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 ?

The Old Canaan Road

The Old Canaan Road from Zoe D'Amato on Vimeo.

    I was busy building the dome when Andrea and my nephew Michael galloped their horses into the yard. They were excited and bursting to tell me about a beautiful property they had discovered further up the mountain. “It’s perfect and I am going to buy it!” Andrea exclaimed.
    “Settle down. What the hell are you talking about? I’m a little busy here. We just got this place. I haven’t even really got started making this place livable and you want to move.” I shot back.    “I don’t want to move I just want to have that place as well.,” she countered. I was kind of busy and I think my lack of enthusiasm was showing.
    “Just come and look at it,” she pleaded “You won’t be sorry.”    “Oh well, what the hell do I have to lose. Michael, you saddle up Beau for me while I change.”

    A short time later the three of us were mounted up and on our way, headed south up the Crocker Road beyond the hamlet of Harmony. I was just keeping peace in the family. I had no intention of buying more land. But when we reached the road’s end at the top of the mountain, and the property loomed into view, I had a change of attitude.

    It was everything she had described and more. A majestic old barn sat centered in a fenced in pasture in front of an expanse of mature spruce trees. A small brook wound its way through the pasture and exited through a gap in a large granite stone wall. Close to the barn a team of dapple-grey horses stood grooming each other in the shade of an enormous oak tree. It was a scene that needed to be painted. More importantly, from Andrea’s point of view, needed to be possessed.

    Okay she had me, but there was a problem; the place was not for sale and we didn’t even know who owned it. After we returned home Andrea got on the case and she wasn’t long finding out. To our surprise, the owner was willing, almost anxious, to part with the place. We agreed on a price and shook hands with a codicil that we would bring him the payment in full after we made a quick trip up to Ontario.

    When we returned a week later it turned out that the man was not as good as his word. He had already sold “our land” to Murray Ruggles, an independent logger. We were heartbroken but it helped a little and took the sting away when a neighbour sold us the two hundred acres adjacent to the lot that we had wanted. Then a year later, the fates intervened and we were able to buy that original property of our dreams, sans most of the marketable logs, for a reasonable price.

    We called the pair of properties the Upper Farm, and as time went on we discovered the fascinating history of those old farms on the mountain.

    The area south of The Canaan Road was known locally as the “Cole Settlement” but to us it was our Brigadoon. We discovered the remains of five old homesteads on our property and as we explored the ruins it was impossible not to be conscious of a strange presence and feel for the people who had cleared the land, built the beautiful houses and barns and painstakingly constructed miles of granite stone walls.

    Incredibly, most of the houses had been moved off the mountain and are still standing further down in the valley today. When I asked Gram Whynott, one of the few people still alive who had lived way up there on the mountain, why the people had abandoned their homes, she said simply, “The life was just too hard up there.” And I suppose it was. Endless hours of drudgery in the fields and the woods, months of isolation in the winter, poor crops and the constant threat of forest fires.

    Over time we have come to know the names and histories of those people and that just makes their ghostly presence more palpable to us. When I first saw the place I commented that it was a scene that needed to be painted. Lacking the skills for that, instead, I have penned a poem and the following song.

Goodbye, Old Hup

I don’t like automobiles and I don’t understand the love affair that most   people have with them. I know I’m being a hypocrite because for many years I have been supporting myself working as a car auctioneer pretending to know and care about them.

There was only one vehicle in my life that ever really took my fancy but that was a very long time ago when I was just a boy and, sadly, it left me with a broken heart.  We called her Hup, and for some reason we always referred to the old car as if she were female. The ancient Hupmobile luxury sedan ended up in my Dad’s possession in 1945. She had seen her heyday during the Dirty Thirties and was in rough shape.  The car had been purchased new in 1932 by the only resident of our dusty backwater town of Unity, Saskatchewan, who had the resources to acquire such a vehicle, old Doctor Rutledge.  In the ensuing thirteen years she had passed through a number of different hands during her fall from grace until my Dad found her standing dilapidated and coated in swallow dung perched on blocks in an abandoned granary.

