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| Ontario Premier Mitch Hepburn acknowledging a crowd in 1934. |
Back in the fall of 1978, I was sitting at a bar in Brampton's Marlboro Hotel, an all-too-frequent haunt, after putting out all the news of the day that was fit to print in the local Daily Times newspaper. Nothing unusual about that, but on this occasion a funny happenstance was about to unravel.
A rather pugilistic, bombastic, yet decently attired middle-aged character with crew cut hair, plunked himself down on the vacant stool next to me at the bar. It was inevitable that we would eventually strike up a conversation.
Not too far into our introductory exchange, I mentioned that I had spent a lot of time in St. Thomas in the 1950s and '60s. That's all my new friend apparently needed to hear as he quickly downed his class of beer and promptly ordered another, as if to settle in for the long haul.
"You probably knew Vince Barrie," he said as an opener. Of course I knew Vince Barrie as one of the most popular mayors in the history of St. Thomas and a former Canadian light weight boxing champion. It was also no secret that Vince, who contributed greatly to the economic growth of the city, had a rather checkered past and was implicated in a prostitution ring in the London-St. Thomas area toward the end of his political career.
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| Vincent Barrie |
Sandy (that's what I'll call him for the purposes of this story) said that he too was a boxer but even though he cold have been a "contenda" a la Rocky Balboa of Hollywood movie fame, he didn't go as far in the ring as Vince. He explained that he, instead opted for a job as a body guard for another St. Thomas and Elgin County native in the person of colorful former Premier of Ontario, Mitch Hepburn. (Hepburn is a story unto himself and I'll review some of his complex and controversial history as a wrap up to this post.)
As with Vince Barrie, I was very familiar with the Hepburn era in Ontario politics and, in fact was well acquainted with one of his sons Peter and two daughters Patricia and Helen, who were still prominent in St. Thomas circles as we spoke. Peter took over management of the family farm after the death of his father and Pat who married a chap by the name Hub Dollar, worked with my wife Anne at a Royal Bank branch in downtown St. Thomas.
The more I interrogated Sandy about his days with Hepburn the more physically and vocally animated he became.
"I really learned a lot about politics accompanying Mitch in the 1930s and '40s and developed a taste for that kind of life," he explained before ordering another beer at my expense...and dropping an unexpected bomb on me in the process. He just might run for the office of Mayor in Brampton for the coincidental upcoming municipal election, with an eye to entering provincial politics after that, no less.
"I'm sure I could win," he added in a fit of over confidence and bravado. Whoah!
Jokingly, and ill-advisedly egging him on, I responded by saying "Well if you ever do, keep me in mind as your campaign manager. That apparently was all Sandy needed to hear.
With that, he jumped up from his bar stool and began glad-handing with patrons as he circulated the pre-supper hour crowd, introducing himself as "the next Mayor of Brampton", a city of 100,000 population in those days. Numerous times he pointed over to me, the local newspaper editor, as his newly-appointed campaign manager and loudly instructed me (still wondering what I had I just let myself in for?) to "buy these good folks a drink on me!"
Truthfully, Sandy was pretty adept at what he was doing that night. Perhaps a trait he picked up from his longstanding exposure to the former Premier.
The ensuing 30 minutes cost me a lot of beers, which I guess served me right. But the charade had gone on long enough and I had to find a way out of it.
Finally managing to drag Sandy out of the hotel under the guise of talking campaign strategy, I suggested that we both needed to go home and sleep on what had just transpired. "Great," he said as he hustled off into the darkness of the busy main drag. "I'll be in touch after I file my name at city hall in the morning!"
Luckily, I did not hear from Sandy again but I did get an interesting telephone call from a psychiatrist at my office the next morning.
"I understand you have been talking to one of my patients about running for politics," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Well, yes," I answered rather sheepishly. "It stared out as a joke over a beer and quickly escalated out of control. In the end, the last thing I wanted to do was upset him but I guess he took it out of context as a form of all-too-welcomed encouragement."
