Why on Labor Day does no one work? I didn’t understand that when I was a kid. But when I was older, I understood the day is a celebration, a day, “…to honor and recognize the American labor movement and the works and contributions of laborers to the development and achievements of the United States.” A single day, however, seems a trifle, a jot. Every day should be Labor Day.

Today was the end of summer, not by the calendar but by the start of school. All those days of freedom came crashing down. My life became regimented. Every morning my mother would wake us up, give us breakfast, make sure we were neatly dressed in our uniforms, hand us our lunches and send us on the way. The walk was the same every day. I sat at the same desk. I had lessons in the same order every day. The lunch bell time never varied. We’d run home at the end of the school day not wanting to miss any daylight before the streets lamps sent us all home. Bedtime was the same. The only saving grace was the weekend, especially Saturday. That was, like the Ray Bradbury short story, All Summer in a Day.

Today is back to summer. It is 80°, just about the high for the day. Tonight, though, will be in the 60’s, great for sleeping. My dance card for the week has plenty of empty days. Tuesday and Wednesday are my uke days, practice and a lesson, and that’s it for the week, no concerts. I may have to wash that kitchen floor as busy is no longer an excuse. Perhaps my being a sloth will have to suffice.

Don’t forget: no white after Labor Day!! As if…

The dogs are out in the yard enjoying the day. They come in every now and then to check on me. Nala brings branches and dead leaves with her. I have found pieces of both in the living room, hall and den. I’m thinking vacuuming and a bit of sweeping are in my future.

When I was a kid, my father would go crazy if we left an unrinsed glass on the counter. He called it the height of laziness, but I knew, even back then, he was exaggerating for effect. Still, we complied. It was a small thing and easier than having to listen to him. My father had a pointing finger, also used for effect. When he had one of us cornered for a lecture about something, he used the finger for emphasis by tapping it on our chests. My sisters have a great story about that finger. They used to sneak out of our house when our parents were sleeping. They’d go to the pond on the street over and swim. Our cousin used to spend the summer with us. She became the sacrificial lamb. My father caught them. He was behind them, my two sisters and my cousin, as they walked up the stairs to their bedroom. My two conniving sisters had put my cousin last. She got the finger on her back all the way up the stairs as he lectured them. My sisters still chuckle about that night.

This weekend always had special significance for me. It was the last weekend before the start of school, sort of my last hurrah. Bedtime would again be imposed with the tag line, “You have school tomorrow.” That only made it worse. Labor Day Monday meant the oddity of a Monday bath night. I had to be clean for school which also made it worse. For school I’d wear my new shoes, blue uniform skirt, white blouse and a blue clip-on sort of cowboy tie. I’d eat breakfast then put on my uniform. My new pencil cases and notebooks were already packed into my new school bag. I did it the night before. My mother packed my lunch in my new lunch box. That first lunch was always spectacular, an attempt to dull the pain.

It didn’t take long to get back into the routine which made me both happy and sad.