The Haunted House at Birch Hollow
There is the chill warning that a winter storm is now coiling itself into a tight fist, somewhere beyond this afternoon’s soft golden horizon. The temperature has warmed slightly since noon, when the air was still stingingly bitter as it was at first light, when I first broke trail through the newly fallen snow of the evening before. After only a few steps down the lane, my beard was silvered-over with frost, several clumped ice veins forming in the mid section, pretty much as a doomed sailor might have looked on the ill fated Franklin expedition, in quest of the Northwest Passage.
The wind has picked up and every now and again there is a steady, frigid blast that casts a trillion sparkling ice crystals at this window pane, the air current shaking the house as if to remind humankind, about the limitless power of the immortal to do as it pleases. Even the flame of the oil lamp on my desk flickers-about in the draft, coming from a less than perfectly sealed window.
There is a great sense of expectation and wonderment watching storm clouds gather over the horizon tree-line. I have lodged in this same protected place, in view of the lilac and raspberry garden planted in our front yard, watching the seasons mature through the year with their unparalleled exhibition of fire and brimstone; yet their gentle and soothing sunrises, and sentimental sunsets dear to our hearts. I’ve watched as summer storms have blasted this house, so powerfully that at times, I’ve succumbed to fear and offered latent but humble prayer to spare this watcher of Birch Hollow, and the family huddled within. I have braced myself at this desk during the most frightful November gales, rushing in off Georgian Bay, and Lake Muskoka, and recorded my observations on this keyboard as if my last will and testament. I’ve looked out this window and watched the snow being driven horizontally, penetrating like knife blades, deep into the wood-frame of Birch Hollow, and wondered aloud to anyone within earshot, whether the roof would hold against this brutish January wind.
I have survived these many encounters with Muskoka’s seasonal moods and rigorous transitions, and confess to adoring the opportunities to witness these natural occurrences, mostly from the safe haven of this alcove study, just inches beyond the snowdrifts and frosted panes that enhance this view from here.
The dulling light, so intense and crystal an hour earlier, has been tempered by a thin layer of cloud, and the sharp, dark lines of tree and shadow, are faded spirits now as the weather pattern intensifies over this frozen bay of Lake Muskoka. The wind gusts are more frequent and flurries have begun out over The Bog, soon to sweep over this half-buried abode; beyond the barren old lilacs and scraggly raspberry canes weaving back and forth this moment like a great loom in motion. I have just now increased the lamp wick to provide more light, as sudden darkness outside has changed the mood in my office. The stormfront has now arrived in Gravenhurst, and in only a matter of several minutes, the scene outside has changed from a brilliant sunglow to this near blizzard white that might bury us now in its fury.
I can only see the very edge of the garden now which is only a few feet from the window pane. The snow is being driven intrusively against the glass, and melting in big splashes as it hits the warm pane. An accumulation has already built up on the window ledge and I expect the trail, from the house to the main lane, will have to be cleaned several times this evening to keep it passable. There is growing anticipation about these sudden, often violent storms, and it’s possible to over-react to the bluster beyond the fact of what stresses are actually being placed on the physical structure. There is enough heart and soul within to save this place but without these timbers to protect me, the watcher shall quickly perish in the arctic embrace. Now for example, I’m seriously wondering whether the roof will hold this burden of new snow, on top of what has already been deposited so far, during this winter-pounded month of February 2007. I listen to every creak and curious other knock in this cavernous room, and hope against hope I can at least get through this storm to another clear sunrise, before I’m forced to don mountains of gear, in order to shovel off the roof.
Through all the expended fear and trembling I still reside safely in this comfortable portal, enjoying the warm glow of lamplight, and the spectacular show of weather upon earth. I feel honored to be in this position to watch yet another storm sculpt over the land, and look forward to the vista when the bluster has finally subsided. I have been privileged to watch hundreds of storms etch down upon Muskoka, and within each there is a spiritual light, a legend to be retold.
The awe I possess for nature keeps me vigilant, watchful and guarded. It would be a fatal omission of sensibility, if I was to venture out into this twisting, malevolent storm today, blasting down over our weak mortal grasp of life. I might not make it to the end of the lane before being struck down and frozen into a pathetic heap, to be drifted over until the release of late spring. I would be thawed from winter entombment just as these lilacs in front show their first bumps of new leaf-growth, and the trickling melt makes its life restoring flow from the rooftop to the garden below.
I shall always be in awe of nature until the day when it finally penetrates this safe haven, clutching me from this mortal coil, the last paragraph of one life, the commencement thusly of yet another.
I dim and extinguish the lamplight now and have my heart set on a hot cup of tea, and a more settling sojourn by the hearth, where the cedar fire sparks pleasantly into night.
How contently I reside, and write in this ever-enchanting, alluring embrace of Muskoka.
Good afternoon, dear friends. Thank you for reading this latest blog submission.
