WORKER'S PRIDE

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The best thing to happen to mornings since the Sun!

Your morning thought for the day:
Labor Day is a glorious holiday because your
child will be going back to school the next day.
It would have been called Independence Day,
but that name was already taken.
-- Bill Dodds


The spectacular Olympics are over. The hoopla of the political
conventions has begun. The kids are headed back to school and the
Labor Day holiday is upon us.
Did summer just come and go?

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WORKER'S PRIDE
by Joseph Walker

It has always struck me as more than just a little bit ironic
that every year about this time America pays tribute to her working
men and women by not working.
Not that I'm complaining. I appreciate a day off as much as the
next worker bee. It's just the logic that throws me. I mean, on
Thanksgiving we actually give thanks. On Christmas we celebrate a
gift from God by giving gifts ourselves. On Easter we observe
another divine gift by eating multi-colored eggs that were supposedly
delivered by a rabbit.
OK, so the logic of Easter eludes me, too.
Still, it stands to reason that if we are going to celebrate
America's workers, there ought to be something... you know...
laborious about it. And no, I'm not talking about the effort it
requires to pack a picnic lunch, or to go camping or boating or any
of the pastimes we work so hard at enjoying during the long weekend.
I'm talking about sweating. Toiling. Working.
You know -- laboring.
Mom and Dad understood the concept. Around our house, Labor Day
was just that -- a day to labor. I don't remember any Labor Day
picnics or parties or barbecues. We'd just had a full summer for
that. Labor Day meant that school was back in session and it was
time to work.
And so we did. We prepared the garden bed for winter. We
pruned fruit trees. We bottled peaches and tomatoes until the inside
of our house was thick with steam and aroma. Sometimes there were
special projects that we didn't finish during the summer: painting
the trim around the house; taking out an old, dead stump; planting
new grass in that patch of dirt in the middle of the lawn that we
used as home plate during spirited games of whiffle ball.
For me, however, the job was always the same: mowing, edging and
raking the lawn. As the youngest of eight children, I always got the
easiest -- and most boring -- duty.
"It's not fair!" I protested one Labor Day. "I do the lawn all
summer. Why can't somebody else do it today?"
"Because everyone else already has a job," Mom said.
So much for labor negotiations.
A late summer trip had interrupted regularly scheduled lawn care
that year, and our yard looked it. The grass was tall and thick --
especially the edges. I shuddered. Dad didn't believe in power
mowers or edgers, so this would require hours of back-breaking,
wrist-snapping, energy-sapping labor.
What a way to spend Labor Day, huh?
Don't ask me how, but I survived the ordeal. I was tired from
pushing the mower up and down the slope of our front lawn. My
fingers ached from squeezing Dad's rusty grass clippers. And I was
itchy from the grass that seemed to cover me. But for some reason,
as I sat out on the front porch looking out over the aesthetic
results of my labors, none of that mattered. I was weary, but
content. And I wasn't sure why until Mom came out with the lemonade.
"That's why we have you mow the lawn," she said as she handed me
a tall, cool glass. "You do such a good job."
In retrospect, I'm sure other lawns in our neighborhood looked
as good as ours. Maybe better. But that night I was King Lawnboy,
and all was right in my carefully clipped kingdom.
I've never forgotten the feeling of satisfaction that came from
a job well done. That's the feeling we ought to celebrate on Labor
Day, for much of what we are as a nation we owe to the efforts of
workers who are willing to work, and who take pride in the results of
their labors.
So do something laborious this Labor Day, and savor the
privilege and blessing of work.
'Tis the season, you know.

-- Joseph Walker

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Joe is a Heartwarmer Gem and lives in Utah.
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