Although it's difficult to tell from the length of the lines at the welfare office down the street, I guess it's Labor Day weekend, which has always been very important to me. I come from a long line of labor supporters, all of whom fought and died for the rights of working people to wear white all year long.
When I was a child, it was absolutely forbidden to wear white after Labor Day, when only rich white people named Buffy and Chip could afford "winter white" tennis sweaters that weren't as bright as summer whites. The winter whites were warmer, sort of creamier than the Navajo whites you'd see on refrigerators. Back in those days, it was almost a cardinal sin to wear colors out of season, but that all changed with the Civil Rights Act. After 1964, you couldn't discriminate based on the color of someone's wardrobe.
That fight wasn't an easy win and the struggle doesn't stop now, although my cataracts have made it difficult for me to differentiate summer warms from winter cools. Without my big black-framed glasses, I can't even read a stop sign. But I was there for the marches protesting the restrictive laws at the time. I remember the weather was a bit chilly and I was wearing the cutest little white sweater. It had a little zipper on the side of the shoulder instead of in the back, which made it much harder for the non-women to try to slip their hands in there, but was just the right size for the soft, diminutive hands of Yvette, a fellow marcher with to-die-for buns.
Those marches were real slutsville, especially during late summer, just before everyone was headed back to college. There was always time for one more
Ah, good times, good times.
I hope Bessie bought hamburgers for our barbecue with Chel and the kids tomorrow. I hate hot dogs. They remind me of Bill's thingy.