The details of the first five years of my life are meager; my memories of that period are almost non existent. At times I have the feeling I was born with...Alzheimer's.
My birth certificate states that I was born on the 10th day of October, the year: 1906, in Winnipeg, the Capital City of Manitoba Canada. It was a year of other disasters: the San Francisco earthquake: 2500 were drowned in a Florida tidal wave; Mt. Vesuvius erupted with hundreds killed!
I arrived during the first snowstorm of that winter. The record lists the Misericordia Hospital, located in suburban Saint Boniface. Misericordia signifies merciful. It lived up to its name.
My earliest memory, probably between two and three, was an evening visit to one of our many relatives. I was placed in the bedroom to sleep just as a violent storm erupted: complete with the most frightful thunder and lightning. I was terrified. Fear of the dark persisted into my twenties.
I must have been about four: out walking with Mamma we crossed some railroad tracks; one of my high button shoes got stuck in a switching section. No amount of pulling and tugging could free me; in the distance the smoke of an approaching train was visible, enlarging by the second. With rare presence of mind Mamma unbuttoned my shoe just seconds before the train thundered past.
I have no recollection of our Grandparents at that time. It was about six years later before I became aware of Grandma Wilder. As for Grandpa Wilder I have only one memory of him: very dead.
The occasion was his 'wake'. Grandpa was stretched out in his finery on the dining room table. The house was full of people, all enjoying the cakes and cookies that Mamma was busily preparing in the kitchen. My picture fades as the horse drawn hearse arrives to take Grandpa on his last ride.
I often visited the home of my maternal grandparents. Although I have no recollection of either Grandma or Grandpa Wilder at that particular time, I do recall my Uncle Sam (later Ed), no more than nine years old. When Eleanor and I visited Winnipeg thirty five years later I drove directly to the house.
Across the street from Grandparent's house a long narrow hill supported the railway tracks which led from the station to the city limits. In winter Uncle and I used a sleigh to whiz down the snow covered slope.
For me music has always been a main source of pleasure. It has endured to this day. Although I'm sure that Mamma did a lot of singing, I think I was about five before I really paid attention.
It must have been a special occasion. Recalling a night at a theater, listening to a live performance of what I realized years later was France Leah's 'Chocolate Soldier'. Although I probably slept through a good portion, the words and music 'Come, Come, I love you O O only, my heart is thine' often comes to mind unbidden; sung by Mamma in her sweet but untrained voice.
Although I have no idea which one, I know I started school in Winnipeg. I was not quite six, and I shall never forget my first day.
It was a time when many mothers dressed their little men in the current 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' look: the new English novel, with pictures, started a craze that produced endless clones world wide. Mamma copied the entire outfit. With my natural long curls I must have been a dead ringer. My seat in school was directly in front of a six year old girl. The temptation was just too much; somehow my long curls found their way into her ink well. That evening I lost not only my Lord Fauntleroy outfit; Mamma's shears did away with my curls.
I have no other memories until spring 1912. Almost six, I started school sixty miles south of Winnipeg in a village where our family would spend the next three years.
Here again I cannot recall the trip from Winnipeg to the village. Although it must have been by train, I have no first impressions, nor have I the vaguest idea which was the first house we occupied. But, beyond those events I have almost total recall of our life in that remote farming village.
It was named Plum Coulee, not coincidentally because a small stream coursed through the outskirts. Plum trees lined the banks. In summer wild raspberries, gooseberries and wild roses proliferated. For a six year old boy, this looked like...HEAVEN. It proved to be somewhat less...
1912: If you have seen movies of our 'Wild West', you can picture Plum Coulee. Dirt streets became muddy quagmires during spring and summer rains. The main street was two blocks long: The business section on one side, The railroad track with its red painted station, directly across. Next to the station a water tower, its long snout nursing the thirsty steam engine was a daily show. The business side of the street, fronted by a board sidewalk was a duplicate of thousands of similar small towns all over the continent. A hotel with a long bar, (men only), two 'general' stores, a bank not much larger than a big closet. The only other building must have been geared to farm equipment. I cannot recall ever going inside, but a paper mache horse, complete with harness stood in front; an unforgettable sight. As with so many buildings the figure seemed colossal to this six year old. It was probably little more than life size.
