When we arrived in Winnipeg in the spring of 1904, Main Street was paved with wooden blocks imbedded in sand and tar. There were four sets of streetcar tracks; the middle pair were used years before by the horse-drawn cars. Later when electric cars were put into service, heavier tracks were required and were laid down on either side of the lighter ones.
A few years after we arrived, the city council decided to pave Main Street with asphalt. The wooden blocks were lifted preparatory to paving, and people were invited to come along and take them away free. As every house used wood for cooking and heating, news of the free fuel got around very fast and caused a mad scramble.
Men, women and children from our neighbourhood invaded the street with wheelbarrows, washtubs, sacks, anything that would carry a few blocks. It was a bonanza. Canada was not paved with gold, but with wooden blocks that were free! How well I remember my father working laboriously to remove the tar, sand and muck from those blocks. What a pity it was a case of love's labour lost, for he soon found out that they were not suitable for fuel. When a good fire had been started in our kitchen stove, Father put in one of the blocks. With an enormous "Woof!" it exploded, blasting the stove lids to the ceiling.
We smelled of burning tar for weeks. We eventually became so used to the smell it did not bother us. but it had penetrated our clothes. When we went to school, the teacher would put us far off at the back of the room.
We had to give up the idea of cheap fuel, but we did use the blocks to bank up our house, for we had no basement, and they served as excellent insulation.
On an ordinary day, Main Street was a busy thoroughfare with the hustle and bustle of trade, the hurried movement of traffic - carriages, street cars, running horses, chucking automobiles-and shouting street vendors. All the sounds of a bustling, rising metropolis rose full blown.
On Sundays it was different, especially if it happened to be a bright and sunny day. There wasn't much to do on Sundays. All shops, bars and amusement places were closed. In the afternoon, music could be heard near the city hall and people would gravitate towards it. It was the Salvation Army on parade.
The parade started at the Citadel on James Avenue, went along King Street and turned into Market towards Main Street. The marching men and women of the corps looked smart in their blue uniforms piped with red.
On reaching their destination at Main and Market the marchers formed a wide circle with members of the band and officers in front, and the others lined up behind them. The band continued to play during the formation. A large number of pedestrians and folk in cars and carriages gathered round to watch and listen.
When the crowd seemed to reach its peak, the band stopped playing. An officer walked to the centre of the circle, took off his cap and after a brief prayer, addressed the gathering. No spell-binding preaching. Just a nice, easy, warm Sunday greeting to come closer, gather 'round, stay and enjoy.
The service ended, the Army formed their marching order and returned to the Citadel led by the band. A surprising number of spectators followed.
Most Sundays would find me and my friends on Main Street. The marching song of the Salvation Army, "Onward Christian Soldiers", was the first tune I ever heard any band play. It had rhythm and it was meaningful. It remains in my memory to this day.
Parades were common entertainment at the turn of the century. There were the Orange Day parade on July 12, Decoration Day parade, evening Torch parades during elections, and, of course, the Sunday Salvation Army parade.
One of the regular features of every parade was a detachment of Boy Scouts with Newfoundland dogs. Some dogs were harnessed to small carts carrying large boxes into which the watchers were expected to toss donations for the Red Cross. Other dogs had smaller boxes strapped to their backs and they circulated through the crowd collecting money to the delight of the children, who scrambled to put their coins in the boxes.
The most colourful parade was the Labour Day parade. Union organizations were in their infancy and the leaders spared no effort to make the most of their once-a-year demonstration of togetherness and strength.
The trades marched in groups displaying symbols of their occupations. Tinsmiths wore tin hats in the shape of sailor hats, with their union number printed on the ribbon; mechanics carried wrenches; stonemasons marched with sledgehammers; janitors in white carried pails; railway men in striped caps swung lanterns, and, as in every parade, the hook and ladder trucks of the fire brigade went along too.
Mounties and city police on horseback directed the traffic as the parade went from the Main Street bridge to the C.P.R. subway.
