Currie's Music
230 Muskoka Rd. Gravenhurst, ON, Canada

Howdy All!! Starting Dec 7th Currie’s Music will be back open Mondays 10am to 5pm for the Christmas season. Also we would like to offer our customers a chance to shop after hours if you can’t make it during the day or for Covid reasons, Just send us a message and we can arrange a time for you to come and look around. We are still doing 10 people at a time and just knock on the door or text and will will happily let you in. Curbside pickups are still available for those who ...wish and Also if there is anything you’d like let us know and we will try our best to help you out or order in what you need. Keep an eye on our Facebook page for updates and cool stuff being posted. In the mean time we hope you all stay safe. Thank you everyone and see you soon. Starting Dec 7th Monday to Saturday 10am to 5pm Sunday closed

ON OCTOBER DAYS JUST LIKE THIS, IN THE BLUSTER AND COLD OF A MUSKOKA AUTUMN, US KIDS EXPLORED ALL POTENTIALS OF OVER ACTIVE IMAGINATIONS "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY ...HOLLOW" IS A PRECIOUS LEGACY OF FOLK ART AND FOLKLORE IN THREE PARTS, THIS BEING PART ONE BY TED CURRIE In the dim light cast onto the rough pine table, from the oil lamp’s ragged flame sending smoke aloft, the reader’s hands are comfortably warmed from the hot glass shade, cracked and sooty as it was by circumstance of rough and modest living. The book in the hands of the occupant of this log shanty carved into a patch of shallow earth on rock was not Washington Irving’s Sketch Book, or the later Bracebridge Hall, the book the hamlet on the Muskoka River was named after, when the painted wood sign was erected at the new post office in 1864. The book being handled and perused would most likely have been a prayer book or a leather bound Bible, because it was a life in the wild in these pioneer times, that required those of good faith to carry-on with the fledgling settlement above the cataract of the North Falls. The settlers in the tiny encampment of brave souls, in 1864 had little concern what the post office sign read, other than it being the address where kin folk, left overseas, could mail letters in that bridging of correspondence that brought, however temporarily, England, Ireland and Scotland closer to the colony. The original name of North Falls was denied as the name of the new post office, when granted by postal authority William Dawson LeSueur, representing the pre-Confederation administration of Canada. I have no knowledge the controversy of name change angered any of these homesteaders at this time, and it was certainly the case that they also paid little attention to the work of American author, Washington Irving, who had died well before LeSueur, also a literary critic in his free time. I doubt he knew of his literary accomplishments from the early years of the 1800’s, and thus, it was more than unlikely a copy of Bracebridge Hall, (1822) would have been illuminated on the cabin’s harvest table for purposes of citizen reference. It doesn’t make the connection between the early settlement of Bracebridge and Irving’s works less interesting, but instead a somewhat latent lament, when maturing citizens decided to get mad about the postal indiscretion, in the decades to come. Here then, at the time of the American Civil War, and the subdued but nagging worries about the possibility, that if the south had won the conflict, it may well have been the case expansionism would have recreated the War of 1812. The irony of course, is that here this wee settlement in what became known as South Muskoka, was named after the work of a celebrated American author. It’s still one of the sticking points in the acceptance of this reality of history, all these years later, as if we had given up some inherent rights of a young democracy, by having this association with a powerful neighbor. On my side of the debate, and the story, well folks, I always have embraced the wonderful works of the good Mr. Irving, and from a very young age I knew all about the legendary Headless Horseman from the same book my mother read to me from, that also included the tale of Rip Van Winkle, another of his well known folk stories. So from early-on in life, my fascination with Irving was robust and unending, and it was then a great boost to my enthusiasm to then discover my own family had been early settlers in this part of America as far back as the 1600’s. I don’t believe Irving’s story was about my ancestors, the Vandervoorts, being the residents of Sleepy Hollow, but my blood line to the first Dutch settlers, made it so much more compelling to read more of this author’s work. Many of his folk tales do involve the Dutch, including Rip Van Winkle, and other accounts of the haunted Hudson River Valley of New York. Long before I wrote a book on the subject of Washington Irving and Bracebridge, Ontario, I enjoyed a child’s fascination with the legendary tale of Sleepy Hollow, imagining vigorously that Irving could well have written his stories about our village and its early years struggling to become a town of note. It is why, after all these years, I continue to confront the troubling reality, that the town in this new century, is still reluctant to accept the literary provenance it so rightly deserves. It is at this time of the rolling year, I like to reacquaint readers to the very rich relationship that exists between Canada and the United States, that has everything to do with, yes, a good book. If you hunkered down in the tall, dry grasses on the hillside behind where we lived on