From Stockroom to Schoolroom: Why Labor Day Was My Favorite Holiday

Ratajack’s in North Chicago

While most kids were squeezing in one last pool day or perfecting their end-of-summer tan, I was clocking out of my shift at the family store. That’s right — while my friends spent their summer breaks lifeguarding or flipping burgers, I was mastering the art of organizing shelves and unpacking endless deliveries. Forget campfires and s’mores; I had the distinct aroma of cardboard boxes and dust to keep me company.

And let’s not forget the radio. The store radio had exactly five songs in rotation — all conveniently stuck in my head well into October. While my friends hummed the latest pop hits, I was mentally conducting an imaginary orchestra to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama" for the 40th time that day.

By the time Labor Day rolled around, my friends were mourning the end of summer. But not me. I was practically throwing confetti. School was my vacation. Chemistry? A breeze compared to carrying cases of beer up from the stockroom. And let’s not forget the endless customer questions that made me feel like I was on an impromptu trivia show.

Customer: "Which chips are best for a BBQ?"

Me: "Umm...the crunchy ones?"

Labor Day wasn’t just a day off — it was the grand finale. One last hurrah for the grill masters, the backyard game champions, and the enthusiastic uncles who somehow managed to set something on fire every year. For us store kids, it meant the rush was finally over. No more sweaty afternoons spent restocking displays or explaining why the snack aisle was wiped out by 2 p.m.

And let me tell you, the Labor Day rush was like the Olympics of poor planning. Everyone who had all summer to grab their essentials suddenly remembered they had a BBQ to host. I’d watch in awe as people panic-bought the most random assortment of supplies: a pack of paper plates, some questionable potato salad, and the last lonely bag of pretzels. Nothing says "party" like the leftover snacks no one wanted.

Aunt Kathryn

Then there were the regulars. Oh, the regulars. You know the ones — they treated the store like their personal clubhouse. Labor Day was their Super Bowl, and they came prepared. Some even had strategic snack-buying plans, like snack-time generals leading their troops to victory.

And don’t even get me started on the ice situation. It’s as if everyone collectively forgot that their freezer existed. The bags of ice would disappear faster than you could say, "picnic cooler." I’d watch brave souls wrestle each other for the last bag like it was the golden ticket to a backyard BBQ paradise.

But once the final bag of ice was sold and the last hot dog bun scanned, I knew my moment of freedom had arrived. While my friends were savoring their last moments of summer, I was gleefully sharpening my pencils and color-coding my binders. No more hauling cases of water or explaining that no, we did not have a secret stash of hamburger buns in the back. I was free to embrace the sweet, air-conditioned glory of the classroom.

Of course, my friends didn’t quite understand my excitement.

"You’re happy to go back to school?" they'd ask, horrified.

"Absolutely," I’d reply. "No one asks me to carry a 24-pack of soda to second period."

And the best part? No price checks. No suspiciously sticky floors. No customer shouting, "But the sign said it was on sale!" Just the blissful hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of sneakers on the polished school floor.

So here’s to Labor Day: the one holiday where I celebrated not with a burger in one hand and a cold drink in the other, but with a backpack and a fresh planner. Because for this store kid, back to school meant back to bliss.

Cheers to that!