Metro Meets the Mounties

During the summer of 2005 I was playing my trumpet in a community

band, Kings County Concert Band, and it fell to me to make the

arrangements for the group to accompany the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride at the

Fair grounds in Amherst, Nova Scotia.

All the Band members were really excited about the gig so I thought it

would be neat if we could be photographed with the Mounties and have a

souvenir of the event. I contacted the Ride’s advance team and they assured

me that the Mounties would be delighted to pose with us after the

performance. I hired a local photographer to take the picture and we all

looked forward to playing for the huge crowd and then getting our picture

taken with these icons of the Great White North.

I decided to have one last meeting with the sergeant in charge to go

over the details so that we wouldn’t take anymore of their time than was

necessary. That’s when he dropped the bomb. “I’m sorry!” he said. “There

isn’t going to be any picture. We reserve that privilege for amateur groups

and your band is professional!” What the hell could he be talking about? I

was astounded and a little bit flattered. “The Fair management tells me that

your group was paid to be here,” he continued with his chin jutting skyward.

That’s when I lost it. I did remember that the Fair Committee had given us a

small stipend to help with gas for the crowded vehicles we came in but it

wasn’t very much. I made some quick mental calculations and then

explained to the crusty Mountie that our pay for the two days we devoted to

the performance netted each of the band members approximately forty-nine

cents. He could see that my face was getting nearly as red as his tunic and

decided to acquiesce. We would get our picture but as I walked away from

him my mind drifted back to a time thirty-eight years previous when I had

met and dealt with an R.C.M.P. sergeant just like him.

I guess it’s all right to tell this story now since most of the participants

have by now retired, died or simply wouldn’t give a damn.

Because it was Centennial Year, the R.C.M.P. were also performing

their Musical Ride at the C.N.E. There wasn’t much interaction between our

group and theirs. We were stabled in our own partitioned off area on the first

floor of the Horse Palace and the Mounties were up on the second floor at

the opposite end of the building.

We wandered up to say hello to them but they were not very

receptive. Although we were all policemen and were involved in musical

rides we didn’t seem to have anything else in common. They were a highly

regimented outfit always in uniform even when they were mucking out the

stalls. They marched in step everywhere they went and there always seemed

to be a sergeant around watching their every move.

Our group was always turned out well when we performed but in

between rides or when we were off duty we kicked around in blue jeans and

cowboy boots and pretty well did as we pleased. The Mounties were never

off duty and they never seemed to be having any fun. We found out through

the grapevine that they had been told by their Inspector not to mix with our

group. Most of us didn’t care because from what we had seen of them, they

appeared to be a bunch of pompous, over disciplined stick-in-the-muds not

worthy of our attention.

Near the end of the week Inspector Johnson got wind of the

restrictions his counterpart on the R.C.M.P. had put on his men and decided

to confront him about the obvious insult.

I wasn’t there to see it but I can imagine the look on the Mountie’s

face with Big Ed towering over him, looking even taller than his six foot

four in his white bobby helmet, teaching him some manners.

He must have been convincing because shortly after we got word that

the members of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride would be joining us for a little

get together at the conclusion of our shows.

It was our custom to keep a small stock of alcoholic beverages waiting

for us to wash down the tan bark dust at the end of our rides. Normally it

was a BYOB arrangement. We had been cautioned not to offer any to the

Mounties but for some reason, although I’m sure we all intended to comply

with the warning, we all showed up with extra beer and bottles of the hard

stuff. Since all of this happened without much planning or consultation, the

cache of booze, before we set upon it, was a trifle excessive. There was a

hell of a lot of it!

On the last night the boys from the Toronto unit and the Band

members got a bit of a head start on the festivities: we were all changed out

of our uniforms, reclining on our tack boxes with cold ones in our hands,

waiting for the Mounties. It was getting late and we were wondering if they

had changed their minds and weren’t coming.

Then we heard the sound of thirty pairs of boots hitting the stable

pavement in unison. On they came down the aisle in our direction, marching

two by two, arms swinging and in perfect step.

They were all wearing their full summer street uniform complete with

Stetsons. Their Sergeant broke off and ‘hup, hupped’ them through the tack

room door and then halted the troop in the centre of the room.

Their Inspector followed them in and after he gave the sergeant a nod

they were all dismissed and the group spread out among our guys and the

Band members. The Mounties started shaking hands and making some

formal attempts at conversation but you could tell that they were nervous

and uptight. When I offered the one closest to me a beer he almost had a

heart attack. “No, no, no!” he whispered, rolling his eyes and glancing over

his shoulder in the direction of his sergeant.