Medicine shows were travelling enterprises run by quacks and hucksters selling patent medicines and other "remedies". I remember one run by a Professor Sutton, who set up in the evening on a vacant lot on Main Street. Oil pressure torches lit up the platform and a canvas backdrop turned it into a stage.
A free show with minstrels, black face comedy and fancy ladies who danced, attracted a large crowd, and when it reached its peak, the professor came onto the stage. He pointed to his display of bottles filled with tapeworms. With a pair of forceps, he drew out yards and yards of one, and told horrifying tales of the ravages of tapeworms in those who ate pork.
"But you can preserve your life with a few doses from a bottle of this wonderful medicine. Only $1.00 a bottle!" (A day's pay for many in those days.) "You are free to eat anything you like. This wonderful medicine will resist not only the ravages of tapeworm, but also cancer and fever."
"You can also purchase a bottle of snake oil for an additional 25¢. Snake oil will cure everything that ails man...rheumatism, colds, corns, backaches, stomach aches, soreness, internal or external pains."
The professor then invited a few boys from the crowd to come up for a free shampoo so he could demonstrate the wonderful cleaning and disinfecting powers of his special tar soap. It was absolutely guaranteed to cure eczema, dandruff, falling hair and even headaches. When I came home after such a shampoo, with my hair wet and smelling of tar, my mother always accused me of swimming in the river.
There was a kidney medicine, too, for $1.00 a bottle. If your water turned green after taking the medicine, it was the poison coming out of your body. Years later, as a pharmacist, I learned that the medicine contained a dye that caused everyone to have "green water".
There were of course the professor's own men in the crowd who would hold up their dollars and shout, "Gimme another bottle of that medicine. I bought one last week and it was wonderful." The crowd would then be more willing to part with their dollars.
And so the show went on, and Professor Sutton lined his pockets.
There used to be a number of tattoo parlours plying their trade in Winnipeg. In the windows of their tiny shops, they displayed samples of their art: fancy ladies, exotic postures, snakes, flowers, initials and religious drawings in brilliant colours and very well executed. They would map out a design, pierce the skin and apply the dyes with no use of an antiseptic. It is remarkable that infection was rare.
Most of the clients were men in various stages of drunkenness. They walked in, stood while the tattoo artist created his masterpiece, then paid a handsome fee. If they complained, they were beaten and thrown out.
"Come in, I'll tell you de troot!"
The truthtellers were colourfully dressed gypsy women, nicely shaped, with sensuous smiles and big bright eyes. You walked in and were led to a small curtained cubicle.
The truth was always what these young women knew you wanted to hear...fortune, conquest and adventure.
They demanded their fee in paper money. If you refused to pay, a big burly gypsy with a walrus moustache would suddenly appear from behind the curtain - and you paid! The gypsies did a big business, for many "suckers" succumbed to their charms.
Winnipeg once had a segregated area for brothels be hind the C.P.R. tracks east of Main Street. They were operated by various madams and each had its regular customers. They were not legal but remained in business with the full knowledge of the police and city authorities. It was an area known as "down the line".
It was said that one particular madam, popularly known as Diamond Sappho, had a diamond imbedded in a front tooth. I never saw her, though.
The "red light district" provided me with a lot of customers for the Sunday papers from the United States. I seldom received less than a quarter for these papers, mainly because of their popular funnies section. Mutt and Jeff, the Katzenjammer Kids, Buster Brown and Bringing Up Father were only a few of the best strips.
I witnessed many things in these houses that my mother never found out about, thank goodness!
At one of the more quiet and orderly houses, I saw several very young men, about 17 or 18 years old, each sitting alongside a "lady". They seemed embarrassed and the atmosphere was tense when I walked in, but I was greeted with a hearty "Hello, Joe!" and the ladies came up to grab a paper.
Apparently these young men were brought to the brothel by fathers, uncles, or older friends with the deliberate purpose of having them learn about sex from the professionals - a common practice in those days.