Please visit my other blog at http://www.gravenhurstmuskoka.blogspot.com/
There is the chill warning that a winter storm is now coiling itself into a tight fist, somewhere beyond this afternoon’s soft golden horizon. The temperature has warmed slightly since noon, when the air was still stingingly bitter as it was at first light, when I first broke trail through the newly fallen snow of the evening before. After only a few steps down the lane, my beard was silvered-over with frost, several clumped ice veins forming in the mid section, pretty much as a doomed sailor might have looked on the ill fated Franklin expedition, in quest of the Northwest Passage.
The wind has picked up and every now and again there is a steady, frigid blast that casts a trillion sparkling ice crystals at this window pane, the air current shaking the house as if to remind humankind, about the limitless power of the immortal to do as it pleases. Even the flame of the oil lamp on my desk flickers-about in the draft, coming from a less than perfectly sealed window.
There is a great sense of expectation and wonderment watching storm clouds gather over the horizon tree-line. I have lodged in this same protected place, in view of the lilac and raspberry garden planted in our front yard, watching the seasons mature through the year with their unparalleled exhibition of fire and brimstone; yet their gentle and soothing sunrises, and sentimental sunsets dear to our hearts. I’ve watched as summer storms have blasted this house, so powerfully that at times, I’ve succumbed to fear and offered latent but humble prayer to spare this watcher of Birch Hollow, and the family huddled within. I have braced myself at this desk during the most frightful November gales, rushing in off Georgian Bay, and Lake Muskoka, and recorded my observations on this keyboard as if my last will and testament. I’ve looked out this window and watched the snow being driven horizontally, penetrating like knife blades, deep into the wood-frame of Birch Hollow, and wondered aloud to anyone within earshot, whether the roof would hold against this brutish January wind.
I have survived these many encounters with Muskoka’s seasonal moods and rigorous transitions, and confess to adoring the opportunities to witness these natural occurrences, mostly from the safe haven of this alcove study, just inches beyond the snowdrifts and frosted panes that enhance this view from here.
The dulling light, so intense and crystal an hour earlier, has been tempered by a thin layer of cloud, and the sharp, dark lines of tree and shadow, are faded spirits now as the weather pattern intensifies over this frozen bay of Lake Muskoka. The wind gusts are more frequent and flurries have begun out over The Bog, soon to sweep over this half-buried abode; beyond the barren old lilacs and scraggly raspberry canes weaving back and forth this moment like a great loom in motion. I have just now increased the lamp wick to provide more light, as sudden darkness outside has changed the mood in my office. The stormfront has now arrived in Gravenhurst, and in only a matter of several minutes, the scene outside has changed from a brilliant sunglow to this near blizzard white that might bury us now in its fury.
I can only see the very edge of the garden now which is only a few feet from the window pane. The snow is being driven intrusively against the glass, and melting in big splashes as it hits the warm pane. An accumulation has already built up on the window ledge and I expect the trail, from the house to the main lane, will have to be cleaned several times this evening to keep it passable. There is growing anticipation about these sudden, often violent storms, and it’s possible to over-react to the bluster beyond the fact of what stresses are actually being placed on the physical structure. There is enough heart and soul within to save this place but without these timbers to protect me, the watcher shall quickly perish in the arctic embrace. Now for example, I’m seriously wondering whether the roof will hold this burden of new snow, on top of what has already been deposited so far, during this winter-pounded month of February 2007. I listen to every creak and curious other knock in this cavernous room, and hope against hope I can at least get through this storm to another clear sunrise, before I’m forced to don mountains of gear, in order to shovel off the roof.
Through all the expended fear and trembling I still reside safely in this comfortable portal, enjoying the warm glow of lamplight, and the spectacular show of weather upon earth. I feel honored to be in this position to watch yet another storm sculpt over the land, and look forward to the vista when the bluster has finally subsided. I have been privileged to watch hundreds of storms etch down upon Muskoka, and within each there is a spiritual light, a legend to be retold.
The awe I possess for nature keeps me vigilant, watchful and guarded. It would be a fatal omission of sensibility, if I was to venture out into this twisting, malevolent storm today, blasting down over our weak mortal grasp of life. I might not make it to the end of the lane before being struck down and frozen into a pathetic heap, to be drifted over until the release of late spring. I would be thawed from winter entombment just as these lilacs in front show their first bumps of new leaf-growth, and the trickling melt makes its life restoring flow from the rooftop to the garden below.
I shall always be in awe of nature until the day when it finally penetrates this safe haven, clutching me from this mortal coil, the last paragraph of one life, the commencement thusly of yet another.
I dim and extinguish the lamplight now and have my heart set on a hot cup of tea, and a more settling sojourn by the hearth, where the cedar fire sparks pleasantly into night.
How contently I reside, and write in this ever-enchanting, alluring embrace of Muskoka.
Good afternoon, dear friends. Thank you for reading this latest blog submission.
Please visit my other blog at http://www.gravenhurstmuskoka.blogspot.com/
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