Labor Day was on 1st September (yes, I'm spelling 'labor' without a 'u', but don't start hyperventilating just yet, my fellow Brits. Seeing as Labor Day is an American holiday, I felt I should spell it as they do. In all other uses of the word 'labour', I will of course insert the 'u', as I just did. Are we cool?).
I asked around a lot, and I have arrived at this conclusion - nobody knows what it celebrates. It is literally just a holiday. A day off for labourers. I'll take that!
Here is an account of my first Labor Day experience:
A cookout by the pool with Church family, immediate and extended, with dominant Italian ancestral roots.
Glazed, charred chicken sweats in the air conditioning.The corn wears a sheen of butter and salt.
"Would you like ice cream? Cup cake?"
"Yes, please."
Both it is.
A cacophony of chatter. Italy glazed in American syrup.We eat and talk and watch tennis.
The pool invites competition. The boys leap in, secure a pole and split into teams. The volleyball is pounded and spiked for four hours. Faces turn red from the sun and exertion.
The women watch, cheer and heckle from the sides. Smooth legs and one round baby bump.
An infant pings like a pinball from one set of mothering arms to another. His skin is ten shades darker than the rest. In one house we have Africa, Italy, England and Native America.Undoubtedly more.
Cards are dealt by painted fingers. Rules are learnt. The volleyball continues to fly.
Both games end at the announcement of hot dogs, chips and sweet tea. The day is complete.
F.Y.I: I saw my first skunk! It was outside our apartment. I tried to get a closer look, but my husband called me back in fear. Apparently they can squirt up to fifteen feet! That's a lot of pressure. Surely that must propel the skunk in the opposite direction?!
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