Windy Hill

Policemen were not allowed to live outside the limits of Metropolitan

Toronto. Before the amalgamation, they were restricted to the limits of the

old city of Toronto proper. I suppose in the old days this policy had some

merit since few people had cars and transportation in general was quite slow

so the city wanted their policemen close at hand and ready to respond in

emergencies. This arrangement also made it convenient for the Department

to control malingering because anytime a cop phoned in sick he would get a

mandatory visit from the patrol sergeant and the patient had better be in bed

with a temperature and no booze on his breath when he got there or he was

in deep shit. We were allowed sick days but other than when I was badly

injured or actually in the hospital. I don’t remember daring to call in sick.

I longed to live in the country. My parents had a farm near Meaford,

Ontario and I spent all my spare time up there. I had several horses and some

purebred Angus cattle that I kept there but it was too far away for a commute

and even if I could have, the Department would never have allowed it. I was

always on the lookout for a rental farm closer to the city and recent events

gave my search certain urgency. I knew it was probably wishful thinking but

it was fun cruising the countryside with the hope of finding that special

place.

Here’s what happened: for some reason that I never fully understood,

a representative from Ayrst Laboratories of Montreal contacted me and

asked if I would meet with him. Of course I was curious and agreed to see

him even though I didn’t have the slightest notion what he wanted. As it

turned out he wanted to offer me quite a good job; they were the people that

produced the newly arrived birth control pill and they wanted me to head up

a team of special inspectors.

In those days all of the estrogen used in the production of the pill

came naturally from the urine of pregnant mares; special stables were

springing up all over the country to meet the demand and the company was

under pressure from The Humane Society and other groups to ensure that

proper practices were observed. I was having too much fun doing what I was

doing, so I immediately declined his offer but said I would ask around and

see if anybody else I knew would be interested. As it turned out when I

mentioned it at the stables the following week it seemed like half the guys

on the Unit expressed interest. Sgt. Quinn, the riding instructor, was most

eager and in a matter of days was flown up to Montreal and given the job.

Later it looked like I had connived the whole thing because I ended up

getting his job teaching new recruits; however, it was pure coincidence. He

later recruited two more people from the Unit. The Inspector was sad to see

them go but in true form wished them all the best. I kept my head down for a

while.

I wasn’t interested in the job with Ayrst but after I researched the

methods used to collect the urine I was sure I could improve on the methods

and was anxious to give it a try with my own place and band of mares.

Besides, there was big money in the business. I knew I would be a shoe-in

because Sgt. Quinn was now in charge of issuing the contracts. If I was

careful, really careful, no one would find out and I would be able to keep my

job.

One day I strayed to the area around Chalk Lake north of Oshawa,

about an hour’s drive, and happened on a small neat farmstead perched on

the top of a hill that thrust itself out of a large cedar grove. I followed the

lane up through the trees to the buildings and from there I could see acres of

well groomed fields, fenced with split rails stretching off into the distance. A

herd of Shorthorn cattle currently occupied the pasture but I mentally

replaced them with horses and sure liked what I saw.

I don’t know what had given me the audacity to barge, uninvited, onto

this hilltop homestead. There were no For Sale or For Rent signs. I had

arrived where I stood purely on the wings of impulse. No one appeared to

be home but I thought I had better check for sure so I went to the house

ready to apologize for my intrusion. There was no answer to my knock so I

ventured a peek through the window. The house was empty and appeared to

have been that way for some time. There were no electric lines leading up to

the house and as I circled the place peering through the windows, I could tell

from the way the place was setup that there never had been any wiring in the

house. No one was around so I decided to check out the barn as well. It had

been left clean and tidy and the cement and steel stanchions suggested that it

had once housed a large herd of milk cows. It would take quite a bit of work

but they could be converted into horse stalls. I walked through the pasture all

the way to the next concession line to where I knew the property must end

and estimated it to be about one hundred acres-- perfect!

It was fun to pretend that places such as this were yours and I had

dreamed these dreams before but something about this spot compelled me to

find out more so I decided to drop in on the next-door neighbor and have a

chat. An aging widow and her two rather strange bachelor sons occupied the

next farm. Buster, the weirder of the two, was a wealth of information. He

told me that the old farm I had been investigating had been sold recently to a

young couple that lived in a village nearby. They had no immediate plans for

the place and might consider renting it out. He and his brother were already

renting a couple of the fields to grow grain.

On the way home I found the owners and started discussions that

eventually saw me signing a three-year lease.

Things were becoming very complicated for me. On the one hand I

needed the place to accommodate my project but on the other, I would be

jeopardizing a job that I had come to love. I needed a plan.

