Crime and Punishment - 1886

Notes from an illustrated talk I gave, Sept. 20, 2018, at the Upper Ottawa Genealogical Group Library

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It was the autumn of 1886 and throughout the reaches of the Ottawa Valley it had been a wonderful fall.

 Most of the crops were in and soon the first contingents of men would be leaving for the lumber camps.

 In Pembroke Mr. Zack Halpenny was back at his livery business on the main street after one his horses took first prize at the Renfrew Fair.

Not far from his business - a bit east and across the street -  Mr. Benjamin Edwards had opened a butcher shop in the new Russell Block, about where Suzanne's Ladies Wear is today.

And  Henry  Hawkins was advertising his new grocery store next to Dunlop and Chapman's hardware business. 

At the other end of the street Mr. Arbuckle had just put in a new roller in McAllister's flour mill

and would stay on to run a bakery in connection with the mill after the previous baker ran off with the funds. 

Out side of town, in Oceolla, there was a new Blacksmith. 

In Cobden the Cobden Hotel had just been sold and was being renovated and August Linburg had just reopened his new tailoring shop.

 In Eganville, Mr. P. Brennan was about to open a new general store.   Eganville also reported that "The hum of the threshing machine may be heard in every direction and grain is turning out very well."

In this bucolic scene, on October the 11th,1886, outside of Palmer Rapids, on a warm and sunny morning, surrounded by the fields he had carved out of the woods and mere steps away from his home, Mr. David Koglin pick up a length of ironwood some 4 feet long and about an inch in diameter and used it to beat his neighbour, Mrs. Minnie Werckenthal, to death.

At the time of the incident David Koglin was described in the paper as being 44 years old, 5 feet 7 or 8 inches in height, dark complexioned, 180 pounds and of muscular build. He was, as many were in those days, unable to read or write. He was born in 1843 in Germany. He was a farmer there, owning 16 acres, was married, his first wife died and he remarried fathering three children. 

 Something happened, or something may have happened - it's unclear - he may or may not have set fire to a neighbour's home and he may, or may not have fled Germany to avoid jail time. At any rate he left, taking a boat to Canada arriving here in 1877.

He intended on going to Golden Lake but through some mishap ended up in Buffalo, New York.

His money all but gone he walked to Hamilton and then on to Toronto, a distance of about 100 miles, where some people there bought him a railway ticket to Sand Point. 

From there he walked to Renfrew, Douglas, Eganville, Brudenell, Rockport, eventually ending up in Palmer Rapids where he found employment with a Mr. McPhee, probably Donald McPhee who was a mill owner (census 1891)

When he finally got a few dollars ahead he walked 12 miles further into the bush, built himself a small shanty and began to clear the land. 

For two years he worked, clearing trees, farming the cleared acreage and making baskets in the evening for sale so he could buy flour and butter.

At the end of the two years of hard work he build a larger shanty and sent for his family. 

In June of 1880 they arrived in Cobden- his wife, their son of about 11 years, a younger daughter of about 5 or 6 and another daughter, perhaps about 14 - and began the 65 mile walk to Raglin Township

carrying with them 3 large feather beds, nine pillows and all their spare clothing. Three days later they arrived, footsore but happy at having a home of their own.

For the next number of years things went well for David. He  owned 100 acres of land with about 40 of those acres planted with crops. He had about a dozen cows, some pigs, sheep, chickens and a span of horses. He had a home and two barns, was prospering through hard work and was looking forward to becoming a rich man.

By all accounts he was not an easy man to live with. He worked hard, almost beyond normal, human endurance, and seemed to expect all around him to give no less an effort.

He quarrelled with and beat his son until that child left home at about age 16 or so. 

His wife seemed to have lived somewhat in fear of him of him saying "my husband has frequently beaten on me….he has beaten me with a stick and with his hands, he has struck me with the spinning wheel…he was passionate and would get into a passion for the slightest cause…." 

And perhaps as a fine example of damning someone with faint praise she said "he has never beaten me to cause severe injury or disable me at any time…"

Into this scene of pioneering toil and success came John Werckenthal, his wife Mina or Minnie and their two children. One of about five years of age and the other probably younger.

They had arrived in Canada about 1884 ending up in Palmer Rapids in February of 1886 and were told they could probably get accommodation with the Koglins until they were able to build a shanty on a piece of land they had acquired about three concessions from Koglin's.

Into their small home the Koglins took in these four extra mouths to feed and house. Within a month or so David and John had EITHER fixed up the original shanty or built a new shanty that was to be Davids to use when the Werkenthals left - which in a statement by John Werkenthal was to when there was snow enough to move his household goods.  Either way in March the Werckenthals had moved into it.

 In the spring he gave them a plot of land and ploughed a garden for them so the'd be able to feed themselves - all with the understanding it was temporary and John Werckenthal would soon build his own place and be gone. 

But that didn't happen. Or at least it wasn't happening as fast as David Koglin thought it should.

When the Werckenthal's had moved into their fixed up shanty, David had temporarily lent them a bedstead to use until perhaps John could make one for himself and his wife but by May that hadn't happened and he asked for it back. Mrs. Werckenthal collected the bed and flung it at him through the open door telling him to stick it down his throat and then slammed the door in his face. 

Months passed and the Werckenthal family made no indications they were about to leave any time soon. The two men had words on several occasions with John Werckenthal saying he had no intention of leaving until he was good and ready. 

Now the two families, living in isolation in the the woods, not more than 30 feet from each other, had more or less, stopped talking. 

Stopped talking except for what seemed to be constant bickering between Minnie Werkenthal and David Koglin. Once it was over some stones David had thrown into her garden and when she confronted him he told her he would "SPLIT HER HEAD WITH AN AXE" which he was holding at the time. Once it was about the chickens and another time a horse got out of it's enclosure and did some damage to the Werckenthal garden which they claimed was done on purpose. 

During this time David Koglin had twice gone to town to seek legal advice on how he could get rid of his unwanted neighbours, but what advise he was given was never revealed.

On that day, Monday, October 11th, at seven in the morning David Koglin again confronted the Werkenthals and told them he wanted them out that very day. John Werkenthal said he'd leave when he was ready but not before the snows came so he could transport his goods by sleigh to his new home. With that he picked up his gun and walked off into the bush to go hunting (David) or to find men to help put up his shanty (John)

David went to the barn to cut hay, undoubtedly still angry about this turn of events. While he was in the barn, and according to his statement, Mrs. Werkenthal continued taunting him until, in his own words "I could stand it no longer."

 At approximately 9 a.m. he walked over to the Werkenthal home and told Minnie he wanted her and her children out - right now. 

She of course refused, using, in his words  "very indecent and insulting language" and entered the house with her two children slamming the door behind her.

David then went to the barn for a hammer and nailed shut the door to the shanty.

There are a couple of versions of what happened next. 

The first -  and the least probable-

With Minnie and the children locked in the cabin he then went to his home, set alight some kindling and shavings from the woodbox, walked back to the Werckenthals shanty and set fire to it.  Minnie then chopped her way out, confronted him and he killed her

The other - is that almost immediately Minnie chopped her way out of the shanty. Koglin now, in his statement, thought the only way to get them out was to burn the shanty to the ground. 

He went to his home, lit some shavings on fire, returned to the Werkenthal shanty and set fire to the straw under the scoops at the North East corner of the house which would be the side closest to his home.

