Six years ago today (July 28, 2020) my Dad passed away. He was 93 years of age. He was an RCMP officer for 34 years reaching the rank of Staff Sergeant. He served in communities in Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia where he retired. I knew him as a quiet man who rarely spoke of his work. In 2017 when he visited my wife and me in Newfoundland I decided to interview him about his life. I made recordings and took many notes of his life growing up in Hebbville, Nova Scotia and of his life as a police officer. This is one of the stories I wrote some time after that. It is my tribute to him. He wasn’t perfect but he was my father.

My Dad, Bryce Andrew Hebb, Regimental Number 15906, joined the RCMP on September 19,1949 at the age of twenty-two. At the time of his engagement the rate of pay was listed as $3.75 per day for the entry-level third-class constable. It would rise over the next three years to a staggering $4.50 per day. He was posted to Prince Edward Island in 1950 after he completed training. One of the conditions of his engagement was that he be unmarried. 

This document further clarified he needed permission to marry and that would not be granted unless he had completed five years of service and was at least twenty-six years of age. It was for this reason, that my Dad left the RCMP in 1953 to marry my mother. He would later rejoin in 1955 and would serve until he retired in 1987. The following story is one that he told me about during a lengthy conversation we had when he visited me in February of 2017. 

Possession and production of alcohol was illegal in Canada between 1918 and 1920. It was banned beyond that period, but most provinces removed the bans during the 1920’s. However, Prince Edward Island retained the ban until 1948. The ban did not stop drinking or the demand for alcohol, and the moonshiners stepped forward to fill that demand. This story starts in February of 1951.

The sun was cracking the horizon now, a brilliant red. The stinging in his left ear was gone. It just felt numb now. Bryce Hebb pulled the buffalo hides up around his neck as he looked at Pete Jay, who was sleeping in their makeshift lean to. He too was covered with a buffalo hide. A snort echoed briefly from Peter’s gaping mouth, and he smacked his lips together. They had been sitting in the woods watching a still they had found three days ago in the woods just outside Marshfield, Prince Edward Island. Waiting for the owner to show up. 

Peter and Bryce were RCMP members who were assigned to the liquor squad at the detachment in Charlottetown. Peter was the corporal in charge of the unit and Bryce was the junior constable. They enforced the Excise Act in the province. They were constantly collecting information and conducting searches for illegal stills involved in the manufacture of alcohol. Offenders stood to have property that was used in the commission of the offence seized, receive a fine, a jail sentence or both upon conviction. Peter was from Mount Stewart, and he knew a lot of people around the province. Dad said it seemed like Peter knew everybody. Bryce liked the work, especially in the summer. He and Peter would raid a place reported to have a still, and when they finished, they would go fishing for the rest of the day. Winter was not so comfortable. 

They worked out of the Charlottetown detachment which was on Prince Street. It was a three-story building that used to belong to the Boy Scouts of Canada before being taken over by the RCMP. It also served as the headquarters for the RCMP in the province. Bryce worked on the third floor which was a bit disconcerting when it came to the fire escape measures. Fire regulations were almost non-existent in those days. There were no escape stairs and if a fire did occur in that building, there was a large rope secured to the wall which would be thrown out the window. The occupants of the building would then lower themselves to the ground on the rope. A fire did not occur during my Dad’s time at this detachment, and he was thankful for that. 

Peter stirred and looked around. “See anything.” 

“Nothing.”  Dad said. The early morning brought cool winds, and he shivered despite being wrapped in the heavy buffalo hides. 

“Well, I guess they must have caught on to us.”  Peter threw off the buffalo hide and stood up. “I guess we’ll bust up that old still and go home.”

They stopped across the heavy snow to the road walking the few hundred feet to the stand of trees where the still sat idly, hidden from view. They made short work of smashing the equipment and a few minutes later they were walking out to where they had stashed the unmarked police car. They had not walked far when they met a man walking in the road. Peter knew he was the owner of the still. They arrested the man and he confessed to owning it. The man later went to court and a conviction was registered. I am not certain what sentence the man received as my father was not clear on that, but it was most likely a fine. It turned out that this man, who they had sat in the cold for three days waiting for, lived next to the girl Dad was dating at the time, my mother. 

My father had frozen his ear during this surveillance resulting in an ear infection. He went to the hospital to have it looked at and the doctor found a hole in his ear drum. He suffered from hearing loss later in his life due to this injury. I am sure the hearing loss caused him some problems in his old age, but he was never one to complain about anything. I think he may have secretly enjoyed his lack of hearing on occasion, when he encountered those gabby people who blather on about nothing. 

I am glad I took the time in 2017 to talk with my father about his past. It seemed before that I never had time or interest, to sit down and talk with him about his life. It did not seem like it was important then and even after that conversation I did not realize its significance until he died in the summer of 2020. It was then it struck me that when we come into this world, we are a fresh canvas; each of our lives a work of art and we are the creators of that art. Yet, art is nothing, unless it has someone to appreciate it.