Features
“Braunsteins on the broom” revisited
By GERRY POSNER Step back in time to 1958. It’s February and the Manitoba Curing Championships are starting in Winnipeg for the right to play in the McDonald Brier. Who should be competing but two Jewish boys from the south end of Winnipeg, Terry and Ron Braunstein? Terry was all of 18 while Ron was only 17. Also on the team were Ray Turnbull and Jack Van Hellemond.
The team competing for the Manitoba championship was skipped by Marno Frederickson. Although few expected the youngsters to have gotten this far, there they were in the final and, ultimately, they prevailed. As Manitoba champs they were entitled to compete in Victoria, BC in March of that year in the McDonald Brier.
Now, just getting to participate in the Manitoba playdowns was by itself a bit of good fortune. First, It was only because Terry came home from school in Texas where he was on a track scholarship in Houston that allowed him even to be around, available, and ready to play. Events in Texas had soured him on the University of Houston and that was exacerbated by his asking a black athlete, a running star, for some running tips. The coaches disapproved of that interaction, told Terry so warned him not to do it again. That – plus other factors led Terry to abandon the track programme.
So, Terry packed up, came home to Winnipeg and was out of school for that year as a result. But he had time to curl and the Maple Leaf rink as well as the Granite Club were inviting. It did not hurt that the uncle of the Braunstein boys was Eph Portigal, a mover and shaker at the Maple Leaf Club. In fact, Terry has always made clear, as did Ron, that their uncle Eph was instrumental in teaching the boys some curling strategy, a significant part of every curling game.
To be clear, the boys had curled some before as they grew up for a chunk of their early years in Binscarth, Manitoba where their father, Dr. David Braunstein was a physician.The boys, as they were then, had (and always have had) what might be called some serious athletic genes. Anyone who can remember Dr. Dave will recall that, among his many abilities in sports, he was a fastball star.
That the athletic gene was prominent in the Braunsteins became evident to me long ago. I recall the day when I first came across the Braunstein brothers and was in awe of what they could do athletically. It was about 1955 and the Braunstein family had moved to Winnipeg. They were living temporarily with the Portigals on Wellington Crescent – near my home on Cordova Street. Up until that time, I fancied myself as a bit of an athlete. Then I met Ron and Terry Braunstein. I saw them playing baseball on Wellington Crescent so easily and smoothly as if they were born with a glove in utero. Right then and there, at age 12, I realized, just how lousy I really was. I have always commented that, of the people I knew personally, the Braunsteins were the best athletes I had ever seen to that point. Of course, in truth, the range of my relationships at that time was slender, so they had few to compete with on my radar screen.
Now, the story of even getting to compete for the Manitoba Curling Championships was more complicated as the team had their lead drop out at the last minute. The rest of the team needed a replacement and had about 24 hours to submit a new name or they would not be allowed to enter. Terry remembered playing against a young kid earlier who had impressed him, but didn’t know how to reach him. “Him” was Jack Van Hellemond, not yet 16. Terry thought that Jack curled at the Belgian Club so he went there that night and luckily found Jack, invited him to play on his team. Jack agreed, but Terry still had to get consent from Jack’s parents and the principal at his school. All of that happened in less than 24 hours.
In any event, the boys did get in, with Ray Turnbull as second, Ron as third and Terry as skip. Not for a second did any of them think they would win the Manitoba Curling Championship event. In the end though, they were victorious at the Winnipeg Arena. I was there and that is a memory etched in my mind.
Off to Victoria in March of 1958 they went and again, nobody thought they had a real chance of winning the Brier. Yet, they played so well that at the end of the week, their team ended in a tie with one of the legends of the game, Alberta’s Matt Baldwin. That forced a sudden death championship, winner take all. I recall sitting close to my radio following every shot as the game progressed. I was crestfallen when they lost in a very tight match. But, as a sports writer then for the Kelvin High School Et Cetera newspaper, as it was then called, I had the chance to write a column for the paper which had the headline “ Braunsteins on the Broom.” It was my first real writing experience that led to the publication of an article about the trip to the Brier for the Braunstein rink. Terry had graduated from Kelvin while Ron was still a student there. I thank Ron and Terry for the part they played, even if was inadvertent, in my budding writing career. This article just revisits that time and place.
The entry of the young Braunsteins into what was then the main event in the world of curling in 1958 caused a major change in the rules of the Canadian Curling Association. That a team with two 18-year-olds, as in Terry and Ray, a 17-year-old in Ron, and the 16-year-old Jack, could compete with adult men was too much for the veterans of the game, so a separate junior competition was created, which exists to this day. Thank the Braunsteins for that rule change.
