Transcript

I remember Brantford from 1910 to 1923. I don't really remember 1910. I was only three years old.

There were fewer than thirty Jewish families when we came. My father, Rev. W. Gringorten was not only the religious leader of that small community. He was shochet, mohel, teacher, father confessor, and Jewish conscience for his entire flock. He didn't take his position lightly. He was totally involved with every Jewish family there.

The shul was an old house on the corner of Albion and Palace Streets. Naturally, the cheder was there too. Papa was a teacher of the old school, disciplinary ruler in hand. But what he taught, the kids really learned. Learned and never forgot. Many a mother who couldn't read or write English, blessed my father forevermore, for having taught the children to read and write Yiddish, so that when they left the parental home, they could keep in touch with their folks by corresponding in Yiddish.

I don't know whether the practice was continued after we left Brantford, by my father made it his business to be in touch with the School for the Blind in Brantford, and to take under his wing any Jewish student there, from whatever part of Canada he may have come. We would bring them to our home for every Shabat and every Jewish holiday. I remember one young man from Winnipeg who became a family favourite. He kept in touch with us for many years after he was graduated from the school as a piano tuner. He taught my brother Jack to read and write Braille and they corresponded for some time.

I remember the hospital at the top of Terrace Hill Street. Any Jewish patient there at any time was helped to recovery by my mother's chicken soup and chicken. Whether it was important to the patient or not, they weren't going to be subjected to "traife" food. Every single day of their stay, one of us children had to run up to the hospital with freshly made chicken and chicken soup. This to my parents was a sacred obligation.

Brantford in those years had one hotel, and one street car line. All the Jewish merchants had their businesses on Colborne Street. Those, that is, who were in the ready-to-wear line. As in most Jewish communities, we had a shoemaker, a tailor, a grocer, and several junk and scrap dealers. The richest Jew in town was in the coal business. He was a clever, shrewd businessman, who signed his name with an X because he could neither read nor write, but none was more respected.

So far as I can remember, the Jewish population didn't expand very much between 1910 and 1923. Jewish bakers came and went, but the Jewish population remained more or less static.

Yes indeed, I remember Brantford. Nostalgically.

Jean Gringorten Gelb