Farewell to Ed

This will be the last blog entry of "As I Was Saying". Ed passed away peacefully on December 26, 2019 in his 95th year. Followers of this blog have read about his eventful life and it gave him much pleasure to relate his perspectives of the times he felt fortunate to have lived in.

Ed's final blog entry was a humorous saga of his first days on the Toronto Police Force and this entry contains articles about his last years, focusing on his retirement after 35 years.

Here are just a few articles chronicling his work as Chief of the Toronto Metro Police ethnic squad where he made a lasting impression and received many accolades and civic awards.

Upon retirement, Ed, and his devoted wife, Betty, traveled extensively and heartily participated in golf, curling and lawn bowling activities.

A lifelong writer, for many years Ed was a syndicated columnist for many community newspapers and had a cable television program in his retirement town of Penetanguishene, Ontario, geared towards the interests of seniors. 

Ed was well known for his humour and love of an entertaining story. He was glad to live in a technical age where he had the opportunity at an advanced age to blog about his life, particularly his time in the RAF and early days on the "London Met", leaving a valuable record of times gone by.  

Ed was one of a kind and will be missed.

Motorcycle Cop

Patrolling High Park

I’ve always loved to soar and race, being one of the reasons I was so anxious to join the RAF in WWII. When the war ended, it was quite disappointing being reduced to riding a bicycle to the station house after becoming a London bobby.

Once moving to Canada and joining the Toronto force, you can imagine my reaction on learning I was being assigned to the motorcycle squad. I was giddy with excitement at the thought of cruising around the city on a powerful state-of-the-art Harley Davidson.

I felt particularly dapper in my snazzy jodhpurs, leather jacket and helmet. That is until the decision was made to install sidecars on the bikes, which took a bit of the edge off.

That didn’t last too long though as while we may have been outfitted for the elements, suspects weren’t. Sometimes we’d arrive at the station with a perp practically frozen to the seat.

Which brings me to High Park, made up of lands originally owned by John Howard, who donated the area and his splendid regency villa, Colborne Lodge, to the City on his death in 1890.

A lovely daytime spot with gardens and playgrounds, the park had a reputation as a hotbed of nefarious activity at night, requiring regular police patrolling.

We had all heard reports that the ghosts of John Howard and his wife haunted their former home. Some said it was the ghosts of unsolved murder victims George Vigus and Iris Scott, whose bodies had been found in the park, stuffed into the trunk of a car in 1947. Of course we put all that down to vivid imaginations.

That is, until one night I spied a flickering light in the upstairs windows of Colborne Lodge.

After gaining entry, I heard eerie creaking sounds and strange moans. Creeping up the stairs with my flashlight pointed to the ground, I listened at a bedroom door, then burst into the room to find a young couple having a candlelit rendezvous on the previous owner’s antique bed which by now had particularly rusty bedsprings. John Howard must have been turning in his grave.

Marching the youngsters down to my bike, I was faced with the dilemma of how to get them to the station. Seating the lothario in the sidecar, with his femme fatale perched on his lap, off we went to the station.

It was a chilly night and upon arrival they both had chattering teeth, blue lips and were shivering so violently they could barely stand. Not the romantic night they had envisioned after all.

It was great riding around on the Harley as I didn’t have any kind of vehicle of my own. Not many could afford to buy a car on a policeman’s salary, but luckily Toronto had a pretty good transit system.

There were those late nights when I would miss the last streetcar or bus and had to walk home. It became quite a nuisance during particularly bad weather, until I came up with a brilliant idea.

Trudging along the road in uniform, when a car approached I'd hold up my hand and bring it to a stop. The driver would nervously roll down his window wondering his infraction. I’d ask sternly, “Right then, where are you headed at this time of night?” If it wasn’t in my direction, I would simply tell them to carry on.

However, if they going my way, I’d open the door, hop in and ask “Can you give me a lift?” No relieved driver ever refused.

My district included the Mercer Reformatory for Women on King Street, which strove to instill in the inmates “feminine Victorian virtues such as obedience and servility.” I don’t think they were very successful at that.

I recall one visit to the reformatory where a truck had become stuck in the mud. When the strength of all the men could not budge it, inmates were invited to roll up their sleeves and give us a hand.  After a short while we were successful in moving the stranded vehicle, but not before a few of the genteel young ladies had taken a few grabs at my bottom during the process!

Just south of the reformatory was Lake Ontario. When family from “over home” would come visit us in Toronto, they’d always be amazed at the size of Lake Ontario. It looked to be the size of a small ocean. I was in awe of it myself, particularly due to the fact I couldn’t swim.

This put me in an awkward position when a man intent on suicide was out in the lake refusing to come to shore. I considered my options - he wasn’t too far out and the water was at the level of his neck. I decided I could wade out and attempt to bring him out so long as the water wasn’t over my head.

Luckily I was able to use my powers of persuasion to convince him to retreat from the water. Good thing too, because when he walked up to me, he was easily head and shoulders taller than me!

In those days, the most famous criminal element in Toronto was the Boyd Gang, selling many newspapers with their sensational exploits, including bank robberies, engaging in gun play, elaborate jail breaks and the murder of a police officer, before their ultimate downfall.

It was determined I bore a resemblance to the dashing gang leader, Edwin Alonzo Boyd, which led to me being prevailed upon to be a participant in police lineups with Mr. Boyd. I didn’t mind, until a witness identified ME as the robber!