Alice Street, you could be as obscure, and lost to the world as if one had suddenly abandoned the reality of our mortal coil. We would lay still, so as not to arouse the attention of mates passing by, and hear all kinds of earth and wind sounds, in vibration, and in that soft hush that seemed so acutely profound yet invigorating, as we individually basked in the bathing of autumn moonlight, that set us free in the starscape that cultivated our excitement for worthwhile fictions. We wanted this solitude but it scared us at times, when we felt too alone and isolated in the fanning of universe to our gaze into the sky. It would be at this most compelling time, amidst the stirring of the senses, that some footfall around us, would give us sudden panic, as we pondered respectively, if it was the march of friend or foe. We were prime for the sound of hooves pounding up the laneway to the sand pit, and the eyes of the flaming pumpkin, held in one hand by the legendary headless horseman, of which our small town had a rare connection. A deserved connection, and this fantasy was ours to celebrate, especially on the eve of our favorite time of the year. Hallowe’en. I can still remember, in this fog of age, as clearly as if it was yesterday, playing Hallowe'en themed hide 'n seek, on the upper ridge, through the tall dried grasses of the hillside, behind the Alice Street apartments; on nights just like this, in the cold and damp of late October. The earth had that permeating aroma of wet leaves and old gardens, you probably recognize, from your own youth scampering in these open places and parks. Our footfall was recognizable by the sound of crunching leaves and the whooshing noise of the field grasses being pushed aside by our legs in motion. Hiding in a clump of small shrubs, wreathed by tall wavering grasses, I could hear the beckoning cries of my pursuers, telling me in the echo of a Muskoka night, to give myself up and receive my punishment like a man. I would usually get caught by my mother, usually with a pinch-lock on my ear, before I'd be discovered by my mates, some who had actually gone home figuring I'd done the same; probably sitting inside watching the Wednesday night hockey game on television. Sitting there alone, listening to the wind brushing the willowy stocks of grass together, made a thoroughly haunting sound, and many times, I pondered if, a headless horseman might come thundering through the moonlit scene, on a raging stallion, looking for a replacement crown; my head and ears being big for my age, or so the girls told me at school. It was easy, hiding on that dark hillside, to conjure-up all kinds of Hallowe'en horrors, and that's why we were out there in the first place. We wanted to scare ourselves, in preparation for the big night, a week or so away. I was always pretty good at scaring myself, which is why my mother wouldn't allow me to watch "The Twilight Zone," or "The Outer Limits." I could dream-up the living dead without much difficulty whatsoever. I suppose then, my mother would conclude, I am perfectly suited to my calling as a writer of such strange fiction. For Your Halloween Pleasure- The Run Of The Headless Horseman At Sleepy Hollow IN THE WORDS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, AND WITH THE COVER OF THE BOOK OPENED TO THE PAGE, WHERE SOME OTHER READER LEFT OFF, IN THE LATE EVENING OF A PAST HALLOWEEN; WE RETURN TO SLEEPY HOLLOW, AND THE GOOD FOLKS' BELIEF IN THE APPARITION KNOWN, AS THE "HEADLESS HORSEMAN," THE HESSIAN TROOPER WHO HAD LOST HIS HEAD IN A REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE....AND HAD BEEN BURIED WITHOUT, IN A CHURCHYARD PLOT.....WHERE IT IS SAID, HE RISES ON MOONLIT NIGHTS LIKE THIS, TO SEEK OUT WHAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO HIM. IRVING'S CHARACTER, ICHABOD CRANE, THE NEW SCHOOL TEACHER TO THE VILLAGE OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, CARRIED AFFECTIONS FOR THE DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT MEN OF THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, AND BY SHOWING HIS AFFECTIONS, HAD GOT UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE WAY, OF HER MORE AGGRESSIVE, CAPABLE ADMIRER, BROM BONES, WHO IT IS SAID, WOULD GO TO ANY LENGTH TO WIN THE SUBJECT OF HIS AFFECTIONS.....INCLUDING THE DISPATCHING OF THE PEDAGOGUE, THE WEAK KNEED, CLUMSY, ANNOYING, GREEDY, MR. CRANE. BUT DID THIS MANIFEST AS AN EFFORT BY A JEALOUS SUITOR, OR WAS THE HESSIAN A PHANTOM; A REAL FORCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, THE SO CALLED PARANORMAL, TO BE RECKONED WITH IN A LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE? "IT WAS AS I HAVE SAID, A FINE AUTUMNAL DAY; THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND SERENE, AND NATURE WORE THAT RICH AND GOLD LIVERY WHICH WE ALWAYS ASSOCIATE WITH THE IDEA OF ABUNDANCE. THE FORESTS HAD PUT ON THEIR SOBER BROWN AND YELLOW, WHILE SOME TREES OF THE TENDERER KIND, HAD BEEN NIPPED BY THE FROSTS INTO BRILLIANT DYES OF ORANGE, PURPLE AND SCARLET. STREAMING FILES OF WILD DUCKS BEGAN TO MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE HIGH IN THE AIR; THE BARK OF THE SQUIRREL MIGHT BE HEARD FROM THE GROVES OF BEECH AND HICKORY-NUTS, AND THE PENSIVE WHISTLE OF THE QUAIL, AT INTERVALS FROM THE NEIGHBORING STUBBLE FIELD," WROTE IRVING. "THE SMALL BIRDS WERE TAKING THEIR FAREWELL BANQUETS. IN THE FULNESS OF THEIR REVELRY, THEY FLUTTERED CHIRPING AND FROLICKING FROM BUSH TO BUSH, AND TREE TO TREE, CAPRICIOUS FROM THE VERY PROFUSING AND VARIETY AROUND THEM. THERE WAS THE VERY HONEST COCK-ROBIN, THE