A Halloween to Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

A Bad Day in Harmony

A Bad Day in Harmony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Steer Horns of a Dilemma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where’s The Beef?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Persistent Prairie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t- he’s in there.”

“Who’s in there, Mom?”

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

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

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

“Don’t hang up the phone, Mom.

Is that you, Phyllis?”

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

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

Confession of a Karaoke Addict

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.