Monday was Labor Day. In a way, it’s an oxymoron that one should simply relax on Labor Day, but I’m willing to let grammatical issues slide to go with the flow. What strikes me most, however, is that Labor Day is the real end of summer, even though it actually extends to September 21.
Kids returned to school yesterday, so parents had varying degrees of emotion. Some were relieved; others sad. I was always in the relieved camp, as finding appropriate day care for two sons and two stepdaughters required Herculean effort even though I only worked part-time. Consciously, I knew the teacher wasn’t a babysitter; but believe me I valued the fact that my children were in her care approximately seven hours a day.
Parents’ schedules change too. Some have to leave earlier to drive their offspring to school; others stand on a corner for the schoolbus before taking off for their own destinations. Everyone has to factor in assignment deadlines, whether they be providing cookies for afternoon treats or helping with book reports.
Invariably the temperature turns hot, as if to remind us that summer really isn’t over. Yet, beaches are officially devoid of lifeguards and summer rates on rentals are over for the year. Bikinis are stashed away, while high school football takes over the local newspaper’s sport section.
At this stage of my life, I think I’m immune to the school cycle. My children are long on their own. I don’t have to worry about what month we take our vacation; I no longer have to check the traditional book report for spelling errors; I don’t have to attend parent-teacher conferences. Nevertheless, the years that I spent in school and then the years I spent helping my children in school are indelibly marked on my mind.
They remind me of what John Donne said: “And, therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” I suspect he was alluding to a different type of bell; at the same time, it could have been a school bell.
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