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  • They Did the Work That Built America

    They Did the Work That Built America

    Photo by M Mahbub A Alahi on Pexels.com

    Labor Day was never supposed to be about items on sale, weekend trips, or the last cookout of summer.  (Or when to stop wearing white.) 

    It was – and remains – about people: the people whose hands, backs, minds, and hearts keep this country moving. 

    It honors generations of workers who laid the roads beneath our feet, harvested the food on our tables, kept the factory lines moving, taught our children, cared for our sick, delivered what we needed, prepared and served our meals, cleaned the places where we lived and worked, and performed the thousands of essential jobs that were rarely noticed – until no one was there to do them.

    And many of those workers were children.

    Many children worked instead of going to school.  By 1900, more than one in five American children was part of the workforce – approximately 1.75 million children between the ages of 10 and 15.  Some were even younger.  Alongside adults, they spent long days in the textile mills, coal mines, factories, fields, and city streets, often doing dangerous work for very little pay. 

    Their small hands and bodies were not protected, they were simply considered useful – and cheap. 

    Children and adults alike worked from before sunrise until long after dark.  They worked in mines that collapsed, factories that burned, fields that broke their bodies, and workplaces where an injury could cost them both their livelihood and their future. 

    They did the work that built America – but they did not always share in its prosperity.

    Workers organized, marched, and risked their jobs – and sometimes their lives – to demand something better. Not just for themselves but for everyone. Their efforts helped bring about safer workplaces, limits on child labor, the eight-hour workday, weekends, overtime pay, and the belief that honest work deserved honest pay. 

    These protections were not acts of generosity from employers. Workers fought for them.  Change took decades of organizing, investigation, public outrage, and determined reformers refusing to accept that this was simply the way things had to be. 

    And while much has improved, many workers are still struggling for safe conditions, fair wages, affordable healthcare, and enough time away from work to actually live the lives they are working so hard to support. 

    That is the real meaning of Labor Day: honoring the people who do the work, remembering those who fought to make work more humane, and recognizing that the struggle for dignity in the workplace is not over. 

    So enjoy the cookout.  Sit by the lake.  Wear your white shoes.  Take the day off if you are lucky enough to have it. 

    But take a moment to remember: that day off was not simply given to us. 

    Generations of workers fought for it – and generations will continue the fight.

    -Pattie

  • Happy Birthday Mama!

    Today would have been my mama’s 91st birthday.

    I’m sure she would have appreciated the birthday wishes – but probably not my announcing her age to the entire internet.

    Happy Birthday in Heaven, Mama. I hope the cake is good, the coffee is hot, and everyone up there understands that you still get the last word.

    I miss you voice, your strength, your laughter, your opinions – and especially your advice and your uncanny knack for knowing what I was doing wrong.

    I can’t believe it’s only been eight years. Some days, it feels like yesterday. Other days, it feels like I’ve been missing you forever.

    I still have the last note your wrote me. I’ve read it so many times that it’s mostly tears, with only a little paper left.

    I may be almost 70 years old, but that doesn’t make me miss my Mama any less.

    Keep sending the red birds and the butterflies. I’ll keep watching for them.

    Love you always, Mama. ❤️

  • Humans Are Weird About Poop

    I do not understand humans.

    Specifically, I do not understand their obsession with poop.

    I poop.

    This is not news.

    I have been doing it my entire life.


    I find a suitable location.

    I sniff.

    I circle.

    Sometimes I reconsider.

    I sniff somewhere else.

    I circle again.

    Eventually, I poop.


    Then, to properly memorialize the occasion,

    I kick a little grass and dirt in its general direction with my hind legs.

    A marker, if you will.

    My work here is done.

    As far as I am concerned, my responsibilities have now been fulfilled.


    But apparently, this is when Management’s responsibilities begin.

    She follows behind me carrying a roll of little pink bags

    specifically designed for poop.

    Think about that.

    Humans manufacture special bags.

    For poop.

