I'm sure I started school in the third grade. I have a mental picture of the first day, but from there the years between the third and ninth grade are a complete blank. I suppose nothing bad must have happened or I would surely recall it. As for my life at home I assume I had my duties: emptying ashes from the furnace, keeping the sidewalk clear of snow: trips to the store for groceries..
There was one very traumatic episode regarding the overdue rent. Since then, after three quarters of a century this is the first time I have recalled the event, although I remember the house I cannot recall the street address. It probably occurred on a Saturday since I was home. Pappa arriving about noon, we knew there was trouble: he never came home for lunch. Telling Mama that he had mislaid a document giving us the option to buy the house, he ransacked every drawer before giving up his search. I'm sure there was no such agreement. It made no sense since there was no money for rent, let alone a down payment. Naturally we were forced to move...again.
My memories start to fall in place with my entry into high school in the fall of' 21. Winnipeg had three: Kevin, in the more affluent Fort Rouge section; St. John's, my school in the North End, where most of the middle and poorer class lived.; and Strathcona, the third, outside the city limits, I barely knew existed. I never bothered to learn who all the schools were named after.
In contrast to our High Schools which extend to four years, Canada's were limited to three. With very strict discipline and much homework, on graduating one was ready for college.
I vividly recall my first day. The school required new students to run the 100 yard dash. I must have set a new record. The slowest ever at about seventeen seconds. There was a lot of rivalry in sports between the high schools. The various track competitions: the 100, 220, the 440 and the one mile runs were the most important athletic events between the High Schools. Of course my first try-out placed me in the 'also rans'. But I did find two sports that interested me: the very violent Canadian game of Lacrosse I played well enough to make the team as a sub. I attended the contests but never got off the bench. Jewish boys never did. I also did quite well at basketball. (of course not by to-day's standards.)
Our classes included Arithmetic, Geography, History ( British, naturally), English Grammar, French, Latin: I can still quote the first line of Julius Caesar: "Omnia Gallia ...". A writing course (Composition) and Mechanical Drawing. We also had a choice between metal and wood shop. I spent the entire year fabricating a nut cracker.
On the first of every month we were graded. We were seated according to our grade. The top students sat in the first row next to the windows. I excelled in all the courses with the exception of drawing, composition and the shop work. With these three pulling my average down, I still made it within the first five. My mind was a complete blank in the writing class. I turned in blank papers with only my signature.
I could not master the drawing class, and my shop work was mediocre. Nothing in grade school or at home prepared me for these courses. My mistreatment in the Plum Coulee school had caused learning disabilities and memory problems that afflict me to this day.
I recall another problem, probably in the eighth grade. This was the Palmer System of penmanship. It consisted of endless circles that looked like springs. My papers were always the messiest. Of course I could not write with my left hand. My right hand writing was erratic then, and still is.
With one exception, I liked the teachers, among them only one female. She was my favorite, she taught French. I was fond of our History teacher, Mr. Reeves. My memory pictures him constantly rubbing his prominent nose!
I will always remember our Principal, Mr. Gardner, because he was maliciously antisemitic. He taught Latin. He made his feelings quite obvious. Besides myself there was another Jewish classmate, named Morris Rabinovich. Mr. Gardner deliberately mispronounced our long Jewish names whenever he called on us for answers.
Many years later one of my Canadian cousins wrote to inform me that Mr. Gardner had committed suicide. I never learned the circumstances. I wondered if anyone was sorry.
I passed into grade 10 with no problem. If my memory serves there were no final examinations, apparently the monthly tests sufficed.
I was active in basketball and lacrosse during my ninth year. I enjoyed both, but as I mentioned the teams were strictly White Protestant. Actually in the North End where we lived there were many middle class Jewish boys, but I cannot recall even one involved in athletics. I saw only one black person, a young man, in the entire city.
Grade 10 basically was an extension of the ninth. Same teachers, including Mr. Gardner. We began algebra.
