Love's Labor Lost

Downing Court is rivaled only by Grand Central Station this morning as Estelle is preparing for Labor Day. By noon holy rollers, tobacco farmers and debutantes will arrive to celebrate the last of summer and the initiation of apple season. Now,it is the Ukrainian handy man, the housekeepers, the two yard people and the interior decorator all a-buzzed, droning around their queen, Estelle, whose crown is a hat that could easily shade a quarter of an acre.

My grandmother, Big Granny, thinks no holiday is complete with out fifty-'leven odd relatives gettin' loud, lovin' each other's necks and gorgin' themselves on her famous-at-five-churches potato salad. My grandfather, Poppy, thinks no holiday is complete without corn liquor. It does temper the humidity and has the amazing ability to cajole niceties between those who speak on tongues with those whose language is often indecipherable but way more colorful. I just hope this year the rifles stay in the back of the trucks during the singing of "When We All Get To Heaven."

As I was sipping my coffee this morning, Estelle peeked onto the sun porch. "It's the last weekend to wear white pants, hon." I smiled and acknowledged her sentiments. Gone is the leisure of summer and the sobering work of fall and winter is upon us. "By the way, can I see your calendar? I need to arrange for the decorator and caterer for Thanksgiving and Christmas." Sobering indeed.

Here's to Labor Day and that last glorious weekend of summer. Estelle's respite is a prelude to her pressing matters: Reforming the membership guidelines at her country club so her non-white friends can join her for Prime Rib Thursdays, her annual suffrage of deacon nominations, and planning her two-week sojourn "somewhere just tropical." That is a heavy load amidst the bereavement committee and Friday hair-fixin' appointments. At least, I know she will not be wearing white pants.