As an homage to Labor Day, I was going to write about my Gran and the part she played in 'The Great Sit-Down Strike' of 1936-37.   But, I will leave that story of the past for another day.

Instead, I wish to consider the here and now this Labor Day.  There is no need to rehash the statistics.  We know we're knee deep in deep shit.  If we haven't already lost the way we earn a living, we know someone who has.  We know it.   And if you don't, well, I reckon you've got your head stuck so far up yer own ass, it's merely hopeless.

Not having a way to earn your keep is a worrisome condition.  It causes all kinds of bad stuff...ulcers, migraines, depression, panic, destitution, exposure to the elements, starvation, death....you know, the usual stuff.

Ohhhhhhhhh, you might be thinking,  it doesn't get that bad. There are shelters all over the place and soup kitchens and all kinds of charitable institutions that provide for the jobless.   No one ever died from not having a job. Pshaw.  Get a grip.  (Head check.  Where is yours again?)

But, today, I wish to speak of some of the fallout of having no labor on Labor Day.  The incidentals, you might say.  The kids.

You see....
When Dad lost his big job, the one with the health insurance benefits, well, it was a little sad around the house.  But, Mom still had her checkout-counter job.  And, at first, I  didn't notice there wasn't hot dogs to go along with the mac and cheese anymore, well, mostly because I love mac and cheese.  I could eat it everyday.

Then the house got cold.  But, it was kinda fun anyway because then we got to sleep together in one big bed in order to keep each other warm at night.

The phone rang all the time.  Dad told me not to answer it, but sometimes I forgot and then he would yell at me a little.  But, he never hit me.  Not like Tod's dad.  Toddy gets it all the time from his dad.  His dad don't work anymore, either.

The phone stopped ringing.  I think my Mom fixed it.  She's at home all the time now, too.  Dad and Mom used to fight with each other.  Now they don't say anything.  Mom talks to me, says it will all work out, helps me get ready for school, because it's warm there, Mom says.  It's warm at school and they give me a lunch for free, too.  Sometimes, that's all I have to eat all day.  Sometimes on Saturday, I don't have anything to eat.  On Sunday, I used to get a snack at Sunday school.  We don't go to church anymore.  Mom says she doesn't want any one to know we are poor.

I don't know what poor is.

That stuck up girl Heather at school  told me I smelled bad and asked me when was the last time I had a bath and didn't my Mom ever wash my clothes.  My Mom washes my clothes!  I think.  I don't know.  Mom tries so hard, she makes a little money doing chores for old people so sometimes we have supper, too.  Dad doesn't do anything anymore.  Mom says he has give up.  Then she looks really worried.  Sometimes, she cries.  I tell her I'm trying my best to be a good kid, that I won't be a problem anymore, that I will stop falling asleep at my desk in school, that I'll try harder to learn better how to read and stuff, but then she just cries harder.  I'm not bringing anymore letters home from my teacher anymore.  It just causes trouble.

I worry about my mom.  She cries too much.  Sometimes my stomach hurts.  But, I'm not hungry or anything.  No, I'm not.  My stomach hurts even when there is food in it.

We have to move, Dad says.  We can't live in our house anymore.  We are going to go live in Uncle Ray's back yard.  In his camper!  I love camping!

Except, I will have to leave most of my toys behind.  Not enough room, Mom says.

That's okay.  

I don't need toys.

I'm a big boy now...I'm gonna be eight years old pretty soon.

Did I just make this up?  Not really.  This is, more or less, what one of my nephews told me not too long ago when he was recalling some difficult months nearly twenty years ago after both parents lost their jobs.  Had I known what was transpiring back then, I would have helped.  But, I did not know until many years after the fact.  That is the stigma of unintentional poverty, of having no labor on Labor day, of not wanting anyone to know you have become poor.

I had a nice rant all worked up about this situation going on in our country.  This cavalier treatment of the unemployed. The glib way we give short shrift to their needs because there is unemployment insurance, homeless shelters, food banks, soup kitchens.  That stuff is all in place to take care of it so all the grownups can have a clear conscience.  But, so little is said about what the kids go through.  If you think stuff like this will not affect them because of their young age, think twice. 

It is seared into my nephews memory.

I was gonna blast the lawmakers.  I was gonna blast the rich.  I was gonna blast.....everything.  I was furious, lemme tellya, just furious.  Especially after reading jollyroger's important piece Sunday morning.

But, it was an impotent rage.  A big bomb that went poof instead of kaboom.  My rage just went away because when I stare into the face of this tremendous disaster, the fight leaves me.  It's so damn big.  Way bigger than me.  Scary big.  The rage left me and all I have left is my resolve to help where I can.

When I first began posting here at TPMCafe, late last year, one of my first blogs was about what could be done for those who would need help during the predicted unemployment crisis.  I said I was going to plant extra vegetables and donate them to food banks or soup kitchens or where ever there was a need.

I have done that.

But, I thought I'd feel better about it.  Somehow, it just isn't enough.

There is a stanza from a song written by Jim Garland in the 1930's that about covers what it has come down to, this labor-less Labor Day.  It was performed at the time by Pete Seeger and The Almanac Singers.

We worked to build this country, Mister,
While you enjoyed a life of ease.
You've stolen all that we built, Mister,
Now our children starve and freeze.


This song is still sung today.  Play it, Chet.  Sing it, boys.


There's sixty years difference between the two versions of this lament.

Something is still wrong somewhere.