In December of 2019, as the days grew shorter, we realized Bailey wasn’t getting better; in fact, she was worse than we thought. Our middle child was put on new medicines, but these would take some time to start working. If it was within my means, I would do anything to help my middle child. Besides going to LA and spending time with our daughter, there wasn’t much more that I could do. Speaking with my therapist, she suggested I talk with someone she knew who might be able to help: a holistic healer. My thoughts were skeptical, but needing to do something, I reached out to this woman who said she could help heal my child from a distance. Perhaps this was an aspiration. However, if a little thing would help Bailey, maybe this was it. I still had hope. The holistic healer was hired, and the first appointment was held on December 12. When the session ended, I asked how long it would take to see a change in Bailey. The answer “about 3 weeks”.
As we moved toward winter solstice, darkness slammed into us. My husband and I were told we would need to look for a long-term residential treatment center for our child. Again, this was taking us down a path unimagined.
What would a long-term treatment program look like? This was something I needed to know, but didn’t want to find out what it entailed. We received this information mid-December. I was trying my hardest to plan a nice a trip out west for Christmas. A hotel had been booked: a room for my oldest and youngest daughters and a room for my husband and me; it was in a good location near stores and restaurants and within walking distance of the residence where Bailey was living. I had made reservations for a late lunch on Christmas Day, at a Jewish deli, as it was the one restaurant in the area that was open. My sister and her family were hoping to drive down from San Francisco to LA the day after Christmas to be with us for part of our time out west……would Bailey still be in California?
We kept our reservations and had our fingers crossed that everything would come together as planned. Gifts had been bought, but our most important tradition of making Christmas cookie hadn’t been completed. When my first born arrived home from college she took the reins and made sure we had Christmas cookies for us to decorate.
Our search for a long term treatment center had barely begun when the Christmas holiday was upon us. Bailey stayed in California. We arrived the day before day Christmas. The week we spent in the San Fernando Valley was excruciating at times. Bailey was very unstable; all she wanted to do was to go home and kill herself. Luckily my sister, her husband, and their two teenage boys came down the evening of December 26 and added the distraction my oldest and youngest daughters needed. Although I enjoyed our times as a nuclear family, before and after the arrival of my extended family, Bailey’s sisters needed more than just my husband and me. I found solace during my early morning swims (in the 40° darkness under the stars, with only the pool lights to see onto the deck). However, the arrival of my sister’s family also added the extra layer of levity I needed…
Christmas week in pictures
On New Year’s Eve we came home from California. Either that night, or New Years’s day, we received a call from Bailey’s therapist: she had turned a corner. She had decided to embrace “new year, new you” and was starting to do what she needed to do to help herself. Whether it was the new medicines taking effect, the support she received from her extended family or something else, we will never know. Perhaps the strength that had allowed Bailey to stay alive all of this time, through the years of depression, had finally come through in full force. Whatever it was, the stars aligned and we were so thankful!
In the summer of 2018, our middle child (Bay) told us he was severely depressed with extreme suicidal ideation. For almost a year, I woke up every morning dreading that Bay had taken his life while we slept. I was anxious and sad for my child. Time was spent seeking joy: I ran, swam, and did yoga. Friends would walk and talk with me. My husband, youngest daughter and I laughed for many months with the show Schitt’s Creek. As a family we took road trips. Although I didn’t see it at the time, all these things, small as they were, helped me wade through that dark time: I was chasing Joy, but it remained elusive.
A year later, in the summer of 2019, Bay was in a treatment center in Los Angeles, California for his mental health. July began with my husband and I traveling to California together from our summer residence in Muskoka, Ontario. Our eldest daughter was living at home for the summer. Our youngest was at camp a few hours away from our cottage.
We arrived in the City of Angels on July 5; that afternoon we met with our son and his therapist. In that session, our middle childth old us that he was transgender and would now be using the pronouns “she” and “her”. Bay wanted to “come out” to her sisters and grandparents herself. For the time being, my husband and I kept it a secret from most of our family members. When we talked about Bay with our family and friends, she was our son and the male pronouns still applied. My husband and I were trying hard to use the correct pronouns when we talked with each other, Bay, and anyone associated with the treatment center. We also learned that our child was trying to decide on a new name, eventually Bay became Bailey.
