I figure that this is a good thread to post this story. It concerns banks, guns, a crazy person with guns, and my family.
When I was a wee lad I lived in a very small town in Ontario. Iroquois, Ontario (population 1,200) is a nice little hamlet situated on the northern shore of the St. Lawrence River. I spent my single-digit years growing up there.
There was just one bank in Iroquois (Royal Bank, in case you wondered), and my father was the manager. It was a piddly little bank. It was probably smaller than most strip-mall convenience stores. There were four rooms. My dad's office was right beside the entrance (maybe 10' x 15'). The meat-and-potatoes public area of the bank (complete with 2 tellers) came next, followed by the vault and a tiny employee lunchroom in the back. There wasn't much to see.
Since this was the only bank in town, every farmer within a 50 mile radius had to do his/her banking there. This was before the days of bank-by-phone, debit cards, internet banking, and cash machines. My dad dealt with all of the farmers (and most everyone else in town) on a weekly basis.
Well, one of the farmers defaulted on his farm's mortgage.
He was behind enough in loan payments that the bank had no choice but to foreclose. This wasn't my father's decision, mind you. That's just the way banks work. If you can't pay off your loan, your collateral is forfeit.
So, this farmer gets the notice that he will be losing his farm due to his inability to meet his loan payments. Who's to blame?
In the demented mind of this farmer, it was my father's fault.
The farmer loaded up a shotgun and walked into my father's office. He pointed it at him and was rambling on incoherently about how he was screwed because he had no money to pay off his loan.
This part of the story is a little light on details, mostly due to the fact that my father never talked about it much. I guess having a loaded 12-guage poited at you will do that to you.
From what I gather, my dad hit the "secret alarm button" under his desk and talked to this farmer as much as he could. He delayed him long enough for cops to show up and deal with the situation.
I don't know the specifics, but my dad was not shot and the cops arrested the farmer.
The story gets scarier.
The farmer is arrested, arraigned, and all that jazz. His shotgun is of course confiscated. The judge, for whatever reason, doesn't bother locking him up until trial. HE LET HIM GO HOME WITH A PROMISE TO APPEAR!
The farmer owned many shotguns, and the first thing he did when he got home was to load one up and come to the front door of our home. Like I said, we lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone. The residence of the local bank manager was common knowledge.
The farmer knocked on our front door (shotgun in hand). It was after banking hours, so my father was home. My dad peeked out our front window to see who was knocking, and the next thing I knew I was wisked off out the back door. I was probably 4 years old, and my brother was 6. We had no idea what was going on.
We pushed through our hedges so we could get to a neighbour's house. My dad called the cops, and they promptly arrested the farmer. I think he was still banging on our front door, shotgun in hand, when they showed up.
My family was put up in a hotel in a faraway city (OMG Witness Protection Program!) for a few weeks until this nut was firmly implanted in prison. I missed a few weeks of school.
My father's description of how he felt while a shotgun was pointed at him is eerie, and I only heard it once. He doesn't talk about it.
"I felt calm. I've never been so calm in my life."
When I was a wee lad I lived in a very small town in Ontario. Iroquois, Ontario (population 1,200) is a nice little hamlet situated on the northern shore of the St. Lawrence River. I spent my single-digit years growing up there.
There was just one bank in Iroquois (Royal Bank, in case you wondered), and my father was the manager. It was a piddly little bank. It was probably smaller than most strip-mall convenience stores. There were four rooms. My dad's office was right beside the entrance (maybe 10' x 15'). The meat-and-potatoes public area of the bank (complete with 2 tellers) came next, followed by the vault and a tiny employee lunchroom in the back. There wasn't much to see.
Since this was the only bank in town, every farmer within a 50 mile radius had to do his/her banking there. This was before the days of bank-by-phone, debit cards, internet banking, and cash machines. My dad dealt with all of the farmers (and most everyone else in town) on a weekly basis.
Well, one of the farmers defaulted on his farm's mortgage.
He was behind enough in loan payments that the bank had no choice but to foreclose. This wasn't my father's decision, mind you. That's just the way banks work. If you can't pay off your loan, your collateral is forfeit.
So, this farmer gets the notice that he will be losing his farm due to his inability to meet his loan payments. Who's to blame?
In the demented mind of this farmer, it was my father's fault.
The farmer loaded up a shotgun and walked into my father's office. He pointed it at him and was rambling on incoherently about how he was screwed because he had no money to pay off his loan.
This part of the story is a little light on details, mostly due to the fact that my father never talked about it much. I guess having a loaded 12-guage poited at you will do that to you.
From what I gather, my dad hit the "secret alarm button" under his desk and talked to this farmer as much as he could. He delayed him long enough for cops to show up and deal with the situation.
I don't know the specifics, but my dad was not shot and the cops arrested the farmer.
The story gets scarier.
The farmer is arrested, arraigned, and all that jazz. His shotgun is of course confiscated. The judge, for whatever reason, doesn't bother locking him up until trial. HE LET HIM GO HOME WITH A PROMISE TO APPEAR!
The farmer owned many shotguns, and the first thing he did when he got home was to load one up and come to the front door of our home. Like I said, we lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone. The residence of the local bank manager was common knowledge.
The farmer knocked on our front door (shotgun in hand). It was after banking hours, so my father was home. My dad peeked out our front window to see who was knocking, and the next thing I knew I was wisked off out the back door. I was probably 4 years old, and my brother was 6. We had no idea what was going on.
We pushed through our hedges so we could get to a neighbour's house. My dad called the cops, and they promptly arrested the farmer. I think he was still banging on our front door, shotgun in hand, when they showed up.
My family was put up in a hotel in a faraway city (OMG Witness Protection Program!) for a few weeks until this nut was firmly implanted in prison. I missed a few weeks of school.
My father's description of how he felt while a shotgun was pointed at him is eerie, and I only heard it once. He doesn't talk about it.
"I felt calm. I've never been so calm in my life."