Now available from Nevermore Press: THE DOME CHRONICLES, by Garry Leeson.

I'm pleased to let you all know that my new book, The Dome Chronicles, is now available.

Order here: Nevermore Press 

In 1972, a boxcar left Toronto with a menagerie of farm animals and an eager young couple and pulled into the station platform in Kingston, Nova Scotia bound for a deserted hundred-acre farm on the South Mountain in Harmony, determined to preserve the foundations of farmsteads past while constructing a geodesic dome. Armed with an irrepressible sense of humour, they were back-to-the-landers. Over the next forty years, through flood and fire, triumph and catastrophe, they persevered.

—

EXCERPT

Back in Arthur’s office I strove to look nonchalant as he filled out an ‘offer to purchase’ form on the farmland on South Mountain, hoping like crazy that he hadn’t quoted me the wrong price. He finally passed me the paper and said, “Check this to make sure it’s in order.” Arthur had made a mistake. The purchase price on the form was thirteen hundred, not thirteen thousand. I ventured a condescending chuckle and handed it back to him saying, “Arthur, you wrote thirteen hundred.”

He sat there for a moment staring at me, seeming really miffed. Then he slammed his fist on the desk and, in the loudest voice he had used all day, declared, “I’m sorry, Mr. Leeson.” I’d been plain Garry up until then. “The price is firm. It’s thirteen hundred and not a cent less.” Then, even louder, he shouted, “There is no room for negotiation!” So I wrote a cheque for the full amount and have never regretted it. 

We purchased our little slice of heaven for the tidy sum of thirteen hundred dollars . . . and were only slightly taken aback when our new neighbours informed us that they could have got it for eight hundred.

Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

Sunnybrook Stables: If Dreams Were Horses

 If Dreams Were Horses

     When I was sixteen years old I was living with my family on a rented property on Bayview Ave. north of the city. It wasn’t much of a place- just a small cottage and a garage situated on a ten acre field perched over the Don Valley. The place had once been a well-kept Passionists monastery and farm but when we moved in, aside from the house, the place was overgrown and derelict. Despite its condition, it was a prime property, held by speculators, situated close to high-end real estate of North York. It’s now the site of the new Granite Club. 

     I knew it would only be a temporary arrangement but I was determined to make the most of the situation while I was there. I wanted to establish a small riding school. 

Much to the chagrin of my snooty neighbours, I converted the old garage into a four-horse stable fenced the field and brought four borrowed horses along.

     It was during one of my original forays down into the valley that I discovered it. I was making my way southerly along the river on a new horse and as I broke clear of the woods the most beautiful farm site imaginable appeared. It had been hidden for decades in the valley behind the Sunnybrook Hospital and I had no idea that it was there. It was like a ghost village hidden in the heart of the city. The barns in particular took my eye and I reasoned that if, in fact, as I later learned, the area was to become a public park it would be a wonderful opportunity to establish a Riding school and designate bridle paths. I even had the audacity, despite my age, to submit a detailed formal proposal for the development of the area.

     Fast forward to 1968.  I was serving as a constable/horse trainer/ riding instructor with the Metropolitan Toronto Police Mounted Unit when I was summoned into Inspector Johnson’s office on a Friday afternoon. He passed a file folder across his desk to me saying, “What’s this all about?”

The brown manila file folder was stamped with the familiar logo of the Toronto Parks Department. When I opened it I felt like I had bumped into an old friend. Inside was a proposal that I had drafted and submitted to the Parks Department all those years earlier. I had forgotten all about it and now as I flicked through the typed pages and illustrations I had done, I wondered why it had surfaced after all these years. The reply I had received at the time was curt and condescending and I was surprised that they even kept the idea on their records. As I read through the pages of recommendations that I had made I wondered at how naive and full of lofty ideals I must have been. 

    Under the photocopies of my old submission I found a copy of a tender application for obtaining a concession to operate a riding school at the old Sunny Brook farm. The facility was to be the focal point of the newly established Central Don Park System. The description of how it was to operate and what needed to be done to the existing buildings had been taken verbatim from my original submission. 

     The previous day Inspector Johnson had been called to a meeting with Tommy Thompson who was the current Parks Commissioner, to discuss the possibility of the Mounted Unit moving their Headquarters to the newly established park - an idea Big Ed was instantly in favour of - when the issue of a public riding school sharing the accommodation came up. He was asked his opinion and then passed over the file and while reading through it, happened to see my submission. He immediately recognized my name and explained to the Commissioner that I was currently serving in his Unit. This came as surprise to the clerk in charge of the tender process. Apparently they had been trying to locate me to invite me to tender but so much time had passed and I had changed addresses so often that they were unable to locate me.

