Jesse wasn’t too fond of Labor Day. As holidays went, he felt it was pretty much well named. His dad took advantage of the three-day weekend by getting as much work as possible out of his junior work crew. At age fourteen, Jesse wasn’t old enough to drive most of the heavy farm machinery, but he was tall enough and strong enough to come in for a lot of grunt labor. His seventeen-year-old sister, Carry, wasn’t strong enough for a lot of the things he could lift and move, but she had her license. Dad sent her on a lot of the errands Mom used to do. His twin little sisters, Shelly and Shanna and baby brother, Harry, usually helped Mom in the kitchen garden.
This particular labor day weekend was no exception. Dad had gotten all the kids up before daylight. Mom was already in the kitchen, frying up sausage to make gravy and Jesse could tell there were biscuits in the oven thanks to the aroma that drifted all through the house. Jesse carefully opened the back door and carried the two foaming pails of milk up onto the porch. He set them down, and made sure the door was closed again. This time of year, the flies were into everything, and Mom would yell at him for sure if he left the screen door open.
He then poured the milk, one pail at a time, through the wide strainer. The strainer had a clean disposable filter at the bottom to catch anything that might have fallen into the milk. He then poured the milk from the container beneath the strainer into wide mouthed earthen crocks, covered them and set them into the refrigerator for the cream to rise. He took out a container of cold milk for the kitchen. The milk they sold came from tall, raw-boned black and white Holstein cows, and was milked with machines that fed it directly into a holding tank; but Mom was adamant that pasturized milk with all the additives that went into it was responsible for half the modern health problems in the world. So the milk for the house came from two neat little Jersey cows named Thelma and Louise, who were milked by hand. All that hand milking, done twice daily, was Jesse’s special chore.
He had to admit that milking and taking care of Thelma and Louise was actually one of his favorite chores. Dad believed that cows gave better milk if they could listen to soft music. Down in the main barn where the Holsteins were milked, classical music could be heard each morning and evening. But in the little barn where Thelma and Louise came from their own little pasture to eat grain and be milked each morning and afternoon, Jesse could pick the music. The two little Jerseys didn’t seem to care too much for hard rock, rap or any other noisy, hard-driving kind of music. But they were just as happy to give down their milk to easy-listening or rock-a-billy as the Holsteins were to the strains of Bach or Rachmananoff.
Cows are affectionate creatures, if you treat them right. Jesse had raised both of the current milch cows from calves. He knew just where they like to be scratched behind the ears or in the little depression behind their horns. Both of them had a dainty set of well shaped horns above their gentle, slightly dish-shaped tan faces. They would whuffle their soft, grain scented breath on his hand when he offered them treats. The milk they gave was rich, and a thick layer of cream rose on it after it was refrigerated.
Jesse set the cold crock of milk on the kitchen table. Carry skimmed off the cream and spooned it into two cream pitchers which she set on either end of the table. His dad absently spooned some out into his coffee, and added a heaping scoop of sugar. He sipped at it as he scanned a list of work that needed to be done around the farm.
“Dad,” Jesse blurted out, “Is it called Labor Day because we always wind up working on it?”
His father looked up from his list. “Is…wha…? Oh. No, actually Labor Day was declared a holiday by the labor unions back in the late 1880’s. It is supposed to be a day off to honor those people who work.”
“So how is it we always wind up working, Dad?”
His father laughed. “Well, it’s a three day weekend in prime harvest time.” He gestured at the list. “The big bales in the upper field need stacked, the apples in the little orchard need picked, your mom tells me there are still green beans in the garden and some of the potatoes are ready to dig. You know how it goes.”
Jesse’s mom thumped a big platter of fried potatoes on the table, flanked it with a broad bowl of gravy, and another bowl of fried apples. “The boy has a point, Jess,” she said, “We get a three day weekend, we work the whole thing and the kids go back to school tired on Tuesday.”
His dad looked surprised. “But, Elaine, this stuff needs doing…and when else are we gonna do it?”
She sighed. “I have no idea. But I’d like to sleep in Monday–which we surely cannot because of the cows–and then, maybe go fishing.”
Jess frowned. “You’re right about the cows…but maybe, if we get in and haul today and tomorrow, we could go fishing.”
“Well, hallelujah!” Elaine said snippily. Then she winked at Jesse, and he grinned, realizing he hadn’t put anything over on his parents.
“Wuz we goin’ fishin’ anyway?” he asked.
“Maybe…maybe not,” his dad said. “But you get those apples picked and the good ones in the cellar and your cows milked like you orter, and you other young’uns get your part done, we’ll celebrate this here Labor Day with some splashin’ wet fun and maybe some fish for dinner.”
To learn more about Labor Day, visit the U.S. DOL website and read the article “History of Labor Day”, at http://www.dol.gov/opa/aboutdol/laborday.htm .