The Sledgehammer

This week in The Incline:

• The action in '62

• The Vanderburghs

• Making a populist

• The dark horse

• Mr. Vanderburgh's spotlight

• With a whimper

Thursday, November 22, 1962.

The clouds hung low over Hamilton. The end of fall had been brisk, but not overly cold, though the lack of sunlight had kept temperatures in the single digits for the past few days. Despite the chill, there was excitement in the air.

Hamiltonians had been watching as their beloved Tiger Cats clawed their way through opposing teams during that year’s CFL season. That coming Saturday, they would face off against the Alouettes to determine which team would make it to the 50th Grey Cup and play the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.

It wasn’t all football fever, though. The city was still fixated on the story of the baby who had been found abandoned in a laundromat on King Street East. The Morality Division of the Hamilton Police had no leads in their search for the mother of little baby “Mary Jones”, so named by the nurses at St. Joes where she was being cared for until one or more parents could be located.

And, on top of it all, that year’s municipal election was actually generating interest. The iron grip of Lloyd Jackson - then Hamilton’s longest-serving mayor with 13 years in the chair - had begun to weaken. His grand visions of urban renewal had seen the city levelled by battalions of cranes and bulldozers and wrecking balls. Economic growth had stalled. And city council bickered endlessly over the specifics of Jackson’s plans for new highways, civic auditoriums, and wide-eyed plans for the wholesale demolition of communities in the North End and along Park Street for even more urban renewal. Indeed, when asked by the Spec about his chief priorities for a 10th term, Jackson responded: “Urban renewal is possibly one of the most important and distinctive things we’ve got to do.”

Smelling weakness, two ambitious young members of the Board of Control had announced their intentions to seek the office of mayor months earlier. Controller Jack MacDonald, who ran against Jackson in 1956, was the pick of the city’s Progressive Conservative establishment. But the one-to-watch was the daring 43-year-old Vic Copps, who had made a name for himself during his time on city council by taking stances on everything from Canada-wide unemployment to who he thought should own the Ti-Cats. Copps had managed to win over the city’s Liberal Party elites, who had soured on Jackson’s reign thanks to the sitting mayor’s obstinate attitude toward the changing times.

The expectation was that, on the morning of November 22, 1962, the three men would walk into the then-still new City Hall at 71 Main West and file their papers, providing Hamiltonians with a dignified, spirited, and lively contest.

But then, minutes before the 11:00 AM deadline for registrations, another man burst into the building, threw down his nomination papers, and, as the Spec noted, “hurried from City Hall before he could be interviewed.”

The man who had blazed in as the “dark horse” candidate was well-known for his family name and his colourful personality.

He was many things. Brash. Loud. Flamboyant. Controversial. Complicated. He would have fit into today’s politics with ease.

In many ways, Bill Vanderburgh was the model of the right-wing populists we see today.

I suppose one could say he was just ahead of his time.¹

Old stock and bad drivers

William Andrew Vanderburgh Jr. was born in Hamilton in 1925 to a family long-established in southern Ontario.

His grandfather, Clarke Vanderburgh, settled on what is today’s Highway 3 in Cayuga all the way back in the late 1800’s. A descendent of United Empire Loyalists who moved to the area in the 1700’s, Clarke was from a proud, industrious line. It’s no wonder, then, that he built a home with his own two hands as a teenager and farmed his plot land for over 75 years. By the time he passed away in 1950, the 93-year-old Clarke had lived a full and vibrant life, leaving behind scores of friends in Haldimand and Hamilton, as well as seven children and 22 grandchildren.

One of those children was Dr. William Andrew Vanderburgh Sr.

Dr. Vanderburgh graduated from Queen’s in 1914 and brought his medical degree to Hamilton after being offered an internship at the General Hospital. The next year, he went into private practice.

Though “private” may not be the most appropriate word to describe Dr. Vanderburgh. It did not take long for the good doctor to make a name for himself, and not always in the best way.

In June of 1920, Dr. Vanderburgh became a promoter for a movie that was causing a stir in town. Called “Enlighten Thy Daughter”, the silent film was a 70 minute morality play, complete with warnings against premarital sex, gambling, drinking, dancing, and abortion. “This production is a real service to humanity,” Dr. Vanderburgh was quoted as saying in promotional materials for the film, which played back-to-back for 10 hours a day, seven days a week at the Temple Theatre at the corner of King East and Catharine South.