    Then they BUY the special bags.

    For poop.

    Then they carry the special bags around waiting for someone to poop.

    And when I finally do,

    Management puts her HAND inside one of those bags,

    PICKS UP THE POOP,

    turns the bag inside out,

    ties it in a little knot –

    and carries it around with her.

    Humans are disgusting.


    Now, Management and I –

    try to walk about two miles out on the big road in the mornings.

    She calls it exercise.

    I call it a S’Walk.

    Short for Sassy Walk –

    because I think most words short start that way.

    I have four legs and am an athlete.

    Management… does her best.


    The problem is that sometimes I poop early in the walk.

    Management apparently does not enjoy carrying a warm, fragrant

    little bag for the rest of the S’Walk.

    Frankly, this is the first sensible thing she has ever said

    about the entire process.


    So she has developed a “system”.

    She bags my contribution,

    leaves the little pink bag somewhere she will see it,

    and picks it up on our way back home.


    I don’t understand why we picked it up in the first place

    if we’re just going to put it back down.

    But nobody asks me.


    This morning, we followed the usual procedure.

    I pooped.

    Management bagged.

    Management deposited.

    We continued our S’WALK.

    Short for Sassy Walk –

    I think most words should start that way.


    And when we came back…

    MY POOP WAS GONE.

    Someone had taken it.


    A neighbor had apparently seen my little pink bag

    and disposed of it.

    Wait.

    Are there POOP POLICE?

    Is this a thing?


    Because now I have even more questions.

    Why did another human want my poop?

    Was it bothering them?

    Did they think Management had abandoned it?

    Was it interfering with the natural beauty of our little gravel road?


    Or…

    and I don’t want to alarm anyone –

    is there a black market

    for high-quality Wonderdog poop

    that I have not been told about?

    Because if somebody is making money from this,

    I want treats.


    Management, meanwhile, was horrified.

    She immediately began explaining to absolutely no one

    that she had been coming back for it.

    She would NEVER leave a poop bag on the side of the road.

    She is a RESPONSIBLE DOG OWNER.

    She has a SYSTEM.


    I let her continue.

    Because I would like the record to reflect

    that I personally fulfilled every single one of my responsibilities

    in this matter.

    I found an appropriate location.

    I pooped.

    I even marked the occasion.

    Everything that happened after that was a Management decision.


    So, to whichever neighbor “policed” the little pink bag this morning:

    Thank you.

    Management really was coming back for it.

    And if you happen to see another one alongside our road someday,

    please don’t be alarmed.

    It isn’t litter.

    It isn’t abandoned.

    It is apparently part of a highly sophisticated

    waste-management system.

    I don’t understand it either.


    I am a very good girl. 🐾

    — Sassy

  • Downsizing: A Generous Interpretation

    I haven’t written anything in a few weeks.

    We moved.

    I’ve been busy.


    Technically, we moved a month ago.

    But apparently there is a significant difference between moving your stuff and finding somewhere to PUT your stuff.

    We moved from a big house
    with a bigger shop
    to a smaller house
    with a smaller shop.

    We brought everything.


    Okay.

    Not everything.

    We downsized.

    We were actually quite proud of ourselves.

    If we found something and neither of us knew what it was, what it did, or what it might conceivably be used for sometime in the future, we threw it away.

    Ruthless.

    And if we discovered we owned five of the exact same very useful thing?

    We sold two.

    Sometimes.

    So really, I don’t know what more could reasonably have been expected of us.


    It turns out moving to a smaller house is considerably easier if you own less stuff.

    We discovered this approximately three weeks too late.

    George Carlin once pointed out that everybody else’s stuff is sh*t, while your sh*t is stuff.

    I understand this now on a spiritual level.


    Because for the past month, Hubby and I have been opening boxes and having conversations like:

    “Why do we have this?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Do we need it?”

    “Probably not.”

    “Can we throw it away?”

    Absolutely not.

    It’s our stuff.


