Response: How's that for a Labor Day celebration?
I can honestly say that everything I know about the designation of Labor Day would fit into a Dixie Cup, which is why I'm glad I can count on St. Fiacre to give me a brief history lesson, gently pointing out dates and key figures of interest without shaming me into thinking that I wasted 4 years of college getting nominated to the Heart Pal court and seeing how many times I could get my picture into the yearbook. (It helped to be friends with the editor.)
Labor Day joined Memorial Day and New Year's Eve as one of those holidays my parents looked forward to only in that it was "a great excuse to stay inside." Mom & Dad, never mistaken for 24-hour party people, would don their pajamas or faded housecoat and pad around the house all day. I don't remember a single picnic, backyard barbecue, weekend trip, or get-together. I guess the combined efforts of working three jobs and raising four children was a bit much.
At least Labor Day falls at the end of summer. As kids, we'd try to cheat the onslaught of darkness by turning on the porch light, dragging the Big Wheels out of the garage, and whipping up and down the street. Our Labor Day celebration consisted of crushing the hordes of tropical roaches that poured out of the sewers in their nightly forage for food. There was something oh so satisfying about the sound of their crisp brown shells crunching under the plastic tires.
Secretly, I admit I sometimes think of Labor Day as a legitimate reason for reflecting on the only real labor I've ever done: giving birth to my children. Even then, I feel like I cheated. I opted to take drugs as soon as my doctor gave the okay. As I puffed, panted, and moaned, I focused on the fact that my efforts would result in a child who would eventually grow up to take his place in the vast network of workers who have made this country great. Laboring under the watchful eyes of husband and nurse, and just before a wicked shot of Demerol, I got a small glimpse of hell. And if that contribution to the strength, prosperity and well-being of our country won't allow me entry into the brotherhood of workers, nothing will.
posted by Adjective Queen @ 9:17 PM,
1 Comments:
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At Wednesday, September 06, 2006 12:33:00 PM,
St. Fiacre said...
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Lucky. We didn't have Big Wheels. They must've been around because you're older than me. Probably either we were too poor or I was too fat. Or both. Nice imagery with the crisp brown shells, though. Ooh, remember the Big Wheel scene in The Shining?