I could see why this sergeant had everybody intimidated. He was the

biggest man in the room-- he even had an inch or two on Big Ed. He looked

to be a fit two hundred and thirty pounder with the physique of a weight

lifter and the permanent sneer of a drill instructor. He was a handsome

bugger with Aryan features, blue eyes and short blonde hair showing below

the brim of his Stetson. Hitler would have loved him.

Inspector Johnson had greeted the Mountie Inspector as soon as he

entered the room and now he had his arm around his shoulder leading him

over to a makeshift bar we had constructed. I watched as he poured two

drinks and handed one to the Mountie who took it but then, shaking his head

from side to side, promptly placed it back down on the bar.

A bit of animated conversation ensued but the glass remained on the

bar. It was looking as if the Mountie had won the day and was not about to

take a drink but then Big Ed made a masterful maneuver.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” he shouted over the noise of

the room. “This is Canada’s Centennial year and on behalf of the

Metropolitan Toronto Police and the R.C.M.P., I would like to propose a

toast to Queen and Country.”

The Mountie Inspector looked like he wanted to run out of the room

but he reluctantly picked up the glass and after nodding his approval, his

whole contingent followed suit grabbing the bottles and glasses eagerly

proffered by our guys and the members of the Band. It was a lingering toast,

not your customary sip, and when that one was over, certain other dignitaries

were remembered and subsequent toasts made until finally we were all left

on our own, each to toast whomever we chose and as often as we wanted.

I guess the Mountie Inspector figured, “What the hell? In for a penny,

in for a pound,” because he spent the next hour or so in conversation with

Big Ed and looking the other way.

His big lantern jawed sergeant wasn’t too impressed with what was

going on and kept looking in his Inspector’s direction hoping for the order to

shut things down. But that order never came so he just stood in corner

nursing his original drink and scanning the room with a sour look on his

face.

A relaxed atmosphere settled over the gathering and the tension the

young Mounties had displayed earlier was all but gone. Ties were removed

and collars opened and most of the brown Stetsons were off their closely

shorn heads and hooked over saddle cantles or bridle racks.

About halfway through the evening the R.C.M.P. Inspector received

an urgent message, delivered by one of our policewomen, and he had to

return to his hotel so Big Ed volunteered to drive him. On his way out he

slurred some final instructions to his sergeant: “Just stay a little longer then

wrap things up.”

As the two Inspectors made there way through the stable on their way

to Big Ed’s car they had to pass by a large pile of baled straw. When they

got to the far side of it they happened on a young Mountie who had

borrowed a guitar from one our guys and was sitting on a bale serenading an

equally young Metro. Policewoman who was perched near the top of the

pile. Most of the young man’s uniform had been discarded-- he still had his

britches and boots on but he was down to his t-shirt and had his tie around

his head like a bandana.

The Mountie Inspector instinctively started to admonish him but

before he could speak, Big Ed steered him away and hustling him over to his

car, muttered in his ear, “By God, that boy has a good voice!”

In the absence of the Inspectors and in spite of the Mountie sergeant’s

presence the party took a turn for the worst. All hell broke out! First one of

the Mounties came riding into the room on old Roy, bareback, with a Metro

policewoman sitting sidesaddle behind him. When Roy stopped suddenly

she lost her balance and fell over backwards and into the arms of a batch of

Mounties who caught her then started passing her from one to the other

across the room. She was laughing hysterically and no one was paying much

attention to the direction in which she was being shuttled. When her final

destination turned out to be the arms of the big sergeant over in the corner, it

was obvious that he was not amused.

As he put her down, brushed off the front of his uniform and

straightened his hat, I could tell that he was about to call a halt to the

proceedings. I quickly conferred with a couple of my close associates and

we devised a plan to distract him. It was something we had done many times

before so I trusted my friends to do the groundwork while I left the room to

prepare myself.

The sergeant had already started to gather his men around him as my

friends approached him. They had all heard him bragging about his prowess

in the gym so they knew he was a prime candidate for what they were about

to propose.

Before he could speak to his men one of my conspirators put the

question to him in a very loud voice. “Excuse me, Sgt.. I was wondering,

who would you say was the strongest man in your outfit?”

With a haughty look on his face that suggested that the answer

should be obvious, he sneered the answer. “I guess that would be me.”

