The Pool

After the first successful year at Central Don I decided to expand the scope of the business; I had spent several summers working at summer camps as a teenager and often thought that I would like to operate one of my own; I had experimented with a day camp for young kids, on site in the park and the response had been very encouraging. What I really needed was a place where the kids could come and stay full time during the holidays, eating and sleeping on site; it would be like the traditional camps in northern Ontario but with a major difference; we would be offering the kids formal riding lessons and unlimited use of ‘a horse of their own ‘ for the summer.
I needed to find a rental farm with lots of pasture for my horses, suitable spaces for training rings, interesting stretches for trail rides, and the right kind of barn and house. It was a tall order the house had to be of sufficient size to accommodate the twenty or so campers I expected to accommodate a well as my mother and father who agreed to help me with the project.
I found the place I needed just north of Toronto near the town of Stouffville, about a half hour drive from my stables by car and about three and a half hours if you rode or drove the horses, as we often did.
I negotiated a lease with a lawyer who represented the owners and a short time later moved my mother and father onto the place; they would live there year round but during the summer would be in charge of the camp, my mother doing the cooking and acting as den mother and my father looking after the horses and almost everything else.
What we were about to attempt was a first of its kind in Canada and I didn’t want anybody to confuse us with the hokey” double crossed piss off” dude ranches that existed further north. We would have qualified instructors giving formal English riding lessons. To that end we decided to promote the camp as an extension of the stables in the city and called it ‘ Central Don Resident Riding School
Before any of this could happen I had a hell of a lot of work ahead of me; the barn had been used to house dairy cattle, shades of Windy Hill, and all the concrete had to be busted out to make room for horse stalls. The house also took an enormous amount of effort to bring it up to specs but when we were finished we had two comfortable second floor dormitories equipped with army surplus bunk beds; my parent’s room was at the foot of the stairs so they could watch the nightly comings and goings.
We had to advertise for the coming season before we finished the renovations and the response to our campaign, which consisted of manning a small booth with a live pony in it at the Sportsman Show, was so good that we needed to arrange for more space; the garage behind the house would now become a bunk house for the boys.

Every camp should have a swimming pool but I wasn’t about to sink thousands of dollars I didn’t have, into paying for a professional installation, I had another idea.
Several years earlier I lived with my father, mother and my sister Brenda in a little old rented cottage on Bayview Ave. the house was situated on a large tract of land that had once been a monastery but was currently owned by developers; it’s now the site of the new Granite Club. The shabby little place sat a stones throw from the first of the line of pretentious mansions that face the road and back onto the Don Valley.
I had several horses, my mother kept some chickens and we may have had a goat or two but I still didn’t think that that was reason enough for our neighbors to refer to us as the Beverly Hillbillies.
It was pretty hard, during the heat of summer, to listen to our neighbors splashing around in their Olympic sized swimming pools while we sweated away just over the hedge. It must have been particularly irksome for my dad because one day, while I was at school he started an amazing project.
When I got home there was a huge deep trench excavated not far from the house on the rim of the slope that overlooked the valley. He had bribed a bulldozer operator who was working on a nearby hydro easement to dig it on his lunch hour; a case of beer had been the incentive. Dad was down in the trench with a square mouthed spade carefully sculpting the walls; he stopped what he was doing and explained to me that back on the prairies it was common practice to make large cisterns by simply creating a nice, square, cube like hole and then parging a thin layer of cement over the sides and bottom. “ If it works for a cistern it should work for a pool!” he said. I got out of my school clothes and we both set to work; two weeks later we were all splashing around in our own pool, it lasted the whole summer and after repairing some winter damage the following one as well.
This was the sort of thing I had in mind for the summer camp but when I consulted my dad he said that the soil didn’t have enough clay in it to support the thin walls he had plastered in the pool on Bayview Ave. We would have to use cement forms and pore some real concrete; I was still up for trying but I would have to keep the costs down.
I got a backhoe in to dig the hole for me, about 25 ft. wide and forty feet long; the depth of the excavation was about 5 ft. at the deep end and 4ft