A few months later, Dr. Vanderburgh made local headlines for a very different reason. Hauled before a judge on charges of falsifying his income tax statements, Dr. Vanderburgh was fined $1,500 (the equivalent of $22,000 today) for three years worth of back taxes. But, the second he was done in court, the city’s tax assessor showed up to physically escort him to his office to explain discrepancies in his municipal assessment as well.

The next week, Dr. Vanderburgh was called to the aid of a young man who had been run over by a truck at Cannon and Ferguson. Just three days later, he was back in court, this time to pay a $10 fine ($145 today) for dangerous driving.

It is unclear if these experiences led to a deep-seated anger at the government or if they were just the first public displays of an opposition to authority, but for the next 36 years of his life, Dr. Vanderburgh would go toe-to-toe with local officials on every possible matter.²

In mid-February, 1924, Hamilton Police were called to a run-down apartment at the corner of John South and Jackson East (the site of a local Tim Horton’s, the parking lot of which is the source of some local humour).

There, they found the body of a newborn. Needing confirmation as to what happened, they searched for a nearby doctor who could take time out of their afternoon to assist. Naturally, they found Dr. Vanderburgh. He, in turn, quickly determined that the child had been stillborn.

The shocking story gripped the city for a month but, in the end, it all came down to shame, grief, and misunderstanding.

The Hamilton Police had, within hours, settled on Eric Lawrason, the apartment’s tenant and a local tax assessor, as their main suspect. Unable to hold him without firm evidence, they charged Lawrason with “vagrancy”. He was eventually charged with “attempting to conceal the birth of a child” and held on $2,000 bail (around $38,000 today).

Dr. Vanderburgh, for his part, nearly derailed the entire case. The initial jury convened by the city’s coroner to decide the appropriate charges for Lawrason determined that he had failed to call a doctor promptly and likely tried to conceal the birth of the child. But they also saved space in their verdict to call out Dr. Vanderburgh, whom they said acted in an “improper and reprehensible” way by declaring the child had been stillborn and calling the undertaker without notifying the coroner. Dr. Vanderburgh apparently rose and “expressed disapproval of the jury’s reference to him,” before storming out of the courtroom.

With the charges set, Lawrason was brought before a county judge for his criminal trial. When put on the stand, Dr. Vanderburgh began making wild statements, claiming the Lawrason said the child was smothered and that he would have “burned the body” if he didn’t think it would get him in trouble. When asked why he didn’t note these things to officers on the scene or at the coroner’s inquiry, Dr. Vanderburgh had no answer. He then claimed he filled out the original death certificate “as a memo” instead of one to be formally filed, and then admitted to not having done a detailed enough investigation to determine if the child was, indeed, stillborn.

In the end, Dr. Vanderburgh’s statements didn’t matter. The defence counsel called a surprise witness: the mother of the stillborn infant. She testified that she had gone to Lawrason, a long-time friend, for help. Out of kindness, Lawrason had sheltered the mother while they figured out what to do. Lawrason was acquitted and the whole sad story was put to rest.

Except, of course, for Dr. Vanderburgh’s part in it. Angered at the attacks on his character, Dr. Vanderburgh appealed directly to Ontario’s Attorney General, William Folger Nickle, claiming that the jury was biased, the Crown’s case was damaging, and that he deserved to “commended [rather] than censured for his part in the case.” It is unclear if Nickle heard Dr. Vanderburgh’s appeal, but, given that he was not on trial and that he never filed a defamation suit of any kind, it’s unlikely Dr. Vanderburgh’s outburst was anything more than an attempt at image recovery.³

Despite the negative press, Dr. Vanderburgh’s practice was booming. In the years after the trial, he evidently sought to diversify his holdings and began to collect real estate in Hamilton.

His holdings were immense. A frontage near Kenilworth. A home in Woodlawn. A property at Dundurn and Aberdeen. Homes on King Street East. Dr. Vanderburgh was investing widely and indiscriminately. His investments were so prolific that the Spec felt the need to provide colour commentary when describing one of his purchases, writing in the “Real Estate” section: “Dr. W. A Vanderburgh, whose name often appears in this column…”

The following year, his family grew as well when Dr. Vanderburgh and his wife, Gladys, welcomed William Jr. into the world.

