouldn't believe the offers I had to purchase that haunted wee portrait. People were mesmerized. Even when they knew it was potentially a spirit-carrying antique, they wanted to own the naughty lady. One European lady stood and stared at Catherine for a long time one afternoon, and when she turned to me I could see by the look on her face that she knew something about the child. "She didn't want that picture taken. She hated standing there. She would never look at this picture where it hung in the house," the woman whispered to me while I was adding up the price of other items she was purchasing. "It's haunted isn't it?" she asked. Even before I could respond she said "She was a powerful little soul and she's letting us know now she wasn't happy that day," which I assume was the outing to the photographer's studio. "How much do you want for it?" she asked. "I can't sell it.....I don't know why but I just can't sell it." "I'll give you five hundred dollars," she blurted, and I think she would have gone much higher if I'd given any sign of hope that I would part with Catherine. (I have never told my wife that I was offered this much money.....for fear of being fired) I told the customer the story about her little evening tricks and her falls over the jug and bowl set in our living room, and it truly pained the woman not to be able to take the child home with her. She made me promise to contact her if I ever changed my mind. She wasn't the first or last to offer considerable money for the portrait, and our store patrons seemed to quite desire a good haunting at their abodes..... instead of fearing such an netherworld intervention. I recalled how our Scottish friend had felt about unresolved, wandering spirits being invited into the house via the Ouiji Board but here were people willingly opening their homes to a spirit-child who was somewhat malevolant optioned by a host of curious tantrums. Why would they want to tend this ghost's unresolved issues? I guess it was the same as the Currie family hanging onto Catherine. There was something endearing about her pouting but don't ask me to explain.
After about six months in residence in our shop, and only requiring adjustment every third or fourth business day, Catherine had by lesser actions, apparently wound down her rebellion about choice of wall-space and company kept. A lady we knew from the local theatre company came in and asked if we would be willing, for the price of tickets to a new play being performed, be willing to loan out some of our antiques for the set of their show "Angel Street," or as it was also known "Gaslight," a Victorian England murder-mystery. It was being held in the gymnasium of a local public school, in Bracebridge, Ontario. We agreed to supply the theatre company's needs and made up a list of materials to be picked up. She asked me if "Catherine" could be part of the loan, as she would give a perfect Victorian mood to the interior design of the subject historic mansion. I was a tad reluctant but agreed on condition they looked after my precious girl. I did not mention one word about her disposition or any of her spirited activities in the past. It was Catherine's chance to travel a wee bit and get some experience-time on-stage.
On the opening night the show had run without a hitch. I am told that Catherine proved almost impossible to hang but that the stage helpers had just assumed the painting hung askew as a rule, set designers believing its askew nature looked more realistic to an old mansion anyway. So imagine this opening night scenario. At the conclusion of a highly successful first night, the cast came out to take a bow, and when one of the lead actors looked up to acknowledge the crowd, he wobbled a bit before collapsing. He had suffered a mild heart attack but survived. He was replaced the following evening by a well known Canadian actor by the name of Simon Richards. While we make no serious connection between what happened to the actor, and Catherine the portrait, it was noted that throughout the performance, Catherine was substantially askew in the facade hallway adjoining the parlor. There were doors dividing the two but when they opened by golly, there she was as crooked as a dog's hind leg. As the actor went down, there she was in the centre of attention, hanging almost directly above those who came to assist the performer. When we attended the second night of the multi evening run of the show, I was absolutely stunned when the doors of the hall were swung open by the actress, revealing my strange, curiously appointed, sad-faced little Catherine dominating the visual scene. Crooked? Of course she was!
When all the props were returned, the lady who had borrowed the pieces asked if I would consider selling Catherine. When I declined to part with her, we did have a rather insightful conversation about her difficult demeanour, not wishing to hang straight for anyone no matter how many adjustments were made to the screw in the wall or the wire hanger on the back of the portrait. She as well acknowledged that the piece definitely had some unique qualities but she refused to label it "haunted." This was Catherine's big stage initiation. There was another to come. But first, I had made the decision Catherine was going to be taken back to our home, "Birch Hollow," where we'd try to resolve some of our wall space and placement disagreements, to avoid nasty spills and pranks like hanging crooked and tossing over my wife's doll collection....which was also kept in part at home. We had already sold off the jug and bowl set so that was no longer a security issue.