at the shallow; of course it wouldn’t be that deep after I poured the concrete for the bottom.
Dad’s assumption that the soil would not be the right consistency to allow us to simply parge the walls and bottom proved correct but I shaped them up as best I could and then started constructing the forms that would sit inside the perimeter of the hole. The wall would be about 8 inches thick for the most part but much thicker in a lot of places due to the irregularity of the dirt sides.
“That’s a lot of cement and a hell of a lot of weight, you better make sure those forms are good and strong!” Dad said, as he headed for the city and left me to build the barriers. I constructed the inner walls out of plywood over two by four studs and braced them with long two by sixes anchored to stakes driven into the mud at the centre of the bottom. When Dad returned the next day he found me down in hole admiring my handiwork. I gave one of the braces a test kick where it joined the stake and posed the question. “ What do you think? “ It didn’t take him long to answer, “ I think you’ll need twice as many studs and braces or she’ll never hold when they pour the cement in!”
I was taken back and a little offended; “ Hell it’s only four feet deep, it should be good enough!” He just gave me his familiar “ Whatever!“ look and walked away; I guess he figured it was time for another practical lesson for me.
When the truck arrived the next day and started to disgorge its heavy contents down the chute and into the cavity behind my flimsy forms I immediately began to appreciate the wisdom my Dad had tried to impart the previous day. As the concrete flowed like lava around the perimeter of the pool the forms seemed to come alive, first vibrating then shuddering and creaking loudly. As the concrete slowly rose the plywood sheets began to bow toward the centre of the hole, sliding the braces and their pegs inward. By the time all the concrete had been poured, each sheet of plywood was buckled to capacity and watery cement was seeping under the forms. I figured it was just a matter of time till the whole thing was going to let go; the truck driver seemed to be of the same opinion because he quickly retracted his chute and drove off; he didn’t want to be there when it happened.
The vibration of the departing truck caused further movement in the hole but miraculously the forms continued to hold.
I was about to jump down and see if I could shore the barrier up a bit more when I felt my fathers hand on my shoulder, “ Don’t even think about it,” he said “ You could get killed down there!” I figured it was time I started taking his advice so all I could do was wait and watch. I held my breath and tried not to move for the first hour or so then I started to relax; the shape of the pool would be horribly distorted but as the cement began to cure and set up, it looked like the forms had held up after all.

Two days later, after I had removed the plywood and timbers from the hole and had a closer look, I realized that the forms had buckled uniformly and created a scalloped effect that almost looked intentional, anyway that became my story and I stuck to it.
When I finished pouring the bottom and gave the whole thing a coat of aquamarine paint it looked like a miniature version of the pools I used to see in the old Ester Williams flicks; of course it was only four feet deep so when we took promotion pictures I got my most diminutive campers to pose on their knees in the murky water.
This allusion aside we pretty well delivered on everything we promised and the kids went away at the end of the summer having had a hell of a time learning to ride and porking up on Mom’s cooking. They all looked forward to coming back the following year. 

