Labor Day
I was texting with a friend yesterday and asked her what she thought of Labor Day. Here’s her reply: “Not a fan. It has a vibe I just don’t like. Love an Indian summer day, but Labor Day is just a downer.”
My sentiments exactly.
It happens every year on Labor Day, this melancholic feeling. Summer has officially ended, no matter that the autumnal equinox is still three weeks away. Gone are the long, leisurely days at the beach, the giftless family gatherings, the Last Words on the patio overlooking the Mystic River, the ocean swims, the warm breezes – all of it. The diminishing light also does nothing to elevate my mood this time of year.
I call this tree The Defector. It’s the first in our neighborhood to roll over and accept fall.
But here’s the odd thing: I like fall. I love cooler weather. I like sleeping with the windows open. And it’s my most productive time of the year.
Fall is when I get back to my desk in earnest. Just last week, my writers group gave me feedback on my latest novel, Disappearing Women. And there is much to chew on, a good thing. Sure, I had the usual fantasy that everyone would say, “Susan, it’s perfect – don’t change a thing!” That never happens. And I truly wouldn’t want it to happen, at least not at this stage. I know the story needs further work, and now I have helpful suggestions. At the moment, it’s more exciting than daunting.
Fall is also when a bunch of things in the community come back to life. The beer 5ks and concerts in the park are now on hiatus until next June, replaced by workshops and lectures and string quartets at the library. My pottery classes start tomorrow, and I’m already dreaming about pulling up clay on the wheel, making taller mugs, forming small plates, and chatting with my fellow potters about their goals this year. The studio is a place I can temporarily shove my worries and distractions into my smock pocket and lose myself in the creation of useful stuff.
Too, I read more as the weather changes, and the call to be active outside for most of the day fades. Six or seven novels lined up in our bookcase await my attention, as well as a list of a dozen or so books that I want to read – and they will soon have it. One of the best parts about cooler weather for me is a fireplace fire. And one of the happiest things for me to do in front of that fire is prop a book on my lap and see where it takes me.
So, what is it about Labor Day – the transition from summer to fall – that dampens my élan? (This is one of my father’s expressions, even though his élan was rarely damp!) Could it simply be the passage of time, and an urge (at this stage in my life) to slow its inexorable march? Maybe. I’m old enough now to feel the quickening of time’s stride. I used to think it would slow down when the boys left the house or when Ted retired. Nope and nope. Routinely, I tell myself to focus, to enjoy the moment. Sometimes this works before the moment is gone. Yet, I have a movie montage in my head when I’m packing a suitcase that shows me unpacking the suitcase – dirty clothes into the laundry basket – in the next scene.
How do you slow time – or are you pleased with its speed and athleticism?
Recommendation: Years ago, I was visiting my brother in Texas, and a Keith Urban song about the passage of time came out of the speakers. “Turn that up!” I shouted. It came to mind yesterday. You might like it too.
Labor Day has always been a day of grieving for me. Packing the car and leaving the country to head back to the cement city full time - been doing it for 63 years! I want to slow time, but I look forward to the day when I don’t have to delineate “the end of summer” on Labor Day, and allow me to choose when I have to “go back to civilization” and perhaps I decide just to say no and stay to watch the leaves turn and the roads empty.
Labor has always meant the end of summer to me even now when I still have a month of heat in Dallas. I have heard the catchy Keith Urban song in awoke so thanks for sharing!