Christmas At Bracebridge Hall; Woodchester Villa

THE WRITER'S CHRISTMAS - I AM A PONDERER, A LOVER OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION - AND A SOCIAL OUTCAST

ON BEING THE OBSERVER, AND INTERPRETER

     "MY CHAMBER WAS IN THE OLD PART OF THE MANSION, THE PONDEROUS FURNITURE OF WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN FABRICATED IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. THE ROOM WAS PANELED, WITH CORNICES OF HEAVEY CARVED WORK, IN WHICH FLOWERS AND GROTESQUE FACES WERE STRANGELY INTERMINGLED, AND A ROW OF BLACK-LOOKING PORTRAITS STARED MOURNFULLY AT ME FROM THE WALLS. THE BED WAS OF RICH, THOUGH FADED DAMASK, WITH A LOFTY TESTER, AND STOOD IN THE NICHE OPPOSITE THE BOW WINDOW. I HAD SCARECELY  GOT INTO BED WHEN A STRAIN OF MUSIC SEEMED TO BREAK FORTH IN THE AIR JUST BELOW THE WINDOW. I LISTENED, AND FOUND IT PROCEEDED FROM A BAND, WHICH I CONCLUDED TO BE THE WAITS FROM SOME NEIGHBORING VILLAGE. THEY WENT AROUND THE HOUSE, PLAYING UNDER THE WINDOWS. I DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS TO HEAR THEM MORE DISTINCTLY. THE MOONBEAMS FELL THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE CASEMENT, PARTIALLY LIGHTING UP THE ANTIQUATED APARTMENT. THE SOUNDS, AS THEY RECEDED, BECAME MORE SOFT AND AERIAL, AND SEEMED TO ACCORD WITH QUIET MOONLIGHT. I LISTENED AND LISTENED - THEY BECAME MORE AND MORE TENDER AND REMOTE, AND, AS THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY, MY HEAD SUNK UPON THE PILLOW AND I FELL ASLEEP." (CHRISTMAS EVE)

     THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS WRITTEN BY AMERICAN AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS EARLY 1800'S PRESENTATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK," WHICH INTRODUCED THE READER, FOR THE FIRST OF TWO BOOKS, WITH SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE, OWNER OF A LARGE ENGLISH ESTATE, AND HIS VISITOR, GEOFFREY CRAYON, THE FICTIONAL TRAVELLER, WHO WAS FAIRLY CLOSE IN CHARACTER TO IRVING HIMSELF…..AND HIS LOVE FOR BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLINGS AND CHERISHED TRADITIONS.

      "WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE EVENTS OF THE PRECEDING EVENING HAD BEEN A DREAM, AND NOTHING BUT THE IDENTITY OF THE ANCIENT CHAMBER CONVINCED ME OF THEIR REALITY. WHILE I LAY MUSING ON MY PILLOW, I HEARD THE SOUND OF LITTLE FEET PATTERING OUTSIDE OF THE DOOR, AND A WHISPERING CONSULTATION. PRESENTLY A CHOIR OF SMALL VOICES CHANTED FORTH AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL, THE BURDEN OF WHICH WAS, 'REJOICE, OUR SAVIOUR HE WAS BORN, ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.' I ROSE SOFTLY, SLIPPED ON MY CLOTHES, OPENED THE DOOR SUDDENLY, AND BEHELD ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY GROUPS THAT A PAINTER COULD IMAGINE. IT CONSISTED OF A BOY AND TWO GIRLS, THE ELDEST NOT MORE THAN SIX, AND LOVELY AS SERAPHS. THEY WERE GOING THE ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, SINGING AT EVERY CHAMBER DOOR, BUT MY SUDDEN APPEARANCE FRIGHTENED THEM INTO MUTE BASHFULNESS. THEY REMAINED FOR A MOMENT PLAYING ON THEIR LIPS WITH THEIR FINGERS, AND NOW AND THEN STEALING A SHY GLANCE FROM UNDER THEIR EYEBROWS, UNTIL, AS IF BY ONE IMPULSE, THEY SCAMPERED AWAY, AND AS THEY TURNED AN ANGLE OF THE GALLERY, I HEARD THEM LAUGHING IN TRIUMPH AT THEIR ESCAPE.