     I think the Inspector and the people from the Parks Department realized that with one of their own, as it were, in charge of the public riding school, the relationship between it and the Police Department was bound to be better than if some unknown, unpredictable stranger were to move in next

door.

     Apparently it was Inspector Johnson’s assignment to talk me into submitting a tender and quite frankly, he was doing a hell of a job. He assured me that I had nothing to lose and everything to gain: if things didn’t work out I could always have my job on the Mounted Unit back.

I mulled it over, but not for long. I submitted my tender like everyone else, offering twelve hundred dollars a month for the facilities, a huge sum for me in those days. In retrospect, I could have offered a lot less because other considerations were in play and the process was less a competition and

more in the order of an appointment. In any event, my tender was accepted and a new chapter in my life began.

     I had just been given a wonderful opportunity to do something that had been on my mind for years. I wanted to establish a riding school that would be affordable and accessible to anybody who wanted to use it and that’s what it became. Since I sold the business and moved on, it has passed through several other hands but my childish dream has endured. Last week it came to what I hope is just a temporary lapse. 

The Dome Chronicles: If This House Could Speak Garry Leeson

Beginning at the outskirts of the town of Berwick, a road winds its way up the South Mountain past a small community hall that announces that you have entered Windermere. Across the road, almost hidden under a canopy of mature trees, stands a stately farmhouse. It once stood naked in the centre of a patchwork of cleared fields, but now a comforting green growth of forest surrounds and envelops it. It’s an old house, built in 1875 but remodelled and added to in 1908 when the Kinnie family moved in.

There were six of them then: J. Rupert Kinnie, his wife Laura, and three sons, Melvin, Floyd, and Clement, and their little sister, Laura, named for her mother. J.R., as the father was always known, had asthma that prompted him, on his doctor’s advice, to uproot his family from their New Brunswick home to seek the healing effects of the Annapolis Valley’s pure air. He was looking for a new lease on life and better opportunities for his children.

They all settled into their new home and as time went on, everything that they had hoped for seemed to be falling into place. Their neat little farm provided a comfortable home and the children seemed to be flourishing in their new environment. By 1914, Melvin, the oldest, had completed his studies at Acadia University and become certified as a civil engineer. Floyd, the second oldest, had graduated and was working as a bank clerk, on his way up the corporate ladder. Clement, the third son, had opted to be a farmer, and Laura, the only daughter, was proving to be a bright spot in the family. All old houses bear witness to the ups and downs of life and, in those early days after their arrival in Nova Scotia, the Kinnie home was no different. Times of concern over health problems interspersed with proud moments at the achievements of the children. It was a normal home with its normal share of tears and laughter.

In the summer of 1914 when Laura was ten years old, the talk around the kitchen table in the Kinnie home took on a somber tone. News of the declaration of war in Europe had made its way into their sanctuary. They had heard the call of the Mother Country for assistance and the discussion from the boys centred on what they were going to do. A recruitment program was in full swing. There was no obligation to sign up but they knew that Prime Minister Borden, a local man, was leaning heavily toward conscription and there was always the fear of the dreaded White Feather.

Strangely, although he was the least likely candidate, the youngest boy Clement, age 18, was the first to pass through the doorway of the old house proudly displaying his copy of his enlistment attestation paper dated March 30,1915. Not to be shamed or outdone, the two older boys, Melvin and Floyd, got clear of their employment obligations and followed suit the following year, enlisting together on February 11,1916.

After the boys’ departure the old house was not same. A cloud of worry hung over it. Laura and her parents waited anxiously every day for word from the boys. Laura would run to the mailbox and her father would head to Berwick for the current issues of the Register, still warm from the press. In the spring of 1917, when they read about a place called Vimy Ridge, it didn’t mean much to them. It was later that month that the name became emblazoned permanently on their memories. The family received notice that Melvin had died of wounds received during the three-day assault on the German lines at that far away place.

The old house was hung in black crepe and the family attempted to deal with their sorrow. Convinced that they had been dealt the most grief that a family could ever endure, a year later in 1918, they were proved wrong when a second officer from Camp Aldershot appeared at the door of the house with news that Floyd had been killed while on duty in England.

