The Mountain Breeze: A Labor Day Memory
Labor Day. A questionable term, but the herald of the end of summer and a day off to fight traffic heading home from the three-day week end. After today, in the old days no more white shoes or frilly sleeveless frocks. Now, just about anything goes.
September 1 is considered the beginning of meteorological fall in the weather annual. I know I have pulled out the fall decorations for the tables and piano. Tis time to celebrate the harvest , the fall of leaves and the honk of geese heading south for the winter. I know one thing, I look forward to a little cooler temperature, though this is a bit early to be excited.
And over my adult life, leaves have turned color later than say, when I was 12 and we had not only full color by mid-October, but also a snow!
A few weeks ago a friend I have on Twitter, Cyrus McQueen, asked what awful thing a parent/s had us perform as a task. Many had to build things, clean profusely, watch siblings. I had no doubt what mine was…Labor Day Monday from hell.
Venture back to when I was barely 22 a new bride living in Lynchburg and on Labor Day Monday was summoned to Fincastle to “help a little.” I never worked on Mondays as the place where I was employed was closed Sunday and Monday. The hubs, Bobby Benson, was out of town on an audit and well, I was a good daughter and in my brainless moment, said, “ Sure.”
What a mistake. I should have feigned illness, a flat tire, a million excuses now remind me. But off I went to “help a little.”
A friend of my Dad’s had a small turkey farm of about 200 white turkeys scheduled to be ready by October for the Thanksgiving rush. The old gent had a stroke if memory serves me right, and friends purchased the turkeys. My parents purchased 35. Labor Day was slaughter day. I was summoned to help, which had been left out of the ‘help a little,” until I arrived. Oh, no!
Dad lopped off the heads and a giant iron pot of boiling water bubbled over an outdoor fire. He dipped twice and handed me the turkey to pluck. Not an easy feat. The smell of the steamy, wet feathers about knocked me over and a bloody, white turkey was even less appealing. I plucked turkeys for 8 solid hours with my mother, who took out the entrails, sending them back for better pluck coverage. I plucked glove free for a while, but ended up in q work gloves which slowed down the process. I thought about throwing a turkey over in the field and yelling, “One got away,” and bolting for my car for a fast getaway.
I can still smell the wet feathers. A Labor Day to end all labors.
For my services my mother gave me ten turkey halves and it only cost me 20 bucks. They had given us a small chest freezer, so I loaded up my 10 turkey halves and headed back to Lynchburg. I never could make myself cook one, but ended up giving them to my co-workers at Christmas, while the boss beamed at my generosity. Ugh.
That was my most memorable Labor Day. And the worst thing I ever got talked into doing by my parents. Hope yours is filled with happiness and no turkey plucking! And here is my best advice. Questions should always be raised whenever you are asked to ” help a little. ”
Sunrise on Labor Day Photo by Cathy Benson