Policemen were usually chosen for their height, impressive appearance and alertness. They wore tall helmets, like those that London bobbies still wear, and carried a baton. The policemen covering the beats served as judge, jury, prosecutor and defence lawyer, all in one. No one disputed them. Brawls, thefts, holdups and muggings were often settled on the spot, and the paddy wagon was called usually only for drunks.
One day a crowd gathered as a policeman entered a Main Street store. Whenever that occurred, it spelled trouble. In those days, there were no price tags on merchandise. The merchant merely quoted a price after sizing up his customer. Haggling was part of making a purchase. No one ever paid the first asking price.
A man had gone into the store to purchase a pair of shoes. The customer and the storekeeper had argued over the price until the customer had become quite disagreeable. The storekeeper finally agreed to a much lower price. The man took the shoes and went out of the store, only to find later that he had two lefts. He rushed back in a rage and beat up the storekeeper. The policeman listened to both men carefully, then asked the merchant to give the man the other shoe. No further argument. The policeman's decision was final.
In all the years I walked along Main Street I never saw a policeman arrest a crook. There were many brawls, but as soon as a policeman appeared, the crowd would quickly disperse. "G'wan home" was a frequent command from a policeman.
Cleanliness and sanitation in hotels, restaurants and food stores was not as closely checked then as it is now. As long as no one died or was taken violently ill from bad food, there was no trouble.
One day a man brought to the Health Department a loaf of bread with a dead fly inside. The health inspector was obligated to investigate the bakery from which the bread had been purchased, and he found very unsanitary conditions. The baker was brought to court and he stoutly denied the charge.
"Not guilty, your Honour," he said to the Judge.
"But we have the evidence," the Judge replied.
"Let me see it," said the baker. The Judge ordered the prosecutor to show the baker the evidence. The baker took one look at the loaf, picked out the fly and indignantly exclaimed, "Why, that's a raisin!" and promptly ate it.
The evidence being destroyed, the Judge dismissed the case.
Fire! The clang! clang! of the fire engine bell always made everyone within hearing run towards the sound, to follow the brigade to the fire.
I often watched them roar out of the Central Fire Hall, along Bannatyne Avenue to Main Street. First came the fire chief. He was a little guy and all I could see was his cap and the whip held high in his hand. He drove a small carriage and had a very fast horse. The hose wagon came next, followed by the pump wagon with smoke billowing in the wind; then came the hook and ladder truck, a very long wagon steered from behind. Right behind the fire wagons came the police on bicycles and in paddy wagons.
It was so exciting for boys like me. As soon as I heard the fire bell, I dropped my papers in the nearest doorway and ran. When it was all over and I returned, my papers would still be there. Then I would go over to the fire hall and watch the men string the hoses up on the tower to dry.
"Runaway! Runaway! Look out!"
I turned towards the shouting to see a team of horses, hooves flying and eyes rolling, running hell-bent along Main Street. Everyone scampered out of harm's way, but stayed close enough to watch the action.
Suddenly two men rushed out of the crowd to grab the halters of the badly frightened horses. The runaways had probably been scared by a noisy automobile or a piece of paper tossed by the wind. It took some time but the men, using soft voices and experienced hands, calmed the horses and order was restored to the street.
Runaways happened frequently. Most of them were stopped by the policemen on the beat; just one more responsibility of their daily rounds.
Saloon muggings were not uncommon. There were always idlers in the bars, and their sole occupation was seeking out victims for thieving. They usually worked in pairs, picking on a man in the early stages of drunkenness. They would jolly him along, maybe buy a round or two. At the appropriate moment, they'd drop a crystal of drug in his drink - slip him a "Mickey Finn". The victim would pass out quickly, and the men would carry him out, rob him and leave him in the alley. These thieves were rough and nothing was too mean and heartless for them.