Alluding to Sandy's lack of mental stability and with the hint of a chuckle, the doctor said "I understand, but don't worry, you won't be hearing any more from him." I chose not to ask any questions.
To be on the safe side, I did not go back to the Marlboro Hotel after work for several weeks.
I often wondered what happened to good old Sandy though. He was not really a bad guy and I hope they found him a good home someplace where he did not have access to gullible, young newspaper editors who knew about his former boss, Mitch Hepburn.
Incidentally, the incumbent Brampton Mayor Jim Archdeacon was returned to office, unchallenged by any election newcomers that year.
THE MITCH HEPBURN STORY HAD TWO SIDES TO IT
It was his turbulence that rushed Mitchell Hepburn into power in Ontario in the stagnant year of 1934. That made him a popular hero to the depression-weary electorate. Later this same turbulence brought against him accusations of treachery, threats of tar and feathers, insinuations of Nazi leanings.
Hepburn gave the appearance of trying to keep that turbulence tightly buttoned under his double-breasted blue suit. He tried to hold his natural friendliness in check by replacing his amiable smile with a fierce look. He was not good at it. This is partly because he had the wrong kind of face, with twinkly blue eyes, a short dimpled chin and a pair of large impishly fluted ears. His high forehead, topped by downy thinning hair, was more suggestive of extreme youth than terrifying wisdom.
He truly liked people people and he was fond of talking. His resolve to be a strong, silent man could be broken down by the mention of (a) his children and (b) his farm. Anyone ready to hear about either one was welcome to stay till the cleaning women came to sweep out his office.
The children were the previously mentioned Peter, Patsy (Pat) and Helen, all adopted. His own son and daughter died in infancy, but he did not ever mention them publicly. To his credit, he was completely devoted to his adopted family.
The children and their mother Eva Hepburn lived on the farm and the senior Hepburn went home for week ends when he could. Bannockburn Farm, near St. Thomas, was settled by Hepburn’s grandfather more than two hundred years ago. The white brick house the Hepburns lived in was the same house in which he was born. The farm, 1,000 acres in all, was a veritable industry in itself. It had 100 horses, 170 registered Holstein cows, 45 brood sows, 1,250 laying hens, and more than 100 acres of prize Spanish onions and celery marshland. This hundred acres were Mitchell Hepburn’s own achievement and pride. It was an old lake bed, looked upon as a worthless swamp. For 14 years he worked at draining it and the property became the best growing soil in that part of the country.
As a place to live, Bannockburn Farm was idyllic with two beautiful acres of lawn and flowers. With a summer lodge built of logs on the edge of a 9-acre artificial lake stocked with trout and bass. Each member of the family had their own dog and horse.
"I really learned a lot about politics accompanying Mitch in the 1930s and '40s and developed a taste for that kind of life," he explained before ordering another beer at my expense...and dropping an unexpected bomb on me in the process. He just might run for the office of Mayor in Brampton for the coincidental upcoming municipal election, with an eye to entering provincial politics after that, no less.
"I'm sure I could win," he added in a fit of over confidence and bravado. Whoah!
Jokingly, and ill-advisedly egging him on, I responded by saying "Well if you ever do, keep me in mind as your campaign manager. That apparently was all Sandy needed to hear.
With that, he jumped up from his bar stool and began glad-handing with patrons as he circulated the pre-supper hour crowd, introducing himself as "the next Mayor of Brampton", a city of 100,000 population in those days. Numerous times he pointed over to me, the local newspaper editor, as his newly-appointed campaign manager and loudly instructed me (still wondering what I had I just let myself in for?) to "buy these good folks a drink on me!"
Truthfully, Sandy was pretty adept at what he was doing that night. Perhaps a trait he picked up from his longstanding exposure to the former Premier.
The ensuing 30 minutes cost me a lot of beers, which I guess served me right. But the charade had gone on long enough and I had to find a way out of it.
