Poor Labor Day. Gets no respect. It's the Rodney Dangerfield of celebrations. The runt of the holiday litter. Just hearing the name conjures up depressing images of the last plastic souvenir sports bottle of lemonade poured on the dying charcoal briquettes of summer. It's the end of the bright light and the beginning of the darkness. Vacation is over and the fun has expired.
White shoes are put back in the closet and storm windows taken out. Watermelons are replaced on the floor next to produce bins by pumpkins. Swimming pools get drained and ice cream trucks convoy back into their hibernatory garages. All the red, white and blue motifs give way to orange and black. The solstice is dead. Long live the autumnal equinox.
As a kid, I was too busy running from the shadow of school's return and the end of my freedom to pay much attention to the meaning of the holiday. And when I did, it made no sense. Honor work? Who would do that? Might as well set aside a day to venerate broccoli. I thought of work as a thing to be avoided, not celebrated. Chores squared.
Read the rest of this op-ed on AOL News.
By the way, Gina Misiroglu of Red Room put me in touch with the AOL people, which is one of the great ways she's bringing traffic to Red Room and getting attention for Red Room's authors.