May 15, 1971 – Arcola Saskatchewan
Hardy Leblanc was our favourite cop, which is to say we disliked him only a little.
The RCMP had a detachment in Carlyle, 10 miles east of Arcola. The officers posted there worked the entire district, which included about ten towns, the White Bear First Nation, and Kenosee Lake Provincial Park. There were only a dozen officers in Carlyle in 1971, but somehow, they always seemed to show up when we needed them least.
Like the time Dougie Bradfield and his girlfriend Lynn were parked out at Jordy Ray’s bluff. Hardy pulled up behind them in his patrol car, got on the speaker horn and blared:
“Bradfield, what are you doing in there?”
Dougie popped his head out the steamy back window and replied, “We’re necking.”
“Well, put your neck back in your pants and come out here. And bring your driver’s licence with you!”
Deep down, we knew that the RCMP were there to prevent serious crime and keep the peace, but we saw them as an irritant – an impediment to our fun.
Hardy Leblanc was a little different. He actually got to know us, and he didn’t throw his weight around, even when we deserved it. Hardy was no pushover but unless we were really doing something dangerous, he left us alone. The downside of Hardy getting to know everybody, who they hung out with and what they drove, was that he could usually guess who was involved when trouble started. We weren’t anonymous when Hardy Leblanc was on duty, a fact I learned the hard way.
I drove an old Ford Galaxy Station wagon – a character building car. It was butt ugly, even by station wagon standards, and unreliable 99.9% of the time. On this particular spring day in 1971 it was under repair for a busted tie-rod, which probably had more to do with off-road driving than a fault of the Ford Motor Company.
When my car was out of service, I usually caught a ride with Spud, or one of the other guys. On this occasion I had convinced my dad that there was an urgent event at school that required me borrowing his car.
Borrowing Dad’s car wasn’t a big step up. Still a Ford, and still a station wagon, but a Country Squire! 454 cubic inches of engine, and a 4-barrel carb, surrounded by the ugliest family vehicle on the market.
Once the urgent academic business was concluded, which probably involved driving by the school on the way to the pool hall, I loaded up a few friends and headed to Kisbey, where most of the girls lived.
The first part of the evening was unremarkable. We stopped by the Kisbey bar but couldn’t get in for lack of believable ID. Buddy, the town drunk, pulled us a dozen Labatt’s Blue for the price of a rye and Coke. We parked behind the Pioneer grain elevator, sat on the tailgate of the Country Squire, and shot the breeze as we quenched our thirst.
When it was time to go, I drove the girls home first then dropped off Spud and Dougie, leaving Tanner and me. We both lived south of Arcola, and we had to travel through town to get home. It was just after midnight as we approached a vacant Main Street.
As we turned on to Main, Tanner let loose one of those zingers that always got me in trouble, “I bet you can’t get this thing over 80 mph by the railroad tracks.”
“No Sweat!” The street was empty, and all 454 horses had been idling for far too long. I slammed the gas pedal to the floor, dirt and gravel billowed up behind us and the tail-end of the station-wagon did a gratifying slide to the left as acceleration increased.
By the time we passed Beaver Lumber the speedo nudged past 60 mph. I made a split-second decision to pass the cenotaph on the left side of the street.
I kept my foot firmly planted on the gas as the Unknown Soldier flew by Tanner’s window. We had a full block before the railroad tracks, all four barrels were pumping gas into the Country Squire and there is no doubt in my mind that I would have made 80mph, but circumstances intervened…………
As I approached Dead Ted’s corner, I saw a familiar black and white cruiser parked beside the train station. I released the gas, but 4000 lbs of Country Squire had way too much momentum to stop. It blasted over the hump of the railroad tracks at a speed just below the sound barrier and came to earth in a shower of sparks and dust on the road leading out of town.
“Shit! Do you think he saw us?”
“Saw Us?! We damn near ran over him!”, Tanner squeaked, through strained vocal cords.
Decision time……Don’t let Fear, Gravity or Common Sense hold you back. I hit the gas!
The advantage of living your entire life confined to 25 square miles is that you know every back road, bluff of trees and grain bin in it. I doused the lights and used several hidden landmarks to avoid capture that night.
The last I saw of the patrol car was a diminishing red beacon as it circled in a field a mile west of our hiding spot, behind a bin, in Tanner’s canola field.
May 18, 1971 – Arcola, Saskatchewan
On Monday morning, a uniformed RCMP officer walked by our classroom on his way to the principal’s office. I was pretty sure I knew who Hardy had come to see.
Mr. Stanley motioned me out of the classroom and into the electric chair; as the principal’s office side chair was known.
“Was that you and Moore playing Indy 500 down Main Street Saturday night?”
“Nope.” I lied.
“Well, it wasn’t your car but it sure as Hell looked like you.”
“Maybe it was my dad, we look a lot alike.”
“I highly doubt it.” Hardy didn’t look amused, “If I EVER see you driving like that again you won’t have a driver’s licence until you can draw a pension.”
Hardy unfolded all 6”4’ of his frame, using my shoulder to hoist himself up. His grip was like a vice; I thought my collar bone might snap.
The quality of education at Arcola High School was rough around the edges, but I learned something that day.
If I am ever going to amount to anything, I better start acting less like a country bumpkin, and more like a …
… Country Squire.
This is one in a series of stories entitled Tales from Dead Ted’s, a chronicle of fictional events with just a kernel of truth in each. The events could have occurred in and around Arcola in the 1960s and 1970s. Click on the link below for more stories about growing up on the Canadian prairie.
wellwaterblog.ca – tales from dead ted’s
Millie
This story is a winner in so many ways !!!
Even for my morning giggle….
Russ Paton
Thanks Millie! A miss spent youth for sure.