FAVOURITE GAME OF STRIPLING SPORTSMEN, WITH ITS LOUD QUERILOUS NOTE, AND THE TWITTERING BLACKBIRDS FLYING IN SABLE CLOUDS; AND THE GOLDEN WINGED WOODPECKER, WITH HIS CRIMSON CREST, HIS BROAD BLACK GORGET, AND SPLENDID PLUMAGE; AND THE CEDAR-BIRD, WITH ITS RED-TIPT WINGS AND YELLOW-TIPT TAIL, AND HIS LITTLE MONTEIRO CAP OF FEATHERS; AND THE BLUE JAY, THAT NOISY COXCOMB, IN HIS GAY LIGHT BLUE COAT AND WHITE UNDERCLOTHES, SCREAMING AND CHATTERING, NODDING, AND BOBBING, AND BOWING, AND PRETENDING TO BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH EVERY SONGSTER OF THE GROVE. "AS ICHABOD JOGGED SLOWLY ON HIS WAY, HIS EYE, EVER OPEN TO EVERY SYMPTON OF CULINARY ABUNDANCE, RANGED WITH DELIGHT OVER THE TREASURES OF JOLLY AUTUMN. ON ALL SIDES HE BEHELD VAST STORE OF APPLES, SOME HANGING IN OPPRESSIVE OPULENCE ON THE TREES; SOME GATHERED INTO BASKETS AND BARRELS FOR THE MARKET; OTHERS HEAPED UP IN RICH PILES FOR THE CIDER-PRESS. FARTHER ON HE BEHELD GREAT FIELDS OF INDIAN CORN, WITH ITS GOLDEN EARS PEEPING FROM THEIR LEAFY COVERTS, AND HOLDING OUT THE PROMISE OF CAKES AND HASTY-PUDDING; AND THE YELLOW PUMPKINS LYING BENEATH THEM, TURNING UP THEIR FAIR ROUND BELLIES TO THE SUN, AND GIVING AMPLE PROSPECTS OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS OF PIES; AND ANON, HE PASSED THE FRAGRANT BUCKWHEAT FIELDS, BREATHING THE ODOUR OF THE BEEHIVE, AND HE BEHELD THEM, SOFT ANTICIPATIONS STOLE HIS MIND OF DAINTY SLAP-JACKS, WELL BUTTERED AND GARNISHED WITH HONEY OR TREACLE, BY THE DELICATE LITTLE DIMPLED HAND OF KATRINA VAN TASSEL (THE GIRL HE WISHED WOULD RETURN HIS AFFECTIONS)." WASHINGTON IRVING, AT HIS DESK, WRITES OF CRANE, "THUS FEEDING HIS MIND WITH MANY SWEET THOUGHTS AND SUGARED SUPPOSITIONS, HE JOURNEYED ALONG THE SIDES OF THE RANGE OF HILLS, WHICH LOOK OUT UPON SOME OF THE GOODLIEST SCENES OF THE MIGHTY HUDSON. THE SUN GRADUALLY WHEELED HIS BROAD DISK DOWN INTO THE WEST. THE WHOLE BOSUM OF THE TAPPAAN ZEE LAY MOTIONLESS AND GLASSY, EXCEPTING THAT HERE AND THERE A GENTLE UNDULATION WAVED AND PROLONGED THE BLUE SHADOW OF THE DISTANT MOUNTAIN. A FEW AMBER CLOUDS FLOATED IN THE SKY, WITHOUT A BREATH OF AIR TO MOVE THEM. THE HORIZON WAS OF A FINE GOLDEN TINT, CHANGING GRADUALLY INTO A PURE APPLE GREEN, AND FROM THAT INTO THE DEEP BLUE OF THE MID-HEAVEN. A SLANTING RAY LINGERED ON THE WOODY CRESTS OF THE PRECIPICES THAT OVERHUNG SOME, PARTS OF THE RIVER, GIVING GREAT DEPTH TO THE DARK GRAY AND PURPLE OF THEIR ROCKY SIDES. A SLOOP WAS LOITERING IN THE DISTANCE, DROPPING SLOWLY DOWN WITH THE TIDE, HER SAIL HANGING USELESSLY AGAINST THE MAST; AND AS THE REFLECTION OF THE SKY GLEANED ALONG THE STILL WATER, IT SEEMED AS IF THE VESSEL WAS SUSPENDED IN THE AIR." IRVING NOTES, WITH KEEN OBSERVATION, OF HIS CHARACTER'S PASSAGE, THAT "IT WAS TOWARD EVENING THAT ICHABOD ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE OF THE HEER VAN TASSLE, WHICH HE FOUND THRONGED WITH THE PRIDE AND FLOWER OF THE ADJACENT COUNTRY. OLD FARMERS, A SPARE LEATHERN-FACED RACE, IN HOMESPUN COATS AND BREECHES, BLUE STOCKINGS, HUGE SHOES AND MAGNIFICENT PEWTER BUCKLES. THEIR BRISK, WITHERED LITTLE DAMES, IN CLOSE CRIMPED CAPS, WITH LONG-WAISTED GOWNS, HOMESPUN PETTICOATS, WITH SCISSORS AND PIN-CUSHIONS, AND GAY CALICO POCKETS HANGING ON THE OUTSIDE. BUXOM LASSES, ALMOST AS ANTIQUATED AS THEIR MOTHERS, EXCEPTING WHERE A STRAW HAT, A FINE RIBAND, OR PERHAPS A WHITE FROCK, GAVE SYMPTOMS OF CITY IN MOTIVATIONS. THE SONS, IN SHORT SQUARE-SKIRTED COATS, WITH ROWS OF STUPENDOUS BRASS BUTTONS, AND THEIR HAIR GENERALLY QUEUED IN THE FASHION OF THE TIMES, ESPECIALLY IF THEY COULD PROCURE AN EELSKIN FOR THE PURPOSE, IT BEING ESTEEMED THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY AS A POTENT NOURISHER AND STRENGTHENER OF THE HAIR. "BROM BONES, HOWEVER, WAS THE HERO OF THE SCENE, HAVING COME TO THE GATHERING ON HIS FAVORITE STEED, 'DAREDEVIL,' A CREATURE, LIKE HIMSELF, FULL OF METTLE AND MISCHIEF AND WHICH NO ONE BUT HIMSELF COULD MANAGE. HE WAS, IN FACT, NOTED FOR PREFERRING VICIOUS ANIMALS, GIVEN TO ALL KINDS OF TRICKS WHICH KEPT THE RIDER IN CONSTANT RISK OF HIS NECK, FOR HE HELD A TRACTABLE WELL-BROKEN HORSE, AS UNWORTHY OF A LAD OF SPIRIT. "FAIN WOULD I PAUSE TO DWELL UPON THE WORLD OF CHARMS THAT BURST UPON THE ENRAPTURED GAZE OF MY HERO, AS HE ENTERED THE STATE PARLOUR OF VAN TASSEL'S MANSION. NOT THOSE OF THE BEVY OF BUXOM LASSES, WITH THEIR LUXURIOUS DISPLAY OF RED AND WHITE; BUT THE AMPLE CHORUS OF A GENUINE DUTCH COUNTRY TEA-TABLE, IN THE SUMPTUOUS TIME OF AUTUMN. SUCH HEAPED-UP PLATTERS OF CAKES OF VARIOUS AND ALMOST INDESCRIBABLE KINDS, KNOWN ONLY TO EXPERIENCED DUTCH HOUSEWIVES." IRVING ADDS, "OLD BALTUS VAN TASSEL MOVED ABOUT HIS GUESTS WITH A FACE DILATED WITH CONTENT AND GOOD HUMOUR, ROUND AND JOLLY AS THE HARVEST MOON. HIS HOSPITABLE ATTENTIONS WERE BRIEF, BUT EXPRESSIVE, BEING CONFINED TO A SHAKE OF THE HAND, A SLAP ON THE SHOULDER, A LOUD LAUGH, AND A PRESSING INVITATION TO 'FAIL TO, AND HELP THEMSELVES'. AND NOW THE SOUND OF THE MUSIC FROM THE COMMON ROOM, OR HALL SUMMONED TO THE DANCE." "ICHABOD PRIDED HIMSELF UPON HIS DANCING AS MUCH AS UPON HIS VOCAL POWERS," IRVING CHARACTERIZES OF THE TEACHER. "NOT A LIMB, NOT A FIBRE ABOUT HIM WAS IDLE; AND TO HAVE SEEN HIS LOOSELY HUNG FRAME IN FULL MOTION, AND CLATTERING ABOUT THE ROOM, YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT ST. VITUS HIMSELF, THAT BLESSED PATRON OF THE DANCE, WAS FIGURING BEFORE YOU IN PERSON." "WHEN THE DANCE WAS AT AN END, ICHABOD WAS ATTRACTED TO A KNOT OF THE EAGER FOLKS, WHO WITH OLD VAN TASSEL, SAT SMOKING AT ONE END OF THE PLAZA, GOSSIPING OVER FORMER TIMES, AND DRAWING OUT LONG STORIES ABOUT THE WAR," RECORDS THE AUTHOR, OF CRANE'S MOVEMENT ABOUT THE HOME. "THE REVEL NOW GRADUALLY BROKE UP. THE OLD FARMERS GATHERED TOGETHER THEIR FAMILIES IN THEIR WAGONS, AND WERE HEARD FOR SOME TIME RATTLING ALONG THE HOLLOW ROADS, AND OVER THE DISTANT HILLS. SOME OF THE DAMSELS MOUNTED ON PILLIONS BEHIND THEIR FAVORITE SWAINS, AND THEIR LIGHT-HEARTED LAUGHTER, MINGLING WITH THE CLATTER OF HOOFS, ECHOED ALONG THE SILENT WOODLANDS, SOUNDING FAINTER AND FAINTER, UNTIL THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY - AND THE LATE SCENE OF NOISE AND FROLIC WAS ALL SILENT AND DESERTED," WRITES IRVING. "ICHABOD ONLY LINGERED BEHIND, ACCORDING TO THE CUSTOM OF COUNTRY LOVERS, TO HAVE A TETE-A-TETE WITH THE HEIRESS; FULLY CONVINCED THAT HE WAS NOW ON THE HIGH ROAD TO SUCCESS. WHAT PASSED AT THIS INTERVIEW I WILL NOT PRETEND TO SAY, FOR IN FACT I DO NOT KNOW. SOMETHING HOWEVER, I FEAR ME, MUST HAVE GONE WRONG, FOR HE CERTAINLY SAILED FORTH, AFTER NO VERY GREAT INTERVAL, WITH AN AIR OF QUITE DESOLATE AND CHAPFALLEN - OH, THESE WOMEN, THESE WOMEN! COULD THAT GIRL HAVE BEEN PLAYING OFF ANY OF HER COQUETISH TRICKS? WAS HER ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE POOR PEDAGOGUE ALL A MERE SHAM TO SECURE HER CONQUEST OF HIS RIVAL? HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS." "IT WAS THE VERY WITCHING TIME OF NIGHT THAT ICHABOD, HEAVY-HEARTED AND CREST-FALLEN, PURSUED HIS TRAVEL HOMEWARDS, ALONG THE SIDES OF THE LOFTY HILLS WHICH RISE ABOVE TARRY TOWN, AND WHICH HE HAD TRAVERSED SO CHEERILY IN THE AFTERNOON. THE HOUR WAS AS DISMAL AS HIMSELF. FAR BELOW HIM, THE TAPPANN ZEE SPREAD ITS DUSKY AND INDISTINCT WASTE OF WATERS, WITH HERE AND THERE A TALL MAST OF A SLOOP, RIDING QUIETLY AT ANCHOR UNDER THE LAND. IN THE DEAD HUSH OF MIDNIGHT, HE COULD EVEN HEAR THE BARKING OF THE WATCHDOG FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HUDSON; BUT IT WAS SO VAGUE AND FAINT AS ONLY TO GIVE AN IDEA OF HIS DISTANCE FROM THIS FAITHFUL COMPANION OF MAN. NOW AND THEN, TOO, THE LONG-DRAWN CROWING OF A COCK, ACCIDENTALLY AWAKENED WOULD SOUND FAR, FAR OFF, FROM SOME FARM-HOUSE, AWAY AMONG THE HILLS - BUT IT WAS LIKE A DREAMING SOUND IN HIS EAR. NO SIGNS OF LIFE OCCURRED NEAR HIM, BUT OCCASIONALLY THE MELANCHOLY CHIRP OF A CRICKET, OR PERHAPS THE GUTTURAL TWANG OF A BULL-FROG FROM A NEIGHBORING MARSH, AS IF SLEEPING UNCOMFORTABLY, AND TURNING SUDDENLY IN HIS BED. ALL THE STORIES OF GHOSTS AND GOBLINS THAT HE HAD HEARD IN THE AFTERNOON, NOW CAME CROWDING UPON HIS RECOLLECTION. THE NIGHT GREW DARKER AND DARKER; THE STARS SEEMED TO SINK DEEPER IN THE SKY, AND DRIVING CLOUDS OCCASIONALLY HID THEM FROM HIS SIGHT. HE HAD NEVER FELT SO LONELY AND DISMAL. HE WAS MOREOVER, APPROACHING THE VERY PLACE WHERE MANY OF THE SCENES OF GHOST STORIES HAD BEEN LAID. IN THE CENTRE OF THE ROAD STOOD AN ENORMOUS TULIP-TREE, WHICH TOWERED LIKE A GIANT ABOVE ALL THE OTHER TREES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD, AND FORMED A KIND OF LANDMARK. ITS LIMBS WERE GNARLED AND FANTASTIC, LARGE ENOUGH TO FORM TRUNKS FOR ORDINARY TREES, TWISTING DOWN ALMOST TO THE EARTH, AND RISING AGAIN, INTO THE AIR. IT WAS CONNECTED WITH THE TRAGICAL STORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE ANDRE, WHO HAD BEEN TAKEN PRISONER HARD BY; AND WAS UNIVERSALLY KNOWN BY THE NAME OF MAJOR ANDRE'S TREE. THE COMMON PEOPLE REGARDED IT WITH A MIXTURE OF RESPECT AND SUPERSTITION PARTLY OUT OF SYMPATHY FOR THE FATE OF ITS ILL-STARTED NAMESAKE, AND PARTLY FROM THE TALES OF STRANGE SIGHTS AND DOLEFUL LAMENTATIONS TOLD CONCERNING IT." I WILL J RE-JOIN THE ADVENTUROUS TRAVELS OF ICHABOD CRANE, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF STORIED "SLEEPY HOLLOW," IN TOMORROW'S BLOG. PLEASE CATCH PART TWO OF THREE OF THIS TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, THAT CARRIES THE PROVENANCE OF HIS GOOD NAME. IT IS KNOWN, BY THE WAY, THAT AUTHOR CHARLES DICKENS, HIMSELF, WAS A BIG FAN OF THE WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING, CONFESSING TO A COLLEAGUE ONCE, THAT HE OFTEN "RETIRED TO BEDLAM," WITH ONE OF HIS BOOKS, "TUCKED UNDER HIS ARM." NOT A BAD PROVENANCE THEN, WOULDN'T YOU SAY, TO HAVE BEEN AFFORDED A NAME ASSOCIATED WITH WASHINGTON IRVING?"

Our Buddy Casey just put this out and it’s fantastic I!!!

Hey Friends! Any barbers in the Gravenhurst or Muskoka area looking for some cool work or a really cool place to do it? Well our friend Jenna who is the New owner of Tea Beards her in Gravenhurst is looking for one. Let her know. It could be really cool. #barber #teabeards #gravenhurst #muskoka #ontario

A great Vintage Butter Box and it fits Records perfectly $59.99

Here is a Rad leather Jacket size 42 $75

Clearing out a few things to make room for others. These two 50s Kay acoustics are great projects or wall hangers. They both have neck and other issues. They are both very nice guitars But heck they look great on the wall. $80 each

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axEK3x5KIYc

If you want an interesting Halloween adventure see if you can find the story within this antique iron printing block that shows devil icons, a witch or two, oth...er frightening images and even a few token cherubs thrown in for good measure. This interesting relic of the print industry probably adorneda book of fiction or nursery rhymes and likely dates back to the early 1900’s. You can enlarge the images and for more information see our newest post in our Halloween week series. See more

HALLOWE’EN POSTS - 5 OF 8 STRANGE THINGS OF CURIOUS VALUE FOUND FOR THOSE WHO DARE TO QUEST FOR BURIED TREASURE WE WHO HAVE CHOSEN THE PIRATE’S LIFE MUST LIVE B...Y THE CURSES THUS ENCOUNTERED BY TED CURRIE We who have chosen this ancient profession of seeking out treasure where it resides, in whatever circumstance it be hidden, argue, must also be willing to obsess as the pirate, chose the salt spray over the prow as the seafarer’s perfume, and never, not ever, take another’s false opinion, that all the treasure be gone, long before your adventure began. Don’t be misled. Aye, there is much to be found should you be hale and hardy to take to the high seas of conquest. Then you might well find yourself a bit of a pirate, but only in the most congenial, gentle, honest fashion, of course. Not quite in the spirit of Captain Jack Sparrow and his perilous passage aboard his pirate ship, the Black Pearl. But we antiquers occasionally like to dream about our forays into the wide world in search of some not-so-buried but obscure treasure, in all the venues where we come ashore, so to speak, to carry out our hunt in earnest. So what’s this all about you ask? Well, when I was a kid I dreamed constantly about the pirate life, and watched every movie that had anything to do with buried treasure and the old maps on stretched skin leading to the X marking the sport. I looked for pirate maps that were offered by cereal companies for their young customers, and my favorite book as a wee lad was Treasure Island. So when I grew up, a little bit, and looked at the kind of profession that would entertain and support me financially, pirate not being much of an option at that point, I decided that the next best thing for a treasure hunter was to join the antique profession. Not because of a fascination with painted crocks, wooden shafted golf clubs, Fiestaware, pressed glass, vintage kitchen utensils, or antique quilts. I liked them, and have certainly purchased a large quantity since I turned pro, back in the late 1970’s, but that has only ever been to survive in this highly competitive, and storied business. But there was so much more out there to be uncovered and so very much undetected, unrecognized treasure to dig out of the large inventories of antique and collectable shops on my near-magical tours of duty. Why this auto-biographical stuff is suited to a Hallowe’en post may not yet be clear, but hang in there a few lines more. You see what I have long appreciated as valuable in the treasure sense, and consider a pirate’s booty when found, does not always correspond with monetary value. Not like Captain Sparrow finally locating his coveted and ill gained pirate’s chest of gold, silver and jewels. The treasure I have salivated over since I began as an antique hunter, was more about history and provenance than about immediate monetary advantage. I was instead consumed by the story, and the actuality of discovering some highly significant relic of history that had a more profound relevance to not only Canadian heritage but the world’s chronicle. In some cases, yes, the finds were of the macabre character and of this I make no apology. I was never a tomb raider, and I didn’t make a habit of snatching newly buried bodies in the local graveyards for some ghoulish pleasure or profit, that Hollywood has portrayed of villains in the past. Largely what I look for are relics of the past that have that bit of enchantment attached, or have been mislabelled and misunderstood by the good folks selling the wares, and didn’t know the purpose and provenance of the articles, ranging from art work to surgical devices that had a deeper and more interesting heritage than was identified. I have found many such articles, such as a portable embalming machine that was not properly identified as such, and a number of death masks that were considered contemporary sculpture, but not really. I even have a gold filled tooth that was dumped into a Mason jar of old buttons, and have found clumps of human hair in photographic collections, that belonged to one of the deceased featured in the images. Not exactly pirate’s treasure, in terms of value, but as a writer-historian as a sideline profession, I have composed several hundred published articles on these strange finds out on the local antique hustings. Add to this a dinosaur bone, a box of funeral home receipts from suppliers, circa 1920’s and 30’s, two hugely stocked medical bags of surgical equipment from the 1920’s, and a large number of diaries and journals that I was able to save, reprint in some cases, and even repatriate them to surviving families, which is also a wonderful feeling. There are times when discoveries can be perplexing and slightly disturbing, and reveal something of the paranormal, including images of human torture, devil images, and visual references to the traditional view of witchcraft. I have possessed quite a few antiquarian books, particularly art subjects, such as the work of William Hogarth, dating back to the 1700’s, that show some images we might wish to avoid; but it was an important visual documentation that the artist deemed necessary for education’s purpose. Disemboweling was an image I didn’t quite appreciate, along with a few others that made me queasy as a reader. But the rarity of these texts is an important consideration for the collector, even though the return on these investments may not be as lively and substantial and a first edition of Alice in Wonderland or the Wizard of Oz. But sometimes the real treasure is the fact that a great deal of work will need to be invested to discover more about a subject piece a particular