Festival Italiano

I suppose every kid dreams of running away and joining a circus but that sort of dream, as well as other childish notions, almost always gets stored away, abandoned and forgotten in a dusty toy chest in the deep recesses of our mature minds. Once in a while something very special happens that allows us to lift the lid on that box and revisit one those childhood aspirations, if only briefly!
In 1967 I was spending a lot of time breaking and training remounts in the Horse Palace at the Exhibition grounds in Toronto. It was a dark, dreary, tomb of a place when the C.N.E. or The Royal Winter Fair wasn’t in session and I’m sure the horses must have felt like pit ponies longing for the light of day. I know the gloom was getting to me.
One day when I showed up for work expecting more of the same I was greeted instead with a bright and wonderful surprise. It was still dark outside but light shone from every window of the old building and the place was a hive of activity. Numerous trucks, vans and trailers filled the parking lot and what seemed like hundreds people were milling around and moving in and out of the big stable doors.
I found a parking spot for my old Volkswagen Bug and stopped the first man I encountered, “What’s going on?” I said, “Cosa vuole? Non parlo inglese,” he replied. I was no further ahead.
Instead of going directly into the Police stables, I made my way up a lane that skirted the building and led to the huge sliding doors that opened directly onto the large training ring where I generally worked. When I finally wove my way through the throngs of people carrying trunks, floodlights and armfuls of strange looking equipment and turned into the big doorway I was stopped in my tracks, dumbstruck by what I was seeing.
My gloomy old cave of a work place had somehow been transformed into a magical glittering cavern. The once dark long aisles that led from the centre paddock to the distant ends of the building were now fully illuminated and hundreds of brightly coloured costumes hung from seemingly endless rows of clothing racks on either side of the alleyway. A slight breeze was making its way into the building causing the gaudy clothing to sway, the sequins shimmering and reflecting multicoloured stars of scattered light. And it was not just one aisle. As I walked towards the centre of the building where I generally worked training the remounts I saw that most of the space on that side of the huge building had been put to similar use.

Some areas contained strange looking props and equipment, full suits of medieval armour, spears, swords, shields, jousting sticks and piles and piles of unidentifiable paraphernalia. Parked in the open area at the centre of the building were two beautiful golden chariots. On the walls beside each of them hung four sets of the most incredibly ornate jewel-encrusted harnesses. Beyond these vehicles sat several other authentic looking carts beautifully painted and decorated with scenes and landscapes that suggested a Mediterranean origin. Then I recognized some strange sounding neighing in the distance and decided to follow a man who was pushing a trolley with several bales of hay on it; he turned into the last aisle and I could hear several horses nickering to him. About fifty horses occupied the stalls. The first boxes held four matched pure white geldings, the second a similar number of identical blacks; they had to be the teams for the chariots. The rest of the horses were a mixed batch, all sizes and colours, well bred and in superb condition. I started back towards the Police stable determined to find out what the hell was going on-- all the pockets of people I had encountered so far had been jabbering away in some indiscernible lingo, no point asking them!
I had to pass through an area near the end of the riding ring where a crew were setting up a long row of dressing tables, the large mirrors framed with rows of small light bulbs. As I stood for a moment thinking what a strange place for a dressing room the man who seemed to be in charge accosted me. He was over fifty, small and pudgy and looked rather like an effeminate Danny Devito. He started shouting, waving his hands and rattling along in his foreign language; I couldn’t understand a word he was saying but it was obvious the little bastard was trying to kick me out of the building.
Of course I was not about to comply and the only way I could think of to communicate my intentions was a universal form of sign language: I gave him the finger. At this he became more heated and agitated and started tapping my chest with his finger.
I was about to pick the little bugger up and give him a shake when fate intervened. One of the crew who spoke English and had been witnessing the encounter, came over and offered his services as a translator.
When I explained to him that I was a policeman and that if anyone was infringing on anyone’s territory, it was the crusty little curmudgeon that I was standing toe to toe with. He began a rapid, long-winded explanation to his little associate in what I now knew was Italian; I didn’t understand any of it but I did pickup on one word that he seemed to be emphasizing.

“Carabiniero, carabiniero!” he repeated several times pointing at me.
“ Carabiniero...” the little guy repeated slowly to himself as he took a step back and the blood drained from his face. He was old enough to have survived Mussolini’s reign of terror. I wasn’t in uniform but the brown shirt I was wearing may have been adding to the effect.
Through my translator he explained to me that he was the dresser for the ballerinas that were due to arrive shortly and that he thought that I was just another stage door Johnny waiting to ogle them while they tried on their costumes.
“Whatever!” I said with a dismissive gesture. I was about to turn and leave but the little guy rushed at me saying “Scusi, scusi" then wrapped his arms around my waist, hugging me and laying the side of his head on my chest. I felt that although his apology appeared to be sincere, it was a bit over the top so I pried him off me and took my leave.
When I got to the Police stable I found Inspector Johnson and Sgt. Peddler in conversation with two men who I later learned were executives from MGM and that was when I learned what was going on.
A production called Festival Italiano that was due to tour in the U.S. was going to be rehearsed and opened in the Coliseum next door to the building in which we stood; the huge cast and the large number of props and costumes involved had made it necessary for them to make an impromptu decision to spill over into the stable area and use it for storage and a large dressing room as well as housing their many horses.
Because it was a last minute decision, the Police Department had not been informed in advance and the Inspector and Sgt. weren’t all that comfortable with the decision. “We’re training men and horses in the riding ring right in the centre of all that hoopla and we have deadlines to meet; we can’t stop or move now.” he said. The guy from MGM assured him that they would not in anyway interfere with what we were up to and the conversation went back and forth several times before a compromise was made.
If the production company agreed to have their people stay out of our riding ring and leave a gap in the dressing room tables that surrounded one end of the enclosure so that I could get my horses and students in and out then things would be all right, -- and they were for a while!

