Like most good Americans, I went to the beach yesterday, and then a barbecue with friends.  It was no more, nor less, in honor of organized labor in America than what most people do.  My thoughts on the state of unionization were spelled out in my labor day post last year, and they haven’t changed any.  There’s no point in repeating them here.

But the beach serves as a pretty good metaphor for where we are this labor day, as does Dan Hull’s discussion of why he prefers to eat at Gray’s Inn rather than Lincoln Inn, much to Geeklawyer’s consternation.  Since before my time, Mrs. Simple Justice has preferred to sun at the beach at Robert Moses on Fire Island, field 5 to be specific.  I would enjoy the beach far more if it wasn’t for all that sand they have there.  It gets into everything.

Years ago, the beach was a broad expanse, sporadically broken up by a pair of bathers or a family building a sand castle.  We would go early, when it was still cool, with bagels, coffee and the Sunday New York Times.  It seemed as if we had the whole world to ourselves, viewing the earth’s curvature over the water.

The beach is largely gone now, missing the last 150 feet and dropping off precipitously toward the water.  The water looked clean, far cleaner than it used to, but it was impossible to tell from where we found a small patch of sand to place our antique chairs.  We still use the same beach chairs we bought when we were courting, and even beach chair technology has changed since then.

But there were people everywhere.  Thousands of them.  It was like Jones Beach, where the rabble from the City went to bathe.  People were arguing over who saw the small bare area first, or over whose umbrella was encroaching on whose turf.  It was angry, loud and coarse.  And there were sand flies everywhere, no doubt drawn by the litter that our predecessors left behind.

Labor day marks the official end of summer.  People yield to the obligation to spend one last day at the beach, even though it was miserable.  This was why we went, but had I known that it was going to be so unpleasant, I would have stayed home.

Labor day is a dead holiday.  It serves no other purpose than to mark the return to school.  While a few union officials and an occasional politician make remarks intended to endear themselves to the few remaining labor unionists, no one else notices. 

But the beach at Robert Moses reflects the true state of things.  People still want to enjoy what little is left of the beach, but there isn’t enough to go around.  They have grown nasty and possessive about it, willing to fight over each grain of sand.  At the same time, they have no regard for anyone else, between the racket they make without the slightest thought that it might disturb their surrounding loungers, and the garbage they toss aside to foul what little beach remains.

I was surprised to learn that one fixture from the old days remained, the “fudgy-wudgy” man.  This was an enterprising fellow who walked up and down the beach with a cooler filled with dry ice and ice cream.  Back when, he would yell out “fudgy-wudgy bars” to let everyone know he was near.  This time, it was “ice-cream” spoken in a stage whisper.  But he still carried a heavy cooler filled with various delights, up and down the beach, in the hot sun.

As he closed in, he suddenly dove toward two older women with an umbrella between them, and threw a towel over his cooler.  He stuck his head between the two women and appeared to engage in animated conversation with them.  Two Park Police officers passed by on quads. 

Once they were past, the fudgy-wudgy man apologized to all around, explaining that they were scouring the beach in search of him in order to seize his fudgy-wudgy bars.  He sold them for a dollar less than the outrageous $4 charged by the state run concession, plus he delivered, and they were not pleased with him. 

So my thoughts of labor today are of the fudgy-wudgy man, still trying to make a buck by selling his bars for a dollar less than our government.  And having to dodge the government’s armed wing to do so. 

Here’s to the fudgy-wudgy man.