Funny how the passage of time changes the importance of certain days, and in this case weekends.
Labour Day weekend used to be a watershed for me almost every year, a time when things switched over and the change was noticeable, sometimes stark.
First it was back to school for me, elementary or secondary, then university.
The latter the larger change because it meant travelling from my little northern Ontario hometown to London, Ont., living in a new apartment or townhouse or whatever cash-strapped university students could find way back when.
After a summer of stacking cans at a now-defunct grocery store, usually as part of the night crew, I was ready for change — certainly from sleeping during the day while my mum fought a losing battle shushing my siblings and their friends, so I might nod off.
Everything always seemed fresh at what was then called the University of Western Ontario, from my classmates to my professors, each fall.
The summer heat was gone, autumn was approaching, and instead of 40-hour work weeks I had 20 hours of classes, Monday to Friday, and weekends off except for homework.
It was a nice change, save for the homework, and every once in a while I remembered that an education is worthwhile for its own sake and that the real world beckons, that this lifestyle wouldn’t last forever.
Skip ahead until when I had my own children and Labour Day was the unofficial end of summer, of finding day camps to keep my daughter and son busy, getting their aunts to take them for a day, going to my mum’s cottage on the French River, trying to take all my vacation in the summer to spend time with the kids, etc.
But when August was over, the new school clothes bought and the inevitable school supplies purchased, there was needed change.
Because, believe it or not, kids get tired of summer and of having little or no structure in their lives.
When school returns, there’s all sorts of structure — from the opening school bell to the ringings for recess, lunch and end-of-day.
And other adults, besides their parents, telling kids what to do, from reading a book to writing about reading a book, from making something for science class to running around in gym class.
That those adults are teachers and principals and vice-principals and secretaries instead of parents is important.
A different voice, as they always say in pro sports when the coach gets rinsed and replaced.
But as my kids grew into their teenage years and then their early 20s, the Labour Day weekend meant them instead of me going off to college or university.
I distinctly remember renting a truck in Barrie and taking all of my daughter’s things, and my own couch, to Ottawa so she could further her education, and on mostly my dime.
Pretty soon she didn’t need my help with any of that anymore, as is the case when most kids grow up.
So the last weekend in August isn’t the same big deal it used to be, with me anyway.
But even after all these years it still signals something, even if it’s just memories.
Leaving home for the first time, my old Ford Cortina (nicknamed the Blue Buffalo for its smooth ride) packed with my stereo, records, suitcases and a few very uncomfortable friends.
Finding daycare for my four-year-old son the day before kindergarten began (alternating days then), with a woman I’d known for years, played ball with in Barrie, who took just the best care of my boy.
Going to London after my four years at Western were done, with no job prospects and then finding one in a little town (Strathroy) I’d never heard of before, even though it wasn’t far away.
So maybe the Labour Day weekend can be a watershed again for me.
Or maybe that’s just something to remember, not do, anymore.
Bob Bruton covers city council for BarrieToday.