I don’t know how much money changed hands when my Dad and the farmer who owned her, finished haggling; it couldn’t have much because Dad had precious little to spare.  I think the owner was anxious to make room for the grain he expected to get from the first good wheat crop he’d had since the dusty depression began. The main reason that the vehicle was in my Dad’s price range was because it didn’t have a motor. There was just a gaping hole where the old four-cylinder engine once resided. Instead it had a long pole and a neck yoke attached to the front bumper. In her last years she had been a Bennet Buggy, a name honouring Premier Bennet of Saskatchewan, the man lucky enough to be in charge during Great Depression.  With gas shortages and cash squeezes, thousands of people across North America had pulled the motors out of their vehicles and hooked horses to them. In the States they were called Hoover Buggies.

If the man who had sold Dad the Hup got anything at all in the transaction he probably thought that my father was a fool. He didn’t know that my tricky old Dad had an ace up his sleeve: he worked as a mechanic at a garage in town, (Lord knows how he ever acquired the skills and knowledge) and recently had found an appropriate motor in a scrap heap of old motors that had accumulated during the recent temporary regression to horsepower.  The farmer had also thrown in the transmission and a drive shaft that had been lying in a corner of the granary and those parts, coupled with the other bits of running gear that my Dad had scrounged, completed the package.

At first my mother was opposed to the presence of the old car in the backyard of our little house in the backstreets of town, but after a trip to visit her sister in Toronto she had a sudden change of attitude. She had set her sights on that big city in the east and as the old car gradually took shape she saw it as the magic carpet that would float our family out of our prairie poverty into a new life in Upper Canada, albeit just another kind of poverty.

When we finally set out on our journey east, true to the predictions of neighbours who were skeptical about the reliability of our old car, we were only a couple of miles out of town when disaster struck. The Hup bucked a bit then came to a complete halt.  Dad got out and lifted the hood and immediately diagnosed the problem. One of the essential components of the motor had split its seams. After pondering the problem for a short time he took out his pliers and went over to a nearby fence, liberated a length of wire, then took it over to car to repair the offending part and after a couple cranks the motor purred to life and we were once again on the road. The rest of our journey was not uneventful.

After backtracking a bit to visit an Aunt who lived near Banff in the Rockies, we headed south to the border. In those days the only route east to Ontario was through the northern states of the US. We caused quite a stir when Dad inadvertently passed through the border crossing at Sweetwater Montana without stopping. A Bonny and Clyde type car chase ensued with border guards, guns drawn, sirens blaring, pursued us for several miles. When we finally stopped and surrendered, the officers took one good look at the car and the passel of kids crowded in and around all our worldly goods then let us carry on, undoubtedly with the images from “The Grapes of Wrath” movie in their minds.

We made good time as we cruised through our second state with the old Hup purring like a kitten and only misfiring and belching smoke occasionally as we ascended or descended steep inclines. Dad was pretty pleased with the car’s performance and was getting cocky about how he’d shown up all of his dissenters back home. Of course he had spoken too soon because as we pulled over at a place called Bemidji, Minnesota, to admire a huge statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe, his blue Ox, disaster struck once again. One of the gears in the universal had broken a cog. Even if we had been located near a big centre, the chances of finding a replacement gear for a car as old as ours would have been impossible.

Dad was down but not out. Borrowing a few tools from a helpful mechanic at a nearby garage he stripped the transmission down and removed the broken gear. To the amazement of the mechanic who watched him work, Dad did something that was a forgotten art in the age of Remove and Replace. Using a welding torch, some screws, some brazing rods and a file he rebuilt the broken tooth. After a few final sweeps of the file to make sure it was perfect he slid back under the car, replaced it and shortly we were on our way again. In fact years later, that repaired gear cog was still in the Hup and still performing perfectly. When we finally arrived at my aunt’s place in Toronto, the Hup was parked in a back lane and started a well deserved rest while Dad and the rest of the family got jobs and started to pursue their new lives in the big city. No need for a car with the streetcars so handy.

