The first Monday in September was never just a square on the calendar for us. It was celebrated, usually at Papaw’s house, with a cookout and watermelon. But no matter how many Septembers come and go there is one Labor Day that clings to me like the scent of magnolia on a warm night. Long before anyone quoted national tributes or Wikipedia sentences, it was a day that felt stitched together with music, food, family, and the kind of fellowship only the South can pull off. I’ve searched high and low for someone else who remembers it the way I do, but it seems this particular celebration has slipped quietly into the shadows of time. So, I’ll tell you what I remember—because even if the details are fuzzy, the feeling is unforgettable.
My people were musical by nature. Somewhere along the way I missed that train, but I sure loved listening to the ones who didn’t. Maybe that’s why this memory clings to me the way it does. It’s not a grand tale, but it’s mine, and it still hums in my heart.
The day unfolded on the grounds of one of Louisiana’s proudest treasures—a stately mansion perched above a small lake, framed by live oaks that looked old enough to have whispered secrets to Andrew Jackson himself. She stood there in all her Southern splendor, white Doric columns gleaming like polished bone, wearing her history with the kind of confidence only Louisiana can muster. It was there, under her watchful gaze, that this memory comes alive.
Down here, folks like to joke that we know how to do two things: worship and eat. Put those together and you’ve got yourself an all‑day singing and dinner on the grounds. Normally it happened after church on Sundays, but this—this was special. A holiday worth dressing up for.
We arrived early, knowing the heat would be merciless and the day long. But sweat, bees, and flies didn’t stand a chance against the promise of Southern cooking. People came from every corner of the state, and I’m pretty sure a few curious Yankees wandered in too. Bless their hearts—they were about to learn what real food tasted like.
Tables stretched out like patchwork quilts—wild game, fried chicken crisped to perfection, vegetables pulled from gardens that had fed families for generations. Cornbread glistened with butter so bright you could practically see your reflection in it. And then there was the dessert table. Cakes were fine, but pies… oh my, the pies that day… pies that made a boy’s dream come true. Especially those chocolate ones. And there was always more than one. Yes indeedy.
But food was only half the magic.
Children ran across the mansion’s six acres, chasing each other through the shade of the oaks. Some wandered down to the lake with fishing poles. Grown folks swapped stories, recipes, and laughter. It was fellowship in its purest form—simple, honest, and good for the soul.
Then came the music.
Groups from all over Louisiana—and even a few from beyond—gathered to sing. My family was among them, and though as a child, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, I loved watching them. Uncle Edgar was the star of the show. Bald-headed, grinning, and full of mischief, he played his box guitar like it was part of him. Sometimes he’d lean into that harmonica hanging around his neck and let loose a whiny little melody that made folks smile without even meaning to.
Other groups brought fiddles, mandolins, banjos, accordions, and even a diddly-bow. As a child, I was mesmerized. I swore I’d learn the banjo someday. Well… someday still hasn’t shown up. But the music—mercy—it was heavenly. I like to think Gabriel himself paused long enough to listen and tap his foot a few times along with us.
By late afternoon, the sun began to sink, and the day slowly folded itself up. I stretched out in the back window of our old Chevy, hot wind blowing through the open windows, watching the governor’s mansion grow smaller as we drove away. When I loved something, I watched it until it disappeared. That day was no different.
I wish I remembered more. But what I do recall is enough. Singing back then wasn’t about perfection—it was about joy. Just like Scripture says: Make a joyful noise unto the Lord. And that’s exactly what we did.
I’m grateful for this memory. And here is where I’ll pass it on to those generations who follow—because some days deserve to be remembered, even if only by one heart.
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