“Well,” our man continued, “Why don’t we have a test of strength

between your strongest man, which is you, and the strongest man in our

unit?”

The big Mountie did a quick scan of the room taking in our spindly

arms and beer bellies and then uttered a confident “Why not?” You could

tell that he wanted to inflict some punishment on the group who had so

shamelessly undermined all of his discipline.

My friends explained the rules. They said it was an old traditional

cavalry contest to test the strength of a trooper’s neck muscles. “You will lie

spread-eagled on the floor, bracing yourself in any manner you choose; your

opponent will kneel beside you with his hands behind his back and using

only his head attempt to roll you over. If he is successful the contest is over.

If he fails to roll you over, you will get the opportunity to address him in the

same manner.” “Why me first?” he asked. “Tradition!” my buddies

chorused. The answer didn’t really seem to satisfy him but just then I came

prancing into the circle that had been cleared in the centre of the room. I

was, bare-chested and soaking wet, one hundred and forty pounds and as I

danced around playing to the crowd, shadow boxing, and humming the

theme from Rocky, my big opponent stammered, “What is this, a joke?”

“No joke,” one of my friends shot back. “He may look puny but he

has incredibly strong neck muscles so you better brace yourself.”

“ This is ridiculous,” said the big Mountie, “but we may as well get it over

with so we can get out of here.”

He started to crouch down but he was stopped by one of our men

who made his way to the centre of the circle with a partial bottle of Southern

Comfort in his hand. “What say we make this contest interesting?” he said,

“The loser has to finish this bottle off in no more than three snorts.” The

crowd cheered unanimous approval and I said modestly, “I really like

Southern Comfort.” “Whatever,” said the big sergeant, “let’s get on with it.”

He dropped to the floor and did a series of pushups to warm up

and then he assumed the position. I dropped to my knees near the halfway

point of his body; he looked even bigger from this perspective. He was

looking back over his shoulder at me so I crossed myself to emphasize the

seriousness of the occasion then placed my hands behind my back.

I gave him a couple of tentative test nudges with the top of my

head and each time I did he tensed up pressing down on his wide spread

arms and legs until his torso lifted clear of the ground and every muscle was

bulging and defined. Clearly I had my work cut out for me.

I touched his flank with my head a couple of more times and

that’s when he made the mistake of relaxing for a split second and I was able

to deliver the coup de grace. With the speed of a striking cobra I lunged

forward and sunk my teeth into the softest part of his ass and bit down as

hard as I could. He let out a stifled scream and immediately flipped over

onto his back. He made a grab for me with a murderous look on his face but

I managed to slip away and get to my feet before he could do any real

damage. He got to his feet and moved toward me shaking his clenched fists

but by then the whole room had broken into peels of laughter and he had

second thoughts and backed off.

I guess he didn’t want his crew to think he was a bad sport.

Without saying another word he snatched the bottle of Southern Comfort out

of my friends hand and drank it down, in two long gulps. “Who needs three

swallows,” he said as he handed the empty bottle back to my friend, as if his

prowess in this regard had to some extent restored a bit of his dignity.

He spent the next few minutes with a group of his trainees

gathered around him explaining why, because of his size, he was not

affected by alcohol in the same way that a smaller less muscular type would

be. Then he sat down on a tack box and promptly passed out.

The guys from our Unit took him out to the stable and bedded him

down in a box stall with old Major. The last I saw of him he was mumbling

something that sounded like pillow talk and smiling serenely while Major

nuzzled his neck and chest and rooted at his breast pockets looking for

treats.

In the total absence of any authority figure of consequence, the boys

really let their hair down and things took a turn for the worse. It was well

past closing time at the Exhibition so the party spread out into the corridors

of the Horse Palace. An impromptu game of Donkey Baseball was organized

in the riding ring and more than the bases were loaded. Some of the

Mounties were taking bagpipe lessons from the Band members and insisting

on borrowing their kilts while doing it; they had been told that proper

protocol dictated that nothing was to be worn under the garments and they

weren’t shy about bending over periodically and displaying their adherence

to the rules.