Boyd had a lovely lass of a wife, Doreen, who he had met during WWII while serving in England. Like me, she was from Surrey and I got to know her quite well as we’d strike up conversations while I kept an eye on her home, hoping to catch her husband making a visit while dodging police.

Mind you, Doreen could be a tough cookie herself. After the failure of their ill-fated marriage, there was a bizarre incident where Boyd, known more for running from police, ran to a station seeking assistance when Doreen showed up and banged down his front door. She was booked on charges of drunk and disorderly conduct and fined the whopping sum of $5.

Hell hath no fury indeed.

Canada Bound

Happy New Year!

In many respects I still consider England home - I continue to follow Premier league football, prefer British films and enjoy treats from The British Grocer store, even though I’ve lived in Ontario, Canada, for over half a century.

If asked why I decided to leave England and move to Canada, I’m sure my answer would be the same as many folks of my era; the promise of a better life for the family.

Even though the war had ended in 1945 and it was now well into the 1950s, rationing was still in effect back home for items such as potatoes and butter.

There were long queues for meat but if you befriended the butcher he might put aside a couple of sausages for you.

The London MET family housing was pretty deplorable. Set in the Brixton area of South London in a building reminiscent of Dickensian times, it was all concrete – from the walls to the hard floor covered in cheap linoleum.

Ours was a basement apartment next to the coal chute and on delivery day our place would be covered in dust. When my wife swept, it just resulted in more clouds of dust.

It seemed everyone around us was leaving England for overseas. Canada was being described in the newspapers as the “land of opportunity”. Australia was putting word out that it was no longer a POM (prisoner of her majesty) destination and all Brits were welcome.

The commonwealth countries were offering better jobs, safety, education, health care and clean, fresh air for our children.

Having enjoyed serving with airmen from Australia I suggested it to my wife as a possible home, but she put her foot down, saying it was too far away.

As it turned out, a friend of mine from the London MET had immigrated to Canada and wrote letters home telling how he’d joined the Toronto Police force and was enjoying higher wages, a five day work week, plentiful food choices and affordable, comfortable housing. It sounded like a virtual land of milk and honey.

I’ll digress a bit here and tell the tale of friends, a husband and wife, who also came to Toronto from England and marveled at the wonders of Canadian living.  In particular they were awed by the grocery store chain, Loblaws, with its aisles filled with all varieties of food unavailable in England.

On their first visit, the biggest surprise was finding out not only would their groceries be bagged for them by a young man, but he offered to carry them out!

They walked through the parking lot and onto the street, where the bagger asked “Where have you parked your car?” After being told they didn’t have a car but it wasn’t too much farther, I believe he unceremoniously dropped the groceries on the sidewalk and headed back to the store.

So, Canada it was. My wife and I went down to Canada House in London and were quickly vetted. I had a good reference from the London MET as well as other personal references. We were told there were many policing opportunities available and to head over any time. What a difference from today, where you need sponsors to immigrate and a guaranteed employment contract!

Like many other families making this huge decision, I went over first to scout out the country, settle things with a job, find suitable housing and save up for passage for my wife and young son.

I sailed on the Franconia, which had been used as a troop ship during WWII and then resumed service in 1949 as a passenger liner mainly bringing postwar immigrants and refugees to Canada on the Liverpool to Quebec route.

On one of its earlier runs, the Franconia went aground in the Saint Lawrence River after leaving Quebec for the return journey, having to be pulled off a reef and then repaired to resume service. Fortunately for me, the journey was uneventful.

Of course it wasn’t my first time on an ocean liner, but this trip was much more comfortable going west across the Atlantic compared to my journey on the troop ship to the Far East. In both cases though, it signaled a complete change of life.

After disembarking in Quebec I boarded the train for Toronto. Not being the extravagant type, I didn’t purchase a sleeper berth ticket for the 9 hour trip, figuring I could sleep in the seat. It was far more spacious and comfortable than a troop train, I can tell you that.

On arrival I set out in search of employment. At first I was offered a position with the Ontario Provincial Police, but that meant being stationed in lonely outposts in Northern Ontario. Didn’t appeal to me and I’m sure it wouldn’t have appealed to my wife.

Attending at Toronto Police Department headquarters I was told there would be openings coming up, but not for a few months. This news threw me into a panic, as I hadn’t arrived with a fortune and would need a paycheque soon.

Luckily I was able to procure a position as a school janitor – not glamorous work, but it paid the landlady at the lodging house (she even served breakfast) and provided enough for me to put aside some savings.

It wasn’t long before I was at Tip Top Tailors being measured for my police uniform and on my way to the police training school after a couple of weeks (under supervision) of directing traffic between the flagship Eatons and Simpsons stores in downtown Toronto (both now long gone). I was thrilled on graduation to be selected to join the motorcycle squadron.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself and will return to that momentous day of arrival on Canadian soil.

Having finally arrived at Toronto’s Union Station from Quebec and feeling deserving of a relaxing beer, I found an establishment nearby.

Not knowing Canadian beer brands, I asked the bartender if he could bring me a golden ale. He quickly returned with a copy of the Globe and Mail newspaper.

Handing me the paper, he asked “So, how long have you been in Canada?”  I wearily replied “All bloody day.”