The first morning after her removal for bad behaviour into my downstair archives room, there she was as askew as ever. Add to this the fact that three or so books were pulled out from the bookshelves, as if someone had been searching for a text, and just never bothered to shove them neatly back. One book had toppled onto the floor. I asked who was in my old books and of three possible perpetrators nobody had a clue what I was talking about. This went on for about a week, and there was only one day when books hadn't been similarly pulled out....close to falling but still wedged between the others on the shelf. On three occasions that week, I also had to correct Catherine's lean, sometimes to the right and then the next day to the left.
At the local department store we picked up a Ouiji Board for an impromtu seance, in part to converse with Catherine's spirit. A Scottish friend of ours, a clerk at the store, didn't really want to sell us the board, from her own fears it would bring forth some unwanted spiritual activity, and haunt us in perpetuity. It is true that Scottish lore is full of wee beasties, and ghouls and goblins.... and spirited other-sorts, so we did take her warnings seriously. But the boys wanted it, and well, we didn't really feel we could explain adequately at the time, how we could possibly be scared of ghosts......when we had stressed on so many occasions that there were no ghosts in their room or boogey men under the bed. The clerk warned us to be careful and I assumed that meant sorting the spirits, be they good or bad, before bringing them out into the world they once dwelled in life.
On our first evening in company of the board, we took it downstairs and ran a hands-on question and answer session in Catherine's honor. In fact, this is when we first found out, by the hand-spirited "guiding device" (pointing to the individual letters) that her portrait hanging askew above us, was named "Catherine." This is what the pointer identified and the name we afforded her from this point of discovery. We realized it may not have been her name at all but this is what was spelled out exactly in succession of letters. NO fudging or generalization. One letter at a time and with forceful movement.
The next morning, and for many mornings after this, the portrait of Catherine was straight and the books tight on the shelf the way I left them.
As a community historian here in the District of Muskoka, I was frequently invited to give talks on a variety of subjects at local museums. A friend who was running the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling, begged a favor when one of the planned lecturers had to cancel at the last minute. As I was writing a feature length series of columns in The Muskoka Sun about the paranormal that summer season, I suggested my topic would be folklore, ghosts etc. I decided to try something a little different on this occasion than dry old historical rehashes, and opted to take Catherine on a wee road trip to the region she was familiar....Township of Muskoka Lakes. We had purchased her from an estate auction a few miles east of Port Carling and we would be driving right past the old homestead to the museum. My wife and lecture partner Suzanne and I had a plan to set Catherine up on a large easel and cover her with a ceremonial robe so that no one could see what we had beneath. A few guests that night tried to sneak a peak prior to the lecture but we kept up security so that the unveiling would be a surprise to all.
We maintained secrecy about Catherine throughout the presentation about local Muskoka legend and lore. Every now and again I would purposely stop talking, look at the covered picture, as if I had noticed something profound happening. About the fifth time I stopped, I begged the audience to carefully watch the easel, and stop me if they saw the sheet or what was under it move. While nobody stopped to tell me it had vibrated, shifted side to side or the covering having mysteriously inflated all eyes were on that easel. When I finally ended my presentation, I asked the audience if any one had actually noticed a shift of the item on the easel or some movement of the covering. At least half those in attendance raised their hands to acknowledge something or other had been witnessed. "Well," I said, "I would like to introduce to you to an allegedly haunted portrait of a gal we call Catherine." There was one of those uncomfortable silences for any stage performer, on the verge of either hardy applause or target practice with hurled vegetables. As it turned out the audience was receptive to the story of Catherine and in fact, many folks came up after the lecture was over to actually touch the frame to make their own spiritual connection and share some of their own stories of the paranormal. It was a fascinating evening and our precious young lady once again entertained her admirers. Yet there was still some ways to go at the Currie homestead, to pacify the child spirit.
For a few weeks after her last show and tell, she would greet me in the morning a tad askew but it was down to about one day out of five and the streak grew longer. In fact it grew into years. I haven't had to straighten the wee lass in at least five years. It seems she approves of her position hanging in my history archives. I guess she's grown accustomed to her new caring family.
The story of Catherine got national exposure in a 1990's ghost story collection from Ontario, by noted author Barbara Smith. Every now and again we will get a call or letter, or a nudge from a reader on the street in our hometown, who has just finished reading about Catherine, and who wanted to let us know how lucky we are to have such an interesting house-guest.