Labor Day: Dad's Day

Fathers Day? Yes. His Birthday? Of course. But Labor Day? Ah, Labor Day will always be Dad's day. It is the day I most deeply connect with my father. Not just because of his nearly religious devotion to his Union -- International Typographical Workers Union #7 -- and the labor movement, but because, as mourners told me over and over at his funeral, "Your dad was the hardest working man I ever knew." Printer. School bus driver. Scoutmaster. Presbyterian Elder. The neighbor who shovels your sidewalk. The church janitor who never settles for "clean enough." 

Dad was proud to work, and he was proud of the work that he did. People respected him for that, but they loved him for who he was. Beneath the serious, bear of a man that the guys at the paper called "Hoss" was as generous a heart as a body could hold. He gave that heart away, not because it was something he owed you, but because it was the right thing to do. And unlike his son, he kept his own counsel. I don't remember ever hearing Dad brag. I never heard some of the best stories about him until after he died.

I'm 63, now. I've lived 4 years longer than he did, and I'm finally getting the hang of it, I think. Dad followed his father and big brother to the newspaper business and the composing room, becoming a master of technologies that no longer exist. I traveled a more roundabout road than he did. It would take more words than I have the gumption to type to tell the story of how the printer's son became Bob from the Y, but I have one thing in common with the big bald Eagle Scout: I am damned proud of my work and the tradition of which I am a part. 

Dad knew why a printer's work was important: because books and newspapers gave people knowledge and knowledge made them better citizens, better neighbors, better leaders. That's why it mattered to him when there were typos in the church bulletin or somebody used the wrong typeface on a concert poster: because these details diminished something that was so very important to him. He believed that important things deserved to be done well.

Like my dad, I know why my work is important. I see young athletes sweating and grunting through workouts that will lead to scholarships and maybe even careers in pro sports. I see parents grinding out hours on the elliptical trainer so they can stay strong and fit enough to keep up with their growing children. I watch grandparents splashing in the pool or puffing in the exercise studio so their bodies will keep helping them to do the things they love to do. And yes, I see my beloved cancer survivors discovering powers that they thought they had lost, or never knew they had.

That's why it matters that the paper towel dispensers are filled and the litter on the front lawn is picked up. Important things deserve to be done well. 

You see a lot of things about Labor Day. About all the things that we enjoy like weekends and overtime pay and medical benefits that union members fought and sacrificed and sometimes died to get for us. All that is true. But it's also true that union members like my dad, and the movement that made him so proud, were created to give a voice to people who did little things extremely well. They are still doing them. They are getting your kids to school. They are running the edge trimmer around your lawn. They are checking you out at the grocery store. And yes, some of us are making sure you have a safe, clean place to exercise and meet people, and help your neighbors to lift one another up every day. 

These aren't earth-shattering jobs. They aren't newsworthy. Most of the year, we hardly notice them happening around us. 

Except for Labor Day.

This is the day we celebrate unimportant people who do amazingly important things, and do them well. 

Dad understood that. It took me a while, but I'm catching on.

Happy Labor Day, Pop. And thanks for teaching me how to unblock a toilet. It comes in handy more that I expected it to.