Winnipeg's first skyscraper was the 12-storey Union Bank building on the corner of Main Street and William Avenue, built in 1906. Many bystanders watched its construction because of the unusual way the blocks of stone were lifted into position. A wooden elevator shaft was built alongside the building and was extended as the building progressed. The blocks were placed on the platform of the cage. The cage was hoisted by a rope which went around a pulley at the top of the elevator then down around another pulley at the bottom. The rope was fastened to a whiffle-tree, powered by a team of horses that hauled the load to the desired level.
Later, a steam engine was put in to service in place of the horses. The engine would grunt and groan under the pressure and clouds of smoke and steam would cover the area. Occasionally the engine broke down, much to the humiliation of the engineer. His work mates snickered as they harnessed the horses back onto the whiffle-tree and continued the work.
I recall the way they assembled the steel skeleton of the structure. Two men worked as a team, one standing by a forge, a bit to one side and below the other. He would toss a red hot rivet to the other man who would catch it in a small bucket, then pick it up with large tongs and deftly insert it into position in the girder. When it was in place, he would flatten it with a large hammer. We often wondered what would happen if one of those rivets dropped on the men below. But the riveter never missed, and we would watch the teamwork by the hour with keen absorption.
Young boys like me had a great time after the building was finished. We rode the elevator to the top, then raced down the ten flights of stairs. We did this repeatedly until chased out of the building.
In 1908, the Bell Telephone Company sold their Manitoba operations to the provincial government. There weren't many phones in the city then, but once the government took over the plant and cut the rates there was a rush to get a telephone installed. It was a status symbol.
Our home received priority over many others because my brother Harry was often required at a moment's notice to act as interpreter in the courts. The telephone was installed in 1910. We were so excited, I think everyone in our family called everyone they knew who had a phone. It was a good thing that charges were not on a per call basis.
With those early phones, you lifted the receiver and waited for the girl to say, "Number, please?" In a few seconds she connected you and, wonder of wonders-the other person answered!
"Hello, is that you, Stinky? This is Joe. Can you hear me?" It was as plain as anything!
Very early every morning the milk man would come to our home. He drove a one-horse covered wagon holding several cans of fresh milk. The cover of each ran also served as a quart measure.
In winter, the milk man would throw a horse blanket over the cans to keep them from freezing, though very often we would find chips of ice in our milk.
My mother would wait for the delivery with several pitchers. The milk man would pour out quart measures into mother's pitchers, and then she would give him a dollar and get a card with printed divisions on it. For every quart she received, the milk man would punch a hole in the card.
These were the days before pasteurization was compulsory, but our milk man assured us his cows were regularly tested for tuberculosis. His assurance was good enough for my mother. When it did become compulsory, many independent dairymen sold all their milk to the big companies. The milk then came in glass bottles with a blown portion at the top where you could see the cream. My mother always felt that the milk from the big companies not only cost more but didn't taste the same.
Fresh bread was also delivered to our home several times a week. You paid 5¢ a loaf, or you could get tickets. Twenty-two fresh loaves for a dollar, or- 24 day-old loaves for the same price.
In those days, the bakeries used small blocks of yeast, delivered fresh daily. Uncle Beresh's youngest son, Nate, had got a job driving a wagon for Fleischmann's Yeast shortly after he arrived in Canada. He knew very little English. As salesman and driver- for Fleischmann's, he had to call on all the grocery stores and bakeries in the area. He didn't know the streets either, but the old horse knew the route quite well, and simply took Nate with him on all the rounds. That way, Nate got along just fine!
To the Jewish immigrants arriving in the new country, the Rabbi was a symbol of security and comfort. They turned to him for help frequently, and trusted him completely.
Rabbi Kanter was typical, and he was often required to act as a banker for immigrants who did not know about banks and savings. One such immigrant was Moshe Segalsky.
Moshe arrived in Winnipeg around 1910. He left a wife and small child in the Old Country, and looked towards the day he would save enough money to bring them over. He was a carpenter and had no difficulty securing a job soon after he arrived. He arranged with Rabbi Kanter to save a portion of his pay while also sending some money to his wife and child. This went on for some time, Moshe bringing money every pay day to the Rabbi.