Almost every other weekend either my husband or I flew from Toronto to Los Angeles; these trips were solo. However, on August 1, 2019, my husband, youngest daughter and I flew to Los Angeles where we met our eldest daughter who had arrived several hours earlier. This was the weekend Bailey was going would reveal herself to her siblings.
I would have liked this trip to be purely for pleasure; it was the first time our two other children had been to California. We tried to add some fun experiences during our trek out west. The first morning we were in LA, was Friday. Family therapy was scheduled for that afternoon, so we took our oldest and youngest daughters to El Matador State Beach, in Malibu and then to lunch at the Santa Monica Boardwalk.
After our morning and early afternoon out, it was time for family therapy. I don’t remember much of that hour when Bailey came out to her sisters. Also, there is no memory of how she presented her news. What I do remember is my eldest, who was and is very enlightened, was not able to wrap her mind around the announcement that her middle sibling made. My youngest just seemed to absorb the information. I’m sure there were tears and questions, but the memory escapes me.
Although we talked with Bailey every day while she was in treatment, we could only see her Saturdays or for family therapy. On Saturdays, after a morning group therapy sessions at the residence, there was lunch (if we chose to stay). Bailey was allowed to spend time away from the house with us; the break from the center could be a few to several hours.
The Saturday Bailey’s sisters were in Los Angeles was rough. While my husband and I were in our parent group, Bailey’s sisters arrived early, hoping to spend a little time with her. Apparently, she engaged very little with them. After lunch Bailey didn’t have any solid thoughts on what we should do during her time with us. She had suggested “window” shopping to my husband the previous weekend. I proposed we drive through Beverly Hills and walk down Rodeo Drive, as it is unique to LA. We didn’t plan to buy anything, but I thought it might be fun; this wasn’t the best idea. We spent maybe an hour on Rodeo drive. Bailey went into the stores that we went into. In the last store, however, I pointed to an outfit and said “Bailey, this outfit would look good on you, because you are tall and thin”. Within a minute she left the store and joined my husband outside. My 13-year-old later said, she thought Bailey would have preferred to stay at the house.
We drove around LA and had a good sushi dinner not far from the house where Bailey was living. We thought she appreciated it. After dinner, as we headed to have ice cream, we passed a few teenage couples. Bailey said, “I really don’t like teenagers”. My eldest responded, “I hate to point out that you are a teenager”. My middle child responded with “Yes, and I don’t like myself”; it felt as though Bailey had relapsed.
Our last day in LA we didn’t see Bailey. Our time to visit with her was over. The rest of us tried to enjoy more of what LA had to offer. We attempted to hike to the Hollywood sign. About an hour and a half into the hike we were extremely hot and didn’t seem to be close to where the hike was going to take us, so we turned back. Besides, there was a three-hour limit on our parking space.
Finishing our hike we decided to try In-N-Out Burger, as none of us had ever been to one: it was very crowded and nothing special…after lunch we went to Venice Beach. The sand was burning hot; because of this, my daughters and I had a clear path to run to the ocean, while my husband waited for us on the opposite side of the beach. We didn’t spend much time on the beach but strolled through the Hare Krishna Festival, walked along the board walk and saw some interesting buildings on our way to the car.
We arrived back at the hotel knowing this was our last night in sunny California. Our moods were anything but sunny, I think we all felt deflated. The next morning, at the airport, my husband, youngest child and I said goodbye to our eldest. The anticipated “family trip” had come to an end with each of us carrying our own burden. Even though we tried to engage in enjoyable activities, the purpose of our trip wasn’t for joy. We were there for love: to support and see Bailey.
In early August, many of our conversations focused around Bailey going to an extended care program before coming home; this would be with the same treatment center. At one point, Bailey said, “the only reason you think I should go is because it is better for you”. I tried to explain how it would be a good segue from residential care into normal life: we wanted her to have a healthy transition so that she would be in the best place possible when she came home. Frankly, I wasn’t sure Bailey was ready to come home. She had a way of misleading people into believing all was well when it wasn’t….in the end Bailey moved to extended care.
