Features
Bob Wiseman: He left Blue Rodeo and fashioned his own successful career.
By GERRY POSNER You don’t have to look far to get a handle on Bob Wiseman or, for that matter, his three brothers: Ron, Gordie and Howie. Mom and Dad -Elaine and the late Mannie Wiseman, set the table and the boys seem to have eaten from the plates that their parents set for them.
The boys have all achieved fame and success in their respective fields, but it is likely that Bob is the most well known of them all, mainly from his tim as a founding member of Blue Rodeo, one of the most popular Canadian bands of all time.
Bob has a special talent in the music world, but he’s now expanded his horizons to include teaching and writing. What is certainly true about Bob Wiseman and indeed his three brothers is that their connection to the arts was no fluke. Their mother, Elaine Wiseman (Winston) changed her life after her four sons went off to Toronto for their post secondary educations. She enrolled at the University of Manitoba and obtained a degree in Fine Arts in 1981.
That was no small feat – and Elaine continues to this day to pursue art. Bob also picked up a valuable lesson from his father, Mannie, who shifted gears later in his life, leaving the camera business and returning to optometry, which is what he had studied earlier in his life. Perhaps that is why Bob was able to leave Blue Rodeo when he did and forge his own career.
And what a career it’s been. To begin with, after joining Blue Rodeo in 1982 and staying with them for eight years, Bob left after the band had released its fifth record. From 1982 through 1989, he was a regular at open stages in Toronto. He not only refined his own songwriting skills, he was soon producing other artists.
His lyrics are not afraid to take on political themes. Some people might recall that, in 1988, his second solo album, “Bob Wiseman Sings Wrench Tuttle: In Her Dream,” he took on the murder of Salvador Allende, also President Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger.
Bob later performed with other bands and was a fixture on the Canadian music scene. He has toured extensively and his reach is large in terms of his association with so many in the music world. To name them all would take up too much space in this paper, but suffice to say, he has been a huge part of the music world.
Bob’s craft is clearly recognized by other artists who have played his music, including Serena Ryder, who covered his song “White Dress.” Despite having a flourishing music career, Bob Wiseman found time to obtain a Master’s degree in Environmental Studies in 2019 from York University and is now in the PhD programme at the International Institute for Critical Studies in Improvisation.
The Wiseman story reflects Bob’s work as a scorer of music for film, television, theatre and radio, and his talent on the piano, keyboard, guitar, accordion and of course. vocals. In sum, if you had to describe Bob Wiseman, he is a musician, songwriter, producer, filmmaker – and an actor.
When one considers how improbable the odds are on making it in the arts in Canada, one has to marvel at the success that Bob has had. He is not alone in his family. His brother Ron, who not that long ago made aliyah and lives in Tel Aviv, performs with a Jewish Reggae band and is also a documentary film maker.
Brother Gordie made aliyah in 1987, lives in Israel with his 12-year-old son, is a retired immigration lawyer, and is, as well, a writer. His play “ Einstein” was widely seen on stage in Canada. (Ed. note: Gordie goes by the name Gabriel Emmanuel. We had a story about his recently having received the Prime Minister’s Prize from Israeli Prime Minister Naftali Bennett for having written a play about former Prime Minister Menachem Begin. If you haven’t read that story yet, you can find it on our website, jewishpostandnews.ca.)
Brother Howie, by the way, is a screenwriting professor at York University.
To return to the original focus of this piece – I wondered how Bob Wiseman ended up in the music world. After all, when Bob was growing up, performing music was not looked at then (and even now) as a viable way to make a living. Mom and Dad were not on board with the idea until Blue Rodeo proved them wrong. From Bob’s point of view, what propelled him into music was, as he puts it: “the alternative.”
He knew he had a career when Blue Rodeo took off and made a name for itself – all this from a kid who attended Ramah Hebrew School, Joseph Wolinsky Collegiate, River Heights and Grant Park, Argyle, and the University of Winnipeg Collegiate. In short, Bob was like a lot of us except in many ways, he wasn’t.
As mentioned earlier, Bob sees a major parallel in his life with that of his late father Mannie. His father suffered financial reverses in the camera business, which he was in for many years. At a later age – in his 50s, Mannie had to start over again, returning to school and the field of optometry from which he had originally graduated.
Bob admits that he too had a major setback when property he owned was torched by an arsonist and the insurance coverage was inapplicable, with the result Bob had a severe reversal of fortune. His life savings were lost. He too returned to school and is now attempting to reposition himself to teach at a college using his background as an artist, writer and performer as a launching pad. The example Bob saw in his father navigating difficulties has assisted him to this day.
Bob Wiseman comes back to Winnipeg from time to time to see his mother, along with family and friends. He notes that when he does come back to Winnipeg he walks around and visits the cemetery where his father lies. As he puts it, “Each step reveals more souls and connections to a community I appreciated in another lifetime.” I figure those thoughts are likely the inspiration for another song from Bob Wiseman.
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.