In the meantime, Moshe became very lonely, so he joined a social group and was invited to many homes. However, he never revealed his marital status.
After a couple of years, his remittances and letters to his wife became less frequent. He met a nice young lady and kept steady company; he forgot his wife and his visits to the Rabbi stopped. He asked the young lady to marry him, and she gladly accepted.
Moshe knew his fund at the Rabbi's was considerable, so he decided to ask for his money.
"Of course, Moshe," said the Rabbi, "I was hoping you would come, it was about time. I'll have the money for you in a month."
With that. an elated Moshe and his bride-to-be began to look for suitable living quarters. The appointed day with the Rabbi came and Moshe appeared at his house.
"Come in, Moshe, come in. I have everything ready for you." The Rabbi ushered Moshe Segalsky into an adjoining room. And sitting there smiling were Moshe's wife and child!
The days prior to elections were always exciting; the newspapers talked of nothing else. The bars were full of shouting and quarreling over party policies and philosophies as reported in the papers. There seemed to be more Liberal supporters in Winnipeg, and since the Free Press was a Liberal paper, they more than doubled their sales before elections. The Telegram, a Conservative paper, reported the Tory policies while the Tribune remained steadfast to its policy of news reporting and criticism of both parties and the other papers.
Election talks, promises, tall tales and outright lies about the opposition were unrestrained, especially at the nightly gatherings at City Hall. The torch parades gathered the crowds. The parades were made up of a few hundred men carrying coal oil torches who marched along Main Street and Portage Avenue, returning with a crowd to City Hall for speeches and cheers.
The federal election of 1911 was especially exciting. Sir Wilfrid Laurier's Grits spoke for Reciprocity-free trade between Canada and the United States, while Sir Robert Borden's Tories demanded protection of Canadian industry through tariffs. Sir Robert had been quoted in the papers as saying "No truck or trade with the Yankees," and this statement caused quite a furore in Winnipeg. Most of the people seemed to support the free trade policy, so when the Liberals were defeated, there was much gloom about the outcome of the election. Many of the bars were quite subdued for several days after that election.
The curling bonspiel was one of the highlights of winter. The city became the centre for curlers from all over the province, and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. It was the sole topic of conversation in all the bars: the virtues of the icemaker, the visiting rinks, the officials and so on. Unfortunately, there were never quite enough curling stones to go around, so there would be a continuous parade of horse-drawn sleighs piled high with stones being taken from one rink to another.
The area I lived in was near the Salter Street bridge. It was a poor part of Winnipeg with many immigrant families living in small, crowded quarters on streets north and south of the tracks. There wasn't much money to be spent on pleasure, so the people took fun as they found it, provided it was free.
When New Year's Eve came, everyone bundled up and headed for the Salter Street bridge. They jostled one another for good positions looking over the railway yards below, for that was where the action would soon be.
The trains shuttled onto the tracks, filling the empty spaces for a long way on each side of the bridge. Billows of steam and smoke filled the cold air. The excitement ran high as everyone waited.
Midnight was welcomed with bell ringings and continuously tooting train whistles. Amid shouts of "Happy New Year'' the crowd danced and sang "Auld Lang Syne". It was great fun and it was free.
I used to see quite a number of people walk from Main Street to James Avenue, then east to the river. One day, to satisfy my curiosity, I followed them.
At the end of the avenue, there was a large building with a huge smoke stack. It was known as the Gas Works and gas for use in cooking, heating and industry was processed there from coal. The area around the building was permeated with a curious odor.
The people who strolled around the area were afflicted with asthma. They never went into the building itself, but walked around inhaling the air. It seems their breathing difficulties would be relieved by the air, but it was not a permanent cure and they came back repeatedly.
Yes, times were different then.
Top of Page
Back to Table of Contents
Back to Joe & Hattie
Back to the Abramovich and Wilder Families
Back to Bertram Home Page
Master Index