And yet, that defeat in 1958 did not deter the Braunstein brothers at all as they continued to compete for many more years, ultimately winning Manitoba again in 1965 and going once more to the Brier, this time in Saskatoon. They had an almost unblemished record and won the Canadian championship with a team consisting of Terry as skip, the very well known Don Duguid as third, Ron at second and Ray Turnbull as lead. That was a big day for the boys, the Granite Curling Club and indeed Jews all over the Province of Manitoba who shared the moment vicariously with the Braunsteins. Unfortunately, the team lost in the World Championship in Scotland to a USA team skipped by Bud Somerville. That Ron had to bow out of the event owing to his medial school obligations might have been the factor that caused that loss. We will never know. What we can suggest however, is the fact that the USA win jump started the game in the USA, eventually createing an impetus to get Curling recognized officially as a sport in the 1998 Winter Olympics. Thank the Braunsteins (even in defeat) for that contribution.
The Braunsteins also changed the game slightly when they adopted a more finesse style rather than the hitting game so prevalent until that time. Maybe that change allowed the team to be so dominant. Whatever the reason, what is certain is that when Terry Braunstein won the Canadian Curling Championship in 1965 he was then the youngest skip to win it at age 25, also the first Jewish skip to win. My best guess is that brother Ron Braunstein was the first Jew to win as a second. Prove me wrong.
Even after 1965, Terry continued to be a major player in Manitoba for many years in the curling community. He had to play without Ron, as Ron had continued his medical career and ended up, after a stint in L.A., moving to Vancouver. Terry participated in 14 Manitoba Provincial Championships. He won three car bonspiels and several cash bonspiels, as well as the Grand Aggregate for most victories in the Provincial play downs in 1969, 1971 and 1977. And there were other honours bestowed upon him throughout his carer, including an induction into the Manitoba Sports Hall of Fame, an honour given later to Ron in 2013. Even as a senior Terry Braunstein excelled, competing in several Provincial Championships. In 1994 and 1995 his rink won the Manitoba Seniors’ Championionship. He even participated in the Master’s competition in 2006.
Now, curling was far from the only sport the brothers starred in, as baseball was at least as great a passion for them – and they played at a high level. They loved baseball as they were raised on it by their father. Moreover, both Ron and Terry became very good golfers ( though Ron was quite clear that he was never in Terry’s league). Of course, during all this time, both brothers had careers in which they were involved for a long time. Ron was a prominent psychiatrist in Vancouver, working in a Vancouver hospital for most of his career in the outpatient child and adolescent department. During his career he was significantly committed to the training of young psychiatrists. Given that there is so much thinking in the world of curling, I suggest that it is not such a long stretch from curling to psychiatry. That suggestion would need input from Ron and others who have had two kinds of careers. Save that thought for another article.
Ron only recently retired after over 50 years of medical practice. He and his first wife, the lated Sue Harris, had three children, all of whom live in the Vancouver area. And to nobody’s surprise, the kids are seriously athletic. The eldest, Jon Braunstein, was, and is still a serious runner, as in marathons. Daughter Amy played competitive soccer in British Columbia. Son Dave, the youngest, competes regularly in Ultima. Some genes never change.
As for Terry, he was the founder and head honcho for Danli Promotions, a specialty advertising firm in Winnipeg and beyond. Danli, of course was named for son Danny and daughter Lisa, the children of Terry and his wife, the former Andrea Greenberg. Danny ultimately joined him in the business and is still active in the promotional industry to this day. My son Ari tells me that Danny is a star on the Squash court.
The Braunsteins have achieved much in sport, particularly curling. But if you talked to both of the brothers, you would know little of their accomplishments, as they remain very humble about what they did. That too is a Braunstein gene. They may be quiet about it. I am not.
Features
I Speak “Jew”
By MARK E. PAULL I grew up in Montreal. Born in 1956. Anglo by birth, sure. But that never quite fit. I don’t speak “Anglo” the way they mean it. My real language is Jew.
And I don’t mean Hebrew or Yiddish. I mean the language of reading the room before you enter it. The code-switching, shame-dodging, laugh-first-so-they-don’t-pounce dialect we pick up early. It’s a language built on side-eyes and timing and ten generations of tension.
I speak French—enough to make myself understood. Enough to charm a dinner table, crack a joke, get someone’s uncle to nod. I’m not fluent, but I’m fast. Doesn’t matter. In Quebec, language isn’t grammar—it’s inheritance. It’s who your grandfather cursed out in a hardware store.
To the Francophones, I’ll never be one of them. My accent betrays me before I say a word. I’m just an Anglo. And not even that, really. Because when the lens tightens, when they look closely, I’m just un Juif. Just a Jew.
And to the Anglos? Same thing. I can wear the suit, speak the Queen’s English, order the wine properly—still a Jew. Even in rooms where I “pass,” I don’t belong. I’m not invited in to be myself. I’m invited in to behave. To be safe. To not say the thing that makes the air stiff.
