Goodbye to Summer

 

The Tuesday after Labor Day. It means nothing to me now, but sixty years ago it was depressing. The night before, on Labor Day at nine in the evening, Mom and Dad would send us up to bed. Nine was our bedtime, but on Labor Day it meant something different. It was the last day of the Fall Festival at Memorial Park. Three days of fun. A carnival, lady wrestlers, the ping pong ball drop (Ping pong balls dropped from a helicopter. The color ping pong ball you caught meant you had either won a prize or a free ride at the carnival if you didn't get trampled.), and the big parade. Fun times, but at nine in the evening on Labor Day it all ended in a fantastic display of fireworks. We could see those fireworks from my sister Peggy's bedroom window. So there we would be, a gaggle of kids in our pajamas watching the explosions. Oohing and aahing with each burst of color. And then the grand finale. Five minutes of explosions, one right after another, one bigger, louder, and brighter than the last one. As the last glowing ember drifted to the ground I would realize it was all over. Summer was over. Early the next morning we would be getting ready for school. It wasn't like it is now where school starts sometime in the middle of August or earlier. In the 1950s school started the day after Labor Day. A stark line between summer and drudgery. For some reason I never grew to like school. I never could understand the kids who seemed happy to be back in school. I'm not sure why. I do love learning. I always loved reading. I just don't know.... I'll just blame it on the nuns. Something about them simply didn't inspire a love for school. More like a feeling of S&M.