Minnie walked around the west side of the home, confronted David at the rear of the house, picked up a length of fire wood, yelled in German "YOU BAD PIG" and "You Devil…IS THIS THE WAY YOU INTEND TO KILL ME?   whereupon David picked up the length of ironwood, chased her around to the front of the shanty where they confronted one another -  and struck her on the forehead fracturing her FRONTAL BONE.

  She yelled out "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD" Then either tuned and fell, or perhaps just fell. She then attempted to rise.  Either way Koglin then hit her on the back of her head fracturing her OCCIPITAL BONE. 

She then fell forward, her face turned to the right.

 Saying "the devil was in him" Koglin continued beating her inflicting sever damage to the PARIETAL bone and to the TEMPORAL bone breaking the skin where pieces of bone and brain were visible. He had hit her hard enough that when her body was removed her face had been partially driven into the ground. 

At the time of her death Minnie Werkenthal was described as being 35 years of age, 5 feet 4 inches tall, about 140 pounds, of fair complexion with a strong, well developed body. It was also discovered at autopsy that she had been six months pregnant.

 Then, realizing the enormity of what he had done he turned, walked to his home, got his coat, told his wife she would never see him again and that she should take care of the Werckenthal children.

With that he walked out the door and across his field, pausing once at the edge of the forest to look back at his home and entered the bush.

Meanwhile the fire raged and although an attempt was made by one of Koglin's daughters to move the body of Minnie Werckenthal  the heat was too much and there she lay, the side of her body closest to the fire being extensively burned. 

An attempt had also been made to put out the fire but it was futile and one of the Googlien women took the two Werckenthal children to a near by neighbour. 

His plan was to starve himself to death but after five days or so he came to a river and decided to drown himself but seeing two grey birds settle nearby he took this as a sign he was to turn himself in. 

On October 19th he was taken first to Eganville and confined to a locked room in Foy's Hotel overnight until he could be transported the next day to the Pembroke Jail.

In Pembroke, his jailer, Mr. Wm. Cook reported that in the first weeks he was extremely agitated, rolling around on the floor of his cell, calling out in german, eating little, just enough to keep himself alive, pacing in his cell and presumably in the hallway outside the row of cells, sleeping very little. During this time although he never professed his innocence he blamed Minnie Werckenthal for all his troubles saying that in the afterlife he would confront her, telling her this was all her fault.

His trial was in  early April at the spring Assizes and it seemed to last no more than a day. He had a lawyer but had pled guilty and was sentenced to hang on June 6th. He apparently received his sentence with great composure, telling his council he was prepared to die and "would rather it would be so."

During the next two months there were one or two letters to the paper asking for clemency and an appeal to the minister of justice in Ottawa  which was denied. However David Koglin did not want to be spared the hangman's noose and was content with the sentence as it stood saying it would be against God's law if he were to be spared.

In  the months since his incarceration he became friends of a sort with William Cook who was, by all accounts a pleasant and genial man who, aside from his duty as turnkey also had a commercial vegetable garden across from the courthouse. The two men would often converse as much as possible as Koglin spoke little english.  He was fond of music and often he and Mr. Cook would sing hymns together they had heard wafting over from the nearby Methodist church

His son, who he had been estranged from visited often as did a couple of German speaking ministers from the area and they reported he had become genuinely remorseful of his murder of Minnie Werckenthal and was satisfied with the judgement he received as being God's law and he had no wish other than it be carried out.

  Friends visited and talked on religious and secular events and they too reported he was at peace with the verdict. He had made peace with his god and was prepared to atone for his crime.

Sundays were of special joy to him as he could hear the singing of hymns from the Methodist church near by and particularly liked the evenings when he could hear the children's choir.

In the days leading up to his execution he was a bit more agitated than he had been, pacing the hallway and for the final two days had been attended almost constantly by one of the local clergy men. He spent his last day, after a "fine breakfast of bread, butter and coffee"  with his son and they talked and joked and he seemed a peace.

On the evening before his execution Mr. Cook sat with him as they heard the children singing from the church and the two men sang along with some of the hymns and for the first  time he asked about the scaffold he had heard being built in the yard of the jail .

 He was told it was well built and tested and that he would feel no pain. The structure was twelve feet high with a trap door about three feet square. with the release mechanism well oiled and in good working order. And this seemed to bring him some comfort.

On his last night he slept only a few hours, arose abruptly and cried out "Oh mine Gott, mine Gott this is my last day."  He washed, combed his hair, dressed himself in a checked, tweed suit with a pair of carpet slippers on his feet. For the next hour or so he prayed and sang hymns until, as the paper put it, "The Sheriff and executioner arrived and demanded his body."

Some time before eight in the morning the sheriff and other officials entered his cell, asked if he was ready to which he replied "Yes," placed is hands behind his back where they were tied, with another rope tied around his arms above the elbows and with the two ministers leading the way the procession made it's way to the scaffold.

At the foot of the stairs they knelt and prayed then stood and sang three verses of the hymn that began  " Jerusalem, thou high built city, would to god I were in thee"   With that they mounted the stairs in front of an audience of about 30 people. There was a great audience both in front and at the rear of the jail with those behind the building able to see the tops of the heads of the people on the scaffold, and when the time came, to hear the fall of the trap door

Up to this point he had been perfectly calm but on standing on the trap door, as the hangman tied his legs together he faltered a bit and had to be supported by Mr. Cook. He then regained his composure and stood as the hangman placed a white hood over his head and adjusted the noose so as to have the knot in the right position.

The hangman was a local man, unrecognizable with his head and upper body concealed with a thick, black veil and at five minutes past eight he stepped on the release for the trap door and as the crowd held its breath, David Koglin SHOT THROUGH the trap door, fell about nine feet, rebounded a few inches, twitched slightly and then all was quiet except for the pealing of the bell at the near by church. 

There he hung for 3/4's of an hour and then was cut down, his body placed in a waiting coffin and was taken by his family to Rockport where he was buried. 

It was found on examining his body that the neck had not been broken in the fall but in all probability he had been rendered unconscious and had strangled to  death.

In the days following the execution there had been rumours about town that James Morris, the county Sheriff, had received $100 to pay the executioner and had turned that money over to the "officials" who then paid the executioner much less than the full amount. 

This, he said in a notice in the paper, had no truth to it. His deputy had paid the man the full amount for his duties.

Perhaps the last victim of this whole affair was the executioner himself. Although his face and torso had been concealed it soon became common knowledge as to his identity. He was a german and members of the local german community were going to make him pay for his deed. On Tuesday evening, June the 7th at 11:00 in the evening they gathered outside of his home and were prepared to run him out of town on a rail but he had gotten wind of the plan and had made good his escape. He subsequently sold all his household goods and left town.

In his will David Googlien left all his goods and property to his wife until her death or remarriage at which time the property was to be divided among his children. 

In the 1891 Census it would appear his wife did not remarry but stayed on and farmed the homestead with the help of her children and perhaps grand-children.

In the 1881 Census;

Gogline - David  38

              - Amelia  38

               -Austine 15

               - Charles 12

               - Augusta  6      Testimony 1886 - age 11

Gogliun - Emilia (Amelia) 48  Head of family  1891 (died c. 1911)

              - Charles - 25

              - Augusta  16

              - Minnie  10

              - David  8     (1885-1902)  

              - Mary 6

              - Henry   4  (1887 - 1979)

Hard To Be a Cop

                                          1928

                                         

           The Doaks family were well known in the town of Pembroke, known, unfortunately, for all the wrong reasons. When their names appeared in the papers it was never in the social columns but more often than not in the court news or having to do with some hi-jinx that caused a sensation among the more proper citizens of the community.