     "EVERYTHING CONSPIRED TO PRODUCE KIND AND HAPPY FEELINGS IN THIS STRONGHOLD OF OLD FASHIONED HOSPITALITY. THE WINDOW OF MY CHAMBER LOOKED OUT UPON WHAT IN SUMMER WOULD HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THERE WAS NO SLOPING LAWN, A FINE STREAM OF WINDING AT THE FOOT OF IT, AND A TRACT OF PARK BEYOND, WITH NOBLE CLUMPS OF TREES AND HERDS OF DEER. AT A DISTANCE WAS A NEAT HAMLET, WITH THE SMOKE FROM THE COTTAGE CHIMNEYS HANGING OVER IT; AND A CHURCH, WITH ITS DARK SPIRE IN STRONG RELIEF AGAINST THE CLEAR COLD SKY."

A SEASONAL SOJOURN OF THE REINCARNATED

     Occasionally, at this time of year, I will talk with Suzanne, at some length over mulled cider, about my family from England. The "Jackson" side of my family tree. Quite a number of the Jackson, including William and Benjamin, who had resided within easy travel of Liverpool, emigrated to Canada, in the mid 1800's, to better their lives, on newly opened farmsteads near Brighton, Ontario. Suzanne is a whiz at family history, and has over the past three years, given us a full tree, instead of the few meagre branches, that we'd been going on wrongly, as gospel, for three decades at least. She adores her subscription to Ancestry.ca. When we begin chatting about our family roots overseas, inevitably we will bring up the possibility that we have been reincarnated into the modern era, from family stock going back centuries…..maybe to Elizabethan times. We both, you see, have particularly poignant feelings, at times, almost as if, like the sudden jerk of a heart-string, from somewhere beyond mortality, we are sent abruptly into some historic ambience, and attire, we have given up trying to explain. We each have different triggers, that will give us that curious, momentary instinct, we were part of another time period. It could be the sensory arousal, from something as simple as a wafting fragrance, or scent of roast beef cooking in the oven…..the aroma of spices or fresh herbs. Flowers as perfume. It can also be a weather condition, the sunrise or sunset, or a motor trip through the countryside, that makes us reflect on something we know nothing (apparently) about. I can tell when she's having some historical flashback, although mine are usually always experienced in solitude situations, and most often the result of two aggressive triggers, sometimes all at once…..which is definitely of the nature of "fantastic."

     The first trigger, is when I spend long hours at this keyboard. Tonight, for example, I was supposed to attend a party, my lads were throwing, for their friends and business associates. As I am a true social misfit, and hate small talk with a passion, I opted out with the apology….."Geez, I'd love to, but I've got a blog to write." Even in the few minutes I sat here, trying to put together the basics for a column, I was drawn, to the point of being compelled, to Washington Irving's book in the case above my desk. The reason I enjoy Irving's writing, especially about old England, is that it has, all my life, been the one sure exposure, that will send my spirit wandering the English moors, looking for Squire Bracebridge's estate. Since I began reading Irving, as a teenager, I have made it a regular visitation ever since. Do you know, that even Charles Dickens, admitted, he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of a Washington Irving book, tucked under his arm. For some reason, it is Irving more than any other writer, even Dickens, who has for long and long, stimulated my imagination well beyond the story, such that I can find my concentration taken over by thoughts and memories I can't logically explain. It's as if Irving's work, especially his Christmas stories, open up a portal for my old well-travelled soul, to cross back into familiar history. It has always been a haunting experience, yet remarkable enough, that I can't help tempting the situation, feeling that one day, I may actually discover the truth behind the strange, alluring aura of commonplace, that puts me in the English countryside…..where possibly I once lived in a former life. Is it an over-active imagination? Wishful fantasy? Or just the trappings of a good writer, Washington Irving, doing what accomplished authors are supposed to do…..with any story they write. Take you on an adventure!

