The warm red of tomatoes and the sharp green of zucchini are coloring our kitchen table these days as the yield of the garden makes its way to the blue dinner plates we've used for over 30 years. The toil of the gardener who started laboring back in early spring is once again bursting forth as a bountiful harvest and also announcing the conclusion of summer.

The zucchini bread and stuffed green peppers on August's menus not only delight, they also politely remind me of the arrival of Labor Day.

I think I always identified Labor Day with the end of summer, the beginning of school and the shortening of days. I do not recall ever drawing a smiley face on the square of the calendar that read "Labor Day."

As I have shared before in this column, my attitude towards this unique September holiday mellowed thanks to an observation made by my neighbor Ruth Crawn. One Sunday morning, around this time of year, Ruth stood up at Hickory Grove Church and noted that those who can work should be grateful of that fact. A simple observation, it was, a huge truth it is.

In the real estate office where I work there is a division of folks inside the company with an undue amount of angst, pressure and blaming. Perhaps it is management, maybe it's the job, some of it might be due to personality quirks, but there is visible pain in the daily crises, yelling and finger pointing. Gratitude seems far off of the day planner agenda. And yet, gratitude for the ability to work seems like a tremendous starting point for any workday, for any toil-related endeavor.

So I welcome the bounty of the harvest as it begins to make its way to farmer's markets, grocery shelves, grain bins and kitchen counters. And with that bounty I welcome the reminder to be grateful for the opportunity to do an honest day's labor.

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Last Sunday my wife and I headed for Lake Michigan and a nice walk along the water's edge. The waves were high and mighty and the sun was warm overhead. But the water lapping at our toes seemed mighty cold.

To complete the picture, the gulls overhead squawked and complained, as if to protest our intrusion on their right-ofway.

Finally, we both made our way past the waves breaking on the shore and into the cold waters - which turned out to be delightfully warm.

Oh, were we pounded by those waves! Like little kids with more energy than sense, we bounced and bobbed and fought the current in order to keep in sight of our towels propped together on the sand. Over our heads and into our ears the waves rolled and crashed and tossed. If time could ever go backwards, it did this particular Sunday afternoon. The idea that this activity could be the province of generations younger seemed absurd and we retreated from the water younger than when we entered it.

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Speaking of swimming, I must report that this is a dubious time to be in the market for a swimsuit - for which I am. I have stretched my elastic waist band to the point just short of failure.

The need is dire.

Now I've never worn a Speedo, never will. I'll leave that number to the Olympic swimmers and those edgy Europeans.

But I'm also not in the habit of swimming in the equivalent of my blue jeans. And that's almost what the fashion industry has guys doing these days. I mean the average swimsuit for fellows weighs in at several pounds dry, before adding water. There are yards of material to these suits that are also called board shorts and which might keep one toasty during cold weather.

It seems, however, that I have little alternative to picking from the season's swimsuit, long john looking leftovers. I know if I sport the Speedo or if the elastic finally gives - well, someone on shore is certain to call the sheriff.