Life wasn’t always funny

Humour and booze were sometimes used by the poor to ease the pain of their situation

This being the 150th anniversary of the creation of this great nation, we’ll hear some serious nostalgia this summer about the good old days. Perhaps before we get to that we should reflect on just how good those old days were, and who they were good to.

Remember, for the stories in the 1860s, we’re dependent on the observations of people who could read and write. Which means most of the accounts we get weren’t snap-shots of life among the poor and downtrodden. The reports were compiled by those whose lives were relatively good, their struggles not too onerous. The dances to Confederation, etc.

However, there are people still among us who recall the 1950s and 60s, and while life was much improved, it wasn’t all the bed of roses some of our storytellers would have us believe.

In those days, even the townies weren’t far removed from the land. It was a rural society, so no one starved. But, for the poor, life was hard and dull. We like to think of ourselves as a caring society, and have heard lots about our generous nature. But, humiliation was a weapon unsheathed more often than we care to admit. There were politicians who personally handed out the welfare cheques.

Humour and booze were sometimes used by the poor to ease the pain of their situation. In the 1960s, both occasionally came together in the City Police Court, an institution that, thankfully, no longer exists.

The police station was in the southwest corner of city hall. It had a couple of cells where people were held over night. In the morning they were taken to the court on the second floor. It sat at nine and lasted about an hour. The police court was a tawdry, part-time operation, of little consequence to anyone but the accused.

Ken Martin, a cantankerous old lawyer, was hired by the city as the stipendiary magistrate. Lester O’Donnell, was a lawyer with an unfortunate habit of repeating himself. On his way to work, he would check the cells where most were locked up for drinking offences. Drinking in a public place was seriously frowned on by the city fathers.

“Need a lawyer, need a lawyer?” Mr. O’Donnell would ask.

“Can’t afford one, got no money.”

“Got a watch, got a watch?” If he was hired, and the accused was working, his standard defence was, “Small fine. Small fine. Got a job, got a job.”

If the accused had a family, Mr. O’Donell might ask for clemency, “Wife and kids. Wife and kids, your honour.”

And if the poor sot showed the slightest remorse, he’d add, “Let ‘im off. Let ‘im off. No harm done. Learned his lesson. Learned his lesson.”

Sometimes it worked, usually it didn’t. Judge Martin wasn’t a man of great compassion. Nor a great sense of humour, but, he had his moments.

Baldy Williams was a regular in the police court. He had been an athlete in his youth until he was led astray by demon rum. His glory days were long behind him.

“How do you plea, Mr. Williams.”

“Guilty, your honour.” “Ten dollars, or 10 days.” “Ah, your honour, I can do 10 days standing on me hands,” said Baldy.

“Ten more to get you back on your feet, Mr. Williams.”

Despite the periodic humour, there was a sense of unfairness and hopelessness about the court; not injustice per se. But, there was no addiction centre, and few support services for these alcoholics and their unfortunate families. The police court was just one cog in a system that didn’t work very well. Things have somewhat improved, but being poor is still no fun.

Enjoy your summer, but, when you’re reminiscing about the good ol’ days, just don’t forget there was a dark side and for many, the days weren’t all good; they were hard, with little to laugh about.