One man was marching up and down the pavement outside the

stable wearing a kilt, tall riding boots with spurs, a Mountie Stetson and

carrying a bamboo lance. It was difficult to tell exactly which outfit he was

with. Another kilted Band member was indulging in his own version of the

highland games; he had a stack of about a dozen Mountie hats and he was

tossing them Frisbee-like trying to get them up onto the ramp of the

Gardiner Expressway. He wasn’t very successful because I could see

several of the pointy-topped hats littering the parking lot directly in front of

him. It was at this juncture that I decided that it was time for me to leave the

party, the decision may not have been entirely mine because I remember

somebody holding onto my ear and guiding me out. Anyway I didn’t want to

be around when the big Mountie sergeant woke up.

I had it from reliable sources that the party continued for some time

after I left and even had a change of venue for its finale. The papers carried a

story the following day concerning a group of young Mounties and an

unspecified number of Metro. Toronto policewomen being caught playing

nude water polo in the pool at the Lakeshore Motel. The following day I was

at the Horse Palace to watch the Mounties ship out and they seemed oddly

cool and stand offish. An official directive had been issued, “Under no

circumstances will any member of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride ever again

fraternize with the cops of The Metropolitan Toronto Police Mounted Unit.

It may not be on the books but I believe the order still stands.

I Hate Bagpipes

I hate bagpipes. I didn’t always hate them. Prior to 1967 I merely

disliked them, but during the spring and summer of that year, when I was

exposed to them continually, hour after hour, day after day, I developed a

real lifelong abhorrence.

Inspector Johnson was training his first Musical Ride with the

Mounted Unit and had enlisted the Metropolitan Toronto Police Pipe Band

to provide the music. Not such a bad idea on the surface: the Band was

steeped in tradition and had a lot of eye appeal but I had my reservations.

Recently I had ridden in a troop in front of them leading the Santa Claus

Parade and the experience had left a bad taste in my mouth.

Granted their musicianship, as that of pipers goes, was probably very

good. There was no doubt that the crowds that lined both sides of the street

were enthused by the sight and sound of them, particularly the older guys

wearing tam o'shanters. However the emotions they stirred in me were quite

different.

I was riding King and he seemed equally irked by the proximity of the

Band as they followed us down the street. They made him nervous and he

danced, pranced, threw his head, and blew foam out of his mouth and

nostrils. Maybe the crowd thought he was dancing in time to the music, but

Big Ed, who was riding old Major and leading the parade in front of us knew

better and kept looking back at me with an evil look of disapproval, finally

shouting at me, “Use two hands on that horse, Leeson!” It was embarrassing

as hell. I had complete control of the animal-- he only appeared to be about

to bolt and run amuck through the throngs of tiny tots sitting on the curbs.

It wasn’t my fault. It was that damned Pipe Band. Every time I looked

over my shoulder I could see the Drum Major, a huge, barrel-chested bugger

in a Busby strutting along, tossing his mace in the air and getting

uncomfortably close to our horses’ rear ends. He was followed by thirty or

so other kilted giants squeezing away on their bagpipes and blowing, red

faced, into something that looked like the stem of a hookah.

And the drums, Oh, the drums! How could anyone fail to be moved

by the rhythmic roll of the snares and the throb of the big bass drum. I know

I was moved-- about three feet in the air. Every time the bass drummer

whacked his infernal instrument to start yet another monotonous Scottish

reel, King would buck and fire me momentarily up and out of the saddle.

The goof playing the huge drum was obviously aware of the effect he

was having on King and me as he swaggered along with a smirk on his face,

kilt swaying and decked out in bearskins and the pelts of other endangered

species.

I had heard that you didn’t need a great deal of talent or brains to play

the bass drum, just the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time. This

guy barely met the minimal criteria and deserved a good kick in the sporran.

King and I finished the parade intact but thanks to the Pipe Band, we

had not made a very good impression.

Understandably, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I

joined the rest of the crew on a Monday morning and started rehearsing for

the Musical Ride. I knew the Pipe Band would be present and participating,

but the total duration of the ride was only going to be about thirty minutes

and I was certain that I could put up with the Band’s caterwauling for that

short period of time, besides, I would be riding Blackie, a young horse I had

just broken and trained. He was nothing like the hotheaded King.

The first rehearsal with the Band went well with all the horses

behaving despite the bass drummers’ attempts to stir them up. Blackie was

exceptionally good. It was as if he were born to that kind of job. When the

hour or so was up and we all took a break, I thought that we were through

for the day. I hadn’t allowed for Big Ed’s insistence on perfection. He had

Sgt. Lewis, who was now in charge of the Musical Ride keep us at it all day

long.

