Lessons from Labor Day in a Small Town

I have written in the past about what it was like to grow up in a small town. It was an experience for which I would not change no matter the offer. I often relate the town of Youngstown to Mayberry. I will admit that growing up in such a small community is not for everyone. Many people prefer a faster pace. I still find it funny since I was one of the few of my friends who always planned to stay right there in Western New York. I was going to raise my family in the area in which the locking of doors at night was strictly something you didn’t have to do. Yet out of all of my brothers, I was the one to take-off. I went from the town without a stoplight to Los Angeles. I am not sure you could have two more opposite ends of the spectrum in which to live. Just the same, I find myself often reminiscing and reliving memories. It is this time of the year, Labor Day and the week after, which really sparks the memories – even more so than Christmas.

Labor Day marks the end of summer. While I did love school, I was not unlike every other kid in lamenting the coming of this holiday since school was only two days behind. Just the same, this time of year meant so much more than school. It was when our little community had a chance to shine only to be followed by Lewiston the next weekend. It also was a time in which you had a chance to see the results of the hard labor that your Nana put you through all summer. It was a time filled with color, smell, excitement, and community.

During my years of growing up, Labor Day was a town celebration. The town’s fire department hosted a parade and field day. The event took place in the park in the center of town. Later toward my final years in town, with the building of a new building for the fire company, the field day moved towards the edge of town. Regardless, as a young person it was time to run with your friends, spend your quarters (then dollars), and have fun before you were forced to go sit at a desk for 180 days.

One of my favorite memories comes from when I was very young. The Stone Jug, a bar at the time which my cousin later converted to a bed and breakfast/bar, was shut down for the day. It became family and close friends only. The parade came down Main Street right in front of the Jug. All of the family, Mom, Dad, Nana, cousins, Uncles, Aunts, and others all lined the lower and upper porch watching the parade. We applauded, cheered, and begged for the candy throwers to get it up to us. After the last unit passed by, the race was on to the field day. I will admit that it did have a nice size beer tent for the adults. As a kid, you only knew of that as the place you went looking for more quarters. What was really cool was that since most people knew each other, you didn’t beg quarters just from Dad. After a few pitchers, almost any person would disperse the coins.

The other nice thing about our little village is that kids were safe to roam all over. When we got bored with the field day, we would run down to the local store for ice cream or a pop (Yes. WNY). We could also run back to the family establishment. Since it was closed, the kids had the run of it. We played shuffle board, pinball, pool, and had free kid drinks. The best was sitting with Uncle Martin. He would talk to us and tell us stories. Then when he got tired of us, he gave us a few bucks and out the door we went.

A similar weekend played out just a few days later in our neighboring town, Lewiston. Now Lewiston’s has the fancy name of Peach Festival. A celebration of the harvest coming in. They have a slightly larger fair and even have a Peach Queen and court. Just like our town, it started with a parade and ended with a fair where kids had a chance to run with friends and not worry. The other thing about the Peach Festival was that it took place two days after the start of school. This gave you a chance to know who was going to be in your class and who you wanted to pair up with.

As I aged, these two weekends took on a different meaning for me. Around the time I was 6 or 7, my dad started a junior Drum and Bugle Corp sponsored by the fire department. We marched ahead of the fireman in all of the parades they attended. Later, we merged with other corps and became field competitors. We still did parades and these two were always on our schedules. Once I started marching, these parades came to signify the end of the season. These two weekends became our last little hoorahs. Our last chance to hang with our fellow members before bringing the season to a complete end. If you turned 21 before the next season, these became the last two chances to march and perform.

I loved the fact that these two communities, all the way through my childhood celebrated what and who they were. These weekends truly became a look at who we are. It was a chance for neighbors to get together and be with each other. It was a time to celebrate being a Youngstownian or a person from Lewiston. Sadly, the Labor Day Field Day is gone. I understand that there is a parade and picnic, so I am glad to hear that there is still time to celebrate together. The Peach Festival, according to my niece, is still going strong. They will be crowning a new queen in a few days

While I loved these two weekends and the communities celebrating the fact that they were small communities. There was something else that Labor Day signified.  It was time for those in the small communities to celebrate the harvest. The road side stands were full with fruits and vegetables. If you had a garden on your property, you were reaping what you sowed. It was no different on our street – our little dead-end road of 5 homes. I believe 4 out of the 5 had gardens. It was time for picking.

All summer long, my Nana, Wanda, would make me get up early to “get the weeding done before it gets hot.” All summer long I dreaded the hours I would be spending in this rectangle of first dirt and then plants. The only thing that made it bearable was my cousins having to do the same thing just a few feet away. Dirt clod wars happened regularly. All summer long, you questioned why. Then it happened.

Nana would always supervise the harvest. We would fill basket after basket of tomatoes. We would look for the green beans, and other edibles. She would go to Tom’s and buy even more tomatoes and fruit. We would sit out in our backyard for hours running tomatoes through the crusher. Plop, plop, plop they would go in. The juice and meat would come out one area and the remains would go dropping into a bucket for compost. Your arm would feel like falling off, but at this point, you did not question – you knew.

You knew why the work had to be done and the rewards that were coming. All weekend long you work the fruits and vegetables. Then on Monday, you hopped on the bus and off to school you went. When you returned home, the magic had started. I always transport back to these days.

I would get off the bus. If it had rained, I slowly walked up the driveway. I took in the scent of the leaves as they fell off the tree. There is a smell. It is a crisp smell. I reached the door of the breezeway and, before I could even open it, I knew. I pulled open the door and was met with a welcome home smell that few kids will know. On the table in the breezeway were at least two roasters filled to the brim with homemade spaghetti sauce simmering away. The smell of the tomatoes mixed with all of the spices just wrapped around me like a warm hug. No matter how tough the school day had been, it fell away as I walked in the breezeway. I would stand there and just take it in. Often I would search for a spoon to sample the cookings. Then I grabbed the handle of the door to the kitchen.

If I thought the breezeway was the smell of heaven, then the kitchen proved that there was something greater. I would walk in to pots on the stove simmering away with homemade jams – strawberry, raspberry, blackberry – Heaven. Sampling of these was trickier since Nana was around to supervise and those suckers were hot. These smells weren’t just the smells of good cooking – to me, these were the smells of love. I knew my Nana loved us and cared enough to go through all of this work so that we could enjoy all winter long.

I can still remember the first summer we didn’t put the garden in. My summer was free from all of the weeding and hoeing and other duties. My fall was void of memories. There is a black hole for that year.

So yes, I love Christmas, Thanksgiving, the 4^th of July each for their own reason. However, Labor Day was a time when my Nana would start her Labor of Love. Each and every year, I go back to those days. I understand what she was trying to teach us. I look to the sky and thank her for all that she did.

Small town living doesn’t have shows every night or professional teams. It does have community pride. Neighbors taking care of each other, and people like my Nana still doing what they do best – taking care of their families.

Thanks for meandering with me tonight.