Midway in my tenth year I suffered my second major physical disability. I am not sure what caused it; perhaps a combination of an accidental fall and the savage almost sadistic way our teams played lacrosse. The hardwood lacrosse sticks were used as weapons whenever a player thought he could get away with it.
Our Gym was equipped with a ladder like affair suspended horizontally about three feet from the ceiling. A short run to a spring board sent me flying to catch the first rung of the ladder. Swinging along fifty feet I suppose I was emulating Tarzan. But one day I missed the ladder, landing on the hardwood floor, I was stunned but miraculously, no bones broken.
A short time later, I started to run a fever, with the calf of my right leg swelling to double its normal size. Our family doctor, Dr. Rady, a recent graduate of the University of Manitoba (I shall never forget him) also a friend of my druggist Uncle, diagnosed the Flu. As my temperature continued to climb he made no other diagnosis.
Until late one night my temperature hit 105; I was delirious. Dr. Rady was called. One look and he phoned the hospital to ready the operating room. The diagnosis: Osteomeylitis, a disease of the bone marrow, a fairly prevalent, and at that time an almost incurable disease.
I will never understand how I survived the next five months. After the first midnight operation, I was covered with ice bags. The side of my leg had a wide incision from knee to ankle, neatly sutured. Morphine was the pain killer. After a week with my temperature back to normal, I was sent home.
Within three days my temperature was again at the danger point. I was rushed back to the hospital, in surgery within an hour.
Again I awoke surrounded by ice bags. but this time my wound was open: a rubber tube inserted. Every morning something called Dakin's solution was poured through the tube into the open wound. A preview of Hell! The solution had originated during the first world war to keep wounds from becoming infected. Today few doctors even recognize the name. It is now known as Clorox, or Purex.
I remained in the hospital three more months. Twice during that time I required further surgery; with daily injections of morphine I almost became an addict. Fortunately when I begged for it was withheld; in time.
After the fourth operation my parents were told my leg had to be amputated. Young Doctor Rady had been treating sister Rose for a broken finger that had become infected. Three times he operated, slicing until nothing remained but a stub. Pappa said "ENOUGH"!
Even though there was no prospect of paying another doctor, Pappa found a semi-retired orthopedic surgeon. One examination and Dr. Galloway had me back in surgery.
I have no idea how long this lasted, but when I awoke I realized I not only had my leg, but the wound was no longer open. For several years tiny pieces of bone worked their way out through the skin. Dr. Galloway had scraped and cut out a good portion of the fibula, the smaller of the leg bones. Almost three quarters of a century later the scars and stitches have left their imprint.
I shall never forget old Dr. Galloway. Within a week I was out of bed and walking. I was 16; I weighed less than 100 pounds. Since then, for over three quarters of a century, I have been on my feet at some very hard jobs. I only feel pain if I get bumped. I wear boots to work.
There was a discouraging note. Dr. Galloway informed us that the disease would recur during my lifetime: he was right. A year later my left elbow required surgery.
I had first entered the hospital in the winter of 1922, half way through my tenth grade. After my final operation it was summer. When school started again in the fall I fully expected to be held back; to my surprise I found myself in the eleventh, the final year. Naturally I was completely lost. I figured any day I would find myself back in tenth grade.
It never happened. It was only at the end of the year at graduation time that I realized my predicament. I was handed an unearned diploma. My high school days were finished. The school did not want to spend anymore time or money on me.
It was at this time that Pappa decided to pull up stakes and start a new life in California. His three younger brothers had preceded him and settled in Los Angeles. They had been quite successful in their various endeavors. They urged Pappa to follow them. He needed little persuasion.
It was also the time that Lillian, our baby sister had died. I cannot begin to describe the devastating effect this had on our parents. The terrible traumatic twenty years of their Canadian life could no longer be tolerated.
And one day I found Mama crying. Pappa had disappeared without a good-bye, leaving no note. He had until that time kept his plans secret. But the mystery lasted only a few days. Pappa wrote from Los Angeles. He had found work, and asked Mamma to get visas, pack up and be prepared to take the train to California.
