Labor Day, 1992. Remember what you were doing?

I don’t either. But by my best guestimate, that was the last three-day holiday weekend I had off — no work, no worries.

News doesn’t take a holiday and, truthfully, they are busy times for newspapers. There are always events to cover on holidays — Memorial Day ceremonies, parades, car shows, festivals. And of course, there are paper deadlines. Monday deadlines pretty much kill three-day weekends. The paper has to go out on the prescribed day, whether most people are working or not.

So for the past two decades, I have had to work nearly every holiday. It wasn’t always a full day of work. Sometimes, it was a matter of shooting a picture and running by the office for an hour or so. But it was still a work-related commitment.

Last weekend was a true joy. I almost didn’t know what to do with myself with three straight days and almost nothing to do. I knew I needed to mow the yard, but that was about it. I slept in Saturday morning and then Kathy and I made our way to Silverhill to wander around the car show. My wife has a thing for old pickups, ones with big curvy fenders.

As we made our way to the fourth quadrant of the exhibition, there was a dark blue Ford in front of us. She made a beeline for it. I reminded her that we were not supposed to touch the truck. The folks opening the door and looking inside were the car show judges. I got a few shots of her with my big camera, but she wanted one with her phone so she could post it to facebook.

While I was trying to figure out what kind of angle I needed to take advantage of the sun, a man walked up to Kathy and asked, “Do you want to get behind the wheel?” And I thought I had heard some pretty stupid questions before. Before I could walk around to that side of the truck, she was already in the driver’s seat, giving me a thumbs up through the open window. If the keys had been in it, she might have driven off in the 1946 Ford. Well, maybe not, but the thought would have crossed her mind briefly.

 After a mostly lazy afternoon, I fixed supper and had it ready about 7:30. Some clouds were hiding the setting sun. There was a slight breeze and it was so pleasant, we decided to eat outside under the pergola. There is a lot to be said about the calming experience of eating in your backyard. No television to distract us. Instead, there were birds chirping and singing. Marcus even came outside and was quiet for the most part. I guess he wasn’t used to being outside eating. But once he figured out we were eating, he started begging for food. Thankfully, the country cut ribs had decent sized bones. When you’re dealing with a 100-pound Old English Sheepdog, it needs to be a big bone.

Early church (8:15 a.m.) kept me from sleeping in Sunday, but it gave plenty of time to take care of the yard before lunch and than enjoy a mostly quiet afternoon. That lazy day was capped with another al fresco supper.

I got to sleep late again on Monday. When I did get up, shower and shave, my wife asked me if I was fixing to go in to the office. She has never seen me have a long weekend. I didn’t go to the office. In fact, the only thing on the agenda for the day was going to the theater to see the newest big screen adaptation of “The Great Gatsby.” It’s actually a pretty good version. It does include more details from the book than other versions. And the acting is not as stiff as Robert Redford’s failed attempt.

I realize it is hard to include everything from a novel in a screenplay because of time limitations. I kind of like the way they “tweaked” the story and had Nick Carraway writing/narrating the story as therapy. I only had two problems with this version. They changed the advice from Nick’s father. I have always thought that “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” is one of the best lines in the book — and it’s on the opening page. The paraphrased version in the movie is not as strong.

The other problem was the music. The story is set in the Roaring 20s, the Jazz Age, when music was changing radically. But instead of introducing young viewers to jazz standards, the producers decided to take modern music and try to give it a jazz makeover. In my opinion, it didn’t work. Some songs got close, but hip-hop and scat aren’t the same thing.

But I digress. When Tuesday morning finally rolled around, I wanted to sleep in again. Then I remembered that work beckoned. I couldn’t be late, because I was one of the key presenters at a meeting that morning, and the presentation had already been delayed twice.

Getting back into the swing of the workweek was not that hard. But looking back, I think I could get used to long weekends.

William Moore is the Senior Editor at Gulf Coast Newspapers. He can be reached at wmoore@gulfcoastnewspapers.com