Labor Day Blues

If you are social distancing and masked, as I hope you are, this is a different kind of Labor Day. No community picnics with speeches by politicians, no concerts, maybe some fireworks on television. Annual parades across the country have been cancelled due to the pandemic. Maybe you’re shopping the sales online. However you’re marking this day, please stay safe.

Labor Day began back in the 1880s to honor working people—the first parade was in New York City in 1887, and the day became a Federal holiday in 1894. The last quarter of the 19^th century was a time marked by clashes, often violent, between labor and the robber barons who thought they ruled the world during the Gilded Age. It was also the era of the rise of labor unions, designed to protect laborers by stabilizing wages, limiting working hours, guaranteeing days off, and other measures so that men, women, and children had more to their lives than dawn-to-dusk work in sweatshops, factories, and the like. In some ways, those clashes of values are reflected again in our society today—we haven’t come as far as we thought or else we’ve slid backwards.

Perhaps the most notorious labor riot was the Haymarket which occurred in Chicago in 1886 after bombing disrupted a peaceful labor rally at the McCormick Reaper Works in support of the eight-hour day. Police killed one laborer and injured several others as they tried to disperse the demonstrators. Someone threw a bomb, and between that and the resulting gunfire seven police and at least four civilians were killed. Dozens others were injured.

A German immigrant, August Spies, was so angered at the police brutality that he rushed to the offices of an anarchist newspaper, Arbeiter-Zeitung, and issued a call to arms for workingmen. A second rally as held in Haymarket Square. Spies spoke, followed by his colleague Albert Parsons, a former Confederate soldier turned anarchist. The mayor of Chicago was even on hand to ensure that things remained peaceful—but he decided all was well and went home too early. Police tried to disperse the crowd, another bomb was thrown, and gunfire and chaos followed. Several police and civilians were killed.

The riot set off a nation-wide wave of violence, and police rounded up foreign-born protestors and labor organizers. In Chicago, seven men were sentenced to death—ultimately four were hanged, including Spies and Parsons, one committed suicide, and the remaining three were pardoned. It was not a pretty episode in the country’s history.

My research for the historical novel, The Gilded Cage, led me deep into the conflict surrounding the Haymarket Riot and indeed into the whole labor movement era in Chicago. Spies, Parsons, and their families became minor characters in the book. The Gilded Cage was published in the spring of 2016. At the time I had no idea how relevant that history would be to us in 2020, but today that bit of history speaks to me as an object lesson.

So today, if you’re having a family-only barbecue in the back yard or—as I will be doing, eating leftovers, raise a glad to the working men and women of the late nineteenth century who fought so hard to secure protections for those who work in nine-to-five jobs, often physical hard jobs.

And I hope you find some fireworks on TV because, well, there just ought to be fireworks!

 

Fishermen, a little time out, and a good day

 

These happy fishermen are two of my sons and one son-in-law. As you can tell from the Celtic names, Colin and Jamie (picture 1 and 3) are mine. Brandon (second picture) is married to Megan. They were fishing in Colorado with a guide, somewhere southwest of Denver—they were pretty vague about exactly where they were (I got the feeling they didn’t know) but I gather they were sort of near Fairplay. They were doing catch and release so no fish over the campfire for them—I suspect they fixed steak for themselves. Christian, who rounds out the adult males in the family, is not a fisherman and was happily with us at the lake house that weekend.

I had a sinking spell yesterday. During the night, Wednesday night, I would have told you I was sure it was COVID-19 (you know those three a.m. thoughts which are especially vivid these days). By morning, I decided it was a recurrence of a kidney problem I’ve had occasionally—back pain and I could not bear the thought of food. By afternoon it was clear it was a stomach problem. I did some work in the morning but was back in bed by 11:00 a.m. Spent the rest of the day getting up, puttering for an hour or so, and returning to bed. Jordan came out three times to deliver groceries, and I was asleep each time.