And it continued that way, day after day for weeks on end, with the

horses trotting in circles and the sound of the pipes and drums echoing off

the rafters of the Coliseum. We practiced the same routine over and over

until the horses became so familiar with it that they could make all the

moves on their own, as they often did when one of the riders fell off.

But, oh, that God-awful noise! It never stopped, even when we

stopped to rest and Sgt Lewis said, “Smoke 'em if you got ‘em!” the pipers

would take the opportunity to practice their individual parts, thirty pipers

wailing away at thirty different tunes at the same time. It was an acoustic

nightmare. Blackie and I could edge away from the guys who were smoking

but there was no escaping the din of those pipes. I understood now why the

German soldiers during WW1 referred to the kilted Scots as ‘The Ladies

from Hell.’

I wasn’t the only horseman who was being driven mad by the pipes. It

was during that period that I first heard the classic bagpipe jokes. I

take no credit for coming up with them but I am in complete agreement with

the sentiments they express.

Q. What is the definition of a gentleman?

A. Some one who can play the bagpipes but doesn’t.

Did you hear about man who left his car to do some shopping and then

panicked when he realized that he had left the vehicle unlocked with his very

valuable bagpipes lying in plain view on the back seat?

When he rushed back to the car and looked in, there were two sets of pipes

on the seat!

Once you got those cursed instruments out of their hands, the

members of the Band turned out to be a great bunch of fun loving guys and I

really enjoyed their company when we celebrated after our performances.

The most memorable of these occasions occurred in 1967 at the conclusion

of the last Musical Ride that we did after a week’s run at the Canadian

National Exhibition.

Yorkville

If you trotted your horse southeast down Davenport Rd. from the old

stable on New St. it took you only five minutes to reach Yorkville Ave.

In the early 1960’s the street and its environs had slowly become a

haven for a few art galleries and jazz clubs but as time passed, the number of

these places increased and were joined by folk music venues, gift shops and

coffee houses. All the residences on Yorkville were converted into

storefronts and the whole street was transformed into a bohemian village at

the very centre of the very conservative city of Toronto.

Every summer night and most days, the street was filled with huge

crowds milling about going in and out of the clubs and shops and having a

good look at the regulars who had become known as hippies.

These were kids who had truly bought into the scene, wandering the

streets decked out in their colourful smocks, fringed leather vests, beads and

headbands, and trying desperately to look cool. The amount of long hair and

beards being sported prompted one the guys on the unit to speculate that the

only thing the street didn’t have was a good barbershop.

There was always a cacophony of sound as the crowd noise competed

with the cries of the street hawkers and blare of the loudspeakers posted

outside each of the clubs. The sugary tones of Gordon Lightfoot down at the

Riverboat competed with the throbbing backbeat of the music accompanying

the Go-Go girls dancing in the second floor window of the Myna Bird.

It was like a circus and hanging over it all, was a sweet cloud of

marijuana smoke. I think it was this, the blatant use of illegal drugs that

caused the Police Force to focus its attention on the area and launch a couple

of raids on the street under the guise of opening it up to allow motor vehicles

through. There were plenty of alternate routes in the area and lots of parking.

Nobody really needed to drive through the street.

Prior to these raids the men of the Mounted Unit had a very good

rapport with the people of the street. Now relations were strained and for the

first time I heard the word ‘Pig’ whispered as I rode through. If I had the

choice I would always ride a mare when I patrolled Yorkville. That way

when some smart-ass said, “Look at the big prick on that horse” he would

have some explaining to do.

Quite frankly I didn’t give a damn what the so-called hippies did as

long as they didn’t hurt themselves or anybody else. Of course, occasionally,

someone would have a bad acid trip or an overdose or assault someone who

didn’t agree with them concerning one of the hot political issues of the day,

like keeping troops in Vietnam or Abortion on Demand but in general,

things were strained but manageable.

I knew and was friends with many people who worked and hung out

around Yorkville and although I didn’t mention it around the station, I spent

quite a bit of my off-duty time around the street myself. I loved folk music,

and after a few beers around the corner at Place Pigalle, to gain some

courage, I would hit one of the coffee houses and join in the hootenannies;

neither was I immune to the siren call of the Go-Go girls.

For the most part I liked the people. Of course there were a few that I

disliked but only one that I detested. His name was Eset Greiber

The street had become a magnet for runaway kids from all over the

country, many of them slipping into town to see the Beatles and then

staying. The young girls were most at risk: some of them survived by couch

hopping and working part-time at the coffee houses and clubs. Still others

ended up as sex slaves for petty dope dealers.