Laura’s grief moved from denial, past the last vestiges of hope that a mistake had been made, into a numb acceptance that her two brothers were gone forever. The letters from her one remaining brother were the only things keeping her and her parents from total despair. On November 17, 1918 when the community was abuzz with the news that the war had ended, the Kinnie family, still in mourning, did not feel like celebrating. They would hold any jubilation they could conjure up for the safe return of Clement.

A year later, when Clement stepped off the train in Berwick, it was immediately apparent that he was not the boy who had set off from the same spot three years earlier. He wasn’t just carrying his khaki rucksack, but also sinister, hidden baggage. Battle fatigue, as it was known, was often as fatal as the worst of physical wounds. Clement, the third son to fall victim to the war, died two years later in 1921.

Laura, age 17, the last of their branch of the Kinnie line, had been at her parents’ side through an ordeal of unimaginable grief and sorrow. She decided that the only way she could cope with the horror was to file those memories away and never speak of them again.

Laura Kinnie later married and became Laura Ritchie. Somehow she made her way out from under the cloud that hung over the old house and emerged a strong woman who became a nurse and made her way to the top of her profession. She was in the old house to look after her parents until they died, J.R. in 1945 and her mother, Laura, in 1948; and she and her husband, Murray Ritchie, were there to greet their daughter Pat’s new husband, Al Copeland, when they married and came to live with them.

Al, an obvious fan of his mother-in-law, never pressed her to talk about the sad days of the old house. Although hoping that she might finally find some closure and solace, he and Pat arranged to take her to visit two of her brothers’ graves, one in France and one in England, but some things are beyond consolation. Al, a retired career soldier himself, decided to set his own mind at ease by documenting the details of all that had occurred in those days of sacrifice in the hopes that the brothers would not be forgotten.

Since Pat passed away in 2001, Al has been sharing the house with his daughter, aptly named Kinnie, and her son, Reece. The extensively refurbished old dwelling has shrugged off the sadness of the past, as happy new generations have made their home there. Only some precious old photos, documents, and medals with disintegrating ribbons remain there to remind us. Lest We Forget.

Al Copeland and Garry Leeson continue to research the history of the Kinnie Family and others in Windermere and are working to further document their stories.

A Halloween to Remember

I used to be a fairly competent Halloween prankster myself but my petty efforts at scaring people were sorely surpassed by something I witnessed, in the late 1960’s, at the home of a real expert in the field.

In those days when he was not off to Broadway or acting in some epic movie John Colicos and I were fairly constant companions.

Our paths first crossed when he showed up at my Riding School in Toronto. He had just signed a contract to play Thomas Cromwell in a movie called Ann Of A Thousand Days- the part required him to ride a horse and he needed some lessons. Coincidently I had just begun trying my hand at acting, mostly little bit parts on TV, and was sorely in need of some expert coaching.

John needed a lot of work on his horsemanship and my acting skills were definitely in need of tweaking so we struck a deal; I would teach him to ride and in exchange he would take on the thankless job of coaching me in my thespian endeavors.

To make a long story short, after a considerable length of time John became a fairly competent rider but his assessment of me after he had force fed me through enough TV and movie small parts to qualify for a membership in ACTRA was that I should definitely not quit my day job.

That aside, our friendship endured. He was an early morning regular at my breakfast table before he took off on his long rides through the park and I often found myself at his home in downtown Toronto.

On one Hallowed Eve, during that period, I got a frantic phone call from him saying that I had to get over to his place immediately. It wasn’t convenient but I complied. An hour later, when I arrived at his place, the sun had set and the entrance to his house, save for the light of several glowing jack o' lanterns perched on the stoop, was in darkness.

John, dressed in a long, flowing purple robe and wearing the somber face makeup that was part of his professional persona, was at the door to greet me.  

After stepping outside and glancing nervously up and down the street, he hurried me in, issuing instructions, “I want you to experience what I am going to do for the trick or treaters when they start coming - so do as I say.  I will be welcoming the kids in and telling them to go into the living room while I go into the kitchen to get their candy. I’ll go into the kitchen now and you proceed like you’re one of the kids.”

I made my way down the darkened hall and when I turned into the living room I was confronted by John, still clad in his purple robe, sitting on a bench, decapitated, with his severed head resting on his lap.

“ Jesus Cheeerist! “ I blurted, then stood dumfounded.

The real John rushed up to my back laughing so hard that he could hardly talk. The incredibly accurate copy of his head had been made for a part he had played in a movie. He told me which one at the time but now I can’t remember.

