When John "Jack" Rogerson talks about Christmas, his memories do not begin with presents or decorations. They begin with voices. With rooms full of people. With songs that everyone seemed to know by heart. “Mine’s a little different,” he says early on, smiling. “I lived in England.” Jack’s story begins far from Sarnia, although he […]
When John "Jack" Rogerson talks about Christmas, his memories do not begin with presents or decorations. They begin with voices. With rooms full of people. With songs that everyone seemed to know by heart.
“Mine’s a little different,” he says early on, smiling. “I lived in England.”
Jack’s story begins far from Sarnia, although he lives here now. He was born on November 11, 1936.
“Remembrance Day,” he says simply. “The eleventh of November."
His mother was Scottish, something he remembers clearly, right down to her hair.
“She had real red hair,” Jack says. “Really strong red. Nobody else in the family had it except her. A really good kind of red. Proper red. ”
Not long after he was born, Jack and his family moved to the fishing town of Fleetwood, Lancashire. It was a working town, shaped by the sea, the boats, and the rhythm of people who earned their living through hard, physical work.
“Fishing was the main income,” Jack explains. “That’s what the town lived on.”
His childhood was not easy. His father served in the Navy during the war and was killed when Jack was only four years old.
“He got killed on the same day I turned four years old,” Jack says quietly. “Shot by a plane going over head.”
It is one of those moments Jack states without drama, the way people of his generation often do. Life, for them, did not pause.
England itself, Jack says, was “alright.” There was school, structure, and a sense of order.
“You went to your junior school, then to the senior school,” he says. “That’s just how it was.”
Food was simple and familiar.
“Fish and chips,” Jack says. “That’s what we ate. We ate a lot of fish and chips.”
Christmas, though, was something special. Not because of gifts or decorations, but because of people.
“In England,” Jack says, “Christmas was usually at the Legion.”
The Legion looms large in his memory. It was where young people gathered, where friendships were reinforced, and where the season truly came alive.
“That’s where you went,” he says. “Everybody went.”
There were rules, of course.
“You had to be 18,” Jack says, then smiles. “But I wore high boots, high heels. Looked older than I was. I'd been going for a few years before I turned 18 with a good pair of high boots on.”
Inside the Legion halls, Christmas was loud and joyful. What Jack remembers most is the singing.
“There was always singing,” he says. “Always.”
It was not formal. It was not polished. It was communal.
“A whole bunch of guys I knew from school,” Jack recalls. “Everybody singing along.”
Songs would roll through the room, one after another, carried by familiarity rather than talent.
“Oh yeah,” he says, laughing. “It was always a sing along. Always. Even if you couldn't sing.”
Christmas at the Legion was about belonging. It was about walking into a room where you knew the words and knew the faces. It was about voices filling the space, especially important in a cold and wet English winter.
“We’d go out together,” Jack says. “Me and my brother. We would meet up with the lads from school. You'd have a couple of drinks.”
Those moments mattered.
Jack left school early and went straight into a trade. At just 15, he became a blacksmith.
“I got a job when I was 15,” he says. “Served my time.”
He worked with the forge, the heat, the metal, learning a skill that demanded strength, patience, and precision.
“I worked on that till I was 21,” he says. “Became a full smithie.”
But Jack was curious about the world beyond Fleetwood. He wanted to see more, to move, to experience life elsewhere.
“I decided I wanted to go to Germany,” he says.
It raised eyebrows.
“Germany?” people asked him.
“Yes,” Jack would reply.
He spent five years there, travelling, working, and moving from place to place.
“You weren’t just stuck in one place,” he explains. “There was always another place maybe 100 kilometres away, and then another. You'd find English people all over Germany at that time.”
Despite the recent history of the war, Jack found people willing to welcome him.
“By and large, they were fine,” he says. “Some people like you, some people don’t. That’s anywhere. That's life.”
He learned a little German, but more than that, he learned how to move through the world.
“You learn as you go,” he says.
Eventually, friends began talking about Canada.
“They said, ‘We’re going off to Canada,’” Jack remembers.
He was about 25 when he made the move. Canada became home, and with it came steady work and routine. Jack spent more than three decades working for Brewers Retail.
“I worked for them 32 years,” he says.
He still wears the gold watch they gave him.
“This was the watch I got from my boss,” Jack says, holding it carefully. “Presented to John Rogerson, 25 years of service. 1990.”
He smiles.
“I’ve been wearing it ever since,” he says. “I’ve relied on it many times just to see the right time.”
Christmas in Canada felt different. The food was different. The traditions shifted. But Jack carried parts of England with him.
“There were things we didn’t eat over there that you eat here,” he says. “And things we ate there that people hadn’t heard of.”
Still, the heart of Christmas remained the same.
“It was always about people. It still is,” Jack says.
Now 89 years old, Jack hears the same compliment often.
“They say I don’t look it,” he laughs. "I'm not too bad for 89."
When asked about the secret to a long life, he shrugs.
“You learn to live with things,” he says.
Aches and pains come and go.
“I’ve learned to live with it,” he says again.
Christmas, for Jack Rogerson, was never about perfection. It was about sound. About singing. About walking into the Legion and knowing you belonged. It was about a take-away fish supper after a cheeky pint, raised voices, shared songs, and warmth created by people rather than decorations.
For Jack, Christmas has always travelled with him, carried in the simple comfort of being among others.
