The sun woke me up this morning, but it took a while: today is Saturday, the first day of that wonderful institution, the weekend (or, as my friends in France refer to it, Le Weekend, with the emphasis on the final syllable), and I don't arise at my weekday hour, which is 7-ish. But because discretionary time is especially precious to someone with a full-time day-job, I choose not to sleep in as I used to, years ago, when the entire morning would slide past before I surfaced from my bed. Normally I set the alarm on weekends for 8, to make sure I get good value from my day, but this morning I wasn't impressed by the alarm, so it was the warm, bright sun flooding through the southeast-facing window that woke me up a while later.
The moment I recognized it was Saturday, I was grateful. Before I had finished my first cup of tea I had already received a couple of phone calls, done a few dishes from last night, started a load of laundry, and re-filled the bird feeder, which for the past few weeks has been doing a booming business with the backyard birds (mostly finches, juncos, and sparrows) who either duke it out for their turn on the feeder, or hop about underneath where the spillage lands from the energetic birds overhead. There is a neighborhood cat that treats my backyard as its turf; I shoo him/her away when I notice it, but I also recognize that it is in the nature of a cat to stalk a bird, just as it is in a wise bird's nature to be wary. The bird-feeder hangs from a hook on one corner of the small structure I call "the atelier," which is about 30 feet from the back porch. The atelier was a prime attraction of this rental when I was looking for a place to live: about 10-feet square, it has a sleeping loft, windows on all four sides, lots of bookshelves, too many boxes that I am going to look through one fine day, and a desk supporting my computer. It smells of cedar. I spend a lot of time out here.
But about the weekend: during this morning's puttering around, I found myself wondering about the history of this blessed benefit, the two days of liberty that bracket the five days of labor many workers put in. Of course I see those bumper-stickers that say, "Unions -- the people who gave you the weekend," but I recognize that not every bumper-sticker tells the whole story. So I looked the weekend up on the aforementioned computer, and was a little surprised to see that in the U.S., it was Henry Ford, in 1926, who had the bright idea to give workers in his automobile plant Saturdays off. It would be the 1940s before unions succeeded in integrating the concept into our larger society, and, naturally, weekends don't work the same way all over the world. And they have evolved regionally at different speeds: when I was living in Berlin as a teenager, we went to school half a day on Saturday, though I suspect that is no longer the case at the Malwida von Meysenbug Schule, assuming that venerable institution still exists. (Note to self: Google probably knows.)
So I plan to find out when Henry Ford's birthday was, and raise a glass of orange-juice (or cup of tea) to him in thanks for Saturday joys. (Next up: a little house-tidying, a little grocery-shopping, maybe some baking later on ....)
The moment I recognized it was Saturday, I was grateful. Before I had finished my first cup of tea I had already received a couple of phone calls, done a few dishes from last night, started a load of laundry, and re-filled the bird feeder, which for the past few weeks has been doing a booming business with the backyard birds (mostly finches, juncos, and sparrows) who either duke it out for their turn on the feeder, or hop about underneath where the spillage lands from the energetic birds overhead. There is a neighborhood cat that treats my backyard as its turf; I shoo him/her away when I notice it, but I also recognize that it is in the nature of a cat to stalk a bird, just as it is in a wise bird's nature to be wary. The bird-feeder hangs from a hook on one corner of the small structure I call "the atelier," which is about 30 feet from the back porch. The atelier was a prime attraction of this rental when I was looking for a place to live: about 10-feet square, it has a sleeping loft, windows on all four sides, lots of bookshelves, too many boxes that I am going to look through one fine day, and a desk supporting my computer. It smells of cedar. I spend a lot of time out here.
But about the weekend: during this morning's puttering around, I found myself wondering about the history of this blessed benefit, the two days of liberty that bracket the five days of labor many workers put in. Of course I see those bumper-stickers that say, "Unions -- the people who gave you the weekend," but I recognize that not every bumper-sticker tells the whole story. So I looked the weekend up on the aforementioned computer, and was a little surprised to see that in the U.S., it was Henry Ford, in 1926, who had the bright idea to give workers in his automobile plant Saturdays off. It would be the 1940s before unions succeeded in integrating the concept into our larger society, and, naturally, weekends don't work the same way all over the world. And they have evolved regionally at different speeds: when I was living in Berlin as a teenager, we went to school half a day on Saturday, though I suspect that is no longer the case at the Malwida von Meysenbug Schule, assuming that venerable institution still exists. (Note to self: Google probably knows.)
So I plan to find out when Henry Ford's birthday was, and raise a glass of orange-juice (or cup of tea) to him in thanks for Saturday joys. (Next up: a little house-tidying, a little grocery-shopping, maybe some baking later on ....)
I tried to look up the Malwida school, but the website was written in German. Imagine!
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