PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

Is it true? Can it really be September? I don’t understand. Wasn’t the

Fourth of July last week? We moved clocks up a month ago, didn’t we? I

guess not.

Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Here in the Land of Newport-Mesa, and

probably the rest of the country too, summer is over. It’s done, dude.

Get serious. Get back to work. Get over it.

Forget that Sept. 21, autumnal equinox thing with the sun and the

earth and the poles. Way too complicated. The official end of summer is

that very important holiday we celebrate on this very weekend. It’s one

of those holidays we all love, but about three of us understand -- Labor

Day.

Quick. What do we celebrate on Labor Day? Very funny -- “labor.” But,

oddly enough, that’s also the right answer.

Labor Day was the brainchild of early union organizers in this country

in the late 19th century, particularly one Irish piano maker by the name

of Peter McGuire in the city we now know as New York.

Working conditions in those days were atrocious. Pete, for one, was

mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it any more. The same grind, day

after day -- find an elephant, get the tusks, carve the keys. It was very

hard work.

On Sept. 5, 1882, Peter and his fellow toilers organized the first

Labor Day parade. Thousands of workers marched up Broadway carrying signs

that read “Labor Creates All Wealth” and “‘8 Hours Work, 8 Hours Rest, 8

Hours Recreation.”

In 1894, President Grover Cleveland declared Labor Day a national

holiday. In 1898, the head of the American Federation of Labor, Samuel

Gompers (is that one of the greatest names ever or what?) waxed poetic

about Labor Day. The Gomp called it the day on which “the workers of our

day may not only lay down their tools of labor for a holiday, but upon

which they may touch shoulders in marching phalanx and feel the stronger

for it.”

Personally, when I lay down my tools of labor, the last thing I want

to do is touch shoulders with people I don’t know and march in a phalanx,

but those were different times. Over a century later, those lofty

beginnings are all but forgotten.

I have been led to understand by friends who come from the great

Midwest that towns back there still have Labor Day parades and community

picnics and block parties, etc. If there are such things around here on

the Big Last Weekend, I am not aware of them.

I apologize in advance if you or your group is throwing the 64th

Annual “Samuel Gompers -- Look for the Union Label -- Labor Day” festival

in Lion’s Park or whatever, but if you are, I missed it.

Around these parts, Labor Day boils down to this: beach, barbecues,

sales. Once again, I will work assiduously to avoid the wandering mass of

humanity in search of long weekend fun. There is no beach inviting

enough, no barbecue luscious enough, no sale price low enough to lure me

from my lair.

As always, the high point of my long weekend will be Monday night, by

the television, watching one traffic reporter after another describe the

endless lines of cars snaking their way down the I-5 and the 91. I

particularly enjoy watching the freeway misadventures of the poor souls

who made the worst travel choice imaginable -- Las Vegas on a three-day

weekend.

So try as we might, we find small meaning in Labor Day aside from

summer’s end. But that, in itself, is not without significance in our

corner of the universe. After all, this is a beach community, is it not?

But it isn’t just the twice-daily crush on Newport Boulevard that is

now transformed. Over the next few weeks, as the learning experience

resumes for the little ones and the big ones, the traffic game returns to

winter rules. Long lines of parent-mobiles waiting to drop off and pick

up at K-through-8 sites, high school and college parking lots bursting

with cars (luxury cars at the high schools, 1988 compacts at the

colleges).

You’ll actually be able to drive on Coast Highway and find a parking

space almost anywhere you want. The flying banners for “Captain Cool’s

Wine Coolers” and “KRRT - All Dreck, All the Time” will be gone, as will

the small clutches of people with the disposable cameras, the madras

Bermuda shorts and the black knee socks.

In about six weeks, it’ll be time to wrestle with the clocks and VCRs

yet again, and that first shock of walking out of work in the dark. The

college football season opens this weekend, believe it or not, and pro

football next week.

More importantly, the dizzying holiday spiral is just weeks away:

Halloween, Thanksgiving 30 days later and 30 days after that, it’s the

big one, Edith. This is too scary.

Wait, I have an idea. Since so few of us remember what Labor Day means

anyway, next year, we ignore it. Summer isn’t over until we say it’s

over, whether or not the fat lady sings. God knows it’s hot enough in

September to fool anyone.

Don’t talk about the holidays, don’t think about them, don’t look at

them. I mean, we have at least three weeks until Christmas decorations

start going up. This year, we’ll be totally prepared weeks and weeks

before anyone mutters the first “Happy Whatever.”

Meals planned, gifts wrapped, and it’s still summer. This could work.

Yeah, I’m sure. Happy Labor Day. Now get busy. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.

He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.