He had been given the prop as a souvenir and it had just been stored away collecting dust until as he put it “This fabulous Halloween idea occurred to me.”

I wasn’t so sure that it was such a good idea. If a grown man’s first response after the sight of the headless actor was to check his underwear, how would it effect the little gaffers who were due at any minute?

My objections were ignored and shortly the first contingents of kids began to arrive, enter the inner sanctum, and then run terrified and screaming back out the door - few with candy in their bags.

John, in the tradition of “the show must go on” continued this morbid meet and greet until most of the neighborhood kids had been duly accounted for and probably traumatized and in need of counseling.

I stayed with him until the bitter end expecting that a posse of concerned parents would, at any moment, appear to lynch him. When he finished the performance and locked the front door I chose to slip out the back.

John confided later that there weren’t any serious repercussions in the neighborhood. He wasn’t sued and since he didn’t attend the local church, he wasn’t a candidate for shunning.

For my part I’m convinced that there are a hundred or so of the kids, now adults, that have the memory of a headless John Colicos emblazoned on their memories forever. I know I do.

x

A Bad Day in Harmony

A Bad Day in Harmony

   When you keep livestock you’re bound to have dead stock- it’s an inescapable consequence. The most that any caring and responsible owner can do is to make sure that, while his animals are alive, they are well cared for and when their time comes to move up to that big pasture in the sky, their departure is as painless as possible. If, like most people, you don’t have the stomach to accept this reality, read no further. The following story, although true in all respects, is not for the faint of heart.

I had a horse that lived up to every expectation that I could have possibly had for her. I called her Lady; she was a chestnut mare with a white blaze and stockings, well built with a beautiful head and a strong body that was suited to both riding and working. Originally she had been used as a workhorse and the only regret that I had when I purchased her was that her previous owner had followed the tradition of tail docking. She was so wonderful in every other respect that I forgot that one imperfection.

As a part time horse trader scads of animals passed through my hands in the many years that I owned Lady but I was never tempted to part with her. We shared many adventures in the course of our time together and I thought more of her than I did of most human beings of my acquaintance. The years with her went quickly and one day I had to admit that she had become an old horse and that the series of painful afflictions that often accompany old age in horses had caught up with her and were making her life a living hell. I knew what I had to do and I steeled myself to make the arrangements.

I made the phone call to my neighbour Gary Parker- he owns a backhoe and had helped me with several equine internments in the past. I told him my family was away on vacation and that I would like to get the unpleasant business done before they returned home.  I expected Gary to schedule me for week or so later so when he said he would be over within the hour it really took me by surprise. However, the time was right so I hung up the phone and went to dig out my old pistol. I loaded the gun, tucked it in my belt and with a bucket loaded to the brim with Lady’s favorite treats, I went to join her where she was standing in the pasture. It was her favourite spot and where I planned to bury her.

After saying goodbye to her and rubbing her under the eyes the way she liked I ended her life as quickly as possible while she had her muzzle buried deep in the pail of molasses soaked oats. I had a good cry while I knelt beside her with my hand on her chest feeling her heartbeat slowly peter away until it was still. When my eyes finally cleared up enough to see, I made my way to the barn. I needed to get a chain to move Lady when Gary arrived with his the backhoe.  Trudging along grief stricken, I turned the corner to the front of the barn and almost tripped over an old pinto mare that was lying on her side struggling to get to her feet. This mare was not the oldest horse I had ever known but she was close to it, well over thirty years. She was just one of the many older animals that, over the years, had been foisted on us by owners who claimed they couldn’t keep them anymore. We hadn’t set out to be an old age home for horses, we were just suckers for a sob story.      

The problem with taking on these older animals was that they weren’t going to be around very long and it became our responsibility to see that their passing would be as painless as possible. Horses aren’t subjected to the rigermorole that humans endure when their quality of life reaches its lowest ebb. No tubes and ventilators for them- just a veterinarian’s lethal injection or a well placed bullet from a caring owner. It was a bit inconsiderate of the old pinto mare, after what I had just been through with Lady, to choose that day to pack it in but I could tell by the almost pleading look in her eyes that it was definitely a case for assisted suicide.