I have a very hazy view of what followed, except that there was not enough money to pay for sister Rose's and my fare. I suspect that brother Arnold, less than four, traveled free: Molly, Emily, Sid and Jerry probably half fare. Emily recalls the train trip: Mamma with the five siblings occupied two berths, an upper and lower. It was a long trip starting with North Dakota through Nebraska.
Rose was left with Uncle Alvin and Aunt Bertha for a few months. As for me I spent a year with Grandma Wilder. I wish I had kept a diary of that wonderful time. I slept on the living room couch in that two bedroom apartment. I loved this Grandmother, so good natured; she laughed easily, as did her daughter, our sainted mother.
Uncle Alvin occupied the second bedroom while he completed his business. His family, Aunt Bertha, cousins Audrey and Eunice, had already migrated to Los Angeles.
One incident has remained with me as though it were yesterday. I was having trouble with my teeth, had gone to a dentist. He decided to extract one of my molars; there was no money for a filling. He used chloroform. I was brought to Grandma's apartment semiconcious and reeking of the anesthetic. Grandma was away: when she returned, finding me stretched out, semiconscious, she became very frightened. After she talked to Uncle Joe she calmed down and looked after me the rest of the day.
I cannot forget our breakfasts together: a glass of tea was a staple, mine half milk. Occasionally Grandma was put out with me because I kidded her on her accent. But she expressed herself quite well in English, considering her lack of formal education.
In spite of a life of extreme hardship, uprooted from her homeland to the harsh prairie life in Canada, her husband's death shortly after arriving, leaving her with eight children, the youngest no more than three, I do not recall that she was ever really angry.
On the other hand, Grandma Abramovich, although as her first grandchild I'm sure she liked me and showed her affection with various goodies, cakes and cookies, I cannot picture her smiling. She had a special dislike for Mama for marrying her son; Pappa rarely went to see her.
When I was about fifteen she remarried a Mr. German (G, as in gill). He operated a hardware store in the north end. He was about as dour a person as Grandma.
One day he asked me to deliver some flyers for a special sale. He gave me a list of streets he wanted me to cover; Starting at 9 in the morning, by 11 I had delivered the batch. I reported to Mr. German.
Instead of a complement, I received a balling out: "What did you do with the flyers? You could not have delivered them all so fast, you must have destroyed half of them". He never checked any of the streets, and he never paid me. Within a couple of years grandma divorced him.
Sometime during my final year in high school I began to work Saturdays in my Uncle Joe's drug store. I'll have much to say on this in another chapter. I also worked during the summer for Pappa's cousin Jerome Abramovich. Jerome ran a Western Union office, receiving and sending messages the old fashioned way: by telegraph key and Morse Code. It clattered constantly. I delivered telegrams on my bike: most went to local movie theatre offices, from Hollywood.
A deadly event occurred one winter afternoon in Uncle Joe's store; luckily I was in school. His young clerk Sam Cohen, was alone when a man walked in, and, at the point of a gun forced Sam to the rear of the store. The thief, pressing the gun in Sam's back, ordered him to open the safe; at this instant Uncle Joe walked in, taking in the situation while removing his overcoat, he threw it over the gunman and attempted to overpower him.
Unfortunately Sam made no move to help. He was paralyzed. The gunman fired through the coat. The bullets struck Sam in the chest and Uncle Joe in the hip and gouged the fingers of his left hand. Sam died after several emergency operations. Joe's injuries were painful but not serious. The gunman escaped but was caught. He turned out to be a shell shocked veteran of World War I. He was committed to a mental institution.
I can recall very few of my teenage friends and acquaintances. I will have a lot to write about Ron J. a classmate and neighbor. I know Julius Heyman was a very good friend, but the only memory remaining is the time we actually came to blows. I have no idea what led up to the fight. We fought with our bare fists. I can only guess our age, perhaps 15 because we were classmates in high school. This was the only occasion in my entire life that I used my fists in anger against another person.
I'm sure our fight lasted only a few minutes. Neither of us was seriously hurt. When it was over we went back to being good friends. From that point although I know he did not just drop out of my life, I cannot recall one thing we did together.
