Swept from the corners of my mind…
Considering the recent federal election, I thought I’d share one of my husband’s favourite stories about a brush with politicians.
Cecil was a professional farrier (horseshoer) for over 50 years. His lanky 6’4” frame had a tendency to stick out of a group, and I often joked that you could drop him into a Trappist monastery and he could find someone to visit with. A many of many talents, Cec had friends in and outside of the horse world; one of his favourite places to meet them had to be on Thoroughbred racetracks across Western Canada (there were many more in the past than we have now). In the 70s Lethbridge, Alberta had such a track. This story took place at that track.
The race grounds had a lot of clay in its soil, and it was a wet spring. There was a big dump of spring snow overnight and that clay was sticking like gumbo to hooves, tires, tack, and horsemen. Cec had a lot of horses to shoe before race time and neither he nor several of the horses were in sociable moods as he dealt with hooves being snatched from his hands dragging mud and hoof-muck across his leg.
A passing groom asked if Cec would be attending the speeches in the big community building on the edge of the grounds. Cec had no idea what was happening and was less than inspired when the other man excitedly told him that Prime Minister Trudeau (Pierre, not Justin) would be addressing Alberta voters just across the grounds. Not a fan of politicians, Cec decided to focus on completing his list of horses for the day.
Finishing sooner than he anticipated, Cecil glanced around the shedrow and realized there would be no one to have coffee with. He decided he could still make the speeches, but not if he had to stop and change. Interest piqued, the lanky, muddy shoer decided he could blend in the back of the crowd so festooned in clay and hay, he clomped across the large lot to the community building. Spotting long line-ups at the main doors he decided to try the back way.
He was in luck. Other than a few fancy-looking cars parked nearby, the large doorway was not only clear, but wide open. Sticking his thumbs in his front pockets he casually ambled into the building, looking for a way to join the back of the crowd. But the space he was walking down had been roped off on both sides and he couldn’t see any gaps. Cecil continued to stroll down the red carpeted area leaving a trail of mud clumps and straw in his wake, unaware of the vision he made.
Suddenly “a large man with a noticeable bulge under his sports coat” came from behind him. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, moustache quivering. Not waiting for an answer, he hustled Cec to the edge of the carpet and under the rope. ”Stay here!” he ordered.
When they turned to look back towards the doors, the bodyguard standing close in case Cec decided to get back on the carpet, they were greeted by a small parade of local dignitaries leading an impeccably-dressed slim man, red rose adorning his boutonniere, followed by several more “large men with bulging suit jackets”, coming up the same muddied carpet.
It wasn’t until then that Cec realized his “back way” into the event was the Dignitaries door and that he wandered in just feet in front of Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau. The guard (whose swinging sports coat eventually revealed a shoulder holster) insisted he stayed where they had first ducked under the guard ropes, so Cec had a front row view of the politicians as well as the unimpressed voters. But that’s another story.