dealer was uncertain about. That’s right! A few of us antique sleuths, semi pirate kind, adore the self appointed ritual of forensic investigation, when it comes to these rare finds of the bizarre and the outrightly strange. Consider, for the purpose of this Hallowe’en post, the images of a rare iron printing block, that was purchased from a regional antique shop a year or so ago. You can view them with this post, and enlarge them to more clearly examine the intricacies of the artist’s work to detail the subject mayhem. And make no mistake, it is not an image without need of explanation. We’re still working on this, as a family of treasure seekers, because we know there is a pretty interesting story to companion what appears so beautifully grotesque and a tad unsettling. There are advocates of the devil, and what appear to be cherubs in peril, creatures being upturned and held by their tails, a presiding witch as a human-headed raven, we suppose, and various types of serpents and vines that appear as forked tongues; and female figures at the bottom acting as human posts to support the weight of the unused name plate; the harnesses around their shoulders showing considerable weight. Make no mistake. This is one of the most unusual pieces I have found in nearly five decades of playing around in this hunting and gathering profession. The printing plate, which we originally thought was for creating book plates for a private collector’s library, the fact that it is much bigger than most others we were able to find, of the antiquarian type, was most likely an opening, or introductory page for a small format book, probably from the early decades of the 1900’s, which, editorially, would have been of the fiction variety, and could have ranged from a collection of fairy tales, which were often pretty Grimm (note this play on the word grim as relates to the legendary family of old children’s stories), to a book of the fantastic, where devils and witches danced in their moonlit revels, at the author’s whim of fancy. But it is in the fact that so much apparently malevolent stuff is going on in this intriguing folk art depiction, makes this such an entertaining search for provenance. I found the plate in a glass showcase about a year ago, if memory serves, and the provenance wasn’t known, or even what it’s complicated images and the interactions going on within the frame represented, and what it had been used for in the art reality of what amounts to an amazing amalgamation of figures and actions depicted. Having been in the printing business at one time in my life, and having been fascinated for all my years in newspaper work, on the printing presses themselves, as well as being an old book collector and dealer, I well knew that this image had a much grander importance and prominence, if only I could find the author of the work it was to companion as either an elaborate book plate or the decoration before the title page of some really neat old book. When I pointed out some of the nasty characters etched onto the metal plate, the clerk was rather shocked at what had only seemed like a benign bit of print memorabilia from a bygone era. Did I mention that I buy for content, and rarity, not just for something to flip for a profit. So I was quite impressed, the clerks who studied the union of devil icons, and winged witch, felt it was an unsettling bit of antique art, wrapping it up and bagging it quickly so the evil content wouldn’t escape into the shop. That’s my kind of stuff, and the value of this still unidentified relic of print art is yet to be fully revealed. It was given as a gift to my son Robert, a faithful fan of the ongoing east coast Oak Island Mystery, (talk about gigantic treasure hunt), and with his partner Bet Smith have taken up the challenge to find out more about this most interesting iron artifact that is begging to be reunited with the text it once adorned in book form some time over the past century. Take a few extra minutes to re-examine the images posted with today’s Hallowe’en story, enlarge to better see the detail of the artist’s work, and possibly you may have an interpretation better than ours; so please let us know what you think, or where it may have been used in print reality, as either a book plate for an eccentric collector, or as a front piece for a really interesting story of collection of scary stories. We’d appreciate your help. Finds like this, while admittedly a little too macabre for some tastes, is a sort of pirate quest without having salt brine rinsing your teeth, or having to worry about pirate nastiness at the tip of a sword, while walking the plank to a watery grave. But whatever is your particular motivation, the antique profession has served us well as adventurers, and the above find made all the tough going well worth it, Savvy

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I bet you don’t have any Mexican pressed Police records. We have three. $15 each.

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For those who are intimate with vintage abandon collectable dolls it is not surprising that a goodly number believe that their provenance Of past owners manifes...t in a very haunted way. But this haunted character is generally of the most kindly and charitable kind. Here is an enhanced version of this playful haunting curtesy of the stop animation craft by Bet Smith as you have seen on this site previously. See more