In one way or another antisemitism, from subtle to overt, was a fact of our life, to be endured; but one wonderful experience, entirely unexpected, stands out. For some time the Boy Scouts had fascinated me. I had watched them on parades, pictured myself in the Scout uniform and envied their camping trips, some of which were just outside the city limits. Unfortunately all the boys seemed to be White Anglo Saxon Protestants.
When I passed my twelfth birthday, the age a boy became eligible to be a Scout, I decided to try to join. There apparently were no Jewish Boy Scouts. I almost gave up when I learned the meeting place was in the local church to which our neighbors belonged. With the help of my friend I became a Tenderfoot Scout.
I needn't have worried. The meetings took place in the very large and well outfitted basement. At my first meeting I was greeted by the Scoutmaster, whose name I shall never forget." Mr. Good". How appropriate!
The boys ranged from 12 to 17, most were from the affluent neighborhood. I felt welcome from the first meeting. There was never the slightest hint of anti-semitism. I'm sure all the Scouts and their families were members of the church.
I cannot recall where the money came from for the required shirt, tie and cap, but I acquired them. The local T. Eaton Department store had a special section devoted to Scout paraphernalia. This included, beside the uniform, everything needed for camping trips.
Many week ends we pitched camp just outside the north end city limits. We had a huge bell tent that slept a dozen of us. With a center pole, we lined up, our heads circling the circumference, our feet to the pole. It was a very old tent that leaked.
One memorable occasion: a special visiting day for our parents. I tried to demonstrate my skill at preparing breakfast. First my attempts to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together failed. Finally, flipping flapjacks in the air, they landed in the fire.
I had difficulty learning the different requirements for 'merit badges'. To this day I cannot tie the various special knots. I also had difficulty with the first aid bandages, but I managed to acquire a few badges. One of the 'badges' required a fourteen mile hike. I undertook this in the middle of winter on the frozen Red River. I did complete the hike on a comparatively mild day, using snowshoes to navigate part of the way.
Cousin Ed, June 10, 1995
I have no idea what triggered my memories this morning: puttering around my kitchen, for the first time in years cousin Eddy filled my thoughts.
The eldest son of my mother's oldest brother Harry, he was my best friend; a year and a half my junior he was one grade behind me in high school. Physically we were about the same size and weight. He had not spent any time in the hospital as I had, had not been abused emotionally or physically, and since at that time there were only two, he and his sister Miriam, he was much better nourished. I don't recall that my cousin ever became interested in sports. I cannot recall his interests; I'll ask Miriam.
Uncle Harry was a prosperous newspaper publisher. While my family had to move frequently, Uncle Harry and Aunt Sylvia owned their own large nicely furnished two story home. I spent many hours there, playing with Eddy's toys, especially his wind up train.
I'm not sure when we started, but twice a week after school we spent in the basement of the Israelite Press, Uncle Harry's newspaper. It was the only Jewish newspaper in Western Canada.
Twice a week after school as the papers came off the press Ed and I folded, rolled and sealed each one with an address label. There were no direct personal deliveries, everything went by mail all over Western Canada. I don't recall how well but I'm sure we must have been paid. I worked at this until at 16 I became disabled.
I doubt that Eddy would have chosen me as a friend. We were so completely different. I do not recall that he ever tried out for any sports. I tried just about every sport except track: baseball, basketball, rugby, hockey, ice and roller skating, snow shoeing. Looking back, I know that while I was shy almost to the point of panic, whatever the reasons: three traumatic years in a backward village, the eldest in a poverty stricken family...
Eddy always seemed so self assured. He was a born leader. In spite of existing quotas on Jewish students, since my Uncle, Ed's father, was a prominent active member of the community, Ed an outstanding student, he was accepted by both Manitoba and Montreal Universities.
His college entrance the fall of '23 coincided with my emigration from Canada. From that time we communicated only once. I learned that he had obtained his Doctor's Diploma, had started his career ministering to very poor people in Saskatchewan. Usually paid in vegetables or eggs.