As I always did I mentally drew a line from her left ear to her right eye and from right ear to her left eye and where the two lines intersected sent the twenty-two bullet that ended her suffering. After I finished with my second termination of the day I continued my journey to the barn. My eyes were still misty as I made my way into the darkened entrance so I was taken completely by surprise when two white roosters flew banshee-like out of the gloom and into my face. These two rogue roosters were a pair that had been terrorizing the kids before they left on holidays so I had no qualms about drawing my gun again and sending the pair of miserable little buggers to their maker. By the time I finished with my feathered friends I could hear the backhoe putting away in the distance as it made its way up the mountain so I decided to go to the house, put the gun away, freshen up and wash away any traces of the unmanly tears I’d been shedding. I slid open the patio door and was assailed by a strong smell of ammonia. An old flea-bitten tomcat that Andrea had dragged home recently was staring at me with a wistful look on his face while urinating on our new sofa. I like cats but I am confidant that even the most ardent animal lover would not put up with the tricks that old orange tabby had been up to since he had been “rescued” by my wife. He was the type of despicable feline who prowled the alleys and imposed himself on helpless females for the pleasure of later eating their kittens. He had picked the wrong day to try my patience- I still had one bullet left.

Gary Parker maneuvered his backhoe over to where Lady was lying and I hurried over to join him. Gary was good at his job and it wasn’t long before he had a good size hole scooped out.  He throttled back the big machine and looked in my direction for approval. When I indicated with hand signals that he should continue digging he seemed a little confused but reluctantly complied. When he had the hole twice its original size he checked with me once more and was really peeved when I indicated that I required him to take out a few more scoops. Finally satisfied with the size and depth of the hole, I hooked the chain around one of Lady’s legs, attached it to the bucket at the end of the digging arm and Gary gently slid the old horse into her final resting place. I retrieved my chain and Gary was about to start filling the hole in when I stopped him, slung the chain over my shoulder, indicated that I wanted him to follow me and then headed over to where the old pinto was waiting.

Gary was starting to look a little concerned but he complied and we weren’t long getting the second horse over to the hole. He made another attempt to start filling it but once again I stopped him while I went to the barn, retrieved the two roosters and, with an evil grin on my face, deposited them one by one into what was turning out to be a mass grave.

Gary, hoping that that was the lot, revved up the big yellow machine in eager anticipation but once again I called a halt and disappeared in the direction of the house. When I reappeared at the graveside holding a dead cat by the tail Gary shut the machine down completely, remained totally silent for what seemed like a long time and then leaned out of the cab and with a look of mock concern on his face said in his dry manner. “Where did you say the wife and kids are?”

The Steer Horns of a Dilemma

I’ve been attending and participating in country fairs for as long as I can remember. They have always been there and, until recently, I have presumed that they always would be. But things are changing and I’m concerned. I think people are forgetting why these annual events were started eons ago.

In the beginning these gatherings were all about assembling the best of the best livestock in a competitive environment where expert judges could select candidates that would improve the genetics of the cattle, swine, sheep, horses and poultry in a given area. When small family farms were the order of the day, they were the main engines for the advancement of the breeds. In regions like Nova Scotia where the one horse farms of yesteryear have all but disappeared the fairs and exhibitions have become less important. It’s too easy to hit the computer and find what you’re looking for.

Beef farmers have always wanted to raise the best livestock possible so that they could get the maximum return for their labor. Their goal is to produce a finished animal that best suits the requirements of the consumer; one that is a good fit for the packinghouses and the shelves of meat markets and supermarkets.

The steer shows and auctions at the fairs were traditionally the way that a given breeder could show case the quality of his herd.

In days gone by business owners, particularly those who sold meat, would compete to purchase the prize winning animals at the concluding auctions so they could boast that their stores were prepared to pay for the best.

This was not an altruistic gesture; it was one of the best advertising gimmicks available to retailers. Every year after the steer sale at Canada’s largest exhibition, The Royal Winter Fair in Toronto, clever store owners would have sides of beef festooned with blue, red and white ribbons displayed in their store windows and have customers lined up to purchase a slice.

As an auctioneer who has observed, and for many years officiated at local championship steer auctions, I am dismayed to see how little support food retailers are giving to the few beef farmers still in the game.

The first auctions I did at Annapolis Valley Exhibition were conducted in the main show ring in front of huge crowds. In those days there were as many a twenty farmers proudly showing their animals and getting a reasonable return for their trouble at the auction.

Sadly this is no longer the case. At the last auction I did in 2015 there were only four steers offered and not a single representative of companies like Super Store, Sobeys or other chains was present. These are the businesses that would benefit most from the advertising the purchase would get them. One of the major chains used to boast that it was “mainly because of the meat”.  What’s the problem? Any money these thriving businesses spend at the auction is a promotional tax right off.