    And apparently our stuff is very important.

    Even the stuff we haven’t seen since 1999.

    Even the stuff we forgot we owned.

    Even the stuff whose original purpose can no longer be determined by modern science.


    So we shuffled stuff.

    Stacked stuff.

    Reorganized stuff.

    Bought things to hold stuff.

    And, in a particularly impressive display of human stupidity, moved stuff out of the way so we could make room for other stuff.


    But today, I am pleased to announce:

    THE BOXES HAVE BEEN SORTED.

    Every single box in the house has been opened, examined, judged, and dealt with.

    Mostly.


    There are, of course, a few boxes clearly marked:

    MY STUFF

    HIS STUFF

    IMPORTANT STUFF

    and the always useful:

    STUFF WE ARE NOT CURRENTLY PREPARED TO MAKE A DECISION ABOUT.


    But those boxes are now semi-neatly organized in a large storage closet.

    Behind a closed door.

    Which, in my opinion, means they no longer exist.

    So I am officially declaring the move OVER.

    I am celebrating.


    Hubby, apparently, is not.

    He still has “boxes to go through” in the shop.

    But those are his boxes.

    In his shop.

    A separate building.

    Behind another closed door.

    I have decided they don’t exist either.

    Downsizing complete.


    Welcome to the lake house.

    Pull up a chair…

    I’ll make the margaritas!

    -Pattie

  • Then They Schedule The Next Scan

    Then They Schedule The Next Scan

    The doctor smiled.

    “Everything looks good.  No evidence of disease.”

    Hubby smiled.

    I smiled.

    But inside…

    someone screamed,

    I can’t keep doing this.

    It’s just too much.


    The celebration lasts about five minutes.

    Then they schedule the next scan.


    Somewhere around the three-month mark…

    the music starts.

    And I know it’s time to dance.

    I stop trusting my body.

    That backache?

    Probably from lifting boxes.

    Or maybe not.

    That pain in my side?

    Probably getting older.

    Or maybe not.


    The dance begins.

    First the blood work.

    Then the scan.

    Then the appointment.

    Same building.
    Same smells.
    Same chairs.


    Same people smiling kindly

    while my body remembers

    the fight of my life.  

    This isn’t my first time.

    I know the steps by heart.

    Smile.

    Joke with the receptionist.

    Tell Hubby I’m sure everything will be fine.

    Tell my family not to worry.

    Tell myself not to worry.

    And hope…

    If I say it enough times…

    I can believe it.


    They warned me the chemotherapy would take my hair.

    They warned me it would make me sick.

    They warned me I’d be tired.

    Nobody warned me that remission would have side effects too.


    Logically, I think it through.  

    The cancer I had was not caught by the blood work.

    So I don’t have to worry about that.

    Logically, I do the comparisons.

    Six months ago a PET scan showed nothing.

    A PET scan is more complete than a CT scan.

    Therefore, there will be  nothing on the CT scan.


    I argued my case like a lawyer.

    The evidence was solid.

    My body objected anyway.


    Because the body doesn’t work on logic.

    My body remembers what it felt like to hear, “It’s back.”

    My heart remembers the panic.

    My mind remembers my fear.

    And even my tears

    can only be held back for so long.


    Every clear scan…

    costs me

    a little piece of myself.


    Cancer may be in remission.

    Fear remembers every detail.

    So for the next two years…

    every three months…

    I’ll do the dance.

    And every three months…

    I’ll have to teach my heart

    what my CT scan already knows. 


    I got the news on Wednesday.

    “No evidence of disease.”

    Today is Thursday.

    I’ve cried most of the day.

    Not because the news was bad.

    Because my heart is finally letting go of everything it carried getting here.


    The celebration lasted about five minutes.

    In about ten weeks…

    the music will start again.


    If you know someone living scan to scan…

    remember…

    they aren’t just waiting for results.

    they’re reliving the day their life changed.

    Every.

    Single.

    Time.

    -Pattie