Greiber preyed on these girls. Knowing that they had little choice, he

would offer them food, a flop, and a very small amount of money in

exchange for selling flowers for him.

I would see these sad, stoned little Lisa Doolittles plying their trade

around the area at all hours of the night.

He was a weird looking fellow, dark and thickset with a heavy accent.

He was a recent immigrant from Eastern Europe and dressed, formally in a

jacket and tie with a Homburg on his head. The only good impression his

clothes might have made was negated when you noticed that his trousers

were too short and that he wore no socks or shoes, ever!

He might have looked comical but he had the personality of a viper,

evil personified, a man who thwarted the law, took illicit advantage of his

new country and used every opportunity he could to discredit the Police

Department.

Once when I returned to the station and checked through the

photographs in my lost kid file I recognized a picture as being one of the

flower girls I’d seen on the street earlier that evening. I jumped in my car

and headed back to where I had seen her but she was gone.

When I found and confronted her sleazy boss with the photograph. He

denied ever having seen her and then took my badge number and

complained to Headquarters that I was harassing him. I had quite a bit of

explaining to do: policemen, unlike the general public, are considered guilty

until proven innocent.

When I learned that I was being transferred to the Exhibition grounds

to act as horse trainer and riding instructor I knew that I was going to miss

the excitement of Yorkville but I sure wasn’t going miss Greiber.

I had one last evening shift to spend on the street and I spent most of it

enjoying the sights and saying goodbye to some of the regulars.

It was almost time to head back to the stables and I was making some

final entries in my memo book when I noticed a crowd gathering at the

intersection where Hazelton Ave. meets Yorkville. I couldn’t see what was

going on from where I was situated so I put my book away and gave old

Major a dig in the ribs and pointed him towards the commotion. I leaned

forward in anticipation of the surge of power that was to follow, I had

forgotten which horse I was on, and there was no hurrying old Major. He

just took his time ambling over to the scene with me kicking away at his

sides and clucking encouragement.

We arrived at the corner to find a denser pocket of the already

crowded street gathered around a yellow cab parked by the curb with its rear

passenger door swung open over the sidewalk. An older man was

confronting one of the flower girls. He had hold of her basket of roses and

they were engaged in a gentle tug of war.

A woman, who looked to be the same age as the man, stood between

him and the girl with her arms stretched out and her hands resting on each of

their shoulders. She seemed to be pleading with them as she turned to face

first one and then the other.

I climbed down off of Major and he stood quietly while I made my

way over to the kafuffle to see what was going on. The woman explained

through her tears that the flower girl, one I had never seen before, was their

daughter; she had disappeared from their farm near Orangeville, north of

Toronto, several months earlier and they had just found her but she wouldn’t

listen to reason and come home with them.

“How old is she I asked? “ “She’s only fourteen” the woman wailed.

I have a sister, Brenda, who was about the same age as this girl at the

time and living with my parents on a farm north of the city. I pictured my

parents trying to deal with a situation like this and it didn’t take me long to

make up my mind whose side I was on.

I took the basket from between the father and daughter and keeping

the girl in view out of the corner of my eye, I turned to her father and said, “I

know how these kids think. Why don’t you and your wife wait in the cab

while I see if I can convince her.

Obviously stoned, the girl was by now looking frantically around for

an escape route so I grabbed her firmly by the shoulder with my free hand,

leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Listen you little bitch, you get in

that cab before I kick your ass. Don’t say a word or I’ll have you down to

the station so fast it will make your head spin.”

With that I shoved her into the back of the cab and into her parents’

arms. I slammed the door shut and the cab sped away.

I was feeling pretty smug and self satisfied as I turned to see how my

horse was making out in my absence. That’s when I realized that I still had

the basket of roses in my hand. Major noticed them immediately and was

chewing away on one of the blossoms before I could swing the basket out of

his reach.

“Stop that!” I said, while I held the basket even further away as he

edged forward looking for seconds.

What to do? What to do? It was getting late-- I had to get going but I

couldn’t just dump the basket. I had just explained my way out of my last

scrape with the basket’s owner and I didn’t want to start a new one.