I couldn’t afford to keep my apartment in the city and pay rent on the

farm but I still needed an address that appeared to be legitimate within the

confines of the city. I had previously rented a small room on the second floor

of my friend Ron Bond’s house down by The Beaches area of the city and he

was more than willing to start collecting it again; it was a good deal since I

actually wouldn’t be there. Ron was a fellow policeman and I knew I could

trust him to keep our little secret.

I moved to the farm, brought my Angus cattle down from my parents

farm, purchased an Arabian stallion and started buying brood mares;

everything was going as planned and best of all it was all happening under

Big Ed’s nose.

I sure had the big guy fooled, at least that is what I thought until one

day he called me into his office and made a request. “I’ve got two lame

horses and Monty is acting up again. I think a few weeks on pasture would

do them all good,” he said looking me in the eye, then pausing waiting for

me to reply. “Yes, no doubt it would, Sir.” I was well aware of the horses’

conditions “You wouldn’t know a place in the country, not too far away

where I could pasture them, would you?” I could tell by the look on his face

that the jig was up; he was just toying with me. All the work I had put into

the farm’s house and barn and all the money I had spent buying horses was

about to go up in smoke.

He broke into a smile and said, “Relax I knew about your farm before

you moved in; I don’t blame you for wanting to live there; as far as I’m

concerned your address in the city covers you. I don’t know what

Headquarters will think about it but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to

it. In the meantime I’m serious about needing pasture for those horses so

what are you going to charge me?”

“Let’s consider it a professional courtesy,” I replied. Over the next

year or so the Police horse trailer spent as much time parked at ‘Windy Hill’,

the name I had given my place, as it did down in the city.

One day, when I went to check on some police horses in the Horse

Palace I found a strange horse standing in one of the stalls. It was a little bay

Quarter Horse about half the size of the other horses. The gelding stood with

its head down looking tired and dejected, switching his weight from one

lame front foot to the other.

I had noticed the Inspector’s car parked outside and now, as my eyes

adjusted to the dim light of the stable, I saw him down the aisle in

conversation with three large policemen in traditional turn of the century

uniforms, complete with bobby helmets. They seemed to be looking at

something around the corner and when I went over to join them I was

surprised to see the object of their attention, an authentic antique horsedrawn

Paddy Wagon, complete in every detail and fully restored.

The men could see that I was curious and weren’t long filling me in

with what was going on. The Hamilton Police Department, as part of a

Centennial project, had refurbished the old wagon and the men present were

part of a team that had been chosen to drive it all the way to Montreal for the

opening of Expo 67. As it turned out the idea was a sound one but the horse

was not. It was neither big enough nor strong enough to pull a wagon of that

size and they had been damned lucky to get the fifty miles from Hamilton to

Toronto, let alone the three hundred and fifty still to go before they reached

their destination.

When I interrupted them, they were busy trying to borrow one of the

Toronto police horses for the job and Ed was trying to explain to them that

our horses were not broken to harness and even if they were, Expo would

probably be over by the time he swam through the red tape it would take to

get permission.

I felt sorry for the guys from Hamilton and wanted to help. I could

see that they were really disappointed and embarrassed that their project was

about to come to such an abrupt end

As it happened I had purchased a couple of really big Percheron

mares for my P.M.U. project. One of them, a big docile bay, was quiet

enough that even these rank amateurs would be able to handle her so I

offered to let them use her. She was in foal but I was sure that a little road

trip wouldn’t hurt her. I heard from the men later that she performed

wonderfully and after the first few miles they just let her have her head and

she strode along the shoulder of the highway undeterred by the speeding

trucks and cars, getting them to Montreal in plenty of time.

After she was returned home in style in a fancy racehorse van, the

Inspector found a small old Toronto Police Wagon and Ron Bond and I

drove her in several parades during the Centennial celebrations.

1967 was a hell of a year for me as I divided my time between the

excitement of police work, parades and musical rides and the busy weekends

breeding mares, preparing for my new business and enjoying my new

country lifestyle. Then everything started to go wrong. A scientist

somewhere discovered how to synthesize estrogen and mare’s urine was no

longer required. I practically begged my former sergeant, Bob Quinn, to get

Ayrst to honour the contract we had signed but he drew my attention to the

fine print and I knew I was screwed. I couldn’t get mad at him because I

knew that his job was also in jeopardy. He said that the company had offered

him an office job but I knew that the old cowboy from Little Buckhorn

wouldn’t be long riding a desk.

So there I was stuck with thirty or so horses, most in foal, and no way

to make any economic sense out of them. A dark cloud was hanging over

Windy Hill.