Today, Nov. 11, Canadians take time to remember and respect the generations that delivered a peaceful and abundant way of life for so many generations since.

One is still hard-pressed to find a Canadian family that hasn’t been touched by war, though that changes with each passing year.

We can no longer show our love for or hear about the horrors of the First World War from a living veteran. The men who pulled Canada up by the boot-straps, outfitted with second rate gear by a cheap and fumbling Ottawa, at first, have all passed on to, one prays, fruitful and idyllic rewards on the other side.

Our Second World War veterans – who helped spare future generations from a future only imaginable in futuristic stories based around a malignant central power that smothers hope for free rein and thought – are also now beginning to fade into the mists of time.

Those generations were all about hard labour, sacrifice and determination to see things done. They were the power that drove the world through the great prosperity following the war and set us up with so much and, despite our warbling that we shall always remember them, we fail them on a daily basis. Most especially the leaders who today profess their love and admiration for “the greatest generations.”

Their corruptive paths and single-minded focus to get re-elected rather than to govern, is a slap to the face of those generations.

I can tell you for a fact that one man, my father, would not be impressed with the ongoing hypocrisy.

My family is much like many, many other Canadian families. It began in Britain, where my parents Jack and Jean Cobb grew up – right into the throat of a war that brought their homeland to the brink of ruin.

While my mother’s story of the war time is far more harrowing and gripping, I am going to leave it for another time because I must honour my father, who died May 7 of this year.

Jack was too young to join the fight until 1945, when the war was dying down, thankfully. He likely felt a bit ripped off but he never said so.

However, he did serve, as an airplane mechanic – working on Spitfires and Hurricanes and the like.

Dad’s stories about the times he spent with Fleet Air Arm all centred on the fun he had his with his pals, names of whom I wish I could remember. It was during one of those times of fun that he suffered his “war wound” as he called it. Late to the troop carrier taking men from furlough back to base, Jack, who would become a professional football player, sprinted after the departing truck. He managed to grab the tail-hitch just as the truck changed gears and shuddered forward. His right-centre finger, jammed inside the hitch, was torn off.

He served out his stint in the Fleet Air Arm following the war, as the world shock down from the full-speed throttling it took from insane aggressions in Europe and Asia, and along with my mother, clutching her title ‘Doctor of Chiropody’ they eventually emigrated to Canada. My father served with Canadians during the war and he fell in love with their stories of the country and of the opportunities in it.

Initially targeting Hamilton, to work in the steel industry, they changed their minds en route from Britain and took the train across the country to Winnipeg, where they made the rest of their lives – in peace and fruitful labour.

Like many veterans of the wars, my father did not see action, per se. But he served the vital role of support, fixing shot-up planes to get them back into action, and doing all the other tasks that the too-young or too-old served in war-time Britain. And never forget that those who served and did not see action were also people one assignment away from it. They were always part of the team and every team has players doing different, vital roles.

Living in Britain at that time was living in fear despite stone-chin resolve. My mother’s personal story of loss and tragedy portrays the war years in Britain perfectly.

And like all the people who lived through that war, in the closer confines of the European or Pacific Theatres, they brought with them to Canada, in the decades of steady immigration following 1945, clear visions of what they wanted out of life and from their new home. And a newer, greater Canada was born.

When I said goodbye to my dad last spring, I thanked him for all the sacrifices he made during his life for they did not go for nowt. A tireless working machine, he set an example for his children and we all became people who are not cowed by the prospect of hard labour or sweat, though we were also raised by a doctor who instilled the import of education and refinement.

“All I care about is that you have what I didn’t have,” my dad said on many an occasion and we indeed did not enter the adult world wanting.

It was mission accomplished and I pray that he left this mortal coil aware that he had succeeded, because his final seven years were beset with Alzheimer’s Disease. When that terrible affliction finally seized complete control of his mind, he found himself back in 1945 with his Fleet Air Arm pals.

Alzheimer’s allows one peeks of their life through slim cracks and the younger years and extremely imprinted memories are what tend to come forward.

Jack only died a few weeks after another person who sacrificed and lived a full life, Uncle Arthur (his brother-in-law). I wondered for several years why dad would hang on as he did. The answer was obvious – because my mom visited him every day, even if he didn’t know who she was.

I believe Arthur, a fun-loving, good soul, coerced him to “get moving” and “let’s go have some fun. There are some mates waiting to say hello.”

And he finally let go.

As my father didn’t forget, even in the full clutches of Alzheimer’s, of those who served with him, I know I shall never forget what he did for me, for his family and for his countries.

Theirs truly were the greatest generations for they showed us the future with their blood, sweat and tears and it is now our world. We are still sending young men overseas to fight mostly pointless wars created by evil men with evil designs; lambs to the slaughter once again.

If you seek a modern ‘example’ of why we must never forget, there is a good one.

But I shall never forget, because what my parents went through and experienced were part of the great sacrifice of their generation, so that we might ‘have it better than they did.’

You succeeded well Jack. I miss you and may you rest and play well. And give Uncle Arthur my love.

Love Ian

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