The steer sale, as it currently exists at Lawrencetown, has been relegated to a small isolated area of the fair grounds and the system for bidding on the animals has become a sham.

Where once the highest ranked animals commanded the highest price; now a complicated system where particular steer owners lobby year round, individually, to gather syndicates to buy their animals at inflated prices regardless of their placing in the show. More often than not the highest price paid is not for the champion animal. I see this as an affront to the farmer who worked so hard to produce the best and is forced to accept a reward that is often only half as much as his lower ranked competitor.

It is difficult for an auctioneer to be approached by a steer owner, before the sale, telling him that he has prearranged for his steer to be bid up to an extremely high number then face the embarrassment of trying to legitimately coax an unwilling crowd to come anywhere close to that amount for animals that have been judged superior.

I think all this could be changed and that major retail players could be convinced of the value their participation would afford them. Lobbying them on behalf of all the steer producers as a whole and not just privileged individuasl could yet save a fast fading institution.

Who Knew? or How my horse and I unwittingly helped get our Canadian hate laws improved.

Last week while watching the images of the riots in Charlottesville emerge, my mind drifted back to June 19, 1966, when, along with twenty or so other members of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Mounted Unit, I rode my horse into Allen Gardens in Toronto.

We were there to put ourselves between the two groups: a neo-Nazi named John Beattie, who had come to speak, accompanied by his gang of brown shirts and the hordes of protesters that came to confront him. All hell broke loose the moment he started to speak. Young men from Israeli-backed organizations attempted to breach the lines of cops on the ground to get at the Nazis. Scores of older Jewish men and women began keening, screaming and exposing their concentration camp tattoos. There was chaos everywhere and individual fights started at different locations away from the main confrontation.  We, the Mounted Unit, were ordered to break ranks, spur our mounts off to deal with these isolated situations. As usual, it didn’t take long to quell the trouble once the horses appeared. There were a few arrests and until recently, I had stored that troubled day in my “Been there done that” file.

I didn’t realize it at the time but I have recently discovered, to my pleasure, that on that day in the park, my horse and I were a small part of an elaborate plot hatched by The Canadian Jewish Congress (CJC) to draw attention to the need for stricter hate laws. That’s right:  groups who were opposed to the Nazis had actually encouraged the event. They wanted to bring the issue of hate crimes to the forefront because it was being debated in Parliament at that time.

It turns out that an ex-cop named John Garrity had been hired as a spy by the CJC to infiltrate the Nazi Party and help John Beattie establish a prominence so that later he could be used as a dupe in their cause. He was a twenty-four year old unemployed clerk, a loser, who posed no real threat to anyone. The meeting in the park was just an elaborate ruse to highlight the need for improvement of the country’s hate legislation. Of course no one, least of all myself, realized that this wasn’t a real resurgence of Nazism. I give credit to those who devised the ploy because it worked. Canadians all over the country reaffirmed their stand against the Nazis and all they stood for and the CJC succeeded in getting the legislation they hoped for:

Section 319 (1) of the Criminal Code states that hate speech “incites hatred against any identifiable group where such incitement is likely to lead to a breach of the peace” and where the comments are made in a public place.

Where’s The Beef?

I’ve been shovelling manure and hollering ‘whoa’ for as long as I can remember. I have owned, cared for and trained countless horses and ponies over the years.  After living with them, studying and writing about them, I thought I knew just about all there was to know about them. Recently however, when I decided to write a story about the ponies used in the quest for the South Pole, I discovered something new and shocking. I knew that the animals, mostly of Manchurian and Siberian descent, were selected because they were able to perform in extremely low temperatures. I didn’t know that they were also prized because of their ability to consume meat.

I knew that the Scandinavians fed herring and other fish to their horses and ponies. The animals lap up barrels of the salty stuff every winter.  For me, there is something unsettling about the image of a horse with a fish tail hanging out of its mouth that was nothing compared to reading about ponies feasting on polar bear or seal carcasses and crunchy bird bodies.

Famed explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton, preparing for his 1907 attempt to reach the South Pole, knew of his ponies’ dietary preferences so he had the British Army prepare a special ration that consisted mainly of dried beef. With that in mind, I suddenly had a ‘Myth Buster’ moment: why not whip up some of the same ration that Shackleton fed his animals and see what our pony, Candy, would think of it. She’s not Manchurian or Siberian but the Shetland Islands, where her ancestors originated, have some pretty severe winters. We had just had our first real dump of snow and Candy, shaggy in her winter coat, looked a lot like Shackleton’s pony, Socks.