Even though his family and land holdings were growing, Dr. Vanderburgh remained as controversial as ever. Over the next few years, Dr. Vanderburgh would be in court nearly as much as he would be in his practice. Lawsuits over unpaid rent, lawsuits over bad stock deals, failure to pay income taxes, and so, so, so many legal issues over Dr. Vanderburgh’s conduct behind the wheel.

In 1940, Dr. Vanderburgh blamed the Premier of Ontario after he was pulled over by police who could not see his licence plate, claiming it was the Premier’s fault plates were hard to read in the dark. In 1942, he was sued by a local man after a costly accident at the intersection of Main and Erie. Another accident in 1947 resulted in injuries to a couple from Dundas who he struck while backing out of his own driveway.

By the end of the 40’s, the whole family was getting in on the dangerous driving trend; when his eldest son, James, was brought into court for a charge of “careless driving”, Dr. Vanderburgh served as his unofficial counsel, though the pair were unable to avoid the $25 fine ($350 today). In 1950, William Jr. also joined the “auto menace” club when he struck a 9-year-old boy at Barton and Wentworth while driving a truck. Notably, the 25-year-old didn’t call his father for help but, instead, went to a local legend, Dr. Harry Paikin, for assistance.

Then, in 1956, Dr. Vanderburgh had a sudden accident in his home. The fall caused injuries that the 68-year-old doctor could not overcome.

Even in his will, Dr. Vanderburgh demonstrated antipathy towards the state; the late doctor stipulated that some of the money from his estate go to buy a new ambulance - not for the city’s hospitals, but for the St. John’s Ambulance Society, a private charity.

As his later trajectory would prove, William Jr. also developed a noted distrust of government and a complicated relationship with the legal system. Whether he got these traits from his father is a matter of debate. But, as the eldest Vanderburgh son remaining in Hamilton, the family’s mantle fell to him. And his actions would keep the family name in the papers for years to come.⁴

Dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge

After his traffic incident in 1950, William Vanderburgh Jr. stayed out of the news until 1956, when he appeared at an Ontario Municipal Board hearing to oppose Hamilton’s plan to build a new City Hall on Main Street West. Hamiltonians got a first taste of the kind of politics Vanderburgh would pursue when he told the Board there were “many people now wishing to plan our lives without our consent.”

A vague, ill-defined group trying to control the lives of residents. The forcing of an ideal onto a population that did not want it. Central planning of the city.

Vanderburgh’s populism was taking shape.

After his father’s death, Vanderburgh followed in his footsteps. Not by attending medical school, but by buying up properties across the city. And, as quickly as he could purchase new investment properties, so too did he earn a reputation as a less-than attentive landlord.

In 1959, the City’s fire inspector noticed that an apartment building he owned at Main East and Tisdale North didn’t have any fire escapes. The inspector attempted to notify Vanderburgh that he needed to ensure his buildings were up to code, but he began a tactic that would carry on for months: dodge. Vanderburgh would flee from the inspector, hiding, pretending to not see him, and ignoring him at every instance. Having enough of the awkward game of hide-and-serve, the fire inspector bumped the issue up to the courts, and Vanderburgh was issued a fine for failing to provide a proper fire escape.

A local police officer was dispatched to his building to serve Vanderburgh with the notice he was being fined. What followed was a farcical, low-speed chase.

According to the officer’s reports, Vanderburgh “spotted the officer, ran across the street, got into a truck, and drove away”. The officer caught the truck at a stop light and tried to open the door, but Vanderburgh locked the door, waited until the light turned green, and sped off with the officer’s hand still on the door handle.

Vanderburgh then failed to appear in court or respond to the fine, necessitating the judge sentence Vanderburgh in absentia and warning the ducking landlord that, if he didn’t pay the fine and add appropriate safety measures to his building, he would be sentenced to 10 days in jail.

Months rolled by and Vanderburgh had still not made the mandated changes. The police had finally caught up to him, though, so in late October, he was forcibly brought to court where a judge told him that the city would install the fire escape on its own and charge him for the trouble. At this, Vanderburgh flew into a rage, threatening the fire department, claiming endless financial hardship, and, most dramatically, saying he would move to the Soviet Union if the city installed a fire escape on his property. “I can’t live under this misery any longer!” he shouted.