Things started out rather well. Merle Smith, the other trainer I worked with, got two young horses into the ring and started teaching them to neck rein. From where we sat high on our horses’ backs we could see the ballerinas begin to arrive from their rooms at the Royal York Hotel. There were about thirty of them and not a homely one in the batch, although Merle suggested that some of them might have conformation problems when he saw the way they walked with their feet at strange angles. There were also about fifteen male ballet dancers and they seemed to be getting more attention from my little friend the dresser than the girls were. The stunt men, who also looked after the horses and had also just arrived from California, were busy checking and grooming their animals but Merle and I were a lot more interested in what was going on in the dressing room area. Apparently everybody in the show had numerous costume changes and everything had to be tried on and adjusted. As the song went in ‘Oklahoma’: “They went about as far as they could go!” There was nothing shy about those Italian girls, and although we initially tried to avert our eyes, the scene was so continuous and pervasive we finally relaxed and enjoyed the scenery; what the hell! How did the saying go? ‘When in Rome, or Toronto as the case may be, do as the Romans do’. All and all it was a marvelous first day and for the first time in months I was looking forward to coming to work the next day.
When I arrived for work the following morning, things had already ramped up and rehearsals had begun in earnest. The teams of four abreast were hooked into the chariots and were practicing racing in the main arena and what a spectacular sight they were as they flew hell bent for leather around the arena kicking up tanbark dust! These were the same vehicles that had been used in the movie Ben Hur, no cheap theatrical mock-ups, the real thing.
The pure white team was truly spectacular performing perfectly and well in hand as they moved at a fast gallop but the team of blacks that pulled the other chariot was moving erratically and I thought I noticed one of the horses showing signs of lameness. It turned out that my suspicions were correct and the show was facing their first major problem because they didn’t have a horse the same size and colour to replace the injured one.
I went to see the chief stunt coordinator on my lunch break. I was about to garner a few Brownie points and possibly even a few dollars. A few days earlier I had noticed an old black Standard Bred gelding in a group of the horses Alec Stewart had at the stock yards. He was a pacer but that wouldn’t matter because the show required him to be galloping all the time.

