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Working The Holiday

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.

Wearing The Uniform

Wearing The Uniform

Don’t Let Spoilsports Rain On Your 4th Of July Parade

Don’t Let Spoilsports Rain On Your 4th Of July Parade