     The second most powerful trigger, is anything played on a lute. I must have been a musician way back, and it is Elizabethan period songs, that can make me melt into a sentimental whirling dervish, trying relentlessly, to escape my mortal fetters……without knowing why it's is so imperative to break free. I can eventually collect the visualizations, of the same English countryside, almost to the point where I could walk to the place I once resided. I have heard period songs, that hurt my heart. The passion for a return, to those times, being so imbedded in my soul……possessing some meaning and romantic overture, I am at a loss to understand…..at least in this mortal capacity. If you have ever felt similarly, and believe in the possibilities of reincarnation, I certainly don't need to explain this further. You have been strangely titillated by the exposure to something, that acts to inspire thoughts, that may not be your own….at least in this lifetime. In my case, if I was to listen to Elizabethan music daily, I would turn into a jelly of formless sentimentality…..because this is what happens, even when I occasionally hear the music, performed on CBC 2, my channel of choice. I sit there speechless, and let messenger ghosts remind me I'm being beckoned by another century. It's not that I like this period music, but it has a power over me, that makes my knees wobble more than usual. I can feel myself part of a courtyard dance, with a woman I must have known from this same era, and it is definitely not my wife. I can see her face so clearly, it becomes very unsettling, as if the very thought, and dance of which I can't control, smacks of infidelity……unless I turn the music off quickly before anything happens. And yes, it is like seeing a wayward spirits, and no fooling, I'm one of them. I've referenced this before, in these stories, and especially in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghost blogs….., that I have seen my ghost before…..and it's not like I wouldn't know the chap. When the ghost wanders about, in Elizabethan times, I must admit, the face of the dancer, is not the one I see in the mirror each morning…..but the aura is definitely something I'm familiar with. I don't tell Suzanne about these weird time-travel, deja vu' experiences, because they stretch miles beyond what she has felt similarly; hers always representing a more recent history…….such as from the pioneer years, like her ancestors, working the rocky soil of Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, at Ufford. I think my reincarnation skipped a few centuries, because I definitely have never managed a plow or used hay fork, even in my wildest dream, or nightmare.

     What really gets my spirit travels up and going, is the approach of the Christmas season. There is no other time of the year, as strong for these deja vu' sensations, as the Christmas to New Years period. Even traveling in England, didn't cause much thoughtful recollection, of a previous life, which frankly shocked me.I've had these strange feelings since childhood. I think I tried too hard, to encourage these sudden feelings, because then it would have been easier to follow and maybe even research. If it is actually England or Scotland, in my flashbacks. I think it is, but these are all confusing time travels of the mind. For whatever reason, it is the Christmas season, most of all, that evokes thoughts of a past life. I am able to resolve a lot of these urges and issues, by writing, and when I have my most compelling periods, where I have one foot in an English dance, and the other here at Birch Hollow, I gather up my wayward soul, and set myself the task of writing about it; and anything the thoughts may generate on their own. I can tell you this honestly. I must also have been a writer then, possibly a "less than" great bard, who was particularly sensitive to the natural environment. When I feel this surging sentimentality, I am most prone to writing what I call my landscape pieces, which you can read by accessing my "Muskoka as Walden," blogsite, which I have used for several years, as an outlet, whenever nature calls…..and it most surely does……but I can tell you, it is because the landscape here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of an English moor. For the record, I have never once set foot in an English moor, at least in this chapter of "My Spirit Doth Travel." You will find hundreds of occasions, really without intent, where I have referenced a Muskoka lowland, or bog, as a "Moor," as if it is as familiar as the one that might have been written about, as a backdrop for a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. It may be a bog, and a typical Muskoka wetland, with ponds, but when I write about it, during one of my deja vu' moments, it is a "moor." Plain and simple. Is this strange or not?

     At Christmas, I am an English townsman. I can see the thatched cottages, and the narrow, winding country lanes, with the neatly crafted rock fences, and the hills and valleys in the distance, that are simply not the topography of Muskoka. I can imagine myself lodging in some road house, waiting on a settle by the fire, for my mug of dark ale, and listening to the ice pellets hitting the roof and the wind creaking the old metal sign, on its rusted hinge, hanging above the door, out front. Like Irving's character, the good Mr. Crayon, I can hear and see the traditions of retired Christmases, as if they are new again……and I ponder for a moment, if I might ever be pulled back entirely, on one of these memorable sojourns from the present…..and if so, what would happen to my story right now……if this history became so compelling, as a vacuum, taking me all the way home, many mortal lifetimes from here? What might Suzanne think, upon finding only my slippers and still warm pipe, and the imprint of an old author, still recognizable on the chair cushion?

     "It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of religion of peace and love, and has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the caress and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood." Washington Irving.

     Somehow, I have come to feel that Irving himself, a tireless preserver of British traditions, even as an American, felt the spirit-kind wasn't necessarily confined to one existence alone. Maybe it's why I cherish his work, as I do. There is a validation, to being called to assemble again, "about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections."

     Bless you, for visiting today, so close to Christmas Eve. I know you probably have better places to be…..finer acquaintances to visit, and warmer fires to sit beside, than this humble hearth of mine. I hope your Christmas season will be joyful and of course spirited, and spent happily in the festive aura of tradition and goodwill. We shall share this paternal hearth, at Birch Hollow, in the charming bailiwick……across from this snow-laden, enchanted lowland…..the moor. A Gravenhurst, Muskoka moor!