    In the early summer of 1892 one of the older Doaks boys was, along with a number of other men, brought up on charges of breaking a window in the store of Mrs. McNee, located on Pembroke Street opposite the Mackey House Hotel. When the case came up all the men involved vouched for each other and since it was their word against that of the store owners they managed to avoid either fines or jail time.

    In July of the same year one of the younger boys created something of a sensation when one Sunday, as church was, about to go in, he paraded along Renfrew Street in front of the Presbyterian Church with "a live skunk tied to his leg." It was reported that he was given a wide berth "by all who happened to get a sniff of either one or the other" and while he seemed to get great enjoyment out of the situation it was reported that neither the skunk nor the pedestrians shared in his enthusiasm.

      In the early days of 1893 Mr. Joe Doaks, the patriarch of the clan, was charged with failing to send two of his children to school and was summoned to appear before Police Magistrate Mitchell of the Pembroke judiciary.  Choosing not to attend the hearing he was fined five dollars and costs in absentia with a notice being sent to his home informing him of the judgement and his need to pay it. The home, said to be a rough dwelling on the banks of the Indian River, some of which was "partially an excavation in the hill,"  was eventually visited by Constable G.W. McMartin, truant officer for the town, who was either to collect the unpaid fine or, if he refused to pay, to take Mr. Doaks to jail.

    As may have been expected Mr. Doaks declined to pay, using, as the newspaper reported, "Language unfit for publication." and Mrs. Doaks, looking at the writ declared with a toss of her head, "Talk about this being the Queen's warrant. She never saw it in her life, no indeed." Not to be deterred Constable McMartin advanced to seize Mr. Doaks who picked up a nearby chair and attacked him. Mrs. Doaks then came at him with a poker, his sons set the dog upon him and as well attacked him with "formidable weapons"  including, it was reported, an axe.

    Under these circumstances the good constable was forced to retreat but returned later in the day with Constable Cook of the Pembroke police department as a reinforcement. Finding the door locked and barred Constable McMartin forced it open only to be attacked by the entire family, including the younger children. Receiving a blow to the face by the poker which "left a rather ugly mark" he non-the-less set out after Mr. Doaks who attempted to flee to the upper story of the home. Just as Mr. Doaks reached the top of the stairway Constable McMartin grabbed him by the leg but before he could secure him the constable had the trap door of the upper floor slammed on his head. 

    In the end Mr. Doaks was subdued and handed down to Constable Cook who had been spending his time fending off attacks from the rest of the family. On the way out the door the eldest boy, Joe junior. was apprehended for assaulting the police but he managed to escape from Constable Cook and remained at large. The elder Mr. Doaks was "conveyed to jail where he will be under Governor Wright's care for 30 days." 

       A week later Mr. G.C. Archer, a local retailer with a business on the main street, arrived at his store to find one of his front windows had a piece broken out of it. Examining the stock in the window display he found two items missing, a violin and an iron, toy train. Acting on information, he had a warrant made out to search the premises of the "notorious" Doaks family. The following morning, accompanied by Chief Constable Devlin he found, upon entering the home, the violin hanging on a wall and when pressed, Mrs. Doaks "hauled the toy train from underneath the bed." 

   That evening with a warrant being made out for Joe Doaks junior, aged 15 years, Constables Devlin and McMartin returned to the home, arrested him without difficulty and took him off to the cells to join his father.

   Upon interviewing him he confessed to the crime, also implicating his younger brother John Doaks, aged 12 years, who was subsequently arrested and incarcerated in the town jail.

   The next morning morning, at trial, Joe junior pled guilty and testified against his younger brother John, who had pled not guilty. Their lawyer, Mr. A.J. Fortier who had been hired by the boy's father, asked that they be sent to a reformatory where they "could have a chance to reform and learn a trade." Police Magistrate Mitchell said he would reserve judgement until 4 o'clock that afternoon, requesting the presence of both parents as well as the attendance of Mr. Flanagan, principal of the Separate School along with the boys of that school.

    That afternoon as court resumed the Magistrate ordered the parents be seated close to him so they could hear what he had to say. Issuing a severe rebuke to both parents, especially to Mrs. Doaks, the boy's step mother, for the manner in which they had raised their children saying they had all the advantages of "a good school where they would have received a good moral training" but instead the parents would not allow their boys to go to classes and indeed had encouraged other boys to stay away from school as well.

   The Magistrate said the reason he had asked the Separate School boys to be present was "to show them the evil effects of truancy" and warned the boys that the truancy act would be enforced as far as his powers lay in enforcing 

    it. He said the parents must have know the articles brought into the home had been stolen and they ought to have taken steps to return them to their rightful owner. In conclusion he stated he had the power to imprison the boys to fourteen years in the Kingston Penitentiary but he would "only sentence them to five years in the Penetanguishine Reformatory" which he did not consider a hardship but a blessing. He hoped at the end of their incarceration "if all parties lived" the boys would be in a position "to do by the parents better than the parents had done by them." However by 1897, a full year or more before the boys were due to be released, the elder Mr. Doaks was dead and it's unknown if he ever saw his sons prior to his death.

    It was brought up in court that the Doaks boys were probably to blame for many of the petty robberies that had taken place in Pembroke in the recent past and in fact they confess to "one or two of them." There was much scorn heaped upon the step mother by many in the court room who felt she "deserved a taste of imprisonment" for the callous manner with which she treated the boys and the position they were in. 

    Their father however, who had been brought up from the cells to attend the court case, was deeply affected by the proceedings and the paper reported "it was pitiable to see him bid good-bye to his lads, slipping an apple into each of their hands."

    That was all that was head from the Doaks family until April of 1895 when Mrs. Doaks herself was in court, charged with receiving stolen property after paying her son Wally, aged 11, and a friend for some pork she knew they had stolen from David Shepard's butcher shop. The boys got off with a stern lecture and a suspended sentence thanks to a new set of laws brought in the previous year that changed the way young offenders were dealt with. But Mrs Doaks, despite the best efforts of her lawyer, Mr. Lennox Irving, was sentenced to "one month's imprisonment in gaol."

    Around the first of May Mrs. Doaks perhaps had to miss a visit from Ezra, the eldest son of Mr. Doaks who  had been travelling throughout the United States and returned for a visit after an absence of some years. The younger Mr. Doaks exclaimed how much Pembroke had changed in his absence and how happy he was to be back for a visit.

        The Doaks house had a bit of a history as a home where people who would run afoul of the law would then fight the law when the police came calling. 

    In 1892 Constable Barrand of the Pembroke Police force visited the home of one one James Mc---, the location and description of which sounded much like the Doaks home. Mr. Mc---, better known as "the Gypsy,"  had a warrant issued for his arrest on a charge of beating his wife and in early January the good constable showed up at the house and informed Mr. Mc--- that he was a prisoner "in the Queen's name." The man seemed rather non-plussed by this, inviting the constable in before sitting at the table and telling him that "he might put the warrant wherever he liked, as he had no use for it" and with that opened four bottles of porter, poured them into a bowl and drank it down. 

    He then went about gathering weapons such as a manure fork, a large pair of shears and other things while politely telling Constable Barrand "using some language that would not appear very well in print" that he could go and tell the magistrate whatever he wanted but he wasn't going to jail. Seeing how "the gypsy" was armed to the teeth and was surrounded by his children who would have no doubt come to his aid the constable retreated to outside the house and "wisely took counsel from Mr. Jos. Biggs who happened to be on the scene," to send for reinforcements. Soon a group of men arrived, surrounded Mr. Mc--- who used all of his available weapons in an attempt to avoid arrest but in the end was overcome, arrested and taken off to the lock up. The next morning he appeared before Magistrate Mitchell and was sent to jail to await trial. 

    During the melee Constable Barrand received a "bad bruise and a cut on the hand" but was given great credit for "the pluck and determination he displayed in capturing the desperate man."

    Later in the week Mc--- was brought before Judge Deacon charged with resisting arrest and injuring Constable Barrand while arresting him. His two sons, James aged 13 and Thomas aged 11, were also brought  before the Judge, charged with assisting their father in resisting the arrest. The sons were let off on account of their youth and the father who was also charged with assaulting his wife was let off with a suspended sentence after posting a recognizance of $200. 

    The family must have left town sometime thereafter as by summer there was an item in the local papers referring to the Mc--- family, formerly of Pembroke, telling of the death their eldest boy, James, who was killed in a freak elevator accident while working as a bell boy at the Russell Hotel in Ottawa. He had jumped out of a moving elevator as it passed a floor, had slipped and was crushed to death as the elevator continued its decent.

    If being pummelled by the town miscreants wasn't enough to keep the officers of the law either busy or recovering, the town council, in June of 1892, decided to define the other roles the police should engage in. Mr. Devlin was named chief constable and as well his duties would entail the collection of taxes, enforce the by-laws and act as sanitary inspector. He was to be responsible for inspecting the streets and repairing the sidewalks in the east and west wards and every day but Sunday was to be at the Town Hall form 9 a.m. for an hour to answer any calls and to meet with citizens to hear their concerns or complaints. 

    Mr. McMartin was to be, besides a constable, the engineer of the fire engine, was to "take care of the fire appliances" and be caretaker of the Town Hall. He was also the truant officer and assistant by-law enforcer, collector of statute labour tax and messenger of the town council. He was, along with Mr. Devlin, to be at the town hall mornings until 10 a.m. and again from 1 to 3 p.m. to take calls and hear complaints from citizens. In his "spare hours"  he was to inspect and repair the streets and sidewalks of the centre ward. 

    Both men were to make a beat of the town in the evenings of one hour each, Monday to Saturday and for 2 hours on Sundays and when either one had a free moment they were to be at the town hall until 6 p.m.

    The infamous Doaks house made the news once more when on June 30th, 1898, acting on information the house was being used for immoral purposes, police constables Barr and Miller made a raid on "Mrs. Stone's establishment near the Indian River Bridge" and arrested four people. Two days later, on Saturday July 2nd, when brought up before Magistrate Mitchell the "two (unnamed) young men swore themselves through with the aid of the women, and were let off with a severs lecture by His Worship."  

    The two women, Mrs. Stone and Miss Emily J. Beaker, did not fare quite so lucky. Both were fined $10 and $6.25 in costs and were ordered to "leave the town immediately."  The fines of $16.25 might seem slight by today's standards but in those times it was a considerable amount when most fines for breaching the peace rarely amounted to more than $2 and costs. The only fines that regularly exceeded that was for the offence of selling liquor after hours and the men convicted were often repeat offenders and were otherwise respected hotel proprietors. Even the "crime" of being poor and homeless invariably resulted in a sentence of thirty days in jail at hard labour.

    There were undoubtedly other assaults on the police in performance of their duty but a most notable one occurred decades later in mid December of 1926. One evening, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, officer Kenny of the Pembroke police force was patrolling the main street and happened to see Mr. Hector D--- stagger into two women. Speaking to D--- he advised him to go home but later while talking with his wife near Woolworth's store Mr. D--- again staggered into a woman. This time it was Officer Kennedy's wife. The policeman again advised D--- to go home but the man became abusive, using foul language against the officer who then placed him under arrest and with some difficulty managed to get his prisoner around the corner and onto Prince Street. Here he tried to get him into a car in order to take him to the lock up at the town hall but D--- fought the policeman, kicking him in the stomach during the struggle. Eventually both the policeman and his prisoner got into the back seat of the car whereupon  D--- tried to open the opposite door and escape. Again a fight ensued between him and the officer with the policeman getting the worst of it. By this time, according to the paper, a crowd of about 500 people had gathered to watch the scene and among them was Frank D---, a cousin, who came to the aid of his relative and also set upon the policeman but eventually realizing what was happening, began assisting the constable in the arrest. By this time there was a general melee on the street. There were people helping the policeman, there were people helping the man arrested and there were spectators fighting among themselves. Presently Constables Jette and Carnegie arrived on the scene, got the man into the car and found a driver. By now D--- seemed to have quieted and  was pleading with the officers to allow him to go and see his sick mother before being taken off to jail and so the car with three policemen and two suspects drove to a home on Lake Street. 

     Two of the Constables accompanied D--- into the house but as officer Kenny entered the home D--- slammed the door behind him and in the hallway again attacked the officer. Hearing the ruckus inside Constable Carnegie pushed open the door, went to the aid of his fellow officer and succeeded in getting D--- off of Constable Kennedy. As this was happening D---'s brother George arrived home with his wife and seeing the fight occurring in the house went to the aid of his brother. He grabbed Officer Kenny by the throat, threw him to the ground and began choking him. Hearing his fellow officer being throttled, Constable Carnegie, who was struggling to get a pair of handcuffs on the prisoner, leapt to the aid of Officer Kennedy. As all this was happening a small boy ran to the waiting car where Constable Jette was still sitting and yelled out "they're killing a policeman." Hearing this Jette ran to the house and managed to pull George D--- off of Officer Kennedy who by now was "almost black in the face." At this point the policemen turned all their attention to officer Kennedy who was in some distress, taking him to the town hall where he was attended to by Dr. Delahey. Besides being badly choked he was also suffering from intense pain from the blow to the stomach and was badly bruised about the face and mouth. Constable Carnegie had also "suffered a pommeling" and Constable Jette had one eye blackened. 

    A summons was issued for the D--- boys and on the following Monday, appearing before County Magistrate Chown, they were all charged with a variety of crimes and were remanded to jail. 

    There was such an interest in the case that on the day of their sentencing a temporary courtroom was set up in the town hall to accommodate the spectators which the papers estimated to be about 500 people, including it was reported, "a scattering of women". 

    The first case was for Hector D--- who, for assaulting a police officer, was fined $140 and costs and for being intoxicated in a public place was fined $10 with costs on both sums.

     George D---, charged with assaulting a police officer, was sentenced next and due to extenuating circumstances and being of previous good character was fined $50 and costs with both men each having to post a $500 dollar bond and keep the peace for two years. 

    Frank D--- was charged with obstructing a police officer in execution of his duty and fined $10 and costs.

Note - all names of the accused in this tale have been changed. 

Rosanne Ouellete 

  A short tale written for the fall, 2007 newsletter of the Upper Ottawa Valley Genealogical Group.

It was 1848 and seventeen year old Miss Rosanne Ouelette of LaPasse was in love and wanted to get married. There was however, a problem. That problem was her parents to whom Rosanne was their pride and joy and perhaps more specifically the problem was her father who, if he could not prevent the marriage of his daughter, could at least place conditions upon it.

