I think all small and larger towns in Ontario had a ‘Queen’s Hotel.’
I was not a drinker, nor did I frequent the bars as a young man. At the time, my first partner, Kerry Wade, always talked about his friend, Rose. One night, she came out for a meal and I was hooked on Rose. What a lovely, sincere, classy lady.
Rose was born Rose La Cowse in 1914 and was raised in a convent. There, she learned to be gracious and was a wonderful artist. Somewhere in her early years, she met Frank McEvoy (born 1895) from Bradford. At the time, he was co-owner of the Queen’s Hotel on Holland Street West in Bradford. Rose eventually married Frank and moved to the hotel.
Rose was a lady and Frank did not want her anywhere near the workings of a hotel, so she was told that when she came or went from their apartments above the hotel, she was not to look into the hotel area. Rose was a painter, so with white gloves in hand, she would pass through the entrance to the car and off she would go.
Rose and Frank had one child, Mary Ellen, and she was the apple of their eyes. A tall, good-looking girl, she and her mother would often spend time at the cottage up north.
Frank, being a little older than Rose, had the misfortune of having a stroke and he was bedridden. By this time, they were the sole owners of the hotel, and Rose came to Frank as he lay in his bed above the hotel and said, “Frank, if we want to keep this business, I am going to have to go downstairs and do my part.”
Well, to a refined lady who never set eyes inside a hotel, it certainly was an eye opener. In those days, there were two entrances to the hotel — one for women and their escorts and one for the men. Inside, she found spittoons for the men chewing tobacco, a segregated area for men with women, a small eating area and, of course, the bar. And the language. Not for the faint of heart; that was for sure.
When Frank died in 1974, Rose made many changes and made the bar area to the left of the front entrance one big space with a stage for visiting entertainers and, to the right of the entrance, a restaurant. Throughout the facility hanging, or should I say screwed, on the walls were her paintings.
One Friday night, Rose came down to the bar and hardly a soul was there. “What is going on? Where are all the patrons?” she wondered. Well, the Village Inn had female strippers there that night. Of course, a good convent girl never heard of this and said, “What do you mean, strippers?” After someone enlightened her and she thought about it, she said, “Let’s get them here, also.” So, Rose brought “the girls” from Toronto and gave them rooms upstairs, and her business thrived once again. She was told by the girls if one patron tried to touch them during their set, they would stop and head upstairs. Rose said a lot of the girls were going through schools and universities and would be upstairs studying while waiting to go on stage.
Rose became a good friend of mine, and she would give me her blue Lincoln to drive when she was going away. Many a night we spent above the bar in her wonderfully decorated home or downstairs as she tended business. If any of you remember Rose, she was a short, stout lady who could look after herself. One night, a man who was barred from the establishment came in drunk and the bouncer could not get him to leave. Leaving our table with apologies, Rose walked up to the tall, drunk man, grabbed him by the ear and escorted him to the street and asked him not to come back. She came back to the table and then started to shake. “Oh, my,” said Rose. “I do not believe I just did that.” We all laughed.
The picture is of Rose with my two dogs, which she loved. On one trip to the United States, she brought back mink coats she had made for the dogs. Every Easter and Christmas came the florist with flowers made up to look like poodles.
Rose had trouble with her knees and tried to get some weight off so she could have her operation, but to no avail. In July of that year, she had her operation. She came through it with flying colours but had a stroke a couple of days later and died July 11. 1984.
The Queen’s Hotel was sold and was never the same again.