It was the winter of that first year that Dad had his first run in with the law. For the first time in his life he received a speeding ticket in the mail. The summons suggested that at some time during the winter a foot patrol officer had seen the Hup moving along Bloor St. at a high rate of speed. Since the old car had been immobilized and up on blocks since its arrival from the west, my father took umbrage and opted for his day in court. When it finally hit the docket, the case was a short one. There had been an obvious mistake. When the judge put the description of the Hup together with the claimed speed, he just laughed and said, “My God, that old wreck couldn’t go half that fast.” At that my father, truly insulted, leapt to his feet and shouted, “I don’t know about that, Your Honour!” Nonetheless, the charged was dismissed.  

It wasn’t long before the combined wages of the family made it possible for a down payment on a new home in the suburbs and the acquisition of a shiny Ford car that was more appropriate to our new status. Other than the few times she was called back into service to tow the Ford and other neighbours’ cars up our street’s steep hill in the winter she sat sadly languishing out of sight behind our house. I was only eight years old at the time and I had a special fondness for the old car. I had helped Dad put her back together back on the prairies. “I need your hands, Garry,” he would shout when his big paws couldn’t reach a tight spot under the hood. The first day the car was mobile he sat me on his lap and let me steer while we did a victory lap through the town.  I also drove the Hup for thousands of imaginary miles while she sat parked and forgotten at our new home. She was alternately my car, my boat or my spaceship; Tom Corbett Space Cadet was one of my favourite radio shows.

One day I returned home from school to find that she was gone. Just four bare spots in the long grass where her tires had rested. Dad had sold her to a mechanic he knew. I never saw her again and can only speculate as to what might have happened to her. It’s a slim chance but I’d like to think that a collector ended up with her. Whenever I see a restored 1932 Hupmobile at an antique car show I sidle over to it, check to make sure I’m alone then discretely whisper, “ Is that you, Hup?”  I have yet to get an answer.

Encounter at the King Eddy

              “I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you,” he barked. “The good news is that you dolts are graduating and getting out of here a day early; the bad news is that as soon as you can get your sorry butts in gear you’re all going down to the King Edward Hotel to help with some crowd control. It’s your first assignment so don’t screw up!” Parting words from a crusty old drill sergeant to the class of ‘64 at the Metropolitan Toronto Police Academy.
              My classmates and I endured a few more minutes of his begrudging well wishes and veiled threats and then we were hustled onto a waiting bus and whisked away to the centre of the city. This boring sort of assignment didn’t seem like a good way to begin our police careers. We didn’t want to be security guards; we all, in our eager naiveté, saw ourselves instead on the streets catching criminals and suppressing crime. 

              By the time our bus pulled up in front of the hotel we had all finished moaning and complaining about the assignment and, resigned to our fate, disembarked single file clutching the box lunches we had been given. The class clown, last in line, piped up with “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to .work we go” but he clammed up immediately when he spotted the officer in charge of our detail waiting for us on the sidewalk. Sergeant Crawford, a burly middle aged cop from the rough and ready 52nd Division, was no man to mess with.

              He ordered us to follow him into the hotel lobby, then formed us into a line and gave us a briefing. We were all young men and women but none of us showed any sign of recognition when the sergeant named the group we were there to protect. He did a quick appraisal- there were about thirty of us- twenty-five male constables and five police women. Then he selected the largest most formidable looking guys and sent them out to the street to guard the main entrance. That left just me, smallest man in the class, and the police women. We were assigned to patrol the halls and be on the lookout for unregistered intruders. It was embarrassing for me to be singled out because of my size and even more galling when, periodically, I peered down from second story windows and saw gathering throngs of young women approaching the hotel entrance and chatting with my classmates. I swallowed my pride and continued patrolling the halls and keeping everybody off the private floor that had been designated for the group’s exclusive use.  

              In the early afternoon, I hadn’t looked out the window for a while so I decided to have another peek to see what I was missing. I couldn’t believe my eyes.  The streets were plugged full with people, mostly young women, traffic was at standstill and I could hear, almost feel, an electric pulsating moan of crowd noise vibrating against the window pane. The friendly joking demeanor of my classmates had changed to looks of concern and the pressure of the crowd had backed them into a tight circle around the hotel’s doorway. I spent several minutes peering out the window envious and moping until suddenly I was startled out of my gloom by a slap on my back 

              “Get down to the front door and help get those buggers inside!” the sergeant bellowed, “Finally!” I thought to myself as I made beeline for the stairs. By the time I got to the main door and made my way out to join my classmates, things had reached a fevered pitch.  