Off I went to the Country Store for the non-meat products and down to the Irving Big Stop for some trucker approved Beef Jerky. The ingredients weren’t that hard to find but with the price of beef jerky as high as it was, it was definitely going to be a one-off experiment.  Under protest Andrea fired up the food processor and we added the stipulated ingredients: a large helping of the dried beef followed by lesser amounts of carrots, currants, milk powder and sugar. The finished product didn’t smell as bad as I thought it would. I did not taste it.  After Shackleton’s pony, Socks, the last of his animals, had plummeted into a crevice and died, a starving old Ernest was forced to live on the pony’s ration. I would also have had to be starving before I let that stuff cross my lips.  I’d leave it to Candy for now.

Candy shares our stable with two large Brabant mares but they were not to be included in the trial. They both stood in their stalls with their heads twisted backwards looking enviously over their rumps at the steaming concoction we were offering to a suspicious Candy.

“Mmmm, num num,” I crooned as I offered up the first warm handful, making sure my fingers were out of reach of her teeth–figuring that the beef jerky was all the meat required. Candy snorted, flattened her ears and disdainfully backed away. Then, having second thoughts, she cocked her head to the side, squinted her eyes and made a second approach.  Her nostrils flared and she inhaled the sickly sweet aroma of my offering. Suddenly, motivated by some primal carnivorous urge, she attacked the contents of my palm. She eagerly ate and licked up two subsequent handfuls with enthusiasm. The slurping and crunching did not go unnoticed by the Brabants. They nickered and danced in their stalls, impatiently demanding fair play.

“Where’s our share?”  They seemed to be protesting.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” I said to myself as I pushed in beside each of them and plopped a healthy scoop of the stuff in their feed bins. They made short work of most of the remaining ration.

Later, back in our kitchen, staring into that almost empty bucket, I made a decision. Knowing that, if I went public with this story, I’d be criticized by horse huggers everywhere, including my wife, and aligned with those who condone the use of lab animals, with a shaking hand, I scooped a spoonful of the now coagulated remains, toasted Sir Ernest and gagged it down.

So what did I learn from this experiment?  Clearly absolutely nothing, so don’t try it at home.  I had, however, spent an enjoyable hour or so in the barn and eased a bit of my cabin fever that day!  

Sir Ernest Shackleton and his pony, Boots, before setting off for the South Pole.

The Persistent Prairie

“Calm down, Mom, don’t cry. Try to talk slowly; tell me what’s the matter. Speak up a little-your phone line isn’t very clear.”

“You know damned well what the matter is. You left me all alone on this god-forsaken prairie and there’s a blizzard blowing and I can’t get out to the barn to do the chores. Where the hell are you?  You’re supposed to be at home and don’t give me any of that guff about it being too stormy to travel. You just get on one of those horses and give him his head-he knows the way. He’ll get you home.”

“C’mon, Mom, you know that I don’t want you to be alone. I’ll get there as soon as I can. I phoned Phyllis after you called me earlier and she says she’s going to get over to you. She won’t be long. She’s a lot closer, you know.”

“I don’t want her staggering through this storm and getting lost on my account. You ring her and tell her to find the barbed wire fence that runs along the road and stick to it until she gets here. She should stay at home. You should be here, Jack.”

“Oh Jesus, Mom, listen I’m not… Never mind… Phyllis will be there soon. Why don’t you go into the bedroom and have a rest while you wait for her?”

“How can I rest with that wind blowing and those bloody coyotes howling? They sound like they’re right in the yard. I’m afraid, Jack. I don’t know what to do.”

“Mom, you need to lie down and rest for a while. Please go into your bedroom and lie down.”

“I can’t go in there. I don’t want to go in there.”

“What’s the matter, Mom?  Why don’t you want to go in there?”

“I can’t- he’s in there.”

“Who’s in there, Mom?”

“You know who’s in there. Baby Boy is in there. He’s in the coffin at the foot of the bed.”

“Oh God, Mom, at least sit down until Phyllis gets there. She’ll make you a cup of tea and everything will be better.”

“I don’t want any tea. I want you to come home. Hang on a minute, Jack; I hear a team and sled pulling into the yard. I’ll go to the door.”

