I remember when Labor Day was a day for a big union barbecue. Dad was a union man for much of his working life, then came to realize that they were a drag on much of what passes for productivity. Like many good ideas, the organized unions morphed from worrying about the working man to enriching the coffers of the organizers, the union officials, and in many cases, organized crime. My earliest active memory is laying on a quilt while Mom and Dad danced a jitterbug at a union picnic. Good times. Good memories.
Still, we celebrate Labor Day in any number of ways, most prominently by not working, if we're able. In that great scheme, I'm off work today and I have nothing planned. That is to say, I plan to do nothing. That is my active plan. The last of the grandkids are about to head home after a weekend of fun and frolic at PawPaw's House and the place will grow peacefully quiet, broken only by gentle snoring emanating from my recliner.
I've got some stuff in the publishing queue, but nothing that won't wait.