Read Online No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP by Ian Parsons - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian Parsons
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opulent, like something one would find in a posh hotel. If you knew where to look, there was even a stocked bar. Being invited into Jim’s quarters as a junior man meant you had arrived. Jim was highly respected for his intellect and renowned for his crackling wit.
On this particular occasion, he had done another exceptional job of setting up the regimental dinner and ensuring it went smoothly. Assistant Commissioner G.B. McLelland, the commanding officer, invoked the custom of his officers serving the meal to the men, which they did with aplomb.
During the debriefing of the event, the CO complimented Corporal Fripps on the splendid manner in which he had choreographed the evening. He went on to say he hoped that the corporal would be on hand for organizing the dinner the following year. Jim, with the usual twinkle in his eye, glanced at the CO and replied, “If it’s all the same to you, Sir, next year, I would just as soon be a waiter!”
----
Finally, a police car drove into the parking lot, and a member emerged. He apologized and introduced himself as Bill McCoy, the senior constable. He seemed embarrassed, but showed me to my quarters, helped me with my luggage and took me for lunch. I enquired about the other member I had seen back at the office, but McCoy gave me no explanation.
As I settled into my work at the detachment and got to know the other members, I learned that the NCO I had initially encountered was an alcoholic who had been under the weather on the day of my arrival, at 10:00 a.m. Rather than confront me, he had shut the door to his office and made a phone call, presumably to McCoy. This NCO would have quite an impact on my early days at the detachment. Several nights after my arrival, I made my first liquor seizure, of which I was justly proud. It was quite late when Constable McCoy and I returned to the office, and I was instructed to lock my seized exhibit in the NCO’s office pending our return the following morning. Arriving early the next day to deal with my seized liquor, I discovered that two bottles of beer were missing from the carton. It appeared the alcoholic NCO had liberated a portion of my exhibits. As was the case in the good old days, this behaviour was overlooked. Constable McCoy told me to ignore the incident and replenished the open carton with the purchase of two identical bottles.
----
MOIETY
Back in the Jurassic era, circa 1960, serving members of the RCMP received a bonus each year, usually around Christmas. Affectionately referred to as a “moiety cheque,” it usually amounted to $25 to $35 and was drained off what was then known as the Benefit Trust Fund. It seems like a pittance now, but it was a rather princely sum then, often used to bolster the supply of Christmas cheer in RCMP residences across the land.
I had just arrived in Willmore, fresh out of training. Six of the members there were well established and married. Then there was me, recipient of wisdom and knowledge from these half-dozen personal heroes on a daily basis. I was taking every precaution to avoid obvious mistakes and not make a nuisance of myself, and striving to establish my credibility with my co-workers.
It was early December, and on top of my $250 monthly pay cheque, the corporal conferred upon me my very first moiety cheque. In addition to this good news, I learned that there was to be a detachment Christmas dinner at one of the members’ homes. Everyone was expected to attend. I arrived at the dinner party dressed to the nines. Everyone was gathered in the living room idly chatting.
Anxious to become involved, I made eye contact with one of the members and enquired in a rather loud voice what he planned to do with his moiety cheque. There was an instant, dead, cold silence. One of the wives asked, “Moiety cheque? What on earth is that?” Curiously, none of the wives, some of whom had been married to the members for years, had any knowledge of the moiety cheque.
The evening dragged on.
On this particular occasion, he had done another exceptional job of setting up the regimental dinner and ensuring it went smoothly. Assistant Commissioner G.B. McLelland, the commanding officer, invoked the custom of his officers serving the meal to the men, which they did with aplomb.
During the debriefing of the event, the CO complimented Corporal Fripps on the splendid manner in which he had choreographed the evening. He went on to say he hoped that the corporal would be on hand for organizing the dinner the following year. Jim, with the usual twinkle in his eye, glanced at the CO and replied, “If it’s all the same to you, Sir, next year, I would just as soon be a waiter!”
----
Finally, a police car drove into the parking lot, and a member emerged. He apologized and introduced himself as Bill McCoy, the senior constable. He seemed embarrassed, but showed me to my quarters, helped me with my luggage and took me for lunch. I enquired about the other member I had seen back at the office, but McCoy gave me no explanation.
As I settled into my work at the detachment and got to know the other members, I learned that the NCO I had initially encountered was an alcoholic who had been under the weather on the day of my arrival, at 10:00 a.m. Rather than confront me, he had shut the door to his office and made a phone call, presumably to McCoy. This NCO would have quite an impact on my early days at the detachment. Several nights after my arrival, I made my first liquor seizure, of which I was justly proud. It was quite late when Constable McCoy and I returned to the office, and I was instructed to lock my seized exhibit in the NCO’s office pending our return the following morning. Arriving early the next day to deal with my seized liquor, I discovered that two bottles of beer were missing from the carton. It appeared the alcoholic NCO had liberated a portion of my exhibits. As was the case in the good old days, this behaviour was overlooked. Constable McCoy told me to ignore the incident and replenished the open carton with the purchase of two identical bottles.
----
MOIETY
Back in the Jurassic era, circa 1960, serving members of the RCMP received a bonus each year, usually around Christmas. Affectionately referred to as a “moiety cheque,” it usually amounted to $25 to $35 and was drained off what was then known as the Benefit Trust Fund. It seems like a pittance now, but it was a rather princely sum then, often used to bolster the supply of Christmas cheer in RCMP residences across the land.
I had just arrived in Willmore, fresh out of training. Six of the members there were well established and married. Then there was me, recipient of wisdom and knowledge from these half-dozen personal heroes on a daily basis. I was taking every precaution to avoid obvious mistakes and not make a nuisance of myself, and striving to establish my credibility with my co-workers.
It was early December, and on top of my $250 monthly pay cheque, the corporal conferred upon me my very first moiety cheque. In addition to this good news, I learned that there was to be a detachment Christmas dinner at one of the members’ homes. Everyone was expected to attend. I arrived at the dinner party dressed to the nines. Everyone was gathered in the living room idly chatting.
Anxious to become involved, I made eye contact with one of the members and enquired in a rather loud voice what he planned to do with his moiety cheque. There was an instant, dead, cold silence. One of the wives asked, “Moiety cheque? What on earth is that?” Curiously, none of the wives, some of whom had been married to the members for years, had any knowledge of the moiety cheque.
The evening dragged on.
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