Sitting finally on the summit with most of western Vermont spread out before us, I silently thanked the many generations of laborers, factory hands, and artisans who gave us this lovely holiday right at the end of the summer.

I can never help but wonder: If nineteenth-century bosses and corporations had been benevolent, would there even be a Labor Day? It’s impossible to tell; for nineteenth-century bosses would have been unwilling to submit to any such experiments. Rough labor and skilled artisans were treated in those days much as the horses that pulled trolley carts, mine trams, and logging sleds. Good ones were cherished, but they were still treated pretty much as the horses were.

The first stirrings of the modern labor movement occurred in our immediate neighbor to the north, where in response to worker unrest Parliament passed the Trade Union Act of 1872, which provided some protections to employees in certain trades and industries. Immediately afterward, Peter McGuire, the General Secretary of the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners in the United States, suggested a similar celebration here on the south side of the border (something we’ve been unable to do, lamentably, with health insurance) to honor those “who from rude nature have delved and carved the grandeur we behold.” There’s disagreement whether it was a carpenter or a machinist who first proposed it, but I’m biased; I’m going with the carpenter. We celebrate it here the same day as do the Canadians, but we spell it differently.

It wasn’t until 1894, after the bitter, paralyzing, nationwide Pullman Strike, that Labor Day was officially recognized in the United States. It was celebrated by annual parades of marching tradesmen (I saw one of the last in the late 1930s, and will never forget it) expressing their brotherhood and solidarity. The entire, uneasy history of the movement, however, often has been marred by recrimination and sometimes violent and lethal disagreements that have led to new words in our language – goons, Pinkertons, scabs, and stools. But recognition that each side is dead without the other has led to the contracts that united workers enjoy today.

Some of us freelance tradesmen have felt occasionally that the contracts are a little too enjoyable. Check out, for example, a recent New Yorker article describing the “rubber rooms” in which New York City teachers (who earn about $100,000 a year) go to do nothing, sometimes for months, while allegations of incompetence or impropriety against them are judged. But never mind; the days when schoolmarms could be fired for getting married are long gone. I’ve always celebrated Labor Day with a sense of gratitude for plenty to do, and raised a toast, while I was still in the business, to my unseen fellows everywhere.

Our little random scoot up Hunger Mountain contained within it the seeds of disharmony. Mother had wanted to go kayaking with me that morning, but had gotten beaten to the punch by my date with Tom. “Never mind,” I assured her. “Tom and I’ll be down by noon, and you and I can take off for a nice long voyage.” As I sat on the summit, however, a bit past noon, and contemplated the steep, threatening ledges between me and the truck 2.7 miles away, I sensed the possibility of a problem. I got back to the house at three and found a note in the front hall containing a mixture of keen disappointment and what nautical types call storm warnings.

Once you’ve blown it, it’s very hard to make it up. But I tried. After church on Sunday we loaded the kayaks and paddled awhile in bright sunshine and calm breezes on Wrightsville Reservoir. Someone we met at the boat launch site mentioned that there was a lobster sale at a local supermarket, so Mother had her favorite supper and I mine: the tradesman’s lobster – hotdogs, baked beans, potato salad, slaw, beer, and a Klondike bar. Yessir, I thought, all those years up on ladders and down under buildings, all those hot afternoons up on rooftops and freezing January mornings waiting for the sun were worth it, if this is the payoff.

Today was the day, the last of summer. I burned brush in the morning and did a little painting, and after lunch we loaded the truck again – a canoe this time – and took off up the Kingsbury Branch of the Winooski River.

Too many cars at North Montpelier Pond. People who paddle there love to explore up the winding, narrow inlet, and there’d be a traffic jam up there. Woodbury Pond had a little more room, but everybody there was out on the water – party barges, water skiers, tubers behind fast boats, and kayaks everywhere. Looking across the pond, we could see lots of signs of activity at our daughter’s camp on the other side. We crossed very carefully – ski boat waves are a bit exciting to two old people in a light canoe with no duffel for ballast – and paddled right into the middle of a multifamily potluck summer swan song. Kids swinging out over the water or looping around the pond on giant tubes, guys up on the deck barbecuing chicken or baking macaroni-and-cheese casseroles. Lovely! And what do you suppose the guys were talking about on this sacred day off from work? Yep! Work. It’s a wonderful thing to have when you need it.