15 miserable years

Bread line in New York City in the 1930s.

The last year and a half have been unpleasant due to the Kung Flu and political conflicts. And then I think of my parents’ generation. A year and a half would have been a godsend for them.

Their bad times were immeasurably worse, and they lasted 15 years, not our measly (so far) 18 months.

We have a pandemic that’s affecting fewer people than one would think, thanks to modern mass communication and the ratings-mad news media. The political situation, in my opinion, is worse if you consider the long-term.

In Mexico, we have a doofus demagogue who can hardly speak correctly. In the United States you have a senile old codger propped up by an oligarchy. In Canada, there is a metrosexual, politically correct fop of a prime minister who’s in office entirely for being good-looking and having his father’s name.

But all of this is a walk in the proverbial park compared to what my parents endured. First a decade of the Great Depression and then five years of world war. So far we have it mighty good. What’s down the line is another matter, but count your blessings. You’re not in a blocks-long bread line or lying dead on Omaha Beach.

1944: The sad casualties of war — husbands, fathers and sons.