The sights and sounds from one other building, on the edge of town, will never be erased: a real live village blacksmith. The sounds of his hammer striking the anvil echoed throughout the town off and on six days a week. I spent hours watching the Smithy. I winced with each nail he pounded. How could the animal submit without flinching?
The population of about three hundred included plenty of children of all ages. With the exception of five or six Jewish families, the rest were German Mennonite, probably first and second generation.
Three block long streets angled off Main street, ending at what must have been thousands of acres of wheat fields. These three streets contained the three room school house and all the families' homes except three or four. One was located next to the school on a large lot completely protected by a six foot wire fence. It was filled with Crab Apples trees.
Two belonged to the owners of the largest general store in town. Their houses were situated cater corner on probably an acre of land on the outskirts of the village. I visited quite often, playing with the one remaining daughter my age, occasionally spending the night.
The homes, to a six year old, with attic and basement, seemed massive. Thirty years later visiting the village I found the homes closed, boarded up, the property overrun with weeds; they had shrunk to half the size I remembered.
One night in particular stands out; I had to use the bathroom. In every other home in the village the bathroom consisted of a small shack, built over a deep hole, at least thirty feet in back of the house. Inside, a shelf with two round openings, adult and children's size. In winter a china pot under our beds...
This bathroom was in the basement. It, to me, was a tall box with a fancy seat. I had trouble climbing up, almost fell into the pit, which contained lime.
Next morning I was treated to a breakfast of six eggs, toast and cereal. Although eggs were plentiful I had never eaten more than one at a meal at home.
The owners were cousins. One, the Rosner family, the other the Brownstones. The Rosners had seven girls, the cousins seven boys. Most of their children had grown up and left the village. Pappa worked as a bookkeeper and clerk for the cousins in their general store.
Pappa had attended college in Prague, had been hired because German was almost his native language. Because his handwriting was practically a work of art, he became an instant bookkeeper. Since he was out of work in Winnipeg most of the time, he could not turn down the offer of a steady job. For three years we endured the most intolerable hardships. Only the onset of World War 1 brought relief.
Practically all the village men worked on the wheat farms. Spring summer and fall, they worked from dawn to dusk, every day but Sunday. Canadian winters being about the worst in the world, the wheat fields remained snow covered until the spring thaw.
But of course there was always plenty of work for the farmers. Most had cows to milk, chickens and pigs to care for, the daily struggle fighting the snowdrifts that engulfed their homes every winter.
As for the wives, the days were never long enough. Just think: having several children, making their clothes, doing the washing, the bread baking, churning butter and milking their cows. I never saw a loaf of bakery made bread, cookie or cake during our three years in the village. They did get help: their children. Dr. McTavish, was kept busy delivering babies..
Mama used the large wash tub about once a week to mix dough. The aroma of the yeast mess filled the house. The wonderful fresh baked bread, just out of the oven, plastered with real sweet butter and jam made from wild rose petals...
No one gave a second thought to the fact that this so called staff of life was made from flour processed and bleached from the finest hard wheat in the world. Along with boiled milk, in a few years we would pay a terrible price for our poverty and ignorance.
Saturday nights the wash tub became a bath tub. We were scrubbed: babies Jerry and Sid first. I can only imagine what the unchanged water looked like when it came my turn. We had no bathtub or bathroom. I have no memory of Pappa or Mamma ever bathing.
Water was a problem, especially in winter. The summer rains falling on the roof into the gutters filled our basement cistern. From there it was pumped by hand to the kitchen sink. Occasionally we pumped up a drowned rat.
