Labor Day in the 1960s was a very different kind of holiday.

There were no inflatable obstacle courses, no food trucks, no Bluetooth speakers and nobody had to post a picture of the potato salad on Facebook to prove they were having fun.

There were just two kinds of potato salad: German and American. The German kind had potatoes, oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. The American kind had potatoes, mayonnaise, paprika, salt and pepper. I liked them both, and if it were up to me, that was all I would eat.

There were also two kinds of desserts: apple pie and apple crisp. Nobody asked if you wanted something gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free or vegan. You were offered apple pie or apple crisp, and if you didn't like either one, there was probably a piece of watermelon somewhere.

Labor Day meant going to somebody's house, usually somebody with a backyard big enough to accommodate several families, a charcoal grill and a collection of lawn chairs that had been sitting in the garage since Memorial Day.

The adults smoked two kinds of cigarettes: Winston and Camel. They smoked while they cooked, while they ate and while they stood around talking about things we kids weren't supposed to listen to. Teenagers smoked the cigarettes too, except they had to sneak behind the garage or down the road where they thought nobody could see them. Of course, everybody could see them.

There were two kinds of cars: Cadillacs and station wagons. The Cadillacs were enormous. They seemed to have enough chrome to reflect the entire neighborhood. You could probably have parked a station wagon inside one. Station wagons were for families. Lots of families. They had long wooden-looking sides, enormous back seats and enough room in the rear for three kids, two sleeping bags, a cooler and whatever else your mother decided to bring along.

There were two kinds of card games: Gin Rummy and, for the men, Poker. The adults played at a card table while we chased each other in games of tag shouting, “You’re it!” Occasionally somebody would slap down a card and say, “Gin!” with the kind of satisfaction that made you think they had just won the Super Bowl.

There were two kinds of outdoor activities: Horseshoes and Bocce ball. Horseshoes was the dangerous one, at least from a kid's perspective