I missed Bailey, but maybe her words “it would be better for you” rang true. Perhaps knowing she was somewhere safe was what I needed to focus on my own healing; it hadn’t occurred to me how the “trauma” from my past had taken a toll on me. Actually, I hadn’t thought of all the hard things I went through as trauma. Late in the summer, as schools were already in session, I realized that running, swimming, yoga and talk therapy were only helping me feel a little better. Were the tears that were always ready to flow partly due to my changing hormones? Mid September was the time when I had my women’s wellness check. Sobbing when I saw my gynecologist of 21 years, my story was told. She put me put me on Zoloft. I also started energy healing along with traditional therapy. The Zoloft calmed the anxiety I felt for my middle child. Energy healing helped me let go of things I was holding deep inside myself.
October began with my mother, husband, youngest daughter and me flying to LA to celebrate Bailey’s 16th birthday. The weather was beautiful! We were staying in a new area of LA. Our first full day was without our middle child. We spent a good part of that day at the Getty Museum.
We picked up Bailey on Saturday morning and she appeared to be doing well. There seemed to be enthusiasm about spending her down time with us: driving around the city; taking in a museum; hanging out and playing cards.
The Museum of Death was the place of interest that we decided to visit with Bailey. Permission was given from the treatment center. In hindsight, this might not have been the best choice.
Her grandmother treated us all to a wonderful dinner to celebrate Bailey’s birthday. One afternoon we brought cake to the hotel. Then our time with Bailey was over for awhile…my next trip was not for a month.
When the leaves on the trees started their transformation from greens to the bright autumn hues, my mindset also began to change. The weekend before Halloween I took a solo trip to visit my eldest daughter, who was a Sophomore in college; this was I knew something had altered for me. I had planned my weekend around long walks with and without my daughter. For a few weeks I hadn’t been running because my knee had been bothering me, so a hotel with a pool had been booked. I arrived on a Thursday night. Friday morning I met my daughter for breakfast. My plans were set for the day: first breakfast, then a long walk to make returns that I hadn’t had time to do at the stores near home. The walk was at least five miles round trip. After breakfast I said goodbye to my adult child until that evening. The day was beautiful and very warm for a fall day in Massachusetts. Enjoying my walk, I was about a mile from the stores when my knee buckled and took me down to the ground. With the pain surging through my knee I sat on someone’s stairs in the middle of Somerville, MA. Eventually the pain lessened. I got up and decided to hobble the rest of the way to Assembly Row. Once I reached the the Mystic River, near the shops, I calmly installed the Lyft App, then went into the stores to return my things. The 2.5 mile walk back to the parking garage where my car was parked wouldn’t be happening.
Although, I was in pain and spent a good part of the afternoon icing my knee and resting, a satisfaction of sorts settled over me: with the exception of not having a great walk, everything I set out to do had been accomplished. An appointment with the orthopedic surgeon was made. Also, I learned how to use a Lyft. The last thing may seem extremely small, but every time I learn something new I hear my dad’s voice in my head: “It’s good to learn something new every day”.
That evening, I met my daughter and her boyfriend, at the university, and walked into town for dinner. Sadly, the dinner was interrupted; it was necessary to talk with someone at Bailey’s treatment facility. Once again, my thoughts were divided between the conversation at the dinner table and my concern for my middle child out west. For the second time, I felt sad that the small amount of time I had to get to know my daughter’s significant other was interrupted. Although I knew my child in LA was going back to in treatment care, my college age daughter and I enjoyed the rest of our weekend together. We took a road trip on Saturday to Marblehead. Sunday we met for brunch, then I made the long drive home in the pouring rain.
Between my weekend drive to Massachusetts and my flight at the end of the week to LA, I was able to see the orthopedic surgeon about my knee. On my visit I was informed that there was “severe arthritis behind each knee cap”. My main question of the doctor was “Will I be able to run anymore?” He gave me a look and said, “What do you think?”. Obviously the answer was “no”. “Just another ending, another thing to mourn”, was my thought that fall day. I had been running for 33 years. I was not old, just 51, but I had known for a long time my knees would give up on me. For so many years I ran through worst things to happen in life. I could’ve railed against the unfairness of this news, along with everything else that was happening/ had happened in my life. Walking through the hard things and stopping to face them was something I knew could be done. As much as it hurt to stop running, I didn’t break. There was pleasure taken in my growth to be able to stand up to the bad; this is how recognizing joy the little things began for me: to take something negative and find the positive…..
