Labor Day at Aunt Fern and Uncle Warren’s
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- September 3, 2023
- 2618
The sun came up slowly, sliding her rays across us as we lay inside a screened-in porch, the blankets damp with dew. Last evening’s fire curled a tiny spiral of smoke, nearly invisible to the naked eye — our late night talks imbued inside its circle.
The smell permeated our cozy blankets, part of the innate experience of the moment. Teenage kids were slumbering in their multi-roomed tent, piles of cousins sound asleep around them, their snores intermingling.
Several campers were parked near the open-air garage, attached to the porch we slept on. I could smell coffee coming from somewhere inside, strong and dark, and the thought of breakfast cooked over a fire filled me: bacon, eggs, sausage.
More than anything, I felt at peace. More than anything, I loved these people. It was Labor Day weekend at my aunt and uncle’s home in Benton.
It seems so distant now, but just like yesterday, these loud, boisterous weekends. I can’t remember when or why they started, just that we knew for a small pocket of years where we’d be come Sunday afternoon of Labor Day weekend.
Their house and property was cozy, kids always welcome, a cup of coffee or mug of soup always ready. My kids talk about these weekends as pure magic — to this day — and I’m not sure if it was the place or the people, just that the combination of the two created an atmosphere they never forgot. Me either.
It didn’t matter where anyone was or what they had to do. We made time for this weekend to sit, eat and catch up with each other. Nothing brings you to a standstill more than an inviting lawn chair plopped around an intimate fire.
Drinking glasses of delicious reds, a frosty beer, combined with melty marshmallows and chocolate into the wee hours of the night dusted off my soul more than almost anything.
Some of the convos around that fire stay with me.
I can see my mom’s face there, and my dad’s, both gone now for a number of years. My sisters and their families, my own cousins and their families. Our kids took over the small town of Benton, running around the square that the roads make and what my grandpa Stutzman called “walking around RIP.”
It was safe. Secure. I’m sure their yips late into the night drove the neighbors crazy, but it was one night, and they carry those memories with them to this day.
My aunt Fern was always flitting around, making sure everyone had what they needed. I never wanted that weekend to end.
I hope she knows what a haven her and my uncle Warren’s house became for us, our kids. I hope she knows how much we love them.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped having Labor Day. Maybe it became too much, maybe the kids were long gone. I’d like to rekindle it, those halcyon days when my kids were small and beloved faces still graced us on this earth. I want to recapture that feeling around their fire pit, the small pieces of ash that rose into the night up, up toward the moon that rose just for us, it seemed — the words we spoke into the night a balm for a weary world.
Life propels us forward, and those of us still here write down the words so we don’t forget. We capture the emotions felt so we remember. We see the faces, smiling around the glow of the flames, laughing with heads thrown back in abandon. We feel the warmth of family and remind ourselves to revel in it before it’s too late.
Melissa Herrera is a published author and opinion columnist. She is a curator of vintage mugs and all things spooky, and her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” can be found at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives. For inquiries, to purchase her book or anything else on your mind, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com or find her in the thrift aisles.