Labor Day

                There is a tradition in my family, and that is Labor Day. Every year, we gather some of the people on my dad’s side of the family and eat breakfast at the same park in the same pavilion. Everyone brings food… everyone brings the same food. There is always chocolate milk, orange juice, eggs, little smokeys, my aunt’s egg and cheese and bread creation, and whatever my mom decides to make last minute that morning as she says, “I swear I woke up early enough to get this done before breakfast this year!” Of course, every year we get there just in time and her dish is always a hit.

Everyone begins by sitting in their own immediate family circle at different picnic tables, but then we all end up getting up and moving around until everything is mixed and everyone is in conversation. I can always count on my great aunt Kay to say something sarcastic and laugh at her own joke as I walk up to them with my hands full of food. I always know that sometime during the picnic, my grandma will give one of the family members a newspaper clipping about something that she deems completely interesting and relevant to the person she gives it to. I am always ready to be excited about what new family drama is going on (my family is huge) and to hear about stories of my little cousins that I don’t see very often. I even know exactly where to look in the pond to find a branch sticking out, a branch I once convinced my brother to be an alligator.

Although I always know exactly who will be there, what we will eat, and that following breakfast we are all expected to go down and feed the ducks no matter how old, I always look forward to it. We all may complain that it is too early in the morning for this, or that there are too many mosquitoes or that the park may be boring for the younger kids, but we are all always happy to be there. (351)