              Members of the Mounted unit, on excited prancing horses, were parting the crowd for the approach of a long procession of scout cars followed by a paddy wagon.  The big beige van backed into the secure area we had held in front of the hotel and its back door flew open. “Form a semicircle in front of the doors and lock arms!” the patrol sergeant yelled over the noise of the crowd.

I only got a quick look at several bodies as they leapt from the back of the wagon and dashed for the hotel lobby. I had other things on my mind. I had placed myself between two of the biggest cops and locked arms with them. When a surge of the crowd hit our line, all one hundred and forty pounds of me was snapped up into the air and left holding on for dear life. Seizing the moment, an enterprising young girl in a white angora sweater attempted to crawl under my dangling legs to get through but I locked them around her and held her in a scissor hold until everybody was safely inside.  

              At a signal from Sgt. Crawford I broke ranks with the big guys outside and followed a separate group of even bigger men -I’m talking huge, circus huge,-as they escorted their charges through the crowded lobby and over to a bank of elevators. It was pandemonium:  the doors to the lifts hadn’t opened as planned and hordes of frantic women were pushing by me and flinging themselves kamikaze style up and over the wall of the behemoths in blue.  I caught sight of Sgt. Crawford again: he was standing in front of a separate elevator away from the main bank holding the door open and beckoning to me.  I got there as quickly as I could and we pushed the Up button and headed for the Empire Suite on the private floor. The battle in front of the other elevators was still in full swing. 

              We arrived at our destination, had a quick look around then stood by and waited for the other elevators to arrive. Eventually the doors opened and a curtain of police uniforms parted to reveal four bony young men with long hair and tight pants. They emerged from the elevator, breathless, laughing, fiddling with their hair and straightening their clothes. They looked to be around the same age as I was and I couldn’t help wondering why everybody was making such a fuss over them. I guess I was jealous that they were having fun and I wasn’t. 

             As the group brushed passed me and hurried down the hall to their suite I checked my watch. My shift was just about over; just enough time to update my memo book, brush some of the white angora hair from the crotch of my blue serge pants and turn my post over to someone else before heading home. 

 That’s when things got complicated. Sgt. Crawford came marching back down the hall with his band of big cops in tow and I watched as he directed them over to the stairwell and sent them on their way. Then he turned his attention to me. Coming over and putting his arm around my shoulder he said in a low conspiratorial voice, “Listen, son, the band manager has complained about all the big guys guarding the boys. He says that they were feeling intimidated and starting to refer to our boys as the goon squad. Anyway”, he continued, “I’m putting them down in the lobby and you, my little friend, are going to spend the night with me and them.”  So there it was, just me, Sgt. Crawford and the group with their entourage. By and by everyone in the suite settled in and relaxed, the young men running in and out of their rooms in their underwear with drinks in their hands. I took up a position in an easy chair in a corner of the living room of the suite while Sgt. Crawford loosened his tie and acted as bartender. I was frequently on my feet answering the door and admitting strange people: show biz types, reporters, hookers, etc.  In addition to these invited guests we had visits from all kinds of kids who made incredibly creative attempts to get close to these guys who seemed to be their idols.  

            One of the better attempts was made by a young man who had looted the laundry chute for a bus boy uniform and picked up a discarded coffee pot and tray from outside of one of the rooms. He was brazenly making his way into the suite.  I accidentally touched the coffee pot-it was ice cold and when I took a closer look at him I could see his jeans and sandals underneath the white hotel uniform.  I let him have a good look at the guys and then escorted him out of the room. 

              There were many similar incidents and the people that I turned away, many of whom were staying at the hotel, spread the word that I was staying in the suite.  Whenever I went down to the lobby or the restaurant for a break I was mobbed by kids, mostly girls, who would heap me with gifts that they had made for the various members of the group. I took the presents to the suite and added them to the growing heap of unopened offerings already there.  When I went back down to the lobby I made up stories about how well the gifts had been received. 