 Rosanne's love was young Richard Holden of Chichester, Quebec, a lumberjack by trade and owner of a small piece of property at Trout Lake, back of Sheenboro where he planned to take his new bride. Trout Lake, a place 35 miles away from LaPasse, a considerable distance in those days when travel was by horse, through untamed wilderness on roads that were only that in name. This was not what the Ouelette's of LaPasse had envisioned for their daughter and so a compromise was reached. Rosanne and Richard could marry but only if Richard promised not to take his bride away from her family for three years, when she reached the age of twenty-one and, perhaps had time to reflect on her decision.

But finally in the spring of 1851, still in love, the couple at last left for their new home. It was a sad and tearful parting for both parents and child. Rosanne had never been apart from her family and they, in their love, had shielded her from the troubles of life. Now she was off to the wilderness and to a new life, one she could hardly envision. 

Arriving at her new home she was, to say the least, shocked. There was not another house for three miles or more in any direction and her new home was a log dwelling, 20 feet square with a flat roof covered in sod and a cellar to store provisions in. A far cry from the comfortable home of her parents. That first night in her new home she lay with her husband as a dozen wolves howled outside the low walls of the shanty and tried to get in by scratching through the roof. 

Her husband, experienced in the ways of the bush and knowing he would be gone working for long periods of time had made the roof out of two layers of criss-crossed red pine planks, each two inches thick. The door too was reinforced, three inches thick, well cleated, hung on solid wrought iron hooks and when closed was barred, both upper and lower, with three inch oak bars. The two small windows were similarly protected from the dangers without with ventilation provided by openings in the logs near the roof.

That summer they farmed the land and tended to their livestock which consisted of two cows, some pigs and poultry but for much of the time she was alone and afraid to wander far from the shanty lest some stranger should pass by. On hearing the approach of someone she would hurry to the house and bar herself in, remaining quiet until they left. On those occasions when she was caught unawares and not able to reach the safety of the house she would hide in the bush until the visitors left which at times took quite a while. It was not uncommon for a man to enter the house and wait until someone returned to offered him food. Once two men discussed if there was anyone there with one fellow saying there must be, saying "there is a fire on in the hearth."

Winters were particularly hard as great blizzards blew down out of the hills making it almost imposable to open the door with the drifts piled in front of it but open it she must as the cattle had to be milked and the poultry fed. Neighbours occasionally came to visit but unless there was a woman in the party she was not at home. During this time Richard made it home every other weekend after a long nights walk from the lumber camp where he worked and at least those visits kept her sane and hopeful but when he was gone for extended periods during the spring drives to Quebec City she found the time the the loneliest. 

After three years of this she had had enough and told her husband that if he didn't get her out of that lonesome place she would go stark raving mad. And so they left, away from the bush and the lonely days and nights and in the telling of this at the age of 102 she could now laugh in wonder at those years.

    FENTON & SMITH’S, 1888 to 1926

                              The Albion Hotel to the right with Fenton & Smith beside it.

 The building which today is the home of Jamie Gallant’s Dentistry practice has had a long history as a premier commercial address in the town of Pembroke. Those who are in their middle years today may remember it as being the home of the Royal Furniture Co. For those a bit older it will always be Eaton’s where, if no other memory of it exists, there is the warm recall of that December elevator ride to the third floor where the delights of toyland and a visit with Santa were a yearly delight.

In its early years however, in the 1880’s, it was not one big store but three smaller ones, each with their own entrance and storefront window and was known as the Slattery Block.

But at the turn of the last century it was best known as Fenton & Smith’s Department store.

Mr. William Fenton was born in England and upon leaving school, farmed until the age of 27 when he went into business for himself. In 1888 he emigrated to Canada and moved to Pembroke where he purchased the stock of Coburn, Shea & Co. for $14,000, opening a dry goods and clothing business at the old location of that store.

Mr.James Smith was a native of Westmeath Township, attending school in nearby Cobden. In 1884 he took a position as clerk with in the general store of  Cameron & Glenn which is now approximately where 21 Pembroke Street west is, remembered by many as the location of the old Crescent Gardens Restaurant. When Cameron & Glenn closed in 1886 he went to work for Coburn & Shea and in 1888 when that business closed Smith stayed on with William Fenton as he sold the remaining stock  from Coburn & Shea and then opened his own store under the name of W. F. Fenton selling mens and ladies clothing, footwear and dry goods. At the time it was thought that Pembroke had more businesses than the trade warranted but undeterred, Mr. Fenton felt the business opportunity was there and was determined to be a part of it.

Then in May of 1890 there was a notice in the papers announcing W.F. Fenton “has taken into partnership J. Smith who has been in the employ of the firm.”  

                                                     Fenton & Smith - 1902

It was a bit of a humble beginning as they only occupied the most westerly of the three stores in the Slatterly Block but they soon outgrew that location and moved to the recently vacated Beamish’s Dry Goods store on the corner of Pembroke Street west and Moffat Street where today Ullrich’s Cafe is located. There they remained for five years at which time they had prospered enough to, around 1900, purchase the Slattery Block and move their business back to that location. Now they expanded, combining the middle and westerly stores to house their business and added a grocery department to their enterprize. In September of 1902 with the coming of telephone service to Pembroke they acquired a phone and their ads now gave their number as 27.

Sometime in mid to late decade, J.S. Fraser who had occupied the most easterly of the three stores in the Slattery Block since opening his Royal Shoe Store in 1892, moved to what today is 80 Pembroke Street west, now the home of a ladies nail boutique. He had prospered enough in the years since leaving the partnership of Thompson & Fraser Shoes that he bought his new location and expanded his manufacturing enterprise, hiring Mr. F. Timm to manage that department.

With this new space, Fenton & Smith expanded their “men’s furnishings”  selling a complete line of men’s and boy’s wear and accessories, including men’s furs and fur coats. Also on the ground floor was the grocery and crockery department, general dry goods and smallware.

On the second floor was ladies ready to wear, ladies furs and fur coats of which they claimed “the stock is large and of the highest quality.”  There too were the household furnishings including rugs, carpets and linoleum. Here as well was their tailoring department specializing “ in fine tailoring for ladies and men” under the direction of their expert tailor, Mr. Alex Ramsey who ran it until October of 1918 when Mr. A.B. Horning of Hamilton, Ontario took over the department.

The third floor was probably apartments as occasionally through the years there were references to apartments at Fenton &  Smith’s.  

Like many of the local businesses of that era they accepted produce from the local farmers as payment for goods purchased and throughout their existence they were well known as being “the farmers depot.” In fact they were a major purchaser of such things as hay and oats that along with other food stuffs they would supply to the lumber camps or Shanties in the surrounding areas as well as exporting these to both Great Britain and the United States. Each autumn there would be ads placed in the local papers looking for fifty men to take supplies into the lumber camps instructing those interested to apply to Fenton & Smith’s.

They also became major advertisers in the local papers of the day and undoubtedly knowing their market they aimed most of these at the ladies of the town with ads for ladies and children's wear and household items being most prominently featured.

In June of 1918 when the worst fire to ever visit Pembroke decimated much of the main street their store was one of the fortunate ones receiving some damage to the front of the building but sparing the structure as a whole. Along with giving a ten percent discount to anyone affected by the fire they took this opportunity to remove the old front and erected a “modern new front which will be more in keeping with the proportions and demands of their business.”  

