Finding Bruno

The Lohses, in Winnipeg, circa 1924.
Emma and Bruno Lohse with Alfred (standing) and Ernest. Bruno had completed his apprenticeship as a tailor. I bet he made Emma's dress.

This all started with me spitting into a cup.

Then I left a message on 23andMe, asking for help in finding information about my mysterious grandfather, Bruno Oswald (or Otto) Lohse.

Then a stranger sent me a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day.

Here's the rest of the story.

Emma Schmidt and Bruno Lohse married in February 1920. They were both born, in Poland, in 1892. Bruno's family, ethnic Germans, had lived for three generations in Alexandroff in Poland/Russia, since about 1800. Bruno's father ran a textile mill, where Bruno worked before the first World War. 

Although German by blood, Bruno fought for Russia against the Germans in WWI. The war destroyed the Lohse family business.

After they married, Bruno and Emma emigrated to Canada in September 1920. They joined Emma's older sister and brother-in-law in Prairie Rose Saskatchewan.

Two years later, after the birth of their first son Alfred, they moved to Winnipeg, where Bruno pursued odd jobs for a time and then apprenticed as a tailor.

Emma spent the 1920's pregnant with and caring for her five children: Alfred, born in 1921, Ernest, born in 1923 and, after several miscarriages, Ruth in 1927, Hilda in 1928 and Lillian (my mother) in 1929.

Emma died in 1933, at the age of 42. That left Bruno with five children, aged 4 to 12, and not much else.

Perhaps because of his desperate situation, after the death of his wife, Bruno fell in with a bad crowd, a local "bund" associated with Winnipeg's Nazi community. 

As anti-German sentiment grew inside Canada in the run up to the second world war, Bruno's situation became even more precarious.

The RCMP had been monitoring Nazi activity in the country, including Bruno's "bund." 

By August 1939 the Mounted Police had assembled lists of the pro-Nazis to be arrested and arrangements had been made for internment camps at Petawawa and Kananaskis. 

The arrests which began in early September concentrated on those German nationals with clear Nazi affiliations and on "a number of naturalized Canadians of German birth or racial origin who had so identified themselves with Nazi propagandist activities ... that they could not be regarded as loyal citizens of Canada." Credit: Manitoba Historical Society

Bruno was arrested and shipped to Kananaskis in October, 1939, around the time of my mother's 10th birthday.

When Kananaskis was expanded to hold German POWs, Bruno was sent to Fredericton, NB, where he remained until June 1945.

Bruno returned to his embittered, angry, unforgiving family, continued his trade as a tailor and lived the rest of his days in Winnipeg, until May 13, 1954, when he died from heart disease at the age of 62.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen 

Greyhound Rescue

A point of clarification: My sister Kim is not posing with "rescued" greyhounds. These are retired greyhounds that have been adopted by my cousin Susan. They are sweet, docile and friendly dogs; even though Kim's expression might make you think otherwise.

The weather's been pleasant in Toronto these days - good summer weather, warm, but not blistering or so muggy you can't stand to be outside.

So I was enjoying my walk home from work the other afternoon. I was just past the southwest corner of Sherbourne and Gerrard when I saw fifty metres or so down the sidewalk a light-beige-coloured greyhound pelting towards me.

It had no leash, no apparent accompanying human. But that was so unthinkable I believed with every fibre of my being that this dog was not running at high speed toward a busy intersection without someone who cared about it close by.

As it sped past me, I had to wonder.

So I turned to look back at the intersection.

The dog continued to run, full speed, into the road.

At that point, as I am wont to do, I started shouting "oh my God" and ran the few steps back to the corner.

Traffic was bad that afternoon. Construction on nearby streets had squeezed six or seven times the normal number of cars onto Sherbourne. 

Just as the light was turning red for north/south traffic, one last, frazzled driver gunned his vehicle through a quick left turn, right when the dog was in the intersection.

It was a bad moment.  

By some miracle the car did not hit the dog.

By another, the greyhound stopped its merry run toward an uncertain future, turned around as the light changed and placidly walked back across the street along with a small crowd of people.

As they approached me on the corner, I interrogated each of them.  

"Is that your dog?" 

"No," they all said.

The greyhound walked almost at heel with a denizen of the neighbourhood, a man with bags of picked bottles hanging from his arms.

I asked him if the dog were his. He said "no," too.

The dog was unaccompanied and needed help. I grabbed it by its collar.

I checked for tags. There were none. As I resumed my walk home, with the dog, the small plans forming in my head were that I'd call the Humane Society and the City Animal Control office to see if anyone had reported a lost greyhound. 