We’re the only people still called by our religion. No one says “Orthodox” for a Greek. No one says “Vatican” for an Italian. No one calls a Black man “Baptist” before they see his face. But “Jew”? That sticks. That’s the label. Before passport. Before language. Before hello.
I’ve mostly made peace with that. But there’s still this ache—knowing you can live your whole life in a place and never really be from there.
Let me tell you a story.
We had this block party once—the folding-table, paper-plate kind. Kids zipping by on scooters. Music low. Everyone asked to bring something from “your culture.”
The Greek guy brought lemon potatoes and lamb—felt like it came with a side of Byzantine history. The Italians brought two lasagnas—meat and veggie—with basil placed like confetti. The Vietnamese couple brought shrimp rolls that vanished before they hit the table. Even the German guy—built like a fridge—brought bratwurst and a six-pack with gothic lettering.
And then us.
My partner made Moroccan fish. Her grandmother’s recipe. Red with tomatoes, garlic, cumin. Studded with olives and preserved lemon. I brought a bottle of white wine. Dry. Crisp. From the Golan Heights. Not Manischewitz. Not even close.
We laid it out. Someone leaned over: “Moroccan? But I thought you were Jewish.”
We smiled. “We are.”
Then: “So… where’s the brisket? Isn’t Jewish wine supposed to be sweet?”
That’s when it hits you. No matter how long you’ve lived here, how many snowstorms you’ve shoveled through, you’re still explaining yourself. Still translating your presence.
Because they don’t know. They don’t know Jews came from everywhere. That “Jewish” isn’t one dish—it’s a whole map. That we had Jews in Morocco before there was even a France. That some of us grew up on kreplach, some on kefta. That some of our mothers sang in Yiddish, others in Arabic, and some in both—depending on who was knocking.
They don’t know. And worse—they don’t ask.
And that’s the part that gets you. Not the slurs. Not the graffiti. Not even the occasional muttered cliché. It’s the blankness. The shrug. The image they already have of you that’s built out of dreidels and sitcoms.
“Jewish” as nostalgic. As novelty. Something they saw once on a bagel.
Sometimes, when those questions come, I float. One version of me walks out. Another turns into a mouse. One turns into a Frisbee. Just gone. Not mad. Just tired.
Because being a Jew isn’t cute. It’s not nostalgic.
It’s ancient.
Before Montreal.
Before France.
Before Poland. Before Spain.
Before pogroms.
Before ghettos.
Before Hitler.
Before even the word Europe.
We were there.
Go back to the 5th century. 2nd century.
Go back to Jesus—our kid, by the way.
Go further—Babylon. Persia.
Keep going—Temple. Exile. Wandering.
And still, after all that, I’m at a table in Quebec explaining why our fish has cumin in it.
It’s almost funny. If it didn’t wear you down a little.
I’m not looking for pity. This isn’t a complaint.
I’m proud. I know what I carry. I walk into any room with five thousand years behind me. I come from people who kept the lights on through every kind of darkness—and laughed through it, too.
But sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to explain so much.
All I want is to put down my dish…
…and hear someone say:
“That smells amazing. Tell me the story.”
That’s all.
Mark E. Paull, C.A.C. is a Certified ADHD Coach – IPHM, CMA, IIC&M, CPD Certified
Writer | Lived-Experience Advocate | Type 1 Diabetic since 1967
He has been published in:
The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, Folklife Magazine, Times of Israel, CHADD’s Attention Magazine, The Good Men Project
Features
At 104, Besse Gurevich last original resident of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence
By MYRON LOVE At 104, Besse Gurevich is the last of the original residents of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence. She may also be the oldest member of our Jewish community.
Although her vision and her hearing have diminished considerably, her mind and memory are still intact. A few weeks back, this writer sat down with her in her suite as she recalled a life filled with highs and lows and her many contributions to her community, both in Winnipeg and Fort William before that.
The daughter of Jack and Rebecca Avit, her life’s journey began in 1921 in a home on Carlton Street near Ellice Avenue, near her father’s furniture store. He later operated a cap factory.
When she was ten, the family – she had two brothers and a sister – moved to Manitoba Avenue in the old North End. “My father had put a deposit down on a house on Scotia,” she recalls. “But my parents didn’t feel that the neighbourhood was Jewish enough.”
Her schooling included Peretz School and, like so many of her generation, St. John’s Tech (as it was known back then.) “I was actually supposed to be going to Isaac Newton for high school,” she says. We were living on the wrong side of the tracks for St. John’s. After one day at Isaac Newton, I found a way to transfer to St. John’s.”
In 1940, 19-year-old Bessie Avit married Jack Gurevich, a young man from Fort William. The wedding was marred though, by the sudden, untimely passing of her father.