There was nothing for it. I got one of the women who had been

patting Major to hold the basket of flowers while I mounted up. She handed

me the basket and I ran my left arm through the arch of the handle and then

grabbed my reins in the same hand. As I settled myself into the saddle and

adjusted the basket into a comfortable position I set off through the crowd

trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Who was I kidding? We hadn’t

gone ten feet before the boos, hoots and jeers started. Someone yelled out

the inevitable, “Look at the big prick on that horse!” and that is when I lost

it. I could hear the strains of a song drifting down from a second story

window: “Now if you’re going to San Francisco-------” I think that’s what inspired

me. I took a rose from the basket and shoved the stem under my hatband so

that the flower looked to be resting on my ear. Then while moving forward I

started tossing flowers left and right into the crowd. The effect was

immediate, the hoots and jeers turned to clapping and cheers and everyone

seemed to be smiling and laughing. When I reached Avenue Road Greiber

was standing bare foot on the corner glaring up at me. I took the basket into

my free hand and tossed it down to him and then, giving him the finger, I

rode off into the sunset.

Getting Started

After a quick week of training at the Horse Palace, with Sgt. Quinn as

instructor, I was posted to Mounted Headquarters. It took awhile to fit in and

get used to the guys and the horses I was working with but over time things

began to fall in place and I settled down to a routine. Because I was the new

kid on the block, I wasn’t assigned to any particular mount. Instead I was

used as a relief rider taking out any horse that needed exercise.

The Inspector’s office, at the rear of the old station, was situated such

that he could watch out his window and observe each constable as they left

the stable and rode their horses down the street on the way to their beats. I

was always conscious of his gaze as I passed under his window. Some of the

younger horses could be pretty frisky and when they first hit the street, it

took a bit of clever handling. I always acted instinctively and wasn’t shy

about administering a little tough love when I felt that they needed it and

was never quite sure if he approved of my techniques.

As it turned out there was one area where I was sure that we shared

some common ground. Somehow I had gotten my hands on a copy of the

British Cavalry Manual and found it full of fascinating information, much of

it applicable to the kind of work we were doing. I showed it to the Inspector

one lunch hour and as he thumbed through it, I could tell he was going over

old territory. Occasionally, when I didn’t understand certain pertinent and

useful sections of the book like those concerning lance or saber drill, I would

ask him to clarify things for me. You see, he was the ‘real deal’-- he had

served in the Royal Canadian Dragoons, a traditional cavalry unit until they

gave up their horses in 1940. He was a wealth of information and over the

ensuing weeks it became a bit of a game with me trying to stump him and

him quizzing me on what I was learning.

One day as I rode by his open office window he hailed me, “Put up

your horse and come in here. I want to talk to you.” As I turned the horse

around and headed for the stable, I mentally went over all the various

shenanigans I had been up to lately. As amicable as our relationship had

been recently, I still remembered several occasions when I stood in front of

his desk with hat in hand lying my way out of a tricky situation. I stamped

my feet to dislodge any hidden manure from the bottom of my boots as I left

the stable and made my way up to his office and stopped at what was now

becoming a familiar spot on his carpet.

When he pointed to a chair opposite him and said, “Sit down,” I began

to relax. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.

“It’s like this,” he said, “we’re getting more new unbroken horses than

we can keep up with down at the Exhibition grounds and I’d like you to

assist with the training.” I was about to object but he raised his hand to stop

me and continued, “I’ve seen you handling the horses and I know you can do

it.” Then he went on to say, “We’re also getting eight new men starting on

Monday, and I can’t afford to take a patrol officer off the street to train them

so I want you to act as Riding Instructor for a while as well.” I didn’t know

what to say. The old guy didn’t appear to be joking. My mind started to go a

mile a minute. Hell, I was only twenty-one and had only been on the

Mounted Unit for a few short months. Most of the men I would be training

would be much older than me. How would the more senior guys who had

been passed over for this prestigious job react when they heard the news?

As it turned out I didn’t have a chance to voice any of these concerns

because before I could speak the Inspector said, “Take the rest of the day off

and pack up your gear. I want your ass down at the Horse Palace first thing

Monday morning.” That’s when I realized that I hadn’t been getting an offer.

I had been receiving an order so I simply rose, touched the brim of my hat

and said, “Yes, Sir!” Apparently God had granted me the serenity to accept

the things I could not change, besides, I was really flattered.

I spent the weekend mulling over how I was going to handle the

situation, referring to my dog-eared cavalry manual, making some

preliminary lesson plans and detailed drawings of the Universal Saddle and

the special bridle we used plus illustrated instructions for lance drill. This

sort of training would be a first for the Unit and I wasn’t sure how the new

men and for that matter, the old hands observing it would react. Anyway I

knew I had the Inspector behind me and as far as I was concerned, it was all

or nothing. As it turned out the students were more than receptive to intense

training they received and most of the regular officers seemed to approve.

