Working The Holiday
So it was Independence Day Eve, or, as it’s more commonly known in these parts, Tuesday night.
A head count for our guests on the Fourth had ballooned and I realized my dessert would be inadequate. I needed a second apple pie. Yes, store bought. To be carefully placed in a pie plate and served warm, masquerading as homemade.
I went to one of those little boutique groceries with an above-average bakery. As I was about to pay for the pie and a half gallon of ice cream (which would not pretend to be homemade), I noticed the cashier. She looked exhausted.
Me: “Long day?”
She: “Unbelievable.”
Me: “Do you have to work tomorrow?”
She: “Yup. And since the new owners took over, I’ve had to work Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Years. You name it.”
Me: “Y’all used to be closed on holidays.”
She: “No more.”
The Exhausted Cashier was about my age, so I risked sounding like a geezer.
Me: “I remember when everything closed on Sunday, not to mention holidays. Yet we still had food in the house.”
She: “Me too. There was nothing to do on Sundays but spend time with your family.”
Me: “Whether you liked them or not.”
She: “But families stayed together back then. Hardly anyone got divorced.”
Me: “You married?”
She: “Nope. Divorced.“
Me: “Did it have anything to do with working on Sundays?”
She: “Had everything to do with him refusing to work at all.”
Independence Day.
Meant a little something different to each of us.