              At one point I felt particularly imposed upon when the group’s manager recruited me to participate in a little production line he was setting up.  He had the boys sitting side by side on a sofa getting ready to add their signatures to small squares of paper and to pass them one to the other until they reached me. I was perched on the arm of the sofa; it would be my job to gather up the slips of paper and arrange them in piles of ten and put an elastic around each bundle.  When the first paper was started along and the last fellow in line was signing, I eyeballed the previous signatures over his shoulder. I registered John, Paul and George but when the little guy seated next to me scribbled Ringo, I thought he was kidding so I told him as much. “No, that’s me all right, mate”, he said and then reached over, snatched off my police hat and placed it on his head backwards. I gave a quick glance towards the sergeant behind the bar but he didn’t seem concerned. 

              The signing process went on for quite a while and when I became bored and started adding my own signature to the last few papers, we all had a laugh and called it quits.  The manager tossed me a large pile to keep for myself. I acted grateful but I wasn’t really impressed. “Who the hell did these punks think they were?” I gave most of the autographs away to fans in the lobby. I kept one or two for myself but have long since lost track of them. I don’t know why I had never heard any of their music; it was already out there and available. I guess I was somehow still lodged in the Folk Era.

              In the evening, one of the guys, a fellow named George, told the Sgt. that he had relatives in the city that he would like to visit. We devised a plan, kitted him out in a disguise, and created several ruses and diversions that got him out of the hotel and back in again safely.  The night following his return was one big party, people coming and going, flash bulbs going off, squeals of laughter, champagne corks popping, twenty-four hours of nonstop excitement.  I don’t know when anyone slept, I have to admit that I was starting to enjoy myself and I kind of missed the boys the next day when they went off to perform at Maple Leaf Gardens.   After all the time I had spent cooped up with them I was in sore need of a shave and a change of clothes. Although they offered, I didn’t think that any of their gear would fit me but I did accept a disposable razor and some toothpaste from the guitar player they called John.  

              By the time they were scheduled to leave the city, the crowds of admirers had grown to such huge proportions that the Chief of Police, James Mackey, decided to take personal charge of the special operation to remove them from the hotel. Since Sgt. Crawford and I were most familiar with the boys we were included as an integral part of his plan.

              When the time for the band’s departure arrived, the Chief called eight of the biggest men on the force into a huddle beside the elevators in the hall of the private floor. “Here’s how it’s going to work:  the wagon is standing by outside the front doors and I’ve got enough men on foot and on horses to keep the crowd back while we load these buggers back into the paddy wagon. Our job is to get them through lobby and over to the doors. The trouble is,” he continued, “I just came up from there and the place is crammed with crazy teenagers; so here’s what we’re going to do. You eight men will take the elevator on the left down to the lobby”, he said addressing the goon squad. “I‘ll wait with the band, Sgt. Crawford and the little guy for precisely two minutes and then we will take the elevator beside you down to join you. In the meantime, I want you boys to move over and form a V in front of our elevator so that when we get down there, we can get in behind while you push your way to the doors. Has everybody got that? Good. Now synchronize your watches.” 

              By the time he had finished his instructions the boys in the band had joined us and he set the plan in motion. Down went the heavies in elevator number one. Then we entered elevator number two and I held the doors from closing while watching my watch. When exactly two minutes had passed the Chief gave me the nod.  I released the doors and we were off. 

              In a matter of seconds we reached the lobby and the doors opened but instead of the protective wall of blue backs we expected we found ourselves all alone facing an enormous crowd of fans. The big cops had been delayed somehow. It was too late- we couldn’t turn back now.  At first I thought we would be mobbed but for some reason nobody was reacting to our presence. I think they may have been confused because of all the imitators that had been hanging around the hotel or maybe they simply couldn’t believe their eyes. 