The thought also occurred that this might be the way to get a dog for Bruce in his retirement.

I was twenty metres or so south of the intersection when a man in a white SUV nestled in the unmoving grip of northbound traffic called to me. He said he'd seen the dog escape from the yard of a house about halfway down the block. 

I thanked him. His helpful tip reminded me that I had seen the dog before. It lived in one of the renovated Victorian houses just north of my townhouse. So that would be the first place I'd look for the dog's owner.

At that moment, I could see a young woman step onto the sidewalk just about where the dog's house was. She was obviously agitated, looking from side to side frantically, her phone in her right hand.

She saw me and the dog. I waved slightly at her and she came running toward us. 

I was happy to be party to the young woman's relief and give her back her dog. But I could not resist telling her how narrowly the worst had been avoided.

"He was almost hit by a car," I said over her many thank you's, "you have to be more careful." 

That satisfied me, but not the guy with the bags of bottles. He was right there and gave her a long lecture about the responsibilities of dog ownership and watching out for your pets. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Big Week - The Lost Edition

Equilibrium: June 27 2018

Equilibrium: July 13 2018

This is my second attempt at this blog post. The first time, this morning, when I thought I had everything about where I wanted it, I noticed that a photo caption was in the wrong font size.

I tried to change it, but it wouldn't budge.

I dove into the html function on the blog site, which I do not understand at all, but can make work if I poke at it cautiously.

This time I poked too hard. I removed one innocuous-seeming font command and wiped out the whole post (phooey). 

Could not get it back (dammit). 

Wrote it off as a bad job (wasn't that good).

Went and got my hair cut (trying a new style - sorta like a mushroom). 

Prepared lunch for company (charcuterie and cheese - it's too hot to cook). 

After lunch, dropped some dead batteries and household hazardous waste off at the "Environment Day" at Allan Gardens and picked up some compost for the garden.

Made reservations for supper at a restaurant near the Bell Lightbox theatre where we're going to go see Sorcerer tonight.

And now, all my other chores are done and I have no excuse so I should be able to get back to the blog post that blew up on me this morning.

But I can't. 

I made the mistake of using blog content to make lunch time conversation with someone who reads this blog. 

So, other than the completion of the soaring distraction, Equilibrium, at the corner of Jarvis and Carlton, I won't tell you why this was a big week. 

Come back next week. I'll try again. 

Thanks for reading!

Karen

Older Than It Looks

The slab-like mid-70's vintage twenty-three storey highrise on the southwest corner of Carlton and Jarvis Streets was once the Primrose Hotel. A family of falcons lived somewhere among the raised, illuminated, 3-metre-tall letters that spelled the hotel's name high on its eastern wall.

I imagined they lived in the second "R."

Some years ago, due to delays in the construction of student housing elsewhere, the University of Toronto took over the entire hotel and, as a temporary measure, turned it into student digs.

The change turned out not to be temporary.  Since 2015, the building has been The Parkside, a privately-owned residence for Ryerson, U of T, OCAD and George Brown University students. 

The falcons still hunt the Allan Gardens, though workmen removed the sign they lived in long ago. 

Now, something else is happening on the sunny side of the building.

I noticed this on the last day of the Pride weekend. I thought someone had screwed up, and started at the end of the celebration something that should have been completed at the outset. 

The rainbow bands are part of Toronto's next building-sized piece of art, joining the Phoenix in St. James Town and the thing-I-don't-have-a-word-to-describe up by Yonge and St. Clair. 

The new mural's called "Equilibrium", a work in progress.

New Media Reviews

I've been watching Scishow on YouTube for many months now. The videos feature well-spoken young people talking as fast as they can about science for four to fourteen minutes. I think the first one I watched was about how pain killers work. My all-time favourite is the one about memes. They are terrific. If you have never seen them, you should check them out. 

The oldest things in my house: a 400 million year old trilobite fossil and a 16 million year old mosasaur tooth, both excavated in what is now Morocco, purchased in support of Scishow at Scishow Finds.

Because I'm old, I edge my way slowly into new-fangled ways of transmitting information. Take podcasts for example. I never listened to them. Couldn't see the point. 

Then a friend of mine told me about Gilbert Gottfried's podcast. So I loaded an app on my phone and tried it.

Gottfried's show didn't grab me, but the app pushed a bunch of others my way, including Pod Save America, which, if you can stand the non-stop barrage of all-American-end-of-the-worldism all the time, has some things to commend it.

Nothing tops Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History, though. It's the way podcasts should be done. Listen to The Prime Minister and the Prof (or the King of Tears) and see if you can resist listening to all three seasons. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen