Labor Day was Monday, a day, to me, that has alway seemed to be a bit of a paradox. On one hand, it’s a celebration, a three day weekend, a time to relax, enjoy and celebrate. And on the other hand it basically marks the end of the summer season. For school folk, Labor Day marks the end of their extended summer vacation. To us in the Keweenaw it means it’s just a matter of time before dig out the shovels and snow blowers. For that reason, the holiday always seemed to have a melancholy vibe to it.

For decades, I and my family of origin, experienced first hand the duality of the holiday. I’m from a tiny town in the middle of the UP … Rock, Michigan to be precise. If Rock is known for anything, it is probably its Labor Day Celebration, run by the local Lions Clubv. It certainly is, as billed, “one of the biggest small town celebrations in the UP.” There was a time it was the only Labor Day festival in the UP. These days there are other Labor Day events in the UP, and there have even been changes to the “Grand Daddy” of U.P. Labor Day festivals. The Labor Day parade is no longer on the holiday itself but been moved to the Saturday before Labor Day. So it was a week ago that this year’s parade, the 80th, was held. If you know anything of the history of my home town (and why would you?), celebrating Labor Day made perfect sense as the business climate was influence by the Finnish immigrants who brought with them a socialist business culture. Most of the businesses when I grew up, were cooperatives … the CO-OP store, garage and feedmill, the credit union, even the insurance company (Rock Mutual) was a cooperative. For Rock to celebrate Labor Day was kind of a no brainer.

But of all the Labor Days in Rock, none compared with Labor Day 1965. I was eight-years-old at the time and that Labor Day was the greatest day in the world … until it wasn’t. You see, 1965 happened to be Rock’s centennial year. The whole summer was spent preparing for the big Labor Day weekend. My sister and I traveled with my grandparents to other UP towns (Trenary, Munising, Escanaba) dressed in pioneer costumes to spread the word of Rock’s Centennial celebration.

And what a celebration it was. Rather than the typical one-day Monday event, 1965’s celebration encompassed three days with carnival games, food and music all leading up to Monday’s big day. While the Rock Labor Day parade was acknowledged as the biggest parade in the central UP at the time, nothing compared to the 1965 version. There were high school bands from Escanaba and Gladsone and the big draw was the U.P.’s renown drum and bugle corps showed up — including the most famous of them all … The Ishpeming Blue Notes. Even Governor George Romney showed up to walk in the parade (I got to shake his hand), joined by one-term congressman Ray Clevenger, and it wasn’t even an election year.

What a day it was. We were all dressed up in period clothing and there were games and contests. My father won the beard contest and my grandfather … my Papa, had a goatee. I’d never seen him with facial hair before that summer. At dusk, the fireworks were the best ever putting the perfect cap on a perfect day. Even the thought of going back to school and facing my least favorite teacher for a second straight year couldn’t dampen my joy as I went to bed that night.

And then the morning came.

I was woken by my father — unusual as he worked second shift and normally didn’t get up until we had already gone to school. There was a reason, it was dad, and not mom who woke me to the news that, during the night, my beloved Papa had died. Dad reminded me that I was the oldest grandchild and had to be strong for my six year old sister and two-year old brother. I went downstairs to see my mother, for what I think was the first time in my life, crying. My grandmother was sitting in a chair … stoic. Her face had lost the warmth that was so much a part of her. Everyone looked like the world has ended. And in a way it had.

My grandfather, Frank Salmi, was as much a part of the town as anyone. He came to the UP from Finland as a toddler and made Rock his home, marrying a local French-Canadian girl, Nellie Trombly, who’s family had been in the area long before Rock was a town and even before Michigan was a state. Papa had run a business for a while, worked in various jobs and was the long time township clerk. He worked at the road commission, along with his younger brother Waino, at the time of his death. My dad once told me that the county offices were closed so county employees could attend his funeral.

In that moment, any joyful feelings or memories I had of Labor Day, were gone. The day instantly turned into a token of sadness. I know that others who’ve lost loved ones on or near holidays understand what I mean. A time that brings joy and excitement to most people, brings heartbreak and sadness to us. For years following Papa’s death on the Sunday before Labor Day, while people in Rock were gearing up for the annual festivities, my family was in St. Joseph’s church for the anniversary mass.

Eventually, as it usually does, time healed the wound carved into my family exactly 60 years ago today, September 6, 1965. Eventually, the acute grief subsided and Labor Day became tolerable and finally fun again. I don’t go back home for Labor Day very often. But when I do, While I do enjoy myself, hidden in the joy of seeing old friends, is bit of pain remembering what I, and so many others, lost on that day in 1965.