Christmas, Scott Mission for the homeless, and my dad

It was a quiet, brisk, clear sky late fall Sunday morning in 1954 (I was 6) when my father and I turned the corner from the north side of Dundas Street onto Spadina Ave. and made our way to an orange Globe and Mail newspaper dispenser. It was closed on 3 sides and open on the fourth, facing Spadina. The newspapers were stacked neatly in the dispenser. My father picked up the second from the top paper and gave me a dime to drop into a small rectangular metal box welded to the side with 10 c (stroke through the c) painted on the side. We had only been in Toronto for a few months but I had already made friends, and hung out, with some other kids in the downtown neighborhood who were somewhat, lets say, ‘street wise’. It was obvious: “Daddy, you don’t have to put money in the box. The papers are just sitting there so we can just take one.” He calmly said something to effect of “The people who write the paper work hard and they need to sell the paper to make a living and look after their children. They worked honestly to make the paper. I am going to be honest and pay for it.”

With the paper tucked under his armpit and his hand in his pocket, and his other hand holding mine, we continue walking north on Spadina. My father is walking at a brisk pace. I walk as fast as I can but find that I actjually have to run intermittently to keep up. I look across the street at the empty sidewalk in front of the Victory Theater where I go to see the double feature plus 2 cartoons that take up my whole Saturday afternoons. Next door north of the theater is Shopsy’s Delicatessen. This morning, its early and it is still quiet in the store. On our side of the street we pass United Bakers restaurant which is already full. There are groups of men standing outside the restaurant smoking cigarettes and speaking boisterously in loud voices.

Further north, as we approach College Street I see a tall man wearing a long black coat, shiny black shoes, and a black shirt with a black collar that is cut away to show a white strip of cloth in front. He is bare-headed despite the nip in the air. He is standing close to a lamp post and a sandwich board with white writing and a white cross on black background.

“Hello sir, where are you from?” he says to my dad as we pass by.

My father doesn’t speak English so he turns to him, smiles and nods acknowledging his greeting.

“Fin vant zent ir” the reverend repeats using the plural in polite Yiddish.

The Kensington area around Dundas and Spadina was where each immigrant wave to Toronto first settles. It had the amenities people need: There are ‘old timers’ (I.e., arrived earlier) who advise the newbies: where to find a place to live, buy food, find a job, who are the “muchers” (the movers and shakers), which Shul to go to and which to avoid. The Kensington Market in the center of neighborhood was a hive of activity. Also Spadina Avenue south of Dundas was Toronto’s “shmata (rag) district”with each building packed with the sweat shops overflowing with cutters, sewers, furriers, textile salesmen, money lenders…all stoked by an endless supply of cheap, hard-working, desperate Yiddish-speaking immigrant labor and these same laborers soon quitting and starting their own enterprises and competing for labor and customers.

“fin Poiland” (from Poland) my father answers.

“ir bis geven in katzet?” (were you in the concentration camps?)

“yo” (yes)

“Vos macht ir?” (What type of work do you do?).

“Maleven” (I paint—i.e., a house painter)

“Ir arbet?” (Are you working?) As it turns out my father tried finding work as a house painter. But he didn’t have a car so he had to take the paint, brushes and the ladder on the streetcar. Also, his instructions were not clear as his English, was, well, poor. That job didn’t last long. There was no money. We were sharing the apartment above my uncle Isaac (my mother’s brother --see blogs xxxxxxxx) grocery store at 595 Dundas. Probably we were also sharing their food.

“Nein, nicht yetz” (Not right now)

“Kimpt mit mir bitte, ich darf epes maleven” (come with me please, I need something painted)

We walked into the building he was standing in front of and we entered a large room with many long tables and stacked chairs. This must be the dining room. I am not sure of the colour but it may have been turquoise.

“Viffel velt costen tsu maleven der gantse tzimer?” (How much will it cost to paint the whole room?)

My daddy walked around the room running his hand over the wall, and here and there scratched something with his finger nail. He came back and said “Der calech is noch gut. Men draft nischt maleven” (The paint is still good. It doesn’t need painting)

“Ich fraig eich nicht vos de vent darfen. Ich freg eich tsu ich velt maleven der tzimer. Az ir velt nich veln men gerfinnen anunderer.” (I am not asking you if the walls need painting. I am asking you if you will paint the room. If you won’t, we will find another.)

My father took the job. Reverend Zeidman gave my father an advance that he used to buy paint, brushes, and a roller. He worked there for weeks and was able to bring home some money and we were able to buy our own food. The first item my parents bought was a little blue plastic radio to keep my mother company.

So…Reverend Zeidman was a Jew from Poland (hence his fluent, unaccented Yiddish) who converted to Protestantism and ran the Scott Mission on donations as a humanitarian and proselytizing venture. The Scott Mission then (as now) provided meals and shelter, companionship and human comfort to people living on the street.

My father later found other work but he retained his friendship with Rev Zeidman. My father would visit him at least weekly. For years, even after we moved to the north part of the city, my father would come down town buy his paint from Benjamin Moor store on the north side of College just west of Spadina and kept banking at the Bank of Commerce and Royal Bank on the corner of College and Spadina. I had the sense that Rev Zeidman and my father kept close ties and my father visited with him often.

Years passed. Rev. Zeidman became ill and passed away. My father was very upset by the loss of his friend. Rev Zeidman’s son, took over the ministry and continued his father’s work. Over time, my father’s Parkinsons devastated him and he too died a horrible death.

In 1996 I was appointed Chief of Anesthesiology at Mount Sinai hospital, which was a Jewish community-founded hospital to provide admission privileges for Jewish doctors who could not admit their patients to Toronto General and Sick Kids, and internship positions to Jewish graduates from U of T. Mt. Sinai was not far from Dundas and Spadina and the Scott Mission. In my previous place of work, the Wellesley Hospital, I had been working with a nurse that, sewed personalized operating room surgical caps from cloth with various designs and cartoon characters for the surgeons and anesthesiologists. She sold these for about $15. Many of us bought them as the flamboyant colors and designs brought some individuality and humour to our work. Before I moved to Mount Sinai Hospital, she moved to another city and left me a box containing several dozen hats that she had not yet sold. As Christmas 1997 approached, I gave the hats to our head nurse and asked if the nurses would sell the hats to raise money for the customary Christmas charitable donation. After a few weeks, she brought me about $200. .

There were a number of good candidate charities to which to donate, but I preferred the Scott Mission. I wrote a letter by hand, introducing myself, and telling Rev Zaidman the source of the donation. I also reviewed briefly the long relationship between my father and Rev Zeidman’s father and asked whether he would be interested in one day going out for lunch and exchange information about our fathers. I also was interested to see if we could somehow recapture and carry on some sort of friendship like our fathers. I addressed the envelope by hand, affixed a stamp, and sent the letter.

A few weeks after Christmas, I received a reply. The address was typed on the envelope and a machine-generated stamp was in the top right corner. When I opened the letter it was machine-printed in cursive writing and blue ink. It thanked me for the generous donation (amount not specified), and was signed in the same cursive font.

Life never comes full circle. It spirals.