“Don’t hang up the phone, Mom.

Is that you, Phyllis?”

“Yes, I’m here with Mom. I’ll leave the line open while I talk with her.

Now, Mom, what has got you so upset? Come over to the window with me and let’s have a look outside. Do you see the cars?  Do you see the buildings?  You’re in your apartment in Nova Scotia.  You’re not on the prairies and that was your son, Garry, on the phone, not your brother, Jack. He died a long time ago and so did Baby Boy.

Confession of a Karaoke Addict

I remember how it all started: it was in a crowded, noisy lounge in the basement of a sleazy hotel somewhere in the Maritimes. I was travelling alone and due to space constrictions, I was forced to take a seat at a table with some rowdy strangers. I’d been lured into the place by the sound of music flowing down the hallway and into my room. It’d sounded like a full band performing but I was surprised when I entered the lounge to find that the stage was almost empty- just a DJ, some sound gear, and a cluster of monitors.

“Is the band taking a break?” I asked the man on my right.

He just laughed, “There ain’t no band, man, that’s Karaoke.”

No further explanation was necessary because at that point the DJ called out a name and the man I had been talking to leapt to his feet and jogged up to join him.

“I’ll try Cheatin’ Heart,” I heard my new acquaintance say. Then several monitors around the room lit up and a Hank Williams’ recording of Cheatin’ Heart, without Hank Williams, began to blare through the speakers and he broke into song with a whiney pitchy cover of the old favourite.

It was painful to listen to but after he moaned out his last notes, the crowd broke out in a sporadic applause.  He reluctantly surrendered the stage and when he returned and settled into his seat beside me, I decided to do the kind thing and compliment him on his performance.  As we talked, something I had never felt before began to stir in me. I thought to myself, “I could do better than that.  Hell, anybody could do better than that!”

It was the beginning of the end for me.  Feigning reluctance, I let myself be talked into having a go at it. I could have just said no, but the peer pressure was too great. I was on the slippery slope. I approached the DJ and timidly made my request.

As the music started, trying my best to sound like Keith Whitney, I gazed at the monitor and belted out the words to “Don’t Close Your Eyes”.  Couples began to dance while I crooned and that was it for me; I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough of it. I had to be dragged off the stage at closing time complaining bitterly that I hadn’t finished the last few tunes of my Frank Sinatra retrospection.

It was the beginning of a shady double life for me. My wife had never been overly supportive to my vocal attempts in the shower so I decided to keep my new guilty pleasure a secret. As years slipped by I was constantly on the road with my job and the siren call of the Karaoke was too strong to resist.

Most of these events were held in bars but alcohol and smoking were not my problem- I did neither.  Mine was more insidious and impossible to explain. I became a regular. I was known by name in all the clubs and would often have my repertoire cued up and ready when I took the microphone. I just kept singing and eating up the applause. When you’re on the road, what happens on the road, stays on the road. Although there were venues close to home where I might have fed my habit, I forced myself to drive by local temptation. I was sure that I had everybody around home fooled.

Then one fateful day close to Christmas over twenty-five years ago it happened. I was sitting at home reading a book when I heard the phone ring and my wife answering it in the kitchen.

“What, what, have you got the wrong number?” I heard her say. Then, “Ohhhhhhh, I see. Yes, thank you, I’ll tell him.”  There was a long pause before she came over to me. When I recognized the Cheshire cat smile she used on occasions like this, I knew I was in trouble.

“I just got a call from a pub in Moncton. They say you have qualified for the Karaoke finals next week. They want to confirm that you will attend.” The jig was up.  I was found out. I had to make a full confession. The possibility of me winning five thousand dollar prize didn’t seem to make a difference to her. I was given the ultimatum. “It’s me or that.”

It wasn’t easy for me to give it up. There were no support groups to help and since the problem was new, psychiatrists had yet to specialize in the area. No, I was on my own- no twelve step program or other aids- it was cold turkey for me. I really tried but I never really beat the problem- you never do, I guess.  You just have to face it one day at a time.  My wife was very supportive- if I even hummed I would get the “look”.

I won’t lie. I slipped once or twice. The thing that saved me from totally falling once again into my wicked ways was her encouraging me to take out my old trumpet and join a local swing band. She even condoned my singing with the group occasionally provided that it was done under strict supervision. It has become my musical methadone. It keeps me going and I’m not about to give it up. “No, no, they can’t take that away from me.”  Oops, did I just sing that ?