A couple of phone calls and a little later he was delivered to our location and he settled into the job like the old pro he was. The next day I received an envelope with a small token of appreciation and a bottle of fine Italian wine. I helped the crew with several other small matters and soon found myself their local ‘Go to’ man whenever they needed special assistance.
Often, while he was picking my brain regarding some local logistical matter, the producer would invite me to join him while he put the various acts through their paces at the rehearsals and as I saw the show coming together I realized that what he was creating was a true spectacle, the likes of which had never been seen before. He would somehow transform the C.N.E.’s contemporary coliseum into a believable replica of its ancient counterpart: gladiators, in full antique regalia, armed with spears, triads, and short swords, fighting to the death in the arena while the producer stood like Caesar in the stands giving thumbs up or thumbs down on their performance. Then the ring would become the Roman countryside with ornate Sicilian carts lumbering past the stands filled with the fruits of a Mediterranean harvest with throngs of beautiful peasant girls dancing around with pitch forks and baskets in their hands Then it would change into the courtyard of a medieval palace where a giant chess board had been laid out with real fully costumed performers acting as the pieces, the kings and queens in large jeweled crowns and the knights in full armour and mounted on real horses. During the actual performance local dignitaries would be invited to play against each other but during rehearsals I gave the producer a chance to humble me at a game I was just learning. The pieces didn’t simply move from one square to the other; they were, other than the mounted knights, all ballet dancers and each move was an opportunity for self-expression. Numerous leaps and twirls were employed during the transitions especially by the men who frequently had to be reminded to tone it down a bit, “Sometimes less can be more,” the producer would shout trying not to hurt their feelings.
Near the end of the show a reenactment of the chariot race from Ben Hur would take place, often with several more circuits of the ring than was originally planned to make sure Ben Hur and his four white horses would win. The black former racehorse I had found for them seemed determined to make a come back and was very difficult to slow down.
The grand finale involved all the gladiators returning to the ring for a rematch; then both chariots joining the melee and with one of the charioteers curling his bull whip around Spartacus’s ankle and dragging him out of the arena on his back, a move that was especially appreciated on opening night when his loin cloth, the only thing he was wearing, was torn off and he was dragged buck naked in front of a sell-out crowd. To his credit, not wanting to affect the show’s rating he attempted to roll over on to his stomach but later claimed that it increased the drag too much so opted for comfort over modesty.

The event that I was most interested in preceded the finale but was equally exciting: a jousting court was set up with a contraption that the knights of old used to improve their skills. It consisted of the torso of a dummy knight in armour suspended on a pivoting post. On the end of one extended arm was a shield and at the end of the opposing arm was a mace on the end of a short chain. The challenge for the mounted knight was to charge the device at a full gallop with his lance engaged and strike the shield; of course the impact would cause the dummy to instantly pivot and swing the mace at the knight. He had to be really quick and agile to avoid it. Luckily the studded ball on the end of the chain that was traditionally made of cast iron was now made of foam rubber but the thing could still give you a hell of a whack if you weren’t careful; that’s what happened one day as I spent my lunch hour watching a practice.
One of the stunt men was swept from his horse and landed in a clattering heap on the ground. The crew got him up and out of his armour and off to the hospital. Although he wasn’t seriously hurt it was clear that he wouldn’t be getting back on his horse for a few days and there was nobody to replace him.
This posed a real problem for the producer because he had a dress rehearsal coming up shortly and some of his backers were flying in from California to check out the show so he surprised me by asking if I thought I could stand in for the injured man.
I was dying to give the jousting a try anyway but it wasn’t all that simple for me. Technically I would be moonlighting and although I knew most of the brass on the Mounted Unit would turn a blind eye, I wasn’t so sure about Sgt. Peddler. For some reason he had been giving me a real hard time lately. I hadn’t given him any reason but he seemed not to trust me and was constantly riding me but the lure was too strong so I decided to throw caution to the wind and accepted the offer.
I spent a couple of evenings and early mornings practicing and after getting a couple of hard slaps on the back, seemed to get the hang of it. The rest of the cast members were starting to treat me like one of their own.