Over the years, through the nineteen-teens and into the twenties they continued to prosper with only the occasional setback as when someone broke into their store. There was a bit of a crime wave in Pembroke in 1921 with so many break-ins the Observer newspaper began to have a crime of the week column. Unfortunately Fenton & Smith’s was a target one evening when someone broke in and exchanged an old set of men’s clothing for a snazzy, new outfit. The police were on the lookout for a well dressed man but the culprit was never caught.

Stores in those years kept long hours opening at nine in the morning and remaining open until nine in the evening. In 1921 a group of merchants including Fenton & Smith opted to close early, at 5 p.m., except Saturdays, during the months of July and August to allow their employees time off to enjoy the summers evenings. Then in 1924 there was a new push to try and have the downtown merchants close their businesses at one o’clock on Wednesday afternoons. The town fathers felt the young people of the day were missing out on one of the delights of the summer season, a day trip up the Ottawa River on the Steamer Oiseau. Not many accepted this in the first year or two but eventually all, including Fenton & Smith’s conceded the day to the youth of the town, thus beginning a long tradition in the business section of Pembroke.

Another tradition most businesses offered to their customers was home delivery of anything bought at their store. At Fenton & Smith’s if you spent over a dollar, delivery was free, if you spent less than that ten cents would avail you of the service. In the early 1920’s they became the first store to use an automobile rather than a horse drawn conveyance to get your goods to your door.

Then in September of 1926, after almost three decades in business they announced they were merging their store with the Canadian Department Stores, a subsidiary of Eaton’s Department Stores. They had one last big sale and by the end of the year Fenton & Smith’s was no more. In May of 1927 the first ad for the Canadian Department Store appeared and with it and they opened a new “Groceteria”  with the revolutionary concept of self service where the shopper walked the aisles and helped themselves to the goods they wanted, taking them, when finished, to the “wrapping and pay” stations.

That Christmas they instituted another long tradition when they opened a toyland with a Santa there to greet the children.

At their closing Fenton & Smith’s was the second oldest business in town and had seen the main street go from a rutted and dusty thoroughfare with wooden sidewalks to a business section that was modern and up to date in every respect. I have no doubt their passing, while done done without disruption to their employees, was a sad day for many in the town and surrounding area as another old tradition, that of going to shop at Fenton & Smith’s, passed into history.

Breakfast at the Pembroke St. B. & B., Oxford.

    I had spent some time in Wales and the southern part of England and was now slowly making my way back to London where I was to catch a flight to Singapore in a week or so. On this particular evening I found myself once again, after dark, in a strange city looking for lodgings for the night. I was near the historic centre of town, wandering around looking for the usual dimly lit signs that advertised tourist accommodations. I was, as always, scouting out the less prosperous inn or the home fallen on hard times and now taking in visitors as a way to pay off the killing taxes or to supplement a small pension. I happened upon Pembroke Street and it caught my eye, as it was the name of the town of my birth. I looked along a narrow, cobbled street, wet from a recent rain and decided to walk down it just to see where it led. About mid way down the street there it was, the sign that I had been looking for, a weathered shingle, advertising a bed and breakfast and in the type of house I knew that I could afford. It was an old one on a street of ancient row houses that leaned against each other for support. The windows were dark and a dim light inside the front door was the only indication that it was at all inhabited. I rang the bell and waited, rang it again and eventually an old man in a mauve and grey, moth eaten cardigan slowly opened the door, looked at me and asked the question. “Yes?” I explained that I was looking for a room and asked if he had one for rent. It turned out there were several and I was led up two narrow, slanting flights of stairs to a room in the attic. There beneath a sloping ceiling was a room, probably furnished in some distant time of middle class prosperity and now had taken on the look of a faded and failed attempt at some sort of elegance. The bed, which occupied the majority of the room, was an old four-poster, piled high with patchwork quilts that were now themselves patched and torn. It had a definite hump in the middle and I could see that getting into it was going to pose a bit of a problem as the hump was about chest high on me. There was a wood veneer dressing table with a pitted and yellowing mirror and a chair with the frayed remains of a padded seat. The walls and the sloping part of the ceiling were wallpapered in a pattern of large, unrecognizable flowers coloured in a way that was reminiscent of old postcards. A dim bulb with a cracked shade protruded from the wall above the bed. It was perfect. It was run down, down at the heels, musty, light shone through cracks in the wall of the adjoining room and it was cheap. I took it! I was given two keys, one for the front door, one for the room and was told that I had to be in by midnight and that breakfast was served in the basement at seven o’clock.

    I spent the evening wandering about the town, having a bite to eat and as the evening wore on and it began to rain I took in a movie. It was I believe, Hawaii with Charlton Heston. This was the first time I had been to a movie outside of Canada and was surprised that after the playing of the national anthem that there were quite a few minutes of adds on the screen. This hadn’t become part of the movie going experience in Canada yet where it was still felt that if you paid to see a movie then it would be free of advertisements for non-movie stuff. Even snacks weren’t  advertised except in the most general of terms inviting you to have a drink and a candy bar or popcorn in the lobby. There was an intermission as the movie was a long one and I later found out that there was always a break so that young, uniformed girls could walk the aisles selling treats from great trays hung around the neck like the type usually seen on cigarette girls in movies that featured swank night clubs. I spoke briefly to a young man on my right who struck up a conversation with me and we talked of the movie, the town and my recent travels. 

     It was a pleasant way to spend an evening and when the movie ended I walked back to the boarding house and trudged up the stairs to my room. I had begun to unpack things for bed when the door to the adjacent room opened and voices were heard. The old man who had showed me my room was now showing a couple the room next door. It looked as if I might have neighbours and I was hoping that they were going to be quiet as I was looking forward to a good night’s rest. A few moments later I could hear them talking in the hall, thanking the man for showing them the room but deciding against taking it. They were obviously made of more delicate stuff than I. Now ready for sleep I managed to get up onto the bed, which went from a convex shape to concave. I was now sleeping in a hollow, the outer edges of the bed ballooned up around me and I could see a struggle in the morning just to get out of it. I pulled the comforter over me and was pushed farther down into the bed from the weight of it. The thing was about triple the poundage of any blanket I had ever used and I thought that it was probably filled with decades of accumulated dust mite droppings and other assorted debris. Never the less I fell asleep and only awoke to the sound of my alarm in the morning.

    I washed and shaved and finally made my way to the basement dining area where I was surprised to find the place packed with men, mostly of my own age or a bit older and one or two couples, all crowded around a few long tables. From a window at the far end of the room came the sounds of the kitchen, dishes rattling, water running and orders being called. A woman and the same elderly man that had shown me the room the night before were shuttling back and forth between the service window and the tables. There was much bustle and a few of the people had already began to eat their breakfast of fried eggs, a couple of sausages, toast and that English favourite, broiled tomatoes.  It was sunny outside and rays of sunlight streamed in through the windows set high in the basement wall. Motes of dust showed in the cool air and coffee mugs steamed in the sunshine but what most of the eyes were focused on was the old man serving the plates of food. He still wore the same clothes from the night before, the same aged cardigan now looking even worse for wear in the light of day. His balding head was head was bowed as he walked from kitchen window to table bearing plates of food. He shuffled and seemed over worked and harried as he struggled to keep up with the influx of people that had descended to the basement. Those not eating watched only him as they waited for their food to be cooked and served. The middle aged and stout woman that was also serving seemed to be ignored as she went about her business.