The fire escape was installed. Vanderburgh remained in Canada.

In 1960, Vanderburgh became more politically active. During a spirited citizen’s meeting on the prospect of the City of Hamilton nationalizing the HSR (which had been operated privately to that point), Vanderburgh took the floor to grill city officials on the cost to taxpayers.

For all his concern about costs to taxpayers and his imploring a judge to consider his financial hardship, he seemed to have enough money to invest in art. When the Hamilton Jewish Community Centre opened an exhibition of Israeli art, Vanderburgh announced to the Spec that he would, that night, purchase a piece and gift it to the “people of Hamilton”. Presenting attendees with ballots, Vanderburgh said he wanted the people to pick which piece was purchased and offer suggestions as to where it would be hung. Vanderburgh’s goal was to have it either displayed in City Hall or at the Art Gallery of Hamilton (AGH) so that it could, in his words, become the “nucleus of a permanent collection of Israeli art in Hamilton.”

Vanderburgh paid $400 (around $3,800 today) for a landscape of the city of Safed, near the Golan Heights, and immediately offered it to the mayor.

Mayor Jackson bluntly informed Vanderburgh that the painting was not suitable for City Hall, as the goal was to display local art and scenes in the new civic building. Jackson informed Vanderburgh that, if he wanted to “gift” the painting to the people of Hamilton, he should donate it to the AGH. The subject of the painting was never raised again.

On Tuesday, March 13, 1962, city council met for one of their regular meetings. Among the discussion items was a by-law that would have enabled the TH&B Railway, which still owned the Hunter Street Station, to expand a parking lot near today’s Hamilton GO Centre. In order to do this, council would have needed to close an old street allowance, lease it to the TH&B for $600 a year, and keep the rest of the street open for regular traffic.

It’s unclear how he figured it out, but Vanderburgh realized that would be his chance to shake up local politics.

Under the old rules governing council’s meetings, regular residents were not permitted an opportunity to speak unless it was in relation to a road closure. So when the TH&B parking lot by-law came to the floor with the “road closure” section attached, Vanderburgh pounced. Using his rights under the city’s rules, he rose to speak as though he were a member of city council.

Baffled council members watched as Vanderburgh laid out a grand plan for the city’s transportation future. The age of the railroad was over, he declared, and it was time to embrace the car. It was time the city buy the TH&B tracks stretching from Highway 20 (today’s Centennial Parkway) in the east to the city’s border with Dundas at Main Street West. The tracks would be ripped out and, in their place, a 15.5 kilometre long freeway would be built through the heart of the city. It would plow through Ainslie Wood, Kirkendall, Durand, and Corktown. It would run along the side of the escarpment and Gage Park. It would cut Rosedale off from the rest of the city. It would jump over the Red Hill Valley and slice through the Glendale Golf and Country Club to end in Stoney Creek. It would, by Vanderburgh’s estimation, solve all of Hamilton’s traffic woes forever.

When he was finished, council members looked around, confused. They thanked Vanderburgh, who informed council that he “owned property in the area” and, therefore, had an interest in the economic health of downtown. He returned to his seat and, as the Spec reported, “Council did not discuss Mr. Vanderburgh’s proposal.”

It would be the opening salvo in Vanderburgh’s burgeoning political career.⁵

The dark horse

Vanderburgh’s appearance at City Hall on nomination day in 1962 was unexpected. The Spec writers covering the event were perplexed, writing: “Mr. Vanderburgh’s entry came as a complete surprise to city hall observers. The consensus had been that only three would contest the chief executive’s position.”

Though he rushed from the building after filing his papers (as though he were running from a fire inspector), he stopped to talk to the Spec later on nomination day. He laid out his platform and his campaigning philosophy.

He would run on his freeway idea, as well as creating a new industrial district on the mountain and building a stadium “of Olympic standards” with private financing. Oh, and, of course, no tax increases whatsoever.

Vanderburgh informed his interviewer that he had come close to seeking office in 1960 but decided once-and-for-all to run for mayor in 1962 because of the “stagnation” in the office. “I do not feel anybody young enough with deep financial experience has come forward with long-term proposals for cleaning up the problems in this city,” he declared, while noting that, despite his “ethnic” name, he was old stock, through and through.

