Labor Day Slug

Somehow it's not the same having Labor Day off when you work at a desk for a living, like I do. Labor Day was for people like my dad, who worked nights on the line at Ford Motor Co. and tried to sleep during the day, while six kids ran in and out of a shotgun shack with thin walls, oblivious to the fact that he was probably cranky for two decades running just based on sleep depravation alone. But I'm glad to be home, and have done nothing but walk the dog, eat plums and cookies and read -- Dear American Airlines, if you must know. It was worth finishing -- written by Jonathan Miles and dedicated to Larry Brown, another Southern writer I admire. Seems like some of the people I most enjoyed listening to -- my aunts, my grandparents -- or those whose work I like to read come from the South or from Michigan. The geography of voice.