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE-CHRISTMAS AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR OWN MUSEUM IN GRAVENHURST

WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM GETTING SOME ATTENTION FROM THE TOWN - A FUTURE - AFTER A BLEAK COUPLE OF YEARS CLOSE TO THE PUBLIC

THE WINTER SEASON SNOW STORM THAT TOOK DOWN THE VERANDAH AT BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSEUM, WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS THE SAME ONE THAT STOPPED ME FROM GETTING TO MY FATHER'S APARTMENT. WHILE IT WASN'T A DIRECT RESULT OF THE STORM'S WEIGHT UPON FAILING OUTDOOR FIXTURES, IT WAS WHAT STOPPED US FROM VISITING ON THE SAME DAY AS HE HAD A STROKE…..WHICH EVENTUALLY LED TO HIS DEMISE. DURING THE SAME SNOW EVENT, MY SON AND HIS MATE WERE TRAPPED ON HIGHWAY II NEAR THE BRACEBRIDGE FAIR GROUNDS, AND IF THEY HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET BACK INTO TOWN, THEY WOULD HAVE STAYED AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S APARTMENT THAT NIGHT…….STRANGE THING THAT……BECAUSE THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE AS HE SUFFERED HIS STROKE, AND BEEN ABLE TO GET MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SOONER. HE LIVED ONE BLOCK FROM THE HOSPITAL. WHAT IS CURIOUS, MAYBE A LITTLE IRONIC….IS THAT ALL OF THE ABOVE HAD SOMETHING OR OTHER TO DO WITH WOODCHESTER VILLA. I WAS ONE OF THE FOUNDING DIRECTORS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND A DIRECTOR AND MANAGER OF WOODCHESTER. ANDREW AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER ROBERT, USED TO RIDE THEIR TOY CARTS AROUND THE MUSEUM GROUNDS WHILE I WAS WORKING THERE; MY MOTHER AND FATHER WERE VOLUNTEERS DURING MY TENURE…..MY MOTHER ACTUALLY BEING EMPLOYED AS A TOUR GUIDE FOR ONE SUMMER. ANDREW AND HIS MATE WERE FORCED TO FOLLOW THE SNOW PLOWS SOUTH DOWN THE HIGHWAY, HOME TO GRAVENHURST, LATER THAT FATEFUL EVENING, INSTEAD OF BEING ALLOWED BACK ONTO TOWN STREETS. IT'S JUST HOW FATE WORKS.

OUR FAMILY SPENT MANY CHRISTMASES AS WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, THROUGH THE EIGHTIES, AND WE HOSTED AT LEAST FIVE OPEN HOUSES DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD. IT IS NO SECRET THAT WOODCHESTER HAS BEEN AN ALLEGEDLY HAUNTED ABODE, AND I AM JUST ONE OF THE PERPETRATORS OF SUCH INFORMATION…..BY EXPERIENCES ENOUGH TO WRITE A BOOK. BUT NEVER ONCE, IN MY LONG RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS OCTAGONAL BUILDING, AND ITS RESIDENT SPIRITS, WAS I EVER ONCE UNSETTLED BY OCCURRENCES, OR FRIGHTENED. IT WAS AN OLD AND DEAR DWELLING FOR ALL OUR FAMILY, AND AT CHRISTMAS, IT SEEMED MOST CONTENT. I HAVE RECENTLY WRITTEN A CHRISTMAS REMEMBRANCE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA FOR ANOTHER PUBLICATION, BUT I WANTED TO SHARE IT WITH THOSE INTERESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE HERITAGE. I WAS PLEASED TO READ ABOUT A NEW INITIATIVE TO EXAMINE THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE THIS COMING WINTER SEASON, TO DISCUSS WHAT PURPOSE IT MIGHT BETTER SERVE THE COMMUNITY IN THE FUTURE. OF THIS, I WHOLE HEARTEDLY AGREE. AND I HOPE ONE DAY, THEY WILL FIND THE FUNDS TO RE-BUILD THE GRAND VERANDAH OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTIFUL LAWNS, AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER BELOW. THIS LITTLE CHRISTMAS TOME, IS A RESPECTFUL TRIBUTE, TO A WONDERFUL PLACE, I LOVED TO WORK AND VISIT…..PARTICULARLY SO AT CHRISTMAS…..WHERE WE ALL MADE RATHER MERRY.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY

The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)

A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.

At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.

I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.

I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.

One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.

On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.

It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.

It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.

I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.

Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.

The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.

I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.

When I write in this column series, that I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like, well, it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.