As if to temper expectations, he was blunt with the Spec: “He does not plan to do much campaigning and added his chances of election ‘are slim’,” they wrote.

He quickly reversed that position and began campaigning in earnest, spending significantly on his run. In full-page advertisements in the Spec, Vanderburgh made his appeal to the “Homeowners of Hamilton”, decrying the city’s debt, the burden on taxpayers, and his desire to improve services while keeping taxes low. “As every homeowner is aware, taxes are to the point where we can no longer tolerate an increase,” he had printed beside a smiling photo of himself. He even created a front group - The Citizens for Vanderburgh Committee - that took responsibility for all his advertising.

Despite his big money campaign, there were still questions about his motivations. During his pre-election sit down with the Spec, Vanderburgh was grilled on who was backing his campaign, what his personal motivations for seeking the office might be, and any possible conflicts of interest he might have going into the role.

He glossed over those issues. Instead, he rattled off some lines that would be commonplace today.

His qualifications? “My financial background gives me a unique experience which I think is needed at city council.”

Mayor Jackson’s re-election effort? “He is too old. And if he is elected Hamilton will stand still for two years.”

Would he run again in the next election if he’s beaten in 1962? “I do not intend to be beaten.”

He promised to end strikes, turn the train station into a “traffic control centre”, privatize urban renewal efforts, expand highways, and bend local boards and agencies to his will by restoring “confidence in the mayor and his leadership”.

Pure, uncut right-wing populism.

And it went over like a lead balloon.

As the results rolled in on the evening of December 5, 1962, it was clear that the taxpayers of Hamilton didn’t need Vanderburgh to save them. They had finally, after so many years, dumped Jackson in favour of the flash and spectacle of Vic Copps, but hadn’t so much as given Vanderburgh a second thought.

When all was said and done, Copps came out ahead with 47.3%, winning every part of the city except Ward 1 (which he lost to Jackson - a Ward 1 resident - by just 42 votes). Vanderburgh placed dead last, scraping together just 3,386 votes for 4.2% of the total vote.

He was sombre when he arrived at City Hall, telling reporters it seemed he was “far from what the people wanted.” As the returns kept rolling in, Vanderburgh slouched onto the steps in the foyer of City Hall, watching reality set in. When it became clear he had not even earned as many votes across Hamilton as Copps had won in each ward, he turned to reporters and offered this assessment: “…I found you have to run a circus to get close to the people. I believe they want pleasantries…they don’t concern themselves with fact and what things will cost.”

As a final insult, as he was finishing his statement to reporters, he was drowned out by “yells and yippies” as Vic Copps made his way into the building, flanked by a veritable sea of supporters. As the reporters turned to the conquering hero, Vanderburgh was left alone, on the steps of City Hall, pondering his next move.⁶  

All the world’s a stage

Sometime after dinner on Friday, October 25, 1963, the phone rang at the DiCicco household. Theresa, the family’s oldest daughter, answered. A man without a trace of an accent asked her to put her father on the line. Nicola, or “Nick” as he preferred, took the receiver from his daughter. The conversation was brief, quiet, and unremarkable. “I’ll meet you at the corner of Chestnut and Cannon,” he told the man on the other end of the line.

Nick hung up and told his wife, Felicetta, that a colleague had fallen ill and was in the General Hospital. He would stop by and check on his work friend before heading to an Italian social club at Barton and Sherman where he played cards every Friday. At 7:00 PM, he pulled on a coat and walked out the door. Theresa watched from the front window as he walked towards Chestnut and Cannon.

Two hours later, Hamilton Police officer Gordon Hockridge was doing the rounds, making one of his usual stops at a popular hookup spot in a parking lot off Mt. Albion Road (today, roughly where the Indigenous garden called “The Bear Meeting Place” is along the Red Hill Trails to the west of the parkway). Hockridge drove into the parking lot and waited for a moment. Satisfied that there was no funny business occurring there, he turned his car back towards the road. Only then did his headlights illuminate something unsettling. He stopped the car. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at.

There, battered almost beyond recognition, was the body of Nick DiCicco, beaten 22 times with a tire iron.

The investigation turned up nothing. There was no evidence anywhere in the parking lot or the surrounding area. DiCicco still had valuables and a wallet containing $27 on him. His friends at the Italian social club say he never made it for their usual card game. And a check at the General Hospital found no colleague of DiCicco’s was admitted. “Luck,” as the Spec noted in their coverage, “had been with the killer or killers last night.”

The Hamilton Police were only 10 days into their investigation when another call came in.

Two fishermen casting lines from the eastern side of the Desjardins Canal on a sunny Sunday afternoon weren’t getting any bites. They decided to try the western side instead. They climbed the banks of the Burlington Heights, scurried across the train bridge, and slid down to the western side. There, one of the anglers noticed what he thought was a department store mannequin arm floating in the canal. But when he got closer, he noticed the arm had wrinkles. And was connected to a body.

Hamilton Police pulled the body from the canal and began their investigation. A single gunshot wound to the head, no missing effects, wallet and valuables still on the body, including $150 in cash.

That made identification easier. The man was Walter Moson, an unemployed steelworker originally from Poland, who had been dead for 24 hours before he was found.

When the Hamilton Police sought the public’s help in the Moson case, they also reminded residents that the DiCicco case was still open. This had the effect of tying the two mysterious deaths together in the public’s imagination. Making matters even worse, the police let slip that one of the theories they were pursuing in the Moson case was that his body was dumped “gangland-style”.

Hamiltonians panicked. Interpol was called in. The Spec ran a piece with the headline: “Odds Seem To Favour Killer In Hamilton.”

The fact that the two men had absolutely nothing in common did not seem to matter.

DiCicco was a well-liked, outgoing family man who put in his time at work and socialized with members of his community. Reports after the fact referenced his beautiful singing voice and his wide social network.

Moson was called a “recluse” and “mysterious” by the few people who knew him. Unemployed, consistently ill, and increasingly isolated, Moson had no friends, no family, and almost no connections to the community. His landlord barely even noticed he was gone from his apartment at Barton and Lincoln until he was questioned by the police.

A bludgeoning death where the body was found in an east end parking lot and a death from a gunshot wound where the body was found floating in a west end canal. The only connection seemed to be that both victims were men, lived 2 kilometres from one another, and were found within 10 days of each other.

But that was enough for Vanderburgh.

After a $1,000 reward ($10,000 today) was put up for information about the DiCicco murder, Vanderburgh came forward with a stunning announcement. He would put up an additional $8,000 to bring the reward total up to $9,000 (over $93,000 today) for information in both the DiCicco and Moson cases.

“They look like paid killings,” Vanderburgh told the press, “A lot of lips are sealed in connection with the deaths…This could happen to any of us.”

The Crown was quick to reply, noting that no rewards would be offered in the Moson case given that it was still unclear if he died from self-inflicted injuries. Still, Vanderburgh delivered thousands of dollars in bearer bonds to the city treasurer with that understanding that, if the case was not solved in two months, the bonds would be returned to Vanderburgh.

The case of Nick DiCicco has never been solved. Just days after Vanderburgh’s pronouncement, a ballistics report from the province showed that Moson’s death was a suicide.

Vanderburgh got his money back. Which was for the best, considering he would soon be racking up lawyer’s fees of his own.⁷

Three days after Vanderburgh inserted himself into the DiCicco and Moson cases, he was at an apartment building he owned on Hughson Street South. What happened next was nothing short of bizarre.

As a court later heard, Vanderburgh propped a ladder against the side of the building and climbed up to the bathroom window of one of his tenants, an 18-year-old woman. He kicked in the window and slid into the unit while the tenant, who was in the bathroom at the time and wearing only a shirt and underwear, desperately tried to get out. Vanderburgh pushed her against the wall, entered her living area, and began tearing the place apart, raving incoherently about missing keys and back pay. Then, for good measure, he cut off utilities to the unit.

Vanderburgh’s initial charges of “breaking and entering with intent” were downgraded to “common assault and trespassing” before trial. It was at that trial that Vanderburgh informed the court that his tenant was three weeks late on rent and that he needed to climb through her bathroom window because “he had not been able to contact her in any other way.”

The case was as chaotic as the incident. Vanderburgh interrupted, disrupted, and derailed the proceedings with regularity. He raved about the court being used to “blackmail” him. He made wild accusations, saying that, if the tenant was allowed to stay in the unit, he was sure the charges against him would be dropped. At one point, the judge snapped at Vanderburgh, “keep quiet or I’ll send you to Barton Street Jail!”