With Canada's entry into World War II, Ed enlisted in the army with the rank of Major. I only saw him once more. He came to Los Angeles especially to see my mother, his Aunt. She was afflicted with Leukemia. I heard no more until the sad news that he had died of cancer.
About the middle of July 1923, shortly after my elbow surgery, I received a very welcome letter from Pappa. "Here's your ticket. Start packing, you can come home".
When I examined the ticket I became confused. It was the return portion of a round trip ticket, signed M. Wilder. Reading the letter further I understood: M. Wilder was mother's sister Molly. She had been visiting our family for several months and was ready to return to her home in Winnipeg. Buying a round trip special excursion ticket from Los Angeles to Winnipeg, she of course would not use the return portion. That was for my trip. But what about Aunt Molly's signature?
The day arrived for my departure. I wore my graduation suit, my first with 'long pants': I had just bought it from a men's store that advertised, "Walk up, save $10.00". I carried a small valise with only underwear, shirts and sox. A paper bag with a half dozen sandwiches, prepared by Grandma Wilder, three American Dollar bills in my pocket, my entire worldly possessions.
For some reason the ticket agent failed to notice that Molly had signed her ticket M. Wilder instead of her full first name. She was lucky to get away with it. It remained for me to cosign the ticket in the conductor's presence as M. Wilder. The conductor noticed this and asked me my name. I was prepared with 'Morris'. Luckily he did not ask for identification.
The trip lasted six days and five nights. It was via the Canadian National across Canada to Vancouver, from there down the West Coast to Los Angeles. It was my first train ride for more than 60 miles. The trip across Saskatchewan and part of Alberta was more of the same prairie as my home in Manitoba.
But once the train reached the mountains in Alberta, through Lake Louise and Banff the scenery became spectacular. In the seventeen years of my life in Canada, I had made two trips to Winnipeg Beach, by electric car; a round trip from Plum Coulee by train. To this day I have never been east of Winnipeg.
I cannot recall just where I switched to Southern Pacific, probably in Vancouver or the border. The trip down the Coast, to one accustomed to only wheat fields or endless snow, a wonderland; a visual panorama of terrain only seen in my geography books or travel brochures.
I sat up the entire five nights. I know I bought milk and some candy; after a couple of days I was eating stale deviled egg sandwiches. I landed at the old Union Station in Los Angeles with exactly two American dollar bills.
In my mind's eye I have often relived that first hour: leaving the Union Station, I thought I was in Paradise. The weather was balmy, with a soft warm breeze waving the Palm trees. The scent of orange blossoms was intoxicating. In the distance the mountains (snow capped in winter). Of course, there were more people and auto traffic than I had ever seen, but the atmosphere was... relaxing.
I'm trying to visualize and recapture the moments I stood outside the station. Approaching my 18th birthday, just out of the hospital, my left arm in a sling, my right leg barely healed, I was unfit to walk any distance: with an overpowering sense of inferiority...
This was to be my home for over a half century. As I write, this 4 a.m. November 1, 1995, I can scarcely believe what I have lived and what I have witnessed.
The California sunshine, fresh orange juice daily, the abundance of 'natural food', exercise and hard work put me on the road to vibrant health.
Love; three marriages; two divorces, five children.
Life as a bachelor father. The struggle to keep 'Body and Soul' together. The World at War.
The City of the Angels: "Paradise Lost". I'll try to give you some idea of a world that my generation once knew but now only exists only in our memories. What has changed?
Thousands, added daily to our world population, crowd into cities. Our children forced to make their livelihood far from home, leaves a void. My family tree has withered.
The wonders that science has bestowed have been in many ways ruinous. Man's inhumanity to his fellow man has not changed since Cain slew Able. The power of mass and individual destruction hangs over all our lives like Damocles'' ancient sword. Our mass communicating ability has produced on one hand a shrunken world, on the other a world of strangers. How many of us know our neighbors in the same way as my generation?
On to Saidye
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