              It looked like we might get away without too much fuss and the Chief said, “Let’s ease our way over to the door.”  Everything was going smoothly, too smoothly! I noticed an older woman halfway across the lobby staring wide eyed with her mouth open.  She was looking directly at the little drummer and I don’t think at that point that she was sure it was really him.  If he had left well enough alone we might have made it to the door unscathed. Instead, the little bugger started shaking his tie at her and making lewd gestures. That was it. She responded by launching herself across the lobby, leaping on his back and wrapping her legs around his waist and holding his tie like a set of reins. I tried, but couldn’t dislodge her so I pushed them both towards the door.  The Chief had already ushered the rest of the group to safety in a space between the hotels double doors where more policemen waited. The cops on the other side of the door grabbed Ringo and dragged him through it while I put a Half Nelson on the excited lady and gradually got her to dismount.  She was down but she wasn’t out because even though the door had closed between them, she still held Ringo’s tie in a death grip; it was stuck between the doors and Ringo’s face was flattened against the glass and turning colour. Before I could react, a quick thinking policeman on the other side of the glass produced a jackknife and cut the tie off. The lady fell backwards into the crowd with her memento and I never saw her again. 

              The paddy wagon departed but the crowd stayed on. Something very special and exciting had been happening and they didn’t want it to end. I felt the same way. 

I noticed a girl sitting on the curb with her portable radio. I recognized the white Angora sweater she wore from a previous encounter. She was red eyed and sobbing so I thought I better ask her what was wrong. As I approached her the music she was listening to gradually became discernable above the crowd noise. “She loves you, ya ya ya.  She loves you, ya ya ya”.  I stayed close to her while the song finished and two others were played. “Well whata’ ya know?” I thought to myself. “Those buggers don’t sound half bad.”  On the way home I stopped and bought my first Beatles album. 

Here’s Looking At You, Sergeant Saul

My first three weeks as a police cadet were spent for the most part, not wiping out crime as I had expected, but cleaning out police cars washing them and  gassing them up.  I swabbed out the drunk tank each morning and generally ran errands for the real policemen. Although my new tailor-made uniform had arrived and I was wearing it to and from work each day, mostly it hung in my locker while I sported a pair of blue coveralls more suited to my assignments. Finally I received orders to report to the Police College and I looked forward to the end of my drudgery and to some leisure time in the classroom.

In those days Metropolitan Toronto had its own training centre in a converted two story elementary school located in Willowdale, in the north end of the city. The schoolyard had been paved to use as a parade ground.  I hadn’t thought much about drilling and marching. I knew that there was probably going to be a certain amount of it but after all, this was not the army only the police force. My marching skills were sadly lacking. In the 1960’s all high schools still had mandatory cadet 

programs.  The only exemptions were for band members.  I had quickly signed up to play the trumpet and had spent my time sitting in the shade playing Colonel Bogie while my classmates, sweating in their woollen uniforms, marched up and down the schoolyard.  I wondered if I might do the same now. We all gathered in a large classroom that first morning and were told by a clean-cut young policeman to have a seat anywhere. 

“Ah, this the life,” I thought as I settled myself down in a seat at the back of the room and busied myself opening my notebook and selecting pens and pencils. I had just removed my tie and was leaning back in my chair when the room reverberated with a throaty bellow, “Attention!”  The word seemed to hang in the air. When I looked up, a tall, straight, stern looking policeman in an impeccable uniform was shouting at us. He was about fifty and his presence oozed authority. We all jumped to our feet and gave our individual interpretations of what “Attention” should look like. Addressing us as stupid bastards,  he described the proper way to stand to attention. Then he introduced himself as Sergeant Saul and informed us that he was to be our Drill Instructor and general disciplinarian. He went on further to say that he had observed us arriving that morning and without a doubt we were the sorriest bunch of dirty buggers he had ever laid eyes on. 

“All that is going to change”, he shouted. “Now get your lazy asses down to that parade ground!” And so  the marching began, day after day of “By the left, quick march, I said LEFT, you stupid bastards”, or, “Into line, left turn. Does that look like a line, you nitwits?” 

