Labor Day--The World's Become One Giant Markdown

It’s Labor Day weekend, the last flicker of summer for those who live up North.  As for Florida, we can only pretend it’s the end because our summers run through October, much as we’re tired of it, much as we’re sick of our T-shirts and Capris and dying to wear a sweater and jeans.  So what do we do during this three day holiday?   Many run to the beach and veg, but I'm not much for the sun, and besides, it’s sizzling outside.  So what else can I do but sit in a movie or hightail it to the mall and check out the sales.

Those sales. 

Everywhere.                               
  

Labor Day means the world’s becomes one giant markdown.

But should I go?  I don’t need a thing.  Still, I could probably stuff another knit top in my dresser—something clingy and fresh, and deeply discounted (like 60% off) so I can tell everyone it was selling for $148 but I got it for $59.12.  That’s a deal, and a tale I'd like to tell, and isn’t that what Labor Day’s all about?

Didn't used to be.
Not when I was growing up. 

Years ago the unions would march the downtown streets of Detroit celebrating Labor, but I only glanced it on TV and never thought it was any big deal.  Who cared about them anyway?  To me Labor Day meant school was starting the very next day.   It also meant my father went boating for the last time that year before hauling his boat out to storage.

My father, Bernie Schwartz, without an extra nickel to his name, owned a series of clunkers.  Each became his passion, until it broke down—and unfortunately, all of them did—the pistons, the oil filter, distributor, alternator—whatever could jam, rust, spring a leak, or just tucker out—and leave us stranded in the water searching around for a tow.              

But those were the bad Labor Days.  

During the good ones, we celebrated our last gulp of fun.  When the ignition clicked, we cheered.  We could swim, ski, and dive off the boat.  I don’t remember ever running to sales THAT weekend, or even wanting to.  We were already set for school.  No matter how many hand-me-downs I inherited from my sister, I got brand new clothes for the first day of class—and sparkling saddle shoes without a scuff to be found. 

Those shoes.                   

I never knew they were cheap, only shiny, brand new, and mine.      

I also knew they wouldn’t look that way for long.  In a few weeks I’d start polishing them white, trying not to spill a drop on the black, but they still never looked the same—not like the first day of school when I hurried along the many streets (no one took buses back then) to meet my new homeroom teacher, to see my old friends, and to revel in the excitement of the day after Labor Day Weekend.