In winter after each storm I gathered the fresh clean snow: melted, this was our drinking water. If we ran short I lugged blocks of ice from the local ice house, on my sled.
Once Pappa bought a cow, tied it in the back yard; but he was a bookkeeper. He never tried to milk it; with no stable to house it in winter, he soon sold it.
Many of our neighbors had successfully drilled for water in their yards. Pappa decided to try for it. He hired the town water expert, complete with divining rod. He located the water, drilled, piped and installed a hand pump. The water was undrinkable. There was no further searching.
Brother Jerry was born at home in Plum Coulee, on February fifth 1915, during an especially violent blizzard. I was sixty miles away in the hospital. Pappa and sister Rose often recalled and retold the night's events. The snow, piled up around the house, blocked the doorways so that Pappa had to dig his way out. He walked the mile or so to get Dr. McTavish. returned in the doctor's horse drawn sleigh, icicles dripping from his mustache. By then Jerry had made his appearance; of the eight Mamma bore he was the heaviest. He is still the family heavyweight.
Of course there was no electricity in the village. A couple of gas lamps did for the main street. At night only the hotel bar was open. Movies had not arrived in the village. One small building containing several rows of chairs must have been for town meetings; I entered it only once for a slide show performance, I don't recall ever going out after dark.
I never saw a telephone, or heard one ring, although I assume that the different places of business and their owners must have had them. The station probably had one, but I only recall the sound of the telegraph key. The only house I remember living in was opposite the wheat fields. A dirt road separated us.
The farmers worked long hours plowing, planting and harvesting. In spring, overnight, as if by a magic wand the land was covered with a beautiful green carpet. From there on we could watch the stalks reaching upwards, straight to the sun. The tall stalks, kissed by the soft breeze seemed to form endless rolling waves. By fall the tips were filled with the golden grain.
Harvest time arrives: Watching the huge threshing machines separate the wheat from the chaff was real entertainment for the village kids. We had no movies, no park, not a bicycle in the village. Our 'fun' besides baseball, consisted of hunting the field mice that now cavorted all over the bare ground. With home made crossbows that fired nails, we stalked the tiny rodents with deadly accuracy.
The day arrived when the noisy threshing machines were stilled; all the grain hauled to the huge elevators by the railroad; the mountains of straw put to the torch lit up the countryside like so many funeral pyres. The fields were ready for their long winter sleep under huge blankets of snow. There was of course plenty of loose grain on the ground. This was our 'chewing gum'.
With the railroad paralleling the main street only a few yards away, the arrival of the daily trains was the main event of the day. In the morning the train headed south from Winnipeg to the border. Afternoon brought the return trip. The train whistles seemed to bring the village business to a halt, all eyes on the slowing train watched the baggage and mail being unloaded...
Occasionally with the arrival of the train, "RUNAWAY". could be heard echoing all through the village. A frightened horse had bolted, madly careening with its loaded wagon. In seconds a couple of young 'bucks' would give chase. Grabbing the 'bit', the show was over.
Pappa worked in one of the town's two general stores where everything imaginable was on display and for sale: in this huge (so it seemed to a six year old) emporium almost everything a family needed, from shovels to shirts, sugar to shoes. Flour came in 100 LB sacks. I cannot recall any fresh vegetables, but every family had its own summer garden: jars of preserved fruits and vegetables filled the cupboards.
There were displays of dried beans in drawers with glass fronts. Farmers brought in tubs of eggs to trade. I earned my first dollar packing the eggs in crates holding twenty four dozen for shipment to Winnipeg.
In front of every store there were long iron pipes raised about three feet. These were for hitching the farmer's horses. Often I and my friends would perform acrobatics, straddling and whirling around the pipes.
One memorable Saturday a playmate gave me a helpful shove. My head landed on a rock. Pappa must have heard my screams; he rushed out with a whip all of ten feet long! But of course my friend had disappeared. This was the first of what soon became almost routine. Whoever coined the term 'accident prone' must have had me in mind.
