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Labor Day heralds cool delights ahead

By ELIZABETH BETTENDORF
Published September 1, 2006

During the years of my life spent in the Midwest, Labor Day always symbolized the end of summer. No matter what the thermometer read, the holiday tipped the calendar in favor of fall. In the next few weeks, pots of orange-gold mums would begin appearing on front stoops, and sweaters would come out of mothballed drawers.

At my family's home in suburban St. Louis, Labor Day meant the last languid warm weekend spent poolside. On that first Monday in September, we all knew that our precious few months of fine weather were about to end. Soon the fall haze would drape itself over the urban, river-town landscape, falling leaves would drift into the streets and the warmth of the summer sun would weaken.

No more white shorts, sandals (in public) or spaghetti-strap sundresses.

Camp counselor jobs were swapped for college, junk novels for Jane Austen, jars of sun tea for pots of Earl Grey.

In the garden, Labor Day meant just a few more weeks of luscious homegrown tomatoes, the kind that beckon Midwesterners barefoot to the back yard, saltshakers in hand.

Anyone who has ever lived in the Midwest knows that nothing tastes quite so good as a late-summer homegrown tomato warmed and ripened by the August sun and eaten within seconds of picking.

In those days, the arrival of Labor Day also meant the end to long evenings spent on our family's big screened back porch with its willow-frame sofa and chaise lounge, straw rugs, reading lamps and large yellow Knoll dining table.

It was the site of many delicious meals and long, deep discussions into the night. It was also a place to just kick back and read a book by lamplight, protected from bugs, rain, even lightning storms.

That last Labor Day barbecue, usually St. Louis fare of pork steaks, homemade coleslaw and cold beer, always had a bittersweet taint to it, the joy of an outdoor family gathering coupled with the knowledge that it might be the last until the following summer.

In Florida, the Labor Day holiday brings a different meaning. After months of suffering through intense heat and late-afternoon storms, Floridians know that better days are ahead.

In a sense our late fall and early winter is really like a Midwestern summer.

With moderate days and nights so cool and glorious, it's possible to sleep under a pile of quilts with all the windows open. In the fall, Floridians begin entertaining outdoors again. Lighting the grill doesn't create a backyard sauna, and taking a long walk doesn't mean wading through humidity so sloppy and dense that it feels like swimming.

So that's the difference. Labor Day in the Midwest is an ending of sorts, while in Florida it kicks off a beginning, a time to take stock and look forward to the best part of the year.

The other night I was sitting out on my deck, sweating, thinking how nice it will be when I can actually serve dinner at my antique wrought-iron table, a family heirloom that I recently drenched in three coats of satin-finish Rustoleum.

I was also thinking how a year ago Labor Day, I didn't yet own my own home. Another Labor Day rolls around, and I take stock.

Labor Day may not have the same meaning as it does up North; we may not be able to rival those luscious late-summer tomatoes, and our picnics may end up indoors around the TV (usually to escape either the heat or hurricane winds).

But on this long, three-day weekend, I say we have something else even better to celebrate: Our beautiful fall and winter ahead.

It's probably the best reason to be thankful for living in Florida.

[Last modified August 30, 2006, 08:31:58]