I don’t remember when I planted my first rose bush. In 1976, I started a garden at our first home in Pennsylvania. My husband and I planted rhododendrons, a weeping cherry tree and a magnolia tree, and I attempted to create a “rock garden”. The garden was a disaster. I was new to gardening and had more enthusiasm than knowledge. I re-purposed the large rocks from the rock garden into a border for my next gardening attempt: a strawberry patch. I don’t remember growing roses at that house.
We built our second home in 1986 on a 20-acre rural property outside of Indiana, Pennsylvania. As my interest in gardening grew and I dug more holes in the yard and planted more beds, my husband delighted me by adding a six-foot chain link fence, around a quarter acre of our yard’ because the deer liked my gardening efforts, too.
Baba, my Ukrainian-born grandmother, had a bubble-gum pink rose growing in her garden. Both my mother and my aunt had Baba’s roses growing in their yards and my mother gave me a start of that rose. If it wasn’t the first rose I planted in my garden, it was among my favorites for its beautiful, full blooms and its heady rose fragrance. That unnamed rose set me on a path that gave me years of joy and pleasure.
By 2001, my husband and I had been married for 30 years. He pursued his hobbies on weekends and free time. Our sons were adults and away from home. I guess the time and my emotions were ripe for me to embrace a new pastime, a new ‘lover.’
I love roses—their large, colorful flowers and sweet scents. I adore the history of the old garden roses. Some have been grown for hundreds of years. While less lovable, I accepted their thorny canes as one might overlook the less-than-ideal mannerisms in a new love interest.
In my fence-protected garden, I planted dozens of rose shrubs—one of my lists included the names of 80 roses I bought and planted over the years! I enjoyed walking in the garden and smelling the roses. I didn’t bring too many bouquets into our house—I almost couldn’t bear cutting the blooms from the plants. Reading postings on Internet garden forums, many with photos of beautiful roses grown in others’ gardens, became addictive and fueled my desire to buy more roses. Not only could I read about the plant, eventually they could be ordered via the Internet! How easy was that?! I was obsessed!
It is likely that Baba’s rose was an old garden rose. Most Heirloom roses bloom once a year, usually in late spring and early summer. What is lost by growing a once-a-year blooming rose plant is made up many times by the abundance of the flowers covering the plants and usually a very strong rose fragrance. The scent is what I loved the most about them, however the flowers were very photogenic as well, doubling my pleasure in growing them.
I grew the “Apothecary’s Rose,” a rose that had been grown in medieval gardens and used by herbalists for various remedies and perfumes. I added a deep pink rose, “La Belle Sultane,” who enchanted me with her frilly yellow stamens against the dark petals. She was named for a French woman Aimée Dubucq de Rivery who was captured by pirates in 1776 at the age of 13 and became a cherished concubine and mother of “Sultan Abdul Hamid the First of the mighty Turkish Empire.” Another rose, “Maiden’s Blush,” was originally named “Cuisse de Nymphe” (translation: “Passionate Nymph’s Thigh”) by the French. Perhaps the English found the original name too vulgar. There are similar stories about the names of some of the other roses I grew. And, of course, I grew Baba’s Rose.
Some fellow rose enthusiasts widely promoted alfalfa tea as a fertilizer for roses. A gardener could make this magic concoction herself. Using a 55-gallon plastic garbage can filled with water, marinate alfalfa cubes in the can over a period of days or weeks. The resulting elixir was extremely pungent (I would say it smelled worse than a neglected livestock barn). Wearing rubber gloves, unless I wanted my hands to smell for days, I used water from the soaked and rotting alfalfa to water my rose plants. I don’t know whether or not it helped the roses. As one might do unpleasant tasks for a lover, it was one ritual practiced during my rose love affair.
While the roses themselves brought me joy, my garden also provided the perfect place to practice a new hobby: photography. With a digital camera, I was able to take photos of my beautiful blooms and the fauna (insects) that enjoyed my roses. That was so much fun and added another dimension to my gardening pastime .