The one exception was a cranky old sergeant who seemed determined to

discredit my training methods and me. However he was hamstrung by the

Inspector’s enthusiasm and all he could do was watch and shake his head.

The Inspector always seemed particularly pleased as he watched me

drill the new recruits and teach them the traditional cavalry maneuvers I had

been studying. In fact, his enthusiasm was such that I began to wonder about

his sanity-- was he using me as a tool to relive his glory days in the cavalry?

I began to be really concerned when one day, near the end of the training

session, a truckload of authentic bamboo cavalry lances arrived at the riding

school.

Now the Police Department had a full time M.D. but as far as I knew

we did not have a resident psychiatrist so I decided to have a one on one chat

with Big Ed myself and see just how far his dementia had progressed. We

met at his office and not wanting to upset him further, I eased into the matter

of the lances. I tried to soothe him with a little sympathetic small talk but he

became impatient with me and cut me short. Looking at me with a peculiar,

quizzical look on his face that I interpreted as another sure sign of his

affliction, he shouted, “What the hell do you want?” I decided on the direct

approach, “So, what’s with the lances?” He just stared at me for the longest

time without speaking and while he did, my mind raced with visions of

Mounted Policemen running amuck in the streets of Toronto skewering

felons. Leaning forward and in a low voice, he confided in me. “This is

strictly confidential and you have to keep what I’m about to tell you to

yourself.” I nodded agreement and he continued, “As you know, we are

coming up to Canada’s Centennial year and the Department has approved a

promotion that I have suggested. We are going to train and feature a musical

ride.” “Just as I suspected, Sir,” I said as I rose and took my leave.

I spent several evenings, after hours and alone, in the riding ring

practicing all the tricky requirements of the British Cavalry’s lance drill. Just

getting on and off a horse with an eight-foot spear in your hand is no easy

feat, never mind all the other maneuvers required. Luckily, I had the help of

Roy, a quiet old gelding that stood quietly and put up with the odd poke and

a lot of fumbling on my part. Nobody was happier than Roy when I finally

began to get the hang of it.

I was by no means an expert when I first began teaching the drills to

my class but after a while we were all prancing around the ring like real

Bengal Lancers. We all became fairly proficient with our newly acquired

weapons. We held them high and perpendicular in the ‘Carry’ mode or

charged from one end of the arena to other with our lances ‘Engaged’ and

thrust forward. Fortunately no one was impaled during these sessions.

Somehow the members of the class found out that they might be

touring with a musical ride. I can’t imagine who might have leaked that

information, but they became very excited with the possibility. I told them

that if they wanted to have a place on the ‘ride’ they would have to

dramatically improve their riding skills in the short time we had left and that

I was more than willing to help but it might not be the ‘ride in the park’ they

had been experiencing. I told them that if they were willing I would go

strictly by the cavalry manual that used the make or break techniques that in

the past turned out or destroyed troopers in a very short time. I explained

that although I didn’t outrank any of them, they would have to treat me as if

I was an officer, and obey my orders to the letter, if this scheme was going

to work. “Are you willing to do this?” I ask. They looked at one another then

clicked their heels and saluted.

I had heard that power could corrupt and turn almost anyone into a

tyrant but I always thought that I would be immune to that sort of thing.

That’s why I was surprised when I found myself enjoying my new role as a

ruthless drill instructor. I worked the class so hard and often at the sitting

and rising trot that when they broke for lunch their asses were so sore that

they had to eat standing up. When one of them would fall off his horse

while cantering around the ring, I would shout, almost scream, “Who told

you to dismount?” I wasn’t satisfied unless they all went home with the

insides of their knees bleeding. I began to think that I might be acting a little

over the top when the boys began to draw it subtly to my attention by doing

things like lining up in front of me and thrusting their lances in the air in

unison and shouting “ Zieg Heil! Zeig Heil! or constantly addressing me as

‘Captain Hindgrinder’. However, it was when I started getting calls from

their wives saying that I was destroying their sex lives that I started

reassessing the situation. After all, as my father used to say, “There’s a

difference between scratching your ass and tearing it all to hell.” Anyway, I

lightened up and when the class finished we parted friends and all met again

when we participated in the Musical Ride.