I have no memory of a Drug Store. My guess is that the General Stores stocked a variety of 'patent' medicines. Some good for man and beast.
If you have never tasted a Canadian Crab Apple you have missed a real treat. Besides Pappa's employers the town boasted another wealthy family living in what seemed to be a mansion. A crab apple orchard protected by a tall wire fence occupied the rest of the property.
The aroma of the ripening apples was just too much temptation. One summer day, knowing that the owners were out of town, I and a buddy scaled the fence and filled our pockets. Within an hour the town constable was at our house, telling Mama that I was in trouble. He was going to take me to the store to see Pappa.
He told Pappa the watchman had seen us stealing the apples; he intended to lock us up in the town jail. We did not realize he was just trying to frighten us, which he succeeded in doing. We promised never to steal another apple I don't know why we didn't get the strap, but I learned a lesson. I never stole again.
One of my playmates was a boy whose family owned a small farm bordering the coulee. One bright summer day, after robbing their chicken's nests, my friend decided to cook the eggs: in the shell.
He pilfered matches, set the eggs into a huge haystack in their backyard. It required only one match. In seconds the very dry hay became an immense pyre.
Within a few minutes it seemed everyone in the village had congregated. The local Fire Dept. arrived with their only piece of equipment, a hand operated pump drawn by two volunteers. The haystack and chicken house were left to burn to ashes. Luckily the hose stretched from the coulee to the farmhouse, which the volunteers managed to save.
Coming home for lunch from school on a bright spring day, sister Rose and I were witness to a murder, one of the most notorious in Canada. The town bank clerk was shot dead at high noon. I have more to tell about this tragic affair.
I believe our coulee was a small tributary of the Red River of the North. It was during the spring of 1915, what with the early rains and the spring thaw, the coulee overflowed its banks. The village, especially the main street, was covered by more than a foot of water. This did not seem to keep the villagers from their work; With high rubber boots they just sloshed around in and out of the stores. Their high wagons had no trouble navigating.
A strange, funny scene comes to mind. A flat wagon, an original Studebaker, had broken loose and was just lazily floating down the main street. When the wagon came into my view I did a double take. It was loaded with a variety of farm animals: chickens ducks and a goat!
California roses must be among the most beautiful in the world, and they are wonderfully fragrant. However the scent of the wild roses growing just outside our village was intoxicating. If only fleeting, the scent of wild roses conjures up a sad picture. A local farmer had committed suicide; probably every man woman and child from miles around was on hand for the outdoor service. The very plain pine box, open for a last leave-taking, was surrounded with the overpowering fragrance of the freshly picked flowers. I visualize this sad scene wherever roses are in bloom.
I know I started school as soon as we arrived in the village, but I cannot recall the 'first day'. It probably was during the spring of 1912. I was just about six, and since I could already read and write, besides having been taught the multiplication tables by Pappa, I really started off in the second grade. It was not 'official' but since the room contained first and second graders, I always knew where I stood. The teacher was a young woman, and all in all I enjoyed the class.
The three classrooms were typical of country schools of the last century. Single story frame affairs, each room with its own pot belly stove. The seats were built tandem, for two students. The two outside walls almost taken up with tall windows. I, and I'm sure most of my classmates, did a lot of day dreaming looking out at the blue sky, the trees, the birds. We did not miss school because of snow or rain. Except during one memorable spring flood.
Going into third grade meant moving to the next much larger room. A new teacher: Mr. Penner, a husky giant over six foot tall taught grades three to six.
I often look back to this period of my life. I believe that every child should be able to spend part of his (her) life in a small town environment, near a river or stream, where domestic animals are raised and cared for, where there are farmers who grow basic crops, and where children are useful. Most of today's children who grow up in our overcrowded cities have little connection with nature. With no real responsibilities they fill their time at play, on skate boards etc. How many are smoking, use drugs and alcohol? In a few years will we have a new generation of trouble makers?