Then in 2003, a deadly scourge entered my little piece of paradise: rose rosette disease (RRD). It didn’t affect people or animals, just my beloved roses. I learned about the disease on gardening forums and the Internet. Sadly, there was no cure for the disease. RRD is caused by a tiny mite that infects the rose with a virus. Symptoms of the disease include deformed stems and flowers, an excessive number of thorns on the canes, and an abnormal number of stems growing from the rose stems. The mite can spread the disease to other roses and eventually kill them. Looking at a rose bush with RRD, it is clear there is something wrong with the plant. The advice was, and still is, to dig out and destroy any rose bush showing signs of the disease.
Each time I found a rose bush showing the infection, the grief I felt was similar to what someone might feel when discovering a loved pet was ill and nothing could be done to heal it; this may sound stupid…after all, it is just a plant! But at that time it was so much more to me. I spent hours in the garden and there was little I could do to help and protect my ‘loves’ from this disease. I was sad and angry when removing those diseased roses. After discovering the disease in my garden, I bought fewer new roses bushes and started adding companion plants to my garden beds. My love affair with roses was on shaky ground.
There were other dalliances with plants that weren’t roses: fragrant peonies (that flopped when it rained which ruined the huge blooms); iris (the iris borer decimated many of my plants); colorful daylilies (vigorous plants that needed divided often—like wrestling with an octopus and requiring the strength of Hercules); clematis with huge flowers but no fragrance (the rabbits liked them almost as much as I did); and flowering perennials, shrubs, and trees. I also had a flirtation with growing plants from seed and participated in a pagan rite by sowing them on the winter solstice (which made the sowing seem a little magical—like a celebration of the “birth of the sun”). The romance was never as strong or as long as my love affair with roses.
Over time, my garden became too large for me to care for. I began referring to it as my chaotic garden because it was so sprawling, untidy, and unkempt. I continued to find joy in the explosion of flowers during the spring and summer months.
It has been over twenty years since I began my love affair with roses. We moved from Pennsylvania to a much smaller property in the sunny south. I said good-bye to my loves and look back with fond memories. My days of having a huge rose garden are over. My hope is to always grow a few fragrant rose bushes to love and enjoy wherever I call home.
On the 10th of the month, we received word that a good family friend from Toronto had passed away. She had been in my life since I was very young and was one of my mother’s closest friends. Our families were (and still are) somewhat intertwined in the history we have with one another. I always considered this wonderful woman and her extended clan a part of my family.
A little more than three weeks after our friend died, it became apparent that we needed to help our beloved dog, Murphy, go over the Rainbow Bridge. He was just a puppy when he became a member of our family in August of 2009. Murphy had a good life and at 14 1/2, our dog was in extreme pain. Everyone knew it was time to let him go, but I wanted just a little more time with him; this wasn’t meant to be. The day before Thanksgiving, with his family by his side, he took his last breath.
I wasn’t ready for either of these losses. The deaths, on top of other things that were happening, made it difficult for me to find joy. I had momentarily forgotten how to rejoice in the simple moments or find the tranquility in something that might seem insignificant.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving, my youngest daughter and I drove north with my mother. We were headed to Toronto to attend our friend’s funeral. My sister, who arrived the day before, was waiting for us at the hotel when we reached the city. In addition to being sad, I was stressed. The traffic was awful (due to road work as well as a Christmas parade). I was afraid we might not make it to the visitation that afternoon. Luckily, all went according to plan, but I didn’t feel any better.
The next morning, being an early riser, I planned to walk to the nearest Starbucks and arrive when it opened at 6 AM. Around 5:30, I went down to the lobby with my coat and mittens (my hat having been forgotten at home). Coffee was just being set up. I decided not to go to the coffee house but went for a walk anyway. The fresh air would be good for me. The morning was brisk, about 16°F and a light snow was falling. The city was quiet, the roadwork on Bloor Street had not started up for the day. Despite the torn-up streets, there was something magical that morning. With the shops lit for Christmas and the snow lightly falling in the crisp morning air, I felt a calmness wash over me. I walked about two miles that morning, until my ears were unable to stand the freezing weather. That time outside was more than just a good stretch for my legs: with that walk, I was reminded how I learned to find joy in the little things….
Authors Note: Stay tuned for the next segment of this story: it will be released somewhat like an old-fashioned serial.
The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.
I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid of feeling homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.
I loved my time in London. Words can’t describe what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.
34 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.