Finally managing to drag Sandy out of the hotel under the guise of talking campaign strategy, I suggested that we both needed to go home and sleep on what had just transpired. "Great," he said as he hustled off into the darkness of the busy main drag. "I'll be in touch after I file my name at city hall in the morning!"
Luckily, I did not hear from Sandy again but I did get an interesting telephone call from a psychiatrist at my office the next morning.
"I understand you have been talking to one of my patients about running for politics," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Well, yes," I answered rather sheepishly. "It stared out as a joke over a beer and quickly escalated out of control. In the end, the last thing I wanted to do was upset him but I guess he took it out of context as a form of all-too-welcomed encouragement."
Alluding to Sandy's lack of mental stability and with the hint of a chuckle, the doctor said "I understand, but don't worry, you won't be hearing any more from him." I chose not to ask any questions.
To be on the safe side, I did not go back to the Marlboro Hotel after work for several weeks.
I often wondered what happened to good old Sandy though. He was not really a bad guy and I hope they found him a good home someplace where he did not have access to gullible, young newspaper editors who knew about his former boss, Mitch Hepburn.
Incidentally, the incumbent Brampton Mayor Jim Archdeacon was returned to office, unchallenged by any election newcomers that year.
THE MITCH HEPBURN STORY HAD TWO SIDES TO IT
It was his turbulence that rushed Mitchell Hepburn into power in Ontario in the stagnant year of 1934. That made him a popular hero to the depression-weary electorate. Later this same turbulence brought against him accusations of treachery, threats of tar and feathers, insinuations of Nazi leanings.
Hepburn gave the appearance of trying to keep that turbulence tightly buttoned under his double-breasted blue suit. He tried to hold his natural friendliness in check by replacing his amiable smile with a fierce look. He was not good at it. This is partly because he had the wrong kind of face, with twinkly blue eyes, a short dimpled chin and a pair of large impishly fluted ears. His high forehead, topped by downy thinning hair, was more suggestive of extreme youth than terrifying wisdom.
He truly liked people people and he was fond of talking. His resolve to be a strong, silent man could be broken down by the mention of (a) his children and (b) his farm. Anyone ready to hear about either one was welcome to stay till the cleaning women came to sweep out his office.
The children were the previously mentioned Peter, Patsy (Pat) and Helen, all adopted. His own son and daughter died in infancy, but he did not ever mention them publicly. To his credit, he was completely devoted to his adopted family.
The children and their mother Eva Hepburn lived on the farm and the senior Hepburn went home for week ends when he could. Bannockburn Farm, near St. Thomas, was settled by Hepburn’s grandfather more than two hundred years ago. The white brick house the Hepburns lived in was the same house in which he was born. The farm, 1,000 acres in all, was a veritable industry in itself. It had 100 horses, 170 registered Holstein cows, 45 brood sows, 1,250 laying hens, and more than 100 acres of prize Spanish onions and celery marshland. This hundred acres were Mitchell Hepburn’s own achievement and pride. It was an old lake bed, looked upon as a worthless swamp. For 14 years he worked at draining it and the property became the best growing soil in that part of the country.
As a place to live, Bannockburn Farm was idyllic with two beautiful acres of lawn and flowers. With a summer lodge built of logs on the edge of a 9-acre artificial lake stocked with trout and bass. Each member of the family had their own dog and horse.
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| Premier Mitchell Hepburn (left) with Lt. Governor of Ontario Dr. Hebert Bruce. |
To put it bluntly, he was noted for his persistent drunkenness and debauchery, despite being married with three children. In fairness, he was often described as a political paradox who in spite of his shortcomings was accepted by the people.
Hepburn represented a type of agrarian democracy that detested Toryism and valued oratory. He once saw a pile of manure situated in a village square, and proceeded to jump on top of it to give a speech, apologizing to the crowd for speaking from a Tory platform. He also used the same line when standing on a manure spreader, only to have a heckler shout, "Well, wind 'er up Mitch, because she's never carried a bigger load!"
