Labor Day is supposed to be a recognition of the efforts of Samuel Gompers and those who followed in struggling for workplace reforms, but to me, it’s always been more of a last-blowout of Summer. Most years, it’s a celebration of the fruits of my own labor (of the childbearing kind) — enjoying a day off with the kids.

I’ve given some thought to the traditional meaning today, as I passed the striking workers at Boeing. For weeks, I’ve actually waved as I passed, thinking that the reason for their strike was that the company has passed along greater responsibility for rising health insurance premiums to the workers, while their salary increases failed to keep pace with insurance costs. For that, I was sympathetic.

Later, I learned that the chief sticking point was that the union wants non-union subcontractors barred from delivering materials directly to work areas: they want supplies stopped at the gate, with union workers being the only ones allowed to take materials from there to the work area. That’s where my sympathy stops: Tennessee is a right-to-work state, and I hope it stays that way.

Unions can contribute positively, but when their focus shifts from safety, fair working conditions and compensation to dictating whom can and cannot work or perform certain jobs, they’re overstepping the bounds of my support.

So, my efforts quickly returned to our own traditional celebration, which, given the weather, is going to be meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas, green beans, and apple crisp for dessert. I picked up Alpha, her boyfriend, and her roommate this afternoon to feed them well and enjoy their company for a few hours. Beta saw a movie, Gamma went to the lake with a friend, and Delta is off playing with her friend across the street. We’ll have a big family dinner, and I’ll be thankful for the fact that I have so many kids to enjoy.