    The old man now shuffled back to the window to load up with more plates of food, one plate balanced on each forearm and a plate in each hand. All eyes turned to watch him and at first I thought it was just hungry boarders eager for their food, each hoping to be the next served that kept their attention fixed on him. But as he passed through a ray of sun and turned to show his profile I saw the reason for all the attention paid him. His head was bent over the food, his face directly above one or the other plate on each forearm as he wavered among the tables. Wispy strands of grey hair shone in the light but what now drew my attention was his nose. It was an old mans nose, the prominent feature on his face, long and slightly hooked and in the chill of the morning, held what seemed to be a gleaming jewel at the very end. It was this jewel, this prism that everyone watched. It shone in the light, it wavered with each step and seemed to expand and retreat with each breath, it held the colours of the rainbow and no diamond has ever sparkled with such clarity in the light of the sun. No diamond hung on the neck of a movie star has ever demanded such rapt attention, has ever evoked such interest in a group of hungry diners. The man had a serious case of nasal drip and now with both hands occupied was unable to deal with it. The problem was now beyond the help of a good sniff, it needed a wipe and a blow but until the plates were deposited the large drop of shimmering mucus hung suspended over the plates of our food. We all waited for the thing to take on a bit more weight, to overcome the moment of inertia and fall, to make the trip from comedy to tragedy. As he passed by each table to make his way to the far end of the room all eyes watched the progress of the drip on the end of his nose. The same thought was in each of our minds, whose plate would it land on when it finally fell? Who would be the one that would have to do without his or her breakfast that day? Who would sit, nursing a coffee, looking at the plate before him, hungry but unable to reach for the utensils and dig in to the mornings repast? Which one of us would sit and be mocked by what seemed to be a perfectly good plate of food waiting to be eaten but harbouring a barely perceptible gift that prevented the taking of it? Each of us hoped that it would be another that our breakfast would be spared, that someone else would be the recipient of the tainted meal. But I am also sure that each of us secretly hoped that it would fall, that someone other than us would be the star in this play. We wanted it to fall, we wanted that release that would come in a burst of shared laughter when it sailed through the air and hit the plate. We wanted someone to be the fool, for the old man and the woman to look up and wonder what the laughter was all about, for someone to try and explain why they wanted a new plate of food.

    Or it could have gotten even better. Someone unaware of the drama taking place in front of them might receive the object of our attention and heartily dig in, not knowing the part they were playing in the mornings farce. Sausages would be devoured, eggs eaten and the yolk wiped up with toast, perhaps even the tomato would be eaten and any hope or fear that the drip was avoided would be put to rest. We would watch in fascination this meal being eaten even as we ate our own. We would be thankful it wasn’t us being the unconscious eater of an old mans nasal discharge.

    The plates now deposited, a cloth handkerchief was brought out and the offending drip was wiped away. He again returned to the window for more plates and once his hands were full the drip reappeared and again the drama ensued for yet another round of servings. I don’t know if the drip ever actually fell. Once your meal arrived safe to eat you turned your attention to it and left the watching to those yet to be served. I don’t think it ever fell, ever made the trip from nose to plate. There was never any outburst of laughter but for the moments before your meal was brought to the table the comedic suspense filled the room and all were brought together in the shared moment. 

    Breakfast over I wandered the town, visited the university, explored shops, took in the sights. But all of that is now part of my forgotten past and only the memory of that rundown guesthouse and the breakfasts served there remain. The town is just another pretty town out of hundreds I have visited but that old man and his problem are a rarer memory than ivy covered walls and the pretty streets of old Oxford.

       

Why I Can’t Hear “Send In The Clowns” without Hearing The Ocean.

       It was August of 1975 and I was standing at the gate of a house on Addison Road in the town of Manley. An hour earlier I had got off a plane from New Zealand and now I was staring at a rather run down house on a quiet street of middle class homes. Homes that were all trying to better themselves except for this one. It seemed to have quit trying some time ago and now was happily drifting into decrepitude. The whole theme of the place was summed up by a Volkswagen Beetle that sat mouldering in the front yard. It was filled, front seat and back, floor to roof, packed to the 'gunnels with empty beer cans. Weeks later when we emptied the car we disturbed a small city's worth of cockroaches living off the stale beer but now as I passed this empty Fosters container I wondered what I was getting myself into. The trepidation deepened as I opened the screen door and entered the porch. It too was filled at one end, floor to ceiling, with empty cases of beer. There was a kings ransom to be had in empties between the porch and the car. Even as an avid beer drinker I was astounded at the number of empties in one small house. I knocked, or I should say we knocked. I was traveling with Linda McNeely, a nurse I had known in Toronto and had met in Auckland after friends we were both writing to told us of the others address. So we'd met, hung around together, traveled together and were now standing at the door of this house in Manley. She had worked with the lady who lived there and was told to drop in if she ever needed a place to stay. 

    So here she was, here we were. No one answered the door. We tried it and found it unlocked. Well she did say drop in and so in we went. The house was what you might expect from the outside. It was clean, well, cleanish. Dishes were piled up in the sink in the small kitchen but the rest of the place was not one that induced revulsion. It was just run down. There were a couple of chairs, a TV and an old leather sofa that was propped up on one end by a couple of bricks. It could have used a brick or two more as the sofa sort of ran downhill. Anyone who sat on it tended to lean a bit to the left. It was dingy inside but then I was used to that. Middle class Australia homes  that I had been in weren't noted for their cheery ambiance. It was as though paint, or at least colourful paint, was an unheard of entity. Most homes seemed to be done in institutional colours, depressing greens from the psych ward or browns redolent of nicotine stained pubs that had last seen paint after Gallipoli. This house was owned, or rented, by a woman and her two grown children. This woman, Shirley, was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties and her children were a boy in his late teens and a daughter in her early twenties which was about my age at the time. The son had embraced vegetarianism while the rest of the family were rabid meat eaters but the food wars that occupied meal times were all done in good fun. To this day I still think of meat as “bad veggies” in the parlance of the son and his grain eating, dope smoking, beer swilling and totally likeable friends. Shirley was the star of the house. There is a class of people in the world who are often just getting by on long hours of work at poor paying jobs, who have had their fair share of bad luck or missed opportunities but who embrace life with a sense of fun and with open arms. People who welcome in another mouth to feed, another body to house in an already cramped dwelling and do it with a joy. People who immediately make you feel welcome and part of the family. Shirley was one of those. The most striking thing about her was her hair. It was a coif that had last seen it's popularity peak before the late nineteen forties. It was dyed jet black and swept up in a wave at the front and long down the back. Service men returning home after the second world war were greeted by girlfriends with this hair. Benny Goodman played his clarinet to young women with this hair. And then it went away. But not with Shirley. Through the hard times of the conservative fifties, through the turbulent revolutions of the sixties and now into the seventies she had stuck with the up swept hair, the heavy lashes and the ruby red lips. She had her look and she stuck to it.

   She was a bar maid in a lawn bowling club. That is to say she had an enviable job. Lawn bowling clubs in Australia are not just sporting clubs. They are that, but as well they are social clubs, a home away from home, a second family, a place where everybody knows your name. A popular bar maid at a club has status, has arrived at the height of bar tending. At one time in her life she had tended bar at a yacht club in northern Australia, in Queensland. There she met the actor Ernest Borgnine who was on a fishing holiday. They had, she claimed, had an affair and so began one of my slight claims to fame. I now have had the honour to have shook the hand that held Ernest Borgnine's…..well, you get the drift. 