The ballerinas would spend a lot of time watching me when I was on duty training the Police horses or conducting riding classes. One in particular was constantly bugging me to let her ride one of our horses and although I explained that it was strictly against regulations, she persisted day after day till finally, in a moment of weakness, I succumbed to the way she pleaded in her cute, lisping broken English and gave her a leg up onto old Roy, tutu and all. I gave her a few elementary instructions and hoped that she would be satisfied but she was back the next day looking for more. This time she had three more of the girls with her and they were anxious to join the class.
Well, fair is fair! I didn’t want to show favouritism-- somebody might get the wrong idea. Besides, we had several older horses in the stable that hadn’t been getting much exercise lately. Emboldened by the fact that Sgt. Peddler hadn’t been around hassling me lately, I decided to take a chance and increase the size of my class. I knew there would be hell to pay if the sergeant ever caught me but as I watched those beautiful women bouncing around the ring in their tights, leg warmers, and braless bikini tops it seemed well worth the risk. The girls were quick learners and before the week was out they were trotting and cantering around the ring like real pros.
At the beginning of the following week, midway through our now regular class I caught a glimpse of something that made my blood run cold; in a darkened corner outside the ring Sgt. Peddler stood leering in my direction.
“That’s it, the jig’s up, I’ve had it, and my career is over!” I pretended not to see him as he opened the gate and started walking over to where I waited in the centre of the ring. I was not going to demean myself in front of my ladies. He might be able to take my job away from me but I was keeping my dignity. I could hear him breathing over my shoulder as he stood behind me watching the ballerinas circle around us at a sitting trot. When he finally opened his mouth and started to speak I was ready for the worst. Instead he simply pointed in the direction of the class and said, “Tell the one with the big tits to keep her heels down!” then he turned and walked away without a further word.
The days of magic lasted for about two weeks more and I gradually became more involved with the production, occasionally filling in for the charioteers and knights at the performances. I was also included in all the cast parties and informal gatherings and it was during one of these that the producer asked me to join the show. He assured me that the money would be good and that when the tour ended in Los Angeles he would find me a permanent job with one of the studios.

I actually considered the offer for a matter of minutes and then reality set in and I knew I had too many responsibilities where I was for it to be a real possibility. I enjoyed every remaining precious minute of my time with the show and when I had to say goodbye and watch the long line of buses and trucks turn out of the Exhibition grounds and head out on their way to New York I looked at the street sign which said ‘The Queensway West’ but for me it said ‘The road not taken!’ 

The Old Lady and the Cat

One Friday afternoon in 1969 Ron Bond and I decided to make an early start on the pub scene. We were both recently separated from marriages that we had entered as mere children. I had been eighteen when I got hitched. I was so young and naive I thought I was going to a birthday party... Anyway, we were now both free men and definitely on the prowl. We left my stable and were cruising out of the park in my pickup truck, preparing to head downtown for a night of frivolity when I noticed some activity at the side of the road. I slowed down to get a better look then abruptly hit the brakes. Ron, who had been combing his thinning hair and admiring himself in the rear view mirror, shot forward and hit his head on the windshield. “What the hell do you think your doing?” he shouted. “Are you trying to kill me?” He had his fist clenched and was about to give me a shot in the arm but as I held up one hand to fend him off and pointed with the other to something that was happening near the side of the road, he immediately backed off. After a lingering look in the direction I was indicating, he leaned back in his seat and sighed a whispery “ My, my!”
Two beautiful young women came running helter-skelter through the bushes. One was a blonde and the other a brunette. They both had long flowing hair and were scantily clad in tight short shorts and tank tops that looked like they were about to burst.
We watched mesmerized for several minutes trying to figure out what they were up to as they ran around shouting and waving their arms. Ron speculated that they were probably some sort of cult celebrating a rite of spring but I was convinced that they were just stoned or on acid. Either way we were ‘in’ and if things worked out, it might save us from making a costly time consuming trip down to the Coal Bin.
Ron was making some final touchups to his hair and trying to flatten his bushy eyebrows before joining the ladies when I noticed something that put the situation in a new light. Both of the women were now out of sight deep in the bushes. Suddenly a grey ball of fur going a mile a minute, came flying out into the open. The girls were hot on the trail of what was a big old Persian cat and just when one of them was about to pounce on it, the cat ducked back into the bushes and disappeared.
The situation was perfect: all we had to do to break the ice and ingratiate ourselves with these ladies was to offer to help capture their cat, so we weren’t long in approaching them and offering our services.
We got right down to business combing the brush for the ferocious feline and making a great show of our efforts. Actually, we were in no hurry to get the job done. As long as that cat was still at large we had the girls’ undivided attention and the opportunity to garner some gratitude points for further consideration. I was hoping that we would be able to draw the hunt out for an hour or so, enough time for me to bond with the luscious blonde who was flitting seductively through the brush always a few steps ahead of me.