Finally she caught me up at about eight, took my temperature three times, and announced, “We are not dealing with a COVID situation, but we have to document for the doctor.” I assured her I wasn’t going to the doctor and would be fine today. Got up again at ten, because my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep without brushing my teeth and then again near midnight when Sophie wanted to go out. And then slept a heavenly deep sleep, albeit with weird dreams (I dream a lot anyway).

The thing that struck me is that especially in these stressful days a little time out is good for each of us. If it takes a stomach bug to do it, so be it. Because I’m introspective and tend to overthink things, I grilled myself on whether or not I was stressed by the country’s situation with pandemic and riots, the never-ending feeling of quarantine, and the heavier than usual workload on my desk. My answer to all that was, “Yes, but . . . .”: Still this morning I was my usual sunny (?) self but hungry.

My good friend Jean came for happy hour tonight. We try to get together once a week to solve the problems of the world—boy, are we good at it. If the world only listened to us! Tonight, though, I tactfully (I hope) kicked her out early because I wanted to catch a 6:30 Zoom program on Scottish seafood sponsored by Central Market. It turned out to be nothing more than a teaser for the cooking class tomorrow, for which I am already registered. Hearty apologies to Jean.

But tomorrow I’ll learn to make a smoked salmon salad with snap peas and a Hebridean salmon with a sauce and a soft-boiled egg. I think I could sell it to the family if I left off the soft-boiled egg. The dessert is a cranachan, a Scottish dessert with raspberries, heavy cream, oatmeal or porridge, and a touch of whisky. Sounds wonderful, but my family doesn’t eat desserts. I’m a bit hamstrung by what they will and won’t eat.

Labor Day weekend! Be careful, everyone—masks, social distancing, no drinking and driving. I sound like an old mother hen, but I guess that’s what I am.

The Treasure of Neighbors

My close circle of neighbors celebrated Labor Day today with the traditional potluck cookout. Turned out to be a farewell party for my grill, which the gentlemen—who did the grilling—declared was on its last legs. I told Jay I wanted my hamburger rare, and he said he didn’t think they could do it any other way. Failing or not, the grill—and the men gathered around it—produced some mighty tasty burgers. We had cole slaw, ranch beans, potato salad, all the fixings for burgers, and rich brownies for dessert. A fitting end to summer.

But more important we were all gathered together. I love these people and feel so supported and loved by them. We are a motley crew, ranging in age from nine-year-old Jacob—who goes off and does his own thing—to David Halbower who is in his nineties. Although not neighbors, my daughter, son-in-law and Jacob are always included in the group, as is a former neighbor and her partner—new since the days she lived next door to me. The group includes Jay, who calls himself my other son because neither of my sons live here and he’s the one I call on often to do boy chores; Greg, who keeps my yard and lawn respectable and has a fine sense about plants—to Greg, you never pull a plant out as long as its green; if it’s a weed, it becomes compost. His wife, Jaimie, a wonderful cook, complains that he thinks everything becomes compost. Christian is always ready to do small chores, and I realize I can no longer do big groups without Jordan’s help.  She’s the most efficient hostess I know—but, hey, look where she learned. Subie and Phil are longtime friends returned to FW after a 20-year absence, and I am so glad to have them back and in the neighborhood. Sophie is glad when they visit, because they bring two labs—Phil’s relatively new seeing-eye dog and the one who retired last winter. Santiago is too old to play but wants constant tummy rubs; Porter will run and play with Sophie, and she ends up exhausted. Sue calls me her Fort Worth mom since her mom lives in Ottawa, Canada, and I have fallen in love with Teddy, her love. These people help me keep my house running and my spirits up, all with a lighthearted banter and teasing—and sometimes more household advice than I need.
When they’re all together, I can’t hear any conversation, and I sort of sit back and smile at them, like a benevolent old lady—good gravy! Is that what I’ve become?

I realized again tonight the benefits of potluck—I only had to make potato salad, put out plastic plates and flatware and glasses—yes, we recycle. Everyone takes their own dishes home. Easy peasy, especially with Jordan keeping up with the kitchen as she goes. Kudos to Jay for seasoning the hamburgers and to Christian for cooking them. A lovely evening.

And thanks to all these wonderful people for keeping me in their midst. I’m in awe of my blessings.