Following the wedding, Besse moved with her new husband to Fort William where Jack Gurevich worked in retail clothing sales. “We lived in Fort William for 20 years,” she says. “Our three children (Judy, Richard and Howard) were born there.”
She recalls that there were about 200 Jewish families – including her sister and one of her brothers for some years – in town, during the time she lived there. “We were very well known in the community,” she recalls. “I was involved in everything.”
Her community activism continued after the family’s return to her home town. While Jack went to work as a salesman for Western Glove Works, Besse became an indefatigable community volunteer. At one time or another, she served as vice-president of ORT, Hadassah and National Council of Jewish Women in Winnipeg. She was also a long time B’nai Brith member.
In the business world, the highlight of her career was the building of Linden Woods. “I became involved in real estate development for a time,” she recalls. “I was hired by Genstar to develop Linden Woods. The company estimated that it would take about 20 years to complete. I got it done in two.”
She also taught hair dressing for a while. “I worked with many young Jewish brides,” she says.
Recent years have not been kind to Besse Gurevich. Her beloved husband, Jack, died in 2016 – after almost 65 years of marriage. Older son, Richard, passed away in Vancouver in 2018 and, most recently –six months ago – younger son, Howard, followed. She notes that there were 200 mourners at Howard’s funeral.
(Howard Gurevich was in marketing for many years before turning his talents to the art world. In recent years, he was best known for Gurevich Fine Art in the Exchange District and his support of local artists.)
Besse Gurevich celebrated her 100th birthday – which took place at the height of the Covid shutdown – quietly.
While she used to enjoy reading. she is unable to do so any more. She can still listen to television.
And while she has few family members to visit her any more, she does have a group of friends interesting enough from the local theatre scene. For many years, she was a close friend of the late Doreen Brownstone, one of the leading figures in theatre in Winnipeg for more than half a century. Besse became part of the group that would visit Doreen every week and, since Doreen passed on three years ago, the members of the group have continued to visit Besse on a weekly basis.
Features
Winnipeg author’s first novel gripping tale of romance, action and intrigue, set in 15th century Spain and Morocco
By MYRON LOVE “The Chronos of Andalucia”, a novel just released by first-time author Merom Toledano, is a historical romance set in late 15th century Spain and Morocco, filled with passion, action, intrigue, unexpected twists and turns – and, of course, with the requirement of any medieval story – a quest.
The easy-to-read, 190 page book follows the adventures of Catalina, a young woman living by her wits on the streets of Granada in the year 1487, (just after the Christian armies of Ferdinand and Isabella had recaptured all of Spain from the Moors) – while trying to evade the agents of the Inquisition, who had murdered her Jewish mother and Christian father 10 years earlier. She was left with an insatiable desire to learn about astronomy, along with a mysterious map and an astrolabe (an instrument formerly used to make astronomical measurements) – the importance of which will only be unveiled if she can get to the city of Tangier in Morocco.
Early on, there is a reference to Abraham Zacuto, a prominent Spanish rabbi famed for his knowledge of astronomy and astrology.
The action begins when she has a casual interaction with a former Spanish soldier, Diego. When the forces of the Inquisition approach, she flees with the soldier – who is also her love interest – and who helps her to escape. They turn for help to a childhood friend of Catalina’s – Roberta, a nun, who helps them on their perilous journey to Tangier – a journey that includes being captured by pirates, surviving a shipwreck, being separated for a long period of time and, of course, finding each other again and realizing the success of their joint quest.
In his writing, the author paints vivid word pictures of the different characters and beautifully invokes the colour, sights, sounds and scents of the time and the places.
What I found truly remarkable about the writing of “The Chronos of Andalucia” is that English is not Merom Toledano’s first language. The Israeli-born author – he grew up near Haifa – came to Winnipeg with his young family just eight years ago.
“I have had this book in mind for several years now,” says the satellite engineer whose working career takes him to many different parts of the world.
He notes that he has always felt a connection to Spain, Spanish music and literature – a reflection of his family’s modern origins in that country. His great-grandparents, he relates, lived in Toledo – hence the family name, Toledano. His parents lived in Meknes in Morocco while his father attended university in Tangier before making aliyah.
Toledano just published “The Chronos of Andalucia” in April on Amazon. He reports that the book – which is available here at McNally Robinson – has been selling well –close to 100 copies – with orders coming from a bookstore chain in England, a bookstore in Denmark, and one in Italy.
“I have had between 30 and 40 positive reviews so far,” he reports.
Toledano adds that he envisages “The Chronos of Andalucia” to be the first in a series – a la the writer Danielle Steele. He is already working on a sequel – which is hinted at the end of “The Chronos” and, he reports, he is establishing his own independent publishing operation.