My problems, some of which still beset me, began in this village school starting with the third grade. What could have, and should have been an exciting journey turned into a traumatic nightmare.
I do not recall any school prayers during my first year, but, at 9 o'clock of my first morning in the third grade, my new teacher, the over six foot giant, announced this was the time for prayer; Jewish kids were excused for five minutes; three of us, all boys, proceeded outside.
When the hand bell rang, prayers were over; it was time to get back to class. There were no remarks or other signs of hostility. That was to come later.
As we entered the classroom our teacher was poised in front, a violin tucked under his chin. We were all asked to rise and form a circle around the room.
And whenever I hear the strains of "Marching through Georgia", I picture about thirty children marching around the room, in step with the music. And I think about the incongruity: a German teacher, in a Canadian classroom, playing a US Civil War tune. On a violin!!
I was born left handed. I discovered later that to the fundamentalists, anyone left handed was possessed of the devil. Every time I picked up a pencil, my left hand was whacked with a heavy ruler. To add to my troubles, after school some of my classmates ganged up to beat me and the other Jewish boys: never one to one. They tore our clothes, beating us while screaming " CHRIST KILLERS". No one came to our rescue. Of course after the first encounter we developed into very fast runners.
About this time I started to learn Hebrew. Pappa as I learned years later) was an agnostic. However in deference to our grandmothers, he felt obliged to respect their wishes: I was their first grandchild. I can still recall not only the Rabbi's name: Moses Ratner, but also the little shelter covered by branches in the corner of his yard.
I learned to read the in Hebrew quite rapidly, unfortunately the only words I understood were the ones for God and 'blessed be thy name'. The rest was Greek to me. I have a very vivid picture of one particular morning. It was August the fifth 1914; after the prayer session, with the class assembled ready for our morning march, our teacher instead of picking up his violin, read from a paper: " Yesterday, August the fourth, England declared war on Germany. The British Government orders that from this day on German is not to be taught or spoken. No more German music played in any British Colony. This will be your last lesson in German". Our main reader was a book with the stories printed, one page in German, and the opposite page in English. From August fifth until my family left Plum Coulee in the fall of 1915 I heard no more German in school.
There was little in the village to indicate that World War 1 had begun. However reading the Winnipeg paper we learned there was real trouble. German stores had their windows smashed, their books and music burned. Since almost everyone in our village was of German extraction there naturally was no demonstration.
I may have missed them, but I have no recollection of any of the young men wearing uniforms. Possibly they had to travel to Winnipeg to join the service.
I do recall Mamma together with a few neighbors, plucking geese. The down would fill hospital pillows for soldiers wounded in battle.
Just before my eighth birthday, on a beautiful sunny Sunday, my world collapsed. Our entire family, Pappa, Mamma, myself, sister Rose now six, sisters Molly and Emily, had spent the afternoon with the Rosner and Brownstone families.
Walking home the mile or so, my legs gave way. I crumpled to the sidewalk; Pappa had to carry me home.
Doctor McTavish diagnosed St. Vitas Dance, a nervous disorder related to Rheumatic Fever, causing my feet to drag, my fingers and toes to 'twitch' constantly. I was sent to the Children's Hospital in Winnipeg, sixty miles from home. For five months I did not see Mama or Pappa. For over eighty years I have been plagued by nervous spasms, no question resulting from mistreatment in the village school.
To this day my memory has been crippled, my fingers twitch. I have managed to hide this fairly well, however some things: playing the piano, trying to dance, after repeated attempts, still elude me. I played baseball batting right handed and throwing left. At tennis I served right handed, had to switch to return. I soon gave up. For some reason I have only a couple of memories of my hospital stay. It was fall of 1914: outside my window, in a large field young men in uniform were marching and drilling. Canada, as a British Colony, was training her young men for war. A year or so later when my family moved back to Winnipeg there were parades and marching on the main streets of Winnipeg. The Canadian Expeditionary force fought many bloody battles on French soil. Almost every street had at least one Gold star showing from a house window.
Quite often I find myself humming some of the war songs of that period. The young nurses were singing "My Buddy" and "It's a long way to Tipperary." I did not have to spend the entire five months in bed, but there was a daily dose of some horrible tasting(red?) colored medicine. And one day the nurses prepared me for an operation. I was told that as long as I was in the hospital, although it wasn't necessary, my tonsils would be removed. I'm certain that my parents, 60 miles away knew nothing about it. I became quite ill, bleeding into a kidney shaped dish for a couple of days. I often wonder whether being relieved of my tonsils was partly responsible for some later problems. The prevailing wisdom was that tonsils and appendices were superfluous. Did our Creator err? We know differently to-day. My children still have both.
I am recalling how we celebrated Christmas; of course we did not have a tree. We hung up our stockings which we found filled with nuts, an orange (the only one for a year), candy canes, a few trinkets. Santa Claus never entered into the picture. In the first place we had no fireplace.
One Christmas I was chosen to take part in a church play. Riding a broomstick, with a horses head carved out of wood complete with reins and a tail, a dozen of us galloped around the stage singing a German song. "Hop hop ingalop" is all I remember. I cannot recall how I got started, but I sold the three Curtis publications: The weekly Saturday Evening Post, the monthly Farmers' magazine, The Country Gentleman, sold for a nickel. The monthly Ladies Home Journal 10c! Very few families could afford them.
Our first 'talking machine', the Edison cylinder. I cannot recall the music on the cylinders, but soon after Pappa brought home a small record player complete with the horn. I recall two records. One Galli Curci singing the 'Bell Song", the other the voice of William Jennings Bryan discoursing on the attributes of the Watermelon. After citing the virtues of this wonderful creation for five minutes or so Bryan concludes with 'I do not understand the Watermelon, but I eat it and enjoy it'. It would be a joy to find and listen to this record once again.
By age seven I was a very good baseball player. I played 'hard ball', catching. There were no masks to fit a seven year old kid. In one game I stopped a foul tip: with my right eye.
I recall the huge headline of the Winnipeg Free Press in the spring of 1913: TITANIC SUNK. The headline WAR on August 4 1914 must have been 6" tall.
Something occurred in 1916 in Winnipeg that after becoming a United States Citizen I realized our entry into the war was a tragic mistake.
On one of my Saturday movie sessions a film showed helmeted German soldiers ravaging a Belgian hospital. I cannot recall whether this was a news item or part of a movie, but the soldiers were shown bayoneting nurses and babies. Why did it take years before we realized the film could only have been produced in a British studio? This type of false propaganda along with the sinking of the Lusitania, turned us against Germany. There is evidence that the Lusitania carried arms to England contrary to our neutral status.
By 1917 the war had reached a stalemate. Without our entry there would have been a negotiated peace. Our participation led to the Allied victory. Forcing Germany to give up it's rich mining area, exacting huge reparations, bankrupted and pauperized the country. Hitler followed.
Germany had conducted it's war on as 'civilized' a basis as the allies. Prisoners were treated according to international law. Civilians and their homes were respected. Hitler and his Nazis launched 'all out war' on civilians, mistreated prisoners. The demonizing of the most cultured and scientifically advanced people led to the heinous Holocaust, the crime of the millennium.
Along with most of my generation the stereopticon was one of the wonders of the age. We probably enjoyed the same 3D pictures a thousand times. I must have read a dozen Horatio Alger books, not realizing only the names were changed. The Tarzan books rounded out my reading. Besides the English/German readers I have no recollection of arithmetic or spelling books. At any rate when we moved back to Winnipeg I excelled at these subjects.
I suppose by then people in the cities were enjoying the silent movies with Charlie Chaplin, the Keystone cops, the Perils of Pauline and so many more; only once in our village did we gather to view a slide show. I doubt even today more than 80 years later the town boasts a movie house. Probably every home has a TV.