We had barely started getting to know each other when we were distracted by the sight of a long black limousine pulling up to the curb beside us. We watched while a uniformed chauffeur got out, walked around the car and opened the rear door. A thinnish woman who looked to be in her late sixties, emerged from the car and headed in our direction.
Her graying hair was done up in a bun at the back. She wore no makeup and her face seemed to be ablaze with a ruddy rash. “Boozer”, I thought to myself. When she spoke, and she wasn’t long waiting to do so, it was with a squeaky, hoarse authority that suggested that she was someone who was used to being listened to and obeyed.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded. We hadn’t noticed her watching us when her limo had passed by previously and some how she had got the notion that we were about to abuse the cat that so far had alluded us.
I set her straight about what was going on and told her that we had things well in hand but she insisted that we were going about everything the wrong way and that she would show us the proper way to catch a cat.
She enlisted her chauffeur’s help and directed we three men to go to the rear of the clump of bushes that contained the defiant cat.
She had created a trap by using two of the lap robes from the limo, stringing them between herself and the girls.
“ Now, gentlemen,” she shouted in her croaky voice, “ You will advance towards us making as much noise and commotion as you can.” When she barked her command, we reacted instantly and had only taken a few steps forward when the cat took off full tilt and buried itself in the blanket.
I had to give the old girl credit. Before the cat knew what it was doing, she had it wrapped up in the blanket and was handing it to its owners.
I wasn’t sure what effect this early capture was going to have on the burgeoning relationship that was developing between us and the girls so I thought I better suggest something to keep our options open.
“Listen, my place is just around the corner. Why don’t you come up for a drink or a cup of tea or something?”
All three women were clustered around in a group making a fuss over the cat and the young ones weren’t long declining my offer. Apparently they had been tricked before. Instead, they offered to buy Ron and me a drink at the nearby Inn On The Park. I didn’t want to seem too eager so I paused for a second before accepting and, unfortunately, that gave the old girl time to pipe up with, “I dare say I could use a good cup of tea.”

I was trapped. If I didn’t take her to my house, she might have called me a ‘cad’ or something. So Ron jumped into the car with the two babes and headed to the hotel while I went home with the leathery old broad following behind me in her limo.
When we reached the stable, she was out of her car like shot and over to the paddock where a dozen or so horses were clustered by the fence. I stood for a while and watched while she cooed at them and with hands that shook subtly, rubbed their eyes and petted their muzzles. She obviously knew her way around the animals.
We talked a while about horse stuff and then I said, “C’mon up to the house. I’ll put the kettle on.” I made tea and we sat at the kitchen table while she plied me with questions about the stable and the horses she had been admiring.
At one point she asked if she could use my washroom and I watched her as she navigated her way through my bachelor clutter with a look of amusement and mild disapproval on her face. She stopped to admire the ‘Fallow Field Hunt’ prints that hung in my hallway on her way back to the kitchen explaining that she had the same ones in her home.
We talked a little more about my horses and the stable with her asking questions speaking rapidly in a high quivery voice and then she looked at her watch and said it was time she was going.
I realized that I knew nothing about this woman. She had directed the conversation so that it had been all about me. There was something about this old girl and I was thinking that I would like to get to know her better, so I asked if I could get a couple of horses out and go for a ride with her. “Oh, I’d love to, my dear, but my producer would have a fit if I got hurt and I couldn’t perform--and really I must be off!”
She got to her feet and, as I held the door for her to leave, I realized that we hadn’t formally introduced ourselves. “By the way, I’m Garry,” I said as she passed by me and headed down the stairs that led from my kitchen. She took a few more steps and then, holding the handrail, she turned around and with a smile on her face said, “You can call me Kate.”
That’s when it hit me and I stood stunned as she finished going down the stairs. Her chauffeur helped her into the car and I continued to watch as the limo disappeared around the corner and out of sight. I backed into the kitchen, turned and reached for the daily paper. I leafed through the pages until I came to the Entertainment Section and there, glaring at me, was a

huge playbill advertising a new musical that was opening in Toronto. It was called Coco and it starred Katharine Hepburn.