In the end, Vanderburgh was found guilty of assault but cleared on the charge of trespassing. He was ordered to pay a $25 fine (about $250 today).

After his trial, he kept quiet through the summer of 1964.

He popped up again in October to threaten another run for the mayoralty, claiming that Vic Copps had overseen “gross mismanagement” of the city’s budget and that the $2,000,000 refurbishment of the city’s pumping system at Lakeland Beach had been done as part of a kickback scheme, saying: “That’s a lot of money to spend on a building that is just covering for some machinery. It’s either a political payoff of just stupidity.” Vanderburgh claimed to be “on good terms” with Prime Minister Lester Pearson and Premier John Robarts.

Once again, Vanderburgh appeared at City Hall just moments before the close of nominations on November 19, 1964. Except, this time, he made a big show of nearly submitting papers before turning to reporters and announcing that he wouldn’t run for mayor because “I feel there will be a federal election in the spring and my own aspirations lie there.”

Vic Copps was acclaimed for his second term. And Vanderburgh slipped from the headlines for the next 23 months, not appearing once during the federal election which, contra to his prediction, came in November of 1965.⁸

On September 29, 1966, the city had just finished pouring a new sidewalk on Grant Avenue, one block west of Wentworth (notably, the Vanderburgh family home where William grew up sat at the corner of Main East and Grant Ave). The details are murky, but sometime on that quiet Thursday afternoon, Vanderburgh approached the drying concrete with a sledgehammer and began smashing away, eventually causing $300 in damages. The reason for his attack on public property was simple: he didn’t think the city needed to waste money replacing the sidewalk. The Hamilton Police disagreed and he was once again in court in late October to answer for his crime.

While such negative press would be enough to keep any conventional person out of the public spotlight for a while, Vanderburgh dove in with enthusiasm and registered to run for mayor in that year’s election.

Sharing the ballot with Copps, Board of Control member Brian Morison, and ghost candidate John Kelly (who did not campaign, appear before the media, or many any comments whatsoever for the entire election), Vanderburgh brushed off his old routine and lapped up every moment he had on the public stage.

Some of Vanderburgh’s greatest hits were mixed with some new lines. Sure, he wanted no new taxes and abundant services, but he also accused Copps of running “a bubble gum campaign”, said his main goal was to create a “Metro Hamilton” region, pump water in from Lake Erie to service the mountain, and focus on a freeway up the Escarpment, instead of his original east-west plan. His advertisements claimed that “your debt is estimated to be $115,000,000.00” in 1966 and decried grants given to local schools.

But his largest ad was a jumbled mess of sentiments. He claimed to be the “Conservative” candidate and that he would be “a Scotch” mayor. Quotation marks danced indiscriminately around fonts of varying sizes and styles, all above a mathematical equation that read: “Knowledge + Integrity + Maturity = Honesty”.

But the public had grown weary of Vanderburgh’s performance. The Spec’s television reporter, Jack Miller, provided a less than glowing review of his debate performance, noting “Does WIlliam Vanderburgh propose to do anything at all if he gets in as mayor?…candidate Vanderburgh managed to work in lots of complaining about the records of the other two [Copps and Morison], without being challenged on most of his charges or without having to say how he would handle things.”

Election day was humiliating. Vanderburgh placed dead last, earning under half the votes of the ghost candidate John Kelly, taking just 938 ballots or 1.2% of the vote.

The Spec was brutal in their post-election assessment: “William Vanderburgh, who talked a great deal, got only half as many votes as John Kelly, who said absolutely nothing in the campaign…Mr. Vanderburgh’s call for a metro government and concern about mounting debt wasn’t taken seriously by the electorate. He got almost no support and failed to attract even the ‘anti’ votes which normally go to the fringe candidates.”⁹

Curtains

Vanderburgh’s fringe status was beginning to calcify. This fact was aided by his outburst during a public lecture by President of the Privy Council and former Finance Minister Walter Gordon in January of 1967. Vanderburgh attempted to debate Gordon while he was speaking, demanding he provide proof that the Liberal government had passed legislation that led to an “increase in Canadian capital.” Vanderburgh shouted over Gordon whenever he tried to answer, saying he would “go to the United States and get a better paying job” instead of staying in Canada.

