Labor Day for Me

I've always gotten Labor Day a little confused.  When I was a kid, we'd visit my grandparents each summer for a week and every evening about the same time, my grandfather would close his newspaper and say, "Well, folks, tomorrow is Labor Day for me. Good night."  We'd go over to him and accept his wet kiss, and then he'd rise from his chair and up the stairs he would go. We were on vacation, but he had to work early the next morning. 

So that always comes to mind when I think of Labor Day. (And I'll be laboring myself this Labor Day). I have only one Labor Day holiday cemented firmly in my memory. Just after I turned "sweet sixteen" we moved 1000 miles from the home I had always known. Our new church happened to be near my mom's family. That Labor Day my aunts and their families arrived at our house armed with rakes, shovels, and leaf bags, and helped us spiff up a badly neglected parsonage yard. Much appreciated and much remembered. (And how I loved that house. I didn't live too long in it before I headed off to college, but I loved it's nooks and crannies, creaking wood floors, and history.) 

Photo: my grandfather as young man in rear, center. At the far left is Nita of the previous post.