Ode to the real holiday

It’s done, dude. Summer, that is. Get over it. Get busy. Get back to

work.

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

earth and the poles and the diagrams. Way too complicated.

Tomorrow is Labor Day, the official end of summer, unofficially

speaking. In honor of this important holiday, I wanted to do a moving

ode to the indomitable spirit and endless energy of the American

worker, but that sounded like a lot of work.

Fortunately, I remembered doing a complete and slightly-accurate

history of the big L-Day some years ago, which we offer for your

edification and enjoyment, maybe, once again.

Labor Day was the brainchild of union organizers in this country

in the late 19th century. It all started with an Irish piano maker by

the name of Peter McGuire in the city we now know as New York, which

at the time was called “New York.”

Working conditions in those days were atrocious and Peter M., for

one, decided that enough is enough, which is enough. It was the same

grind, day after day -- find an elephant, drag him downtown, get the

tusks, carve the keys. It was very hard work, for very long hours and

very little pay.

On Sept. 5, 1882, Pete and his fellow laborers, who were also

grumpy, organized the first “Labor Day” parade. Thousands of workers

and Pete marched up Broadway carrying signs that read “Labor Creates

All Wealth” and “8 Hours Work, 8 Hours Rest, 8 Hours Recreation,” and

singing “This Land is Your Land” and “If I Had a Hammer.” The part

about the songs isn’t true. I made that up.

In 1894, President Cleveland declared Labor Day a national

holiday. By the way, since we’re talking about baseball, what do Babe

Ruth, Grover Cleveland, and “Baby Ruth” candy bars have in common?

They are all part of one of the great confusions of the 20th century.

The candy bar was named after Cleveland’s granddaughter, Ruth, who

became America’s darling at the turn of the century and was known as

“Baby Ruth.” By the 1920’s, when Baby Ruth wasn’t a baby anymore, she

was almost forgotten and the candy bars had virtually disappeared.

But the 1920’s were also Babe Ruth’s golden years and, somehow, an

urban myth began that the candy bars were named after the Sultan of

Swat, which Ruth, always the promoter, did nothing to discourage.

What does any of this have to do with Labor Day? Nothing that I

know of.

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 march in a phalanx and touch

shoulders with people I don’t know. But then, those were different

times, and over a century later, those lofty beginnings are all but

forgotten.

With all due respect to Pete and Samuel, Labor Day in the here and

now 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 smoky enough, no sale price low enough to lure me

from my lair.

As always, the high point of my long holiday weekend will be

Monday night, sitting by the television, watching one traffic

reporter after another describe the endless lines of cars snaking

their way down the Santa Ana Freeway and the Riverside Freeway. 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 and of itself, is not without significance

in our corner of the universe.

After all, this is a beach community, is it not? It isn’t just the

twice-daily crush on Newport Boulevard that is now transformed. Over

the next few weeks, as the joy of learning resumes for the little

ones, and the big ones, the traffic game returns to winter rules:

Long lines of mother-mobiles dropping of and picking up at school,

high school and college parking lots bursting with cars -- luxury

cars at the high schools, ’88 Toyota Tercels at the colleges. You’ll

be able to drive on Coast Highway again and actually find a parking

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

Cool’s Wine Coolers -- the Cooler Cooler” and “KDRK-FM -- All Dreck,

All the Time” will be gone, as will the clutches of people with the

disposable cameras, the Bermuda shorts and the black socks.

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

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

So it goes -- the circle of life in the Newport-Mesa.

I think it was the philosopher Mungo Jerry who said it best: “In

the summertime, when the weather is high, you can stretch right up

and touch the sky.” Actually, forget that. It didn’t make any sense

in 1969, and it doesn’t make any sense now.

You have exactly one more day, so make the best of it. Just don’t

ask me to do anything. I gotta go.