Vanderburgh irritated the crowd and frustrated Gordon, who finally joked to the audience: “He’s either a professor or one of your local politicians.” The crowd laughed, partially at Gordon’s quip and partially at Vanderburgh.

Then, in November, Vanderburgh was back in court, this time on charges of not paying an engineering firm for inspections they did on an apartment he was trying to buy in Stoney Creek. After being ordered to pay the money owed, he told the court threateningly that “My people came into this country and set up this court. I hope the time doesn’t come when we have to set up another.”

Four months later, Vanderburgh was rushed to the General Hospital after he collapsed. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was already gone.

William Vanderburgh was dead at age 43.¹⁰

Vanderburgh was a complicated man. His ancestors were humble, but his father appeared to relish in the spotlight and shun authority. These traits appear to have rubbed off on Vanderburgh, who became convinced that he, with his generational wealth, bravado, and investment portfolio, had what it took to “save” Hamilton from itself. He was man with multiple criminal convictions and poor financial dealings who acted in a brash, pompous, and self-assured way while spouting scattered populist talking points. In essence, he was the prototype of the right-wing populists of today.

That begs the question: if Vanderburgh were alive today and spent years flaunting his real estate wealth, seeking out the spotlight, and acting outrageously for attention, how well would he do if he were on the ballot?

He’s not so different from the populists we see today.

He did what he wanted, from ignoring the fire department’s requests that he ensure a minimum standard of safety in his apartment buildings, to entering a tenant’s bathroom through the window without consent, to smashing up a sidewalk to make a point.

He sought publicity and smashed through the community without much consideration for others, buying paintings to decorate city hall, taking over city council meetings to discuss outlandish plans for mega-highways through the core, and inserting himself into unsolved murders to make a point about crime.

He ran for office, campaigning on a blend of fiscal conservatism and populist outrage that missed the mark by about 60 years. And, when voters rejected him, he claimed all people wanted was “a circus”.

Sounds like so many of the right-wing populists of 2026.

Above all else, William Vanderburgh was like the sledgehammer he used to destroy a sidewalk on Grant Avenue in 1966.

He was a blunt instrument that always tried to smash his way through impediments. Impediments to his wealth, to his success, to his aspirations. But, like any sledgehammer, he wasn’t big on building anything new, just tearing down what already was.

And we should all be grateful that he wasn’t put in the hands of someone who could do real damage.

1  _{Spec archives used for this section: Nov 22, 1962; Dec 3, 1962.}

2  _{Spec archives used for this section: June 4, 1920; Aug 19, 1920; Aug 25, 1920; Aug 28, 1920; Dec 12, 1950; Nov 22, 1967.}

3  _{Spec archives used for this section: Feb 19, 1924; March 15, 1924; March 17, 1924; March 18, 1924; March 19, 1924.}

4  _{Spec archives used for this section: June 23, 1922; June 2, 1923; May 25, 1934; May 28, 1934; Feb 6, 1940; July 23, 1942; April 19, 1947; Nov 16, 1948; Dec 1, 1949; Feb 7, 1950; Oct 9, 1956; Nov 13, 1961.}

5  _{Spec archives used for this section: Feb 14, 1956; July 29, 1959; Oct 28, 1959; Dec 12, 1960; Dec 14, 1960; March 14, 1962.}

6  _{Spec archives used for this section: Nov 22, 1962; Dec 1, 1962; Dec 3, 1962; Dec 6, 1962.}

7  _{Spec archives used for this section: Oct 26, 1963; Oct 28, 1963; Nov 4, 1963; Nov 5, 1963; Nov 6, 1963; Nov 7, 1963; Nov 12, 1963; Jan 31, 1964; Sept 15, 1964; Feb 28, 1967; Nov 17, 1973.}

8  _{Spec archives used for this section: Dec 3, 1963; Dec 16, 1963; Feb 7, 1964; Oct 30, 1964; Nov 19, 1964.}

9  _{Spec archives used for this section: Oct 11, 1966; Nov 28, 1966; Dec 1, 1966; Dec 2, 1966; Dec 3, 1966; Dec 6, 1966; Dec 8, 1966.}

10  _{Spec archives used for this section: Jan 31, 1967; Nov 22, 1967; Feb 23, 1968; Feb 24, 1968.}