HALLOWE’EN SPECIAL POSTS / PART 4 OF 8 THE POWER OF THE CHILD AND THE PLAYFUL AURA OF A FAITHFUL SPIRIT TO RECLAIM A FAVORITE TOY BY TED CURRIE... I am not a toy collector and in our Gravenhurst antique shop we only ever have a small collection of vintage and collectable dolls, and nostalgic games and books. Suzanne has a small number of antique dolls at Birch Hollow, our home here in Gravenhurst, but nothing to compare with those folks we know who have many hundreds and into the thousands in their possession. But we do have a rather peculiar fascination with certain dolls and toys for a very different reason than valuation in the collectable doll market, or to showcase a particular maker or company. Yes, it’s quite true, that we are only really interested in those dolls and toys that carry with them some curious provenance of past owners and circumstances of which we have been made aware at the time of acquisition. And then there is the compelling factor of enchantment, and when a doll, for example, speaks to us without uttering a word, we pay extra attention because we believe that previous loving ownership can carry on through the decades and centuries. A sort of subtle psychic energy from an inanimate object to the mortal possessor. If you’re reading this chances are you have had similar stirrings at times in your life, about the very real possibility a passed-down heirloom toy or doll wasn’t entirely free of encumbrances. Meaning simply that a strange spiritual essence was clinging onto the item into the present tense, that some might call a haunted situation. Who of you, at some time in the past, or present, hasn’t pondered the potential that such an heirloom doll, having been previously adored by someone else, maybe of kith and kin, was looking at you when you came into its room, or watching as you moved from place to place in the residence, going about your daily business. And when you looked back, and straight into the doll’s mirroring glass eyes, felt a wee chill of the paranormal, as if this relic of the past had something a little extra in its bodily character? It’s not a strange sensation whatsoever, and it’s quite true that antique dolls can appear by their physical attributes, reflecting their period of history, in clothing, hair, and textures of finish, color and facial expression. Much more haunted, you might say, than an antique board game or a collection of lead soldiers. When Suzanne and I were managing directors of Woodchester Villa and Museum, in Bracebridge, back in the late 1980’s, we spent way more time tending the former estate of woolen mill founder, Henry Bird, overlooking the Muskoka River, than being at home, For the simple reason we had limited staff and no staff after the summer season. Meaning we were responsible for everything that went on at Woodchester, and that included running special school tours from September to June, including workshops we developed to promote the study of local heritage. We loved the work and always took our young lads, Andrew and Robert, to the museum because it was a great place for them to play outside on the treed plateau Mr. Bird enjoyed for its view of the town. And it was where both boys learned about history and how to handle artifacts, and set out displays for our special tours. They actually became part of the heritage profile at the site, bringing a youthful cheerfulness to what was a pretty dry Victorian setting truth be told. One of our regular chores at the museum had a paranormal lilt to it, and it involved the set-up children’s room at the top of the winding stairs on the second floor of what we called The Bird House. The main issue for us, in the curatorial sense, was to figure out why visitors to the heritage house, seemed to be repelled by the small room with its classic Victorian era decor. It was dimly lit and with the Victorian bedstead and dresser and chair, it did appear less than welcoming. Yet it was historically correct as far as what a period child’s bedroom would appear as, based of course on family circumstance and dwelling place. What our summer tour guides couldn’t figure out, is why most of their audience, would drift away in the middle of a presentation, at rope side, to look at just about anything else other than the contents of this classic living space for the youngsters of once. We wanted to get this figured out, because it was an important room after all, and the Bird children went on to become leaders of the community in later years, and it just wasn’t doing the family justice, as biography, to have folks dismiss it as if Victorian era childhood wasn’t all that interesting. We knew it to be the contrary, but for an obvious reason. Dolls and toys were positioned around the room to make it look realistic; as if a child might arrive at any moment, and resume contented residence with all these neat play possessions. It was, however, the source of our problem, as far as getting people to stop and listen to our little presentation about childhood play a century earlier. One thing our small staff and volunteers noticed, day by day, was the fact the toys never seemed to be in the same place as they were left the night before prior to closing shop. There was a rope divider across the doorway to stop visitors from gaining complete access to the room and its valuable contents. Generally speaking, we had very few children come through the house during typical summer days, and when we had school or camp tours, we never dropped the barrier at the door, or allowed any intrusions on the security of any room in the house that possessed heirloom pieces of considerable value. Yet somehow the toys would be moved about the floor, and the dolls and related hugables, were in different