    Linda was shown to a bed in her daughters room and I was given an old chesterfield on a back porch to sleep on. Although we had traveled together for months we were just friends. Linda was a  person who, I imagine, had been the homely confidant of pretty girls relating their exploits with handsome boys and had listened patiently when those relationships went bad. That and her job as a nurse seemed to create a no-go zone when it came to men. She was fun to be with but was, for all intense and purposes, a-sexual. It was a perfect traveling relationship, free of fights and jealousies and expectations but based on a need for occasional companionship and the pleasure of having someone to talk to over a meal or on a train going somewhere.

     I loved living in this house with its comings and goings of a variety of young people and the constant laughter of youth. Linda got a job waitressing at the Steyne, a popular bar on the beach and I found employment working in a garlic processing plant where my job was to cut the roots from heads of garlic with a pair of spring loaded shears. At the end of the day I'd ride the bus home reeking of garlic and with a hand so sore I couldn't uncurl it from the shape of a claw. Later I took a job at a warehouse for Avon where I packed boxes for sales ladies all over New South Wales and rode the bus home smelling of every scented Avon product there ever was. Women would move closer to catch whatever odour I was redolent with that day and men eyed me with suspicion. It was a good time in my life, filled with parties and noisy evenings at home watching the telly. There were walks along the beach and night time strolls through the little town just a ferry ride away from Sydney but a world removed from the hustle and bustle of that city. 

     When I lived there, Manley was an old persons town. It was filled with tottering, grey haired seniors going to the chemists or coming from the take away clutching containers of  fish and chips or soggy, gristle filled meat pies. The Corso, Manley's main street, a traffic free mall, was all but empty after nine in the evening. Years later when I went back it had changed. It was now filled with young south east Asians, the meat pie shops replaced by Thai and Cambodian restaurants and at eleven at night the place was hopping. I think I liked it better in the old days. The Styne was still there, unchanged. But the serious Aussie drinkers had been replaced by a younger and more ethnic diverse crowd. 

    But this isn't about Manley or any of the people in my life at that time. It's about Judy Collins singing Send In The Clowns

    

    I had been in love once. Oh not just in love but in capital L, pulse racing, mind swirling Love. I had lived and breathed love. I had worshiped this woman with a passion that all but stopped my heart. Poets write about such love, painters paint it. People die from it and die happy. We had lived in an apartment on Walmer Road just off Bloor Street in Toronto. There were autumn walks through leaf strewn streets, bundled up against the cold, the feel of a mittened hand in yours. There were nights at the Brunswick Tavern drinking draft beer and singing along with the patrons who staggered up on stage to belt out a tune. Summers were spent on Toronto island eating food from a picnic basket or savouring good ice cream at that old fashioned ice cream parlour near Honest Eds. We hosted parties, went dancing and people smiled at us we were so obviously smitten, so much in love. But then it ended. To say I was heart broken is a cliché and very much understates the turmoil I went through. I would have welcomed death. I drifted through months of despair. My world had collapsed inward and I could hardly breath. I changed jobs, carried on living, pretending I wasn't dying. Over time I slowly resurfaced. I now worked at Mount Sinai Hospital, met Terry Allen and had one of those years that decades later I can still tell stories about. It was one of my better years. But underneath it all I was still in love. The mention of her name could send me reeling. I hated her happiness and I thought peace was lost to me. I resumed my plans to travel that I had harboured since my youth and so bought a ticket to England beginning the great adventure of my life. Months went by, I flew to Singapore, caught a boat to Perth in Australia and long after that I was sitting, reading a letter on the veranda of a bar in the town of Port Villa on the South Pacific island of Vanuatu. Mail had found me here by way of general delivery and a letter from friends in Toronto had made its way to this small island. Buried among the small talk was the news that she had gotten married to a man twenty years her senior and had moved to Edmonton. Now she was lost to me, now it really was over. Now she was someone else's. The  acute pain wasn't there but still, I thought, it should have been me who was the happy groom. We should have been the storied couple. I hoped for failure, for pain and recrimination, for regret at having left me. I hoped she lay in her bed at night, awake as her husband slept, wondering where I was and what I was doing. I stared out over the aqua marine sea, past the palms, looking far beyond the horizon to the other side of the world. To that cold and colourless city where part of my heart  lay fading into memory. 

     I continued traveling, continued having more adventures than I ever could have hoped for. I wandered through the Islands of the South Pacific ending up living with a family in Fiji and now almost a year later I was in Manley. 

    Music had been my companion through all these months. Songs heard on car radios while hitch hiking, background songs in restaurants and bars, songs heard on other peoples stereos. In Queenstown on the south Island of New Zealand I worked mornings in the kitchen of the Ramada Inn, or the ram-it-in as the staff called it. We lived in the staff hostel and afternoons were spent skiing the slopes of  the surrounding mountains. Nights were spent in the local pubs. It was a ski resort town, full of young people, full of fun and over and over again I heard Elton John singing “butterflies are free my love/ fly away/ bye, bye” and I thought that was me. Free, flying away to where ever and whatever my fancy took. I was the one to be envied, I was flying free into the welcoming, open arms of life. I was so glad to be alive and here and with a great unknown off into the future. Glad not to be tied down to marriage and conventionality. Now she was fading into my memory, on the way to becoming a part of my past rather than a constant part of my present.                                                         

   Another popular song of the day was Send In The Clowns. It was played in the background of a hundred places I had been. I liked the song but it had held no significance for me. It was just another pretty song whose lyrics I had never paid much attention to.

    At night, here in Manley I would settle into my somewhat uncomfortable bed on the back porch. I'd pull my sleeping bag and extra blankets up around my chin as protection against the cold night air of an Australian winter and I would drift off to sleep.. Behind the house, unseen through the brush and down a steep hill there was a small, sheltered bay and a sandy beach. Mothers with young children would go there during the day to sun bathe or swim in the safe waters of this little cove. At night I could hear the incoming tide washing up on the shore in a gentle swoosh, an occasional wave would break but it was a kind and peaceful sound. Someone, somewhere in this neighbourhood loved the song “Send In The Clowns” and it seemed most nights as I was drifting off to sleep, this recording would play. It was close enough that I could clearly hear it but far enough away so that it blended in with the sound of the ocean washing over the soft sand of the beach below. It seemed now to hold a significance to me. The lyrics, obtuse perhaps, without knowing the story of the play they were written for, spoke to me and my condition. I had been in love, had lost that love, had felt that peace and contentment were beyond me. Turmoil had reigned, ebbed and subsided into memory. I had come through the fire, not totally unscathed perhaps but not too badly burnt either. The scars were healing, no, healed and I was at peace, not just with the past but with myself. As I lay there, everything I owned in the world in a backpack beside me, I would not have turned back the clock and changed history even if it were within my power. I had an enviable life, had had enviable experiences and was looking forward with eager anticipation to the future. 

    The opening strains of the song wafted in the night air like a fragrance. A melancholic oboe played the opening bars, the almost ethereal voice of Judy Collins singing “Isn't it rich/aren't we a pair/ me here at last on the ground/ you in the air”, the sound of the incoming tide intermingling with the song. I wished she were here with me. Not to rekindle a now dead romance but to show her how well I was doing.  “Don't you love farce/ my fault I fear/ I thought that you want what I want/ sorry my dear”. The song, the ocean breaking on the beach, the smell of eucalyptus in the night air, the snuggled in comfort of blankets pulled up, all mingled in together as I drifted off to sleep.  Now when I hear this song I don't think of love lost and emotional stability regained but I remember a joyous time in my life and the sound of the ocean far in the background below. “Sure of my lines/ no one is there”. Sleep.