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| Prime Minister William Lyon MacKenzie King |
Hepburn, who led the province from 1934-42, was on a collision course with Liberal Canadian Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King, who despised Hepburn’s personal life. York University professor the late John Saywell chronicled Hepburn’s riotous living in his 1991 biography, Just Call me Mitch, (U of T Press) recounting how, in 1934, Hepburn had become “very puffy” in appearance.
“King relished the stories of Mitch’s alleged debauchery,” Saywell reported. “He faithfully recorded the story of the morning Annie Odette (the wife of a Hepburn colleague) went to Mitch’s suite and “found three girls there, who greeted her with the words, ‘Well dearie, you’re too late, we’ve been here all night.’”
Saywell also tells of a Caribbean vacation Hepburn spent with two other colleagues (perhaps one of them was a certain body guard?).
“After a night at the Biltmore in New York, the trio boarded the SS Monarch Of Bermuda on Dec. 6. Not long after they cleared the harbour, a young woman approached Mitch at the rail: ‘Hi, remember me?’ Mitch did remember buying the young Hepburn Liberal team member a chocolate malt during the election campaign. There was nothing adolescent about the beautiful, full-bodied, 21-year-old who told Mitch that she and some other young people had won the trip in a competition. When the ship docked in Bermuda two days later they went their separate ways.”
Saywell recounts how the trio sailed from Bermuda to Nassau, where they were to have dinner with the captain and the governor of the Bahamas. All went well until Hepburn and one of his buddies went missing.
“Eventually they were found in a brothel, which they had resorted to as soon as the boat put in.”
Hepburn brazenly flaunted his women in the legislature. “No one expected Mitch Hepburn to be a sophisticated parliamentarian, but there was a crude arrogance about his behaviour that many found disturbing,” writes Saywell.
“One contemporary observer, Dr. George McQuibban, noted that every man ‘on the front row’ (i.e. cabinet) now arrived with a good looking ‘stenographer’ and when drunk boasted about them. Hepburn brought his right into the House with him, although she looked ‘fagged out.’”
“Mitch had not forgotten his shipboard chance meeting with the young Hepburn team supporter and not long after his return he arrived at her father’s farm alone and unannounced. Two weeks later she was working at Queen’s Park. The romance blossomed. The beautiful young woman, robust in body and playful in spirit, became his frequent companion. Strongly independent, she resented the term mistress and would have been outraged if Angela Bruce (wife of the lieutenant-governor) had included her as one of Mitch’s ‘tarts,’” reports Saywell. “She was in love with him. Like most of his entourage, she usually called him ‘Chief,’ but there were times when they both preferred ‘Uncle Dudley.’”
Hepburn’s romps were not reported by the newspapers of the day, although Saywell implies that the Toronto Star may have used them as a nail in ‘Uncle Dudley’s’ political coffin: “His other private life was the stuff of stories in the newsroom of the Toronto Star, where it was said that publisher Joe Atkinson had finally driven Mitch out of politics by threatening to release compromising pictures of him with a girlfriend.”
On his death in January of 1954, the Toronto Star observed:
"It was in the 1934 election campaign that Mr. Hepburn's gift of oratory first impinged on the province at large. He had a free and easy platform manner, his customary attitude being hands plunged in side coat pockets while he wandered about the platform releasing an unfaltering flow of barbed-wire eloquence that no other political speaker could match in rapidity and certainly not in deadliness. He never consulted a note, never appeared to prepare a speech in advance, and delivered an array of astounding facts and figures with such an air of assurance that his audience seldom thought to question them."
I never got to ask Hepburn's old body guard Sandy about any of that in what turned out to be the three longest hours of my life spent with him in the Marlboro Hotel bar one night in 1978. All Sandy offered was: "Mr. Hepburn was a good politician with a lot of good ideas." Some of which he planned to incorporate in the political career of his delusional fantasy, God bless him.
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