In 1914 there were little more than three hundred souls including children in the village. To-day eighty years later my Atlas lists 677. There must be a few paved roads, indoor plumbing and unit heat. I'm sure most of the homes that existed in 1914 are still standing, with modern conveniences.
The vast, boundless fields that produce the finest hard wheat in the world, year after year, still border the old (remodeled) house my family occupied in 1912.
Recently, besides the village postmaster, I have corresponded with the only remaining resident of my generation. He went to the same school, knew the same teachers, but since he is five years my junior, he was only three or four when we moved back to Winnipeg.
Impossible to forget: The winter of '13 was probably no different than any other year: blinding blizzards. Snow piled high against houses and fences. Temperature 40 below.
One clear sunny morning I was sent off to the store, about a half mile walk, for sugar. As usual in addition to heavy underwear, six pairs of stockings, Indian moccasins and my 'toque', I put on two sweaters and a jacket, but where were my heavy gloves? They were nowhere to be found. Finally after ransacking the house, Mama brought sister Rose's mittens for me to wear.
"Mama, these are for girl's!" (Girl's had the five fingers, boy's only the thumb similar to a catcher's mitt.) "I can't wear these, my friends will make fun of me". I took off for the store, barehanded.
I started off with my hands in my jacket pocket. The back fence, about five feet high, was completely covered with snow that had hardened. Climbing the cut out steps on the house side, I slid down the other. With my hands still in my pockets, I walked briskly to the store.
I headed back home with a bag containing five pounds of sugar in one hand, the other hand in my pocket. As one hand became icy cold, I switched. Everything was fine until I reached our snow covered back yard fence.
No steps! Climbing the hard packed slippery slope was impossible. A step or two up, with nothing to hold on to, no footholds, down I went. With both bare hands exposed I was soon in bad trouble. They were freezing.
I must have screamed for at least 15 minutes before Mama heard and rescued me. By then I was sure my hands were frozen. They did finally get thawed out, by endless rubbing with, of all things, snow.
I was very lucky. I'm sure a few more minutes and I would have lost my hands. I not only recovered their full use, to-day, almost ninety, I do not have even a hint of arthritis. Considering that I severed part of a finger...
I wonder how to-day's children born and growing up on the farms react to the slaughter of their domestic animals. Since I was six years old when we moved to the village, watching pigs and cows butchered was a new and very unpleasant experience, to say the least. The helpless cows first brained with a huge mallet...
Our neighbors, the Walkopfs, included a boy my age, and a very old collie dog. One Saturday while playing in their yard Mr. Walkopf told us that the dog had to be destroyed, it was so very old and nearly blind.
Carrying a rifle Mr. Walkopf walked us, leading the collie, to a field on the edge of town. He was not a very good shot. It was with a sickening feeling I watched the poor animal in its death throes.
I have revisited Plum Coulee on three occasions. The first in 1940. With Eleanor I drove a new Dodge sedan, the last of the new cars built until the end of World War 2. We arrived in Plum Coulee heading for Winnipeg during a heavy downpour.
It was late afternoon. The streets were muddied. Since we wanted to reach Winnipeg sixty miles away before dark, we did not stop. Driving slowly, except for the ravages of time, nothing seemed changed. I recognized the same stores that lined the main street. The same station. The Rosner and Brownstone homes in the same location, but considerably smaller than I had known. And now empty and boarded up, seemingly abandoned.
In 1979 with Harold we traveled the coast route by train, to Vancouver, changing to Canadian Pacific we retraced my trip across Canada to Winnipeg. My cousin Marshall drove us to Plum Coulee. This time the town showed signs of joining the 20th Century. Autos, Garages and driveways, street lights.
Despite extreme poverty, sickness, malicious antisemitism, as I look back I know our troubles were more than compensated. We grew up in a real home with parents who loved each other and each one of their eight offspring.
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