After what felt like an eternity of abuse all but one class seemed to be getting the hang of it. Poor Cadet Eagan was still stumbling, turning the wrong way and constantly  trying to get back in  step. No amount of swearing or cajoling from Sergeant made his performance improve. Eagan was a big healthy farm boy from northern Ontario. A t first glance, he looked like perfect policeman material, but there was definitely something missing in the brains’ department. As some of the less sensitive cadets put it, “He was a few bricks shy of a load, you know. A few pickles short of a jar.”  We knew it was all over for Eagan one morning at inspection . He had forgotten his memo book and Sergeant Saul was busy ‘cutting him a new arse hole’, as he liked to put it. When he finished his tirade, he lowered his voice and, almost pleadingly, said. “Listen, Eagan, if you’re going to make it, you  really have to pull up your socks.” To our amazement,  Eagan actually bent down and pulled up his  socks!  The next day he was transferred to the city’s Parking Meter Control Unit. I would often see him in later years.  He seemed very happy sporting his brown uniform and tooling around on his Pie Wagon, as  the three-wheeled motorcycles were called. 

The marching and drilling wasn’t easy for me but my real problem was passing muster when Sergeant Saul did his inspections each morning. Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to please him. I spent hours every night working on my kit, ironing, polishing and  brushing.  Still, he would always find something wrong and bring it to my attention in his not so subtle  manner. If he found a single hair on my blue serge uniform he would exclaim for all to hear, “Did you  have much trouble getting the dog off your uniform this morning, Leeson?” If my tie was not hanging  perfectly perpendicular, he would straighten it, saying, “Mummy dressed us a little funny this morning,  didn’t she?” If he couldn’t find anything else to complain about, he would say, “Get a haircut!” which I frequently did but it never seemed to be enough. I was starting to look like Yul Bryner.  The night before  our final day on the cadet course, I made up my mind that my turnout was going to be impeccable.  I vowed that I would be the cleanest, shiniest son of a bitch on that parade ground. I pulled out all the  stops. I spent hours using cotton swabs dipped in ice water, putting a high shine on my boots and Sam Browne belt. My uniform was cleaned and pressed to perfection. There wasn’t a crease, smudge or hair to be found anywhere. I also vacuumed my car seats so that my uniform wouldn’t pick up any debris as I drove to the college in the morning.  I went to bed with what hair I had left perfectly coifed and held in place by a nylon stocking. I was ready. There was nothing, nothing that Saul would be able to find fault with. 

I stayed up working so late that night that I overslept slightly  but if I knew that if I  hurried, I would still be in good time for the inspection parade. I dressed carefully, avoiding contact with anything that might tarnish my perfect appearance. I skipped breakfast. I didn’t want to sit too long anyway. It might spoil the crease in my pants.

I was cautiously making my way to my car when I heard a terrible scream.  It sounded almost like a human baby in extreme pain. I made my way to the opposite side of the car and there on the ground was a stray cat with a half-eaten baby rabbit in his mouth. The cat dropped the little creature and disappeared into the tall grass. The tiny rabbit lay whimpering , unable to  move. He was so badly mangled that I knew he was beyond help. The only humane thing to do was to put him out of his misery as soon as possible. Gritting my teeth and wincing, I stepped forward and  brought my heavy boot down as hard as could on the poor bunny’s head.  Death was instantaneous and its suffering was over. With a heavy heart but comforted by the notion that I had done the right thing, I  jumped into my car and headed for the Police College.  By the time I arrived, the rest of the cadets had already begun to assemble on the parade ground. I hurried over and joined them. We formed up in  three lines of open order and stood rigidly at attention as Sergeant Saul quick marched over to us with  his swagger stick tucked under his arm. 

He proceeded to weave his way up and down the ranks making  rude comments to certain of my classmates. I held my breath as he made his way along the front of the  row I was standing in. He paused for a moment in front of me and, looking me over carefully, gave me a  reluctant nod of approval.  I was feeling pretty smug and self-satisfied as he swung around to inspect our backs. All my hard work had paid off.  I was already beginning to work on my acceptance speech for the best turned out cadet when I heard the rhythmic click of the Sergeant’s heel clips stop directly behind me.  He was gasping and seemed short of breath but finally blurted out, “What the hell is that?” He prodded me in the ass with his swagger stick and I looked over my shoulder and down to the back of my  trouser leg. There, looking directly at Sergeant Saul was a tiny eyeball suspended on a long trailing ribbon of red tissue.