locations than when the lights were turned off for the evening. When we would get together for staff meetings, inevitably the matter would come up for discussion, and there were suggestions that someone on staff or on the volunteer brigade, we playing a prank by slipping into the room and moving the toys themselves, to give the impression of a museum that springs to life when everyone finally goes home. Suzanne and I knew differently, because when we were alone in the house, and the boys nowhere near that room, the play items would still be in different positions and situations by opening the next morning. It didn’t bother us because our family has been dancing with the paranormal since our respective childhoods, where ghostly interventions and the paranormal generally made our days so much more engaging and, well, fantastic. What we wanted to ascertain was how this was being messaged to our visitors, particularly the more perceptive ones, who seemed almost to wince when they first came off the stairs and rounded the corner, to look into the bedroom, meeting doll eyes to the human gaze, being startled backwards, as if staring at a fully loaded coffin on exhibit. We asked the tour guides to inquire of these started guests, which numbered about three out of every ten to look over that rope divider, what it was that troubled them about the appropriately decorated child’s bedroom. We found out that most of them had been led to the left, off the stairs, by these tour guides, and introduced to what was then a most elaborate and beautiful hair wreath, mounted on the wall by the door to the upper verandah that once wrapped around the octagonal house. The hair wreath, it was explained, was a mourning relic, that was composed by the human hair pulled from bedside-table brushes of friends and family of the soon-to-be deceased, as an eventual folk art style memorial tribute. Suzanne absolutely hated that wreath because it was made of human hair, of those now also deceased, and it was a classic example of Victorian melancholy, and certainly not an item that evoked instant good vibes when it was analyzed by the interpreter. There was just no way of making this rather morbid wall hanging seem like an appropriate Martha Stewart decoration, no matter how fitting it may have been in the 1890’s. Thus, when the visitors then turned back toward the subject bedroom, they already had a rather gloomy outlook, and some ill feelings that may have been halfway to disturbed, by time they caught a glimpse of Victorian doll eyes staring back at them from the other side of the rope divider. A small number of these folks would politely despatch themselves and look into the several other adult bedrooms on the other side of the second floor hall. We began to appreciate that the tour protocol needed to be changed a tad, and the positioning of the toys changed slightly to appear more passive and much less haunted. Yea, well that didn’t work either. Until my last day serving the directorship of Woodchester Villa, in the fall of 1989, I ventured up to that room to say goodbye to those pale doll and stuffed toy faces, because I really did believe that they were provocatively teasing to our staff and patrons, but never in a malevolent way. They wished us no harm and they certainly made no attempt to dissuade us from being in their company. Those, of us of course, who had a willingness to entertain the possibility, a spiritual provenance wasn’t a bad thing, or an unwelcome intrusion, because after all, these childhood heirlooms had been intensely loved and celebrated for long and long, through many emotionally difficult times. Imagine the child who has just learned a friend or parent has died tragically, and how one of these same loving keepsakes would have been tearfully embraced, as if they were living breathing entities themselves. How many times would a child, being punished and banished to a bedroom, for misadventure, grab up one of these intimate possessions, to drain away fear and frustration, asking only for the passive kindness for temporary resolution, justification and sweet comfort into peaceful, restorative slumber. This was the room at Woodchester I enjoyed the most, because of its haunted character. It is not the case that a doll, for example, takes on a human identity, as gifted by the creative child. It is however, the very definite case, that sheer fantasy bred by innocent imagination, removes the child from any predisposition to limit the flight to that rare liberation, where what we may perceive as adults to be paranormal, is altogether and happily quite normal. Maybe it’s best called the Alice in Wonderland syndrome, but wouldn’t we all like to be able to revisit the days when our fetters were few, and our imaginations were aggressive and fulfilling, never mind where we wished to travel and explore. As we generously shared our unharnessed enthusiasm to leave the bounds of normalcy for something magical, and enchanted, these lovingly embraced huggable dolls and plush toys, Teddy Bears most definitely, it may be argued by those of us who believe in spirited continuation, and friendly possession in the paranormal realm of things, that the transference of the past to the present, is a very real character of the antique-thing we adults guiltily celebrate. Even though we may be reluctant to declare our belief in ghosts, we don’t dismiss the potential that something or other is very, very haunted indeed. Thanks for joining me today for this recognition of the Hallowe’en season here in Muskoka.a very beautiful and haunted locale. See more