Keeping a Tradition

It’s Labor Day weekend in the United States, and today I am reminded of a particular Labor Day many years ago.  Labor Day in Tulsa in my childhood years meant one thing: the Great Raft Race, a race down the Arkansas River by amateurs on homemade rafts.  We’d go down to the river in Sand Springs to the launch site, because that’s where all the action was.  In the early days, people didn’t know much about building rafts; they just threw together something that looked as if it would float, rigged up some means of propulsion, and into the water they went.  A quarter or so of the rafts never made it out of the launching area, as they either sank under the weight of crew and “beverages,” or they broke apart as soon as the current hit them.  I recall one raft in particular, made of Styrofoam and old bicycle parts.  Half the crew sat on the bicycles and peddled like mad to turn the paddlewheel while the other half waited in reserve.  They pitched the craft just fine, but the crew were disorganized and started peddling around in circles.  Within minutes, the raft broke apart, right down the middle; that is, the crew who were peddling were suddenly without their relief crew, and the rest just smiled and waved as the current took them downriver, because they were the half with all the beer. 

But it is another Labor Day I recall just now.  Of all those years KRMG radio sponsored the Great Raft Race, one truth remained: there was always a 50/50 chance of rain on Labor Day.  One first Monday of September I awoke earliest in my house and sleepily got out of bed, then was puzzled and confused when my feet touched the floor with a “splosh.”  Walking into the hallway, both feet were submerged in about an inch of water.  After I sounded the alarm, I spent the day with my parents and brothers mopping up water from our downstairs bedrooms.  When friends called and invited us to go with them to the lake, we had to decline, and avoid mentioning that we were sopping up our own lake just then.  The water, we discovered, had seeped in around the stemwall of the house during heavy showers, creating a waterfall inside one bedroom wall.  When my father figured out the problem he was able to seal around the outside leak, but we were never supposed to tell anyone about it, lest it harm the value of the house, I suppose. 

Today is Father’s Day in New Zealand, and we seem far, far away from an end-of-summer holiday, though it is becoming more spring-like here.  After sharing gifts and a nice breakfast with their dad, Katy and Beth were enjoying some computer time.  I started a bath for Katy while Glenn read one of the books he had received from the girls.  Then I started doing a bit of research for the girls about Girl Scout badges they may be on their way toward earning.  I guess I skipped the one about “Water Fun.” I had no idea that anything was wrong until Katy finished her computer time and went to her room, suddenly announcing, “Houston, we have a problem.”  Confused, I looked up from the Girl Scout book to see her sploshing in an inch of water down the hallway.  Yikes!  Confused at first, I thought the toilet was overflowing, until I heard the sound of the still-running bath water.  The girls and Glenn were quick to help grab towels and the mop; Beth pulled the plug on the tub, and Katy helped mop—until the girls discovered how fun it was to slide down their very own indoor water slide.  We built dams out of towels to minimized the water seeping into the carpeted areas (fortunately the hallway is tile), and began pushing the water toward the outside door.  As I was using my feet to scoot the towel across the floor (a technique I learned from my mom during that Labor Day of long ago), it hit me: another Labor Day, another flood. 

Most of the water is cleaned up now; the towels are in the washing machine; and the doors and windows are open to air out the house.  The only permanent damage is a library book that was on the floor, which we’ll have to replace.   I sent Glenn and the girls into town so that I could finish up alone—sometimes many hands just get in the way—and as I look at it, I realize that I have, inadvertently, kept the tradition alive, though it’s a tradition more honored in the breach than in the keeping.  Think I’d rather be watching a raft race.  Then again, maybe I'll just go and take a bath...