In 1935 the face of Mount Royal featured the Montreal General Hospital as well as the affluent homes of the sons and daughters of the shrewd Scots and English entrepreneurs who had flourished during the previous century. Prominent among them was the newer but more ornate home of the thriving whiskey distiller Samuel Bronfman who made a fortune as a rum runner.
Continuing towards Westmount and Montreal West, one might stop on the corner of Bleury and St. Catherine’s. Entering a magazine and tobacco store an adult could buy the latest of Britain’s “Women’s World” as well as seven-day old copies of United Kingdom and foreign newspapers. Children could spend their allowances of “Girl’s Own” and “Boy’s Own” book with their themes that reflected British Public Schools, or the more plebeian “Beano” type comics. During the Christmas season the boys’ and girls’ annual were available.
Carrying on towards the city’s center, one passed St. Phillip’s Square, with its underground very well appointed public toilets, built as relief projects during the Depression. The Orpheum was a popular site for live entertainment, and I well remember my Dad taking me as a small boy to a circus. Along with trapeze artists, clowns and acrobats, the circus had several elephants joined head to tail, ponderously circling the stage. We children screamed with delight as one defecated on the stage.
Along the north side of St. Catherine’s were the Anglican cathedral, Morgan’s (an upscale, now extinct department store), and Eaton’s, now also gone. Christmas was magical at Eaton’s – the windows displayed wonderfully busy animated displays of toys against snowy backdrops. Eaton’s bargain basement was a favourite haunt of my mother.
The vigorous walker would eventually reach the Montreal Arena where the Montreal Canadians, cheered on by French Canada, and the Montreal Maroons, supported by English-speaking Canadians, played one another. Both teams often squared off with teams from New York, Toronto, Detroit or Chicago. It was there I once saw a goal-tender hit in the face by a puck, then leave the ice to spit out some teeth, and back to mind his net. On Friday nights the arena was given over to the pro-wrestlers, among whom Gorgeous George starred.
Down slope of this sector of St. Catherine Street were the districts of St. Henri and Verdun. The former reflected much of Old French Montreal. Verdun was more recent – it offered cheap, if too often unsanitary housing for the turn of the century’s European immigrants, as well as space for the factories that employed them. Both districts contained the lines and railyards of the Canadian Pacific and Canadian National. It was thus that between the two world wars the population mix of the two districts changed and more or less prospered.
If you had arrived at the corner of Bleury and St. Catherine’s and were to turn eastward, you would be entering a different but no less remarkable Montreal. Whether footing it or on the trolley, two short blocks would carry you past the horse and wagons featuring French fries in winter, ice cream in summer and hot dogs all year round, to St. Lawrence Street, better known as ‘the Main’. You were now in the district of much, though not all, of Montreal’s Jewish population. To the North lay Molson’s brewery, makers of the Black Horse Ale my Dad was so fond of. When the wind was just right the heavy aroma of hops hung in the air. Black Horse Ale was distributed throughout Montreal in wagons drawn by magnificent black Percherons. Southward, the Main ended just beyond a slight ridge and the roads, train tracks, docks and vessels that kept the harbour of Montreal busy for nine months of the year. Walk down towards the harbour and encounter discount stores – ‘Mom and Pop’ type grocery stores, such as that of the Steinbergs. It was said Mrs. Steinberg made butter in the bathtub. Their descendents even today quarrel over the control of the prosperous grocery chain. The area also boasted pawnbrokers, tattoo parlours, pharmaceutical dispensaries, a school for barbers where for fifteen cents one could get a sort of haircut, a wax museum (moth eaten even then) and a second-hand bookstore where for a dollar a week my father bought 21 of the 22 volumes of the Times illustrated history of the Great War.
a few blocks east was Bonsecoeurs market with its vegetable wagons outside and rows of meat, cheese and fruit stalls inside. Nearby lingered the charred remains of the Laurier Theatre. A few years earlier a number of children died during a well-attended matinee. Many Montrealers attended the mass funeral, and subsequently movie houses were prohibited from admitting children under sixteen. Many theatres closed; I never knew if it was because of the fire or the economics of the Depression.
Continue east along St. Catherine’s, and you would pass by Woodward’s furniture store. My mother bought a Secretary Desk there. Next came Dupuis Freres, where ‘moudjit blokes’ was only one of four major household goods outlets in the city owned by a French Canadian – determined even then to gain French Canada’s rightful place in Canada and Quebec. On the opposite side of the street stood the Majestic Theatre. It’s manager paid only intermittent attention to turning away under-aged children. Fines were levied; fines were paid. This one had a special attraction. Every Friday night during intermission five ticket numbers were drawn, and each claimant went home with a shopping bag of groceries. Passing for sixteen, I went home on two successive Fridays with a bag of groceries. I was so proud!
On one of these occasions I heard a tap on a house window, as I turned off St. Catherine’s and onto a side street. A woman’s voice invited me to come on in – “Come and see me, Sonny!” I ran like a scalded cat for the next trolley stop.
Parc Lafontaine lay eastward still. It was a truly attractive place, with a lake, picnic spots, flowers, restrooms and tennis courts. Once could rent a rowboat or swan-shaped craft to while away an hour on the water.
You would need a trolley car to reach the tip of the Island of Montreal, and the end of the tram-line. There the brakeman and conductor would release the trolley wheel from the electric wire and reset the switch so as to now proceed to Montreal West. All this to a boy of fifteen was fascinating, for at the cost of two student tickets (seven for a quarter) one could while away a longish Sunday afternoon.
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