Pictures flow through my mind…
Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre
Leaving London
Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels
Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:
She to a family she knew in Belgium,
I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.
Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”
Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”
Being told, “Everyone is dead.”
Darkness fell,
Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…
Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”
Slowly finding out who I had known:
Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…
Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.
The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan; the Cocker twins…
Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.
Lighting candles all over Europe, in remembrance for those that had died.
Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.
Authors note: I wrote this 4 years ago, on the 30th anniversary of this tragedy, and published it last year as the first story on this blog.
This story was published last year (2022), but I am reposting it today. Happy Halloween!
One morning, in late August, the lake was shrouded in mist. Looking out on the water, the low clouds reminded me of a veil between the living and the dead. I thought about the children who died off the shores of this property….
The History Of A House And The Tragedy That Happened
In 1908 James Stroud had a “cottage” built at the end of an Island, on one of Muskoka’s 1,600 lakes. The house was grand: made partly of stone and steel, with gardens and paths surrounding the property. Fireplaces were in many of the rooms: four on the main floor and one in almost all 7 of the bedrooms. There was a grand staircase: a sweeping set of steps that split off into two smaller flights going in opposite directions.
At the back of the house were two more set of stairs: the first gave the servants easy access to the kitchen from their room upstairs; the second went down to a room in the basement. A dumb waiter moved things up and down from the ground level to the kitchen. The doors at the back of the house were those the domestic help used, as they gave easy access to the other side of the estate. There was an incinerator on the opposite bank of the property, down the hill, beside the lake, where trash was set afire. Things that could not burn were placed nearby.
The owner, James, had two grown children: James (Jimmy) and Martha. The son never had a family of his own. His sister, however, married and had two children: Anna and William. Three years after the cottage was built, while perhaps playing a game of hide and seek, the seven year old girl and her five year old brother ran away from their nanny: down the hill, toward the paths near the incinerator. Sadly, this playfulness ended in tragedy. Their little bodies were found in the water with their arms wrapped around one another, as if in an embrace. This is how I pictured them when I heard the story. An assumption was made that Anna who was older, went in to save her sibling and they both drowned.
How My Family Become Part Of This Story
In the late 1930’s, James died in his summer home, a place that he loved. The house was left to his son Jimmy, as Martha (although she still vacationed nearby) did not want to be reminded of the devastation from years before. 20 some years later the property was left to my grandfather because Jimmy had no heirs.My father’s family started spending summers in the Muskoka region.
In the 1960’s my grandparent’s built a small cottage on the other side of the island from the one built in the early 20th century. The two houses became known as the “big cottage” and “little cottage”. When I was young, my immediate family spent our summers in what we called the “little cottage”; it was all one level with three bedrooms. My father’s parents stayed in the “big cottage”. My uncle would come up for a while every summer. When I was 13 my grandparents decided that they would prefer to stay in the smaller house. The younger generations now had summer residence in the big cottage.
Strange Happenings
At the age of 14 some friends and I decided to play Ouija. None of us knew the rules…as I played, my fingers, and those of my friends, hovered above the planchette. Playing the game mostly “yes” and “no” question were asked. The little wooden plank flew across the board with no one touching it. We all assumed we had contacted Anna and William because one of them couldn’t spell. I don’t remember saying goodbye, we weren’t aware we should.
One night, the same summer, a good friend and I were sitting in one of the old wooden, luxurious, boats that Jimmy had owned. This was a comfortable place to sit and listen to the party on the island across from ours; an event that we were not quite old enough to attend. While we were waiting for the gathering to start, the two of us talked in the quiet night. All of the sudden, out of the dark night, we heard a young melodic voice way say “Moooooommy“.We looked at each other and realized the haunting sound was heard by us both. We were scared because there were no other children living near by. It wasn’t an echo we heard but what was it? As in a horror movie, we didn’t choose the smart thing to do by running up the lighted path to the cottage. Instead, the two of us agreed that sitting in the old boat was a bad plan…we moved to one which we could drive, waiting to hear the words again.
At the big cottage there were unexplained things that happened: screen doors that slammed, when I was at the house alone; the feeling that someone had walked into the room, but no one was there… At the age of 20, the cottage felt quiet. I said to my sister, “I don’t feel a presence here anymore.” That night, while lying in bed, my lamp fell over by itself: an entity telling us of its presence. Was it old Mr. Stroud who had died there or was it one of the children?
As the years went by, my uncle married and started to bring his wife and three step children up to the little cottage. Eventually they had two girls of their own. In my early adult life, I wasn’t able to spend much time in Muskoka. Something odd happened to my uncle’s family This is what I was told: One night, as everyone slept, the babysitter who was up for the summer (to help with the 5 children) awoke. She saw two little “girls” in white dresses, roaming the house. Assuming they were my Aunt and Uncle’s youngest children, she followed them. Down the stairs they went, then out into the night and disappeared. These were not my cousins, but the children from so long ago. Apparently, the baby sitter was pale and shaking when she recounted what had happened.
By the mid-1990’s my grandparents stopped going up to Muskoka; it was decided to sever the property and sell the side that the big cottage was on. The upkeep was too much money and we hadn’t kept the house in the splendor it deserved. My uncle and his family bought another summer residence on the same lake. We continue to go up to the little cottage, which is now bigger because my sister, brother and I all have our own families. On our property strange events have still occurred. One night, several summers ago, my husband awoke to a light brushing across his cheek and a soft voice calling his name.
In May of 2020, my youngest daughter and I went to stay at my mother’s home. We hadn’t seen her and Paul (her significant other) since the world locked down. That evening, we had dinner with them, on their back deck. As the sun was setting we told stories about things that go bump in the night. I started to tell my Ouija story. As these words were spoken by me: “…we all assumed that the two children who had died along the shore, years before, had been contacted” Paul looked over in shock. He said, “Two children drowned just off your property? I’ve seen them, on the road, wearing white dresses.”
The paranormal activities at our cottage continue to take place. When the border into Canada reopened in the summer of 2021, we went to our beloved cottage. My eldest daughter drove up with two friends. Around 3 or 4 in the morning, one of the young ladies woke up screaming. At the same time in a bedroom over the boathouse, my youngest daughter was awakened by the clock radio turning on; there was no music, only the sound of gurgling.
Today we met my mother and Paul for lunch. They had arrived back from Canada two weeks ago. We were talking about this story. My mother said, “maybe you could say: perhaps they are happy here and don’t want to leave the property? ” Under his breath, Paul said “I saw them again.” Mom responded, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He answered, “I didn’t want to scare you. I saw them twice, they looked lost.”
Somewhere in Muskoka, two souls have wandered the land for over a century trying to figure out where they belong….
* Author’s note: All names have been changed. Permission to take and use the pictures of the 1908 cottage and property was granted from the present owner.. Last week I did a little research (which turned in to several hours) on the 1st owner of the cottage. I learned a a lot of history and interesting facts, however, the most relevant are these: 1) I did not know that anyone had died in the cottage. 2) I always presumed the children that died were both girls.
My cousin Amy, 10 years my junior, is a very talented writer. She tells a story with levity, which is pretty much the opposite of me. In January of 2022, a month after I began my blog I asked her if she would like to write a story for Tell Me Your Story. Her response was this:
“Thank you for thinking of me! What a neat idea for a blog. It makes me think of that “views from my window” Facebook Page.
I’d be happy to have one of my stories in your blog, but honestly, I’m not very good with follow through. The sitting down and actually writing part of me is not very dedicated, I usually just start with a sentence and end up with a blurb, and they are almost exclusively on Facebook.
If you see one there that you think is a good fit, let me know, and I’ll say either yea or nay…”
I loved her honesty and then got busy with other people’s stories, as well as my own. Over a year and half later, Amy has started a blog of her own: A twenty year adventure and more; her story starts with an idea of a three week whirlwind trip, with her husband and kids. Their trip took place in the fall of 2023 and she was dedicated to her writing.
As the trip flowed with the theme of Tell Me Your Story, I reached out to my cousin to see if I could reblog her stories. Amy responded:
“Go ahead! Thanks for asking. It is for sure a very real telling of our experiences, no sugar coating….”
Originally I shared all Amy’s adventures, but have taken them off to free up space. The link to her blog is at the bottom of this page. Is my cousin going to continue to write? I don’t know the answer, but as Amy says: “Let’s see what happens next!”
On July 4, 2023 I traveled north and slightly west. Through mountains and valleys I went. As I drove, I noticed the gentle blue Cornflowers, elegant Queen Anne’s Lace and some jaunty yellow flowers that I cannot name. Behind me, our dog sat on the floor of my husband’s truck. Every once in awhile, I would glance over my right shoulder to see how Murphy, my trusty companion, was getting along. The day was hard on him (and me somewhat) as I had to lift him in and out of the vehicle.
I hadn’t traveled any great distance with Murphy since the summer of 2019; that year he was able to jump in and out of my mini van with very little effort. In mid June of this year he turned 14, but his brain told him he was younger. Every time we were at a rest stop on our way to Muskoka, instead of waiting to let me help him in and out of the truck, he tried to jump and do it himself; this made it difficult for both of us. Neither of us thought we would be taking this trip together; my husband was supposed to drive up to our summer home with him ten days after I arrived. At the very last minute, with my car packed, my daughter and I ready to go, I was asked to stay home for a few days. My husband took my vehicle, with all my things, and headed north. Murphy and I were left behind. When I departed 4 days later, our beloved mutt came with me.
For the most part, Murphy slept the whole way to our cottage, except when we stopped for bathroom and water breaks. On the last mile of our journey, as we turned onto the road that leads to our cottage, he sat up. Murphy knew exactly where we were, even after almost four years.
When we arrived in the late evening on July 4th, 2023, the sun was still high in the sky. After unloading and having a bite to eat, I took Murphy on a short walk toward the beach. I thought it would be good for both of us to stretch our legs after the long journey. To get to the beach, there are fairly steep stairs on both sides of a hill.
As we walked, with the moss like a cushion under our feet, I intended to turn back before we reached the steps. However, Murphy (on his long leash), had other ideas and started toward the stairs. Before I knew it, he tried to climb the first step and fell. Again, I thought my companion remembered the boundless energy he used to have: when he would go up and over the hill to the beach. In the little sandy bay our dog would play fetch with a tennis ball, then burry it in the sand. Sometimes he would chase the ducks or join my husband in a kayak.
We have had Murphy since he was a puppy. He was adopted at the end of the summer of 2009. For nine years he joined us on our trips to Canada. For several of those summers, Murphy and I would walk two miles together almost every morning.
However, life and our routine changed: in the summer of 2020 none of our family was able to set foot in Canada due to COVID. Then in the summers of 2021 and 2022, my husband chose not to join us at the cottage and Murphy stayed at home with him. Over a year ago, when I was in Muskoka, my trusty companion started walking slower; at the age of 13 he had entered his twilight years. Perhaps he had passed into his dotage before this, but I hadn’t noticed.
This past July, my husband departed our cottage about a week after I arrived. Murphy was left with my 17 year old and I until my spouse came back at the end of the month. This unexpected time with Murphy was special and important for both my daughter and me. Walks with our dog were shortened to several small strolls every day. We had to practice patience and remember he wasn’t young anymore. Our mutt’s steps were slow and painful, but he kept moving. In Murphy, I saw a reflection of what I might feel like in 25 years: slower movement, achy joints, and the desire to do something that physically I would no longer be able to do…
With the regular short walks every day, Murphy and I finally went on a successful walk to and from the beach. We didn’t stay long, but he played for a few minutes before we trekked back up and over the hill. Just over a week later, my husband took him home.
Murphy’s story doesn’t end here, but it raises the question: how do we know when it is time?
As summer turned to fall, my husband and I traveled up to the cottage to experience autumn in Muskoka for the first time. Murphy came with us. He has become too much responsibility for a busy high school senior to take care of; if something happened to our precious canine while we were away, it wouldn’t be fair to burden our daughter with this…. Although this was our first time seeing the changing of the leaves in Ontario, Murphy has probably experienced his last moments there.
We have been home from our short trip north for about three weeks now. The leaves on the trees are showing the bright yellows, deep reds and the brilliant burnt oranges of Autumn. As the leaves start to fall, I see Murphy stumbling often on our daily strolls, choosing the smooth side of the curb to walk on, rather than the grass. Each step Murphy takes looks excruciating. Every day, for the last week, I’ve asked myself: “When the trees are bare, will our old dog still be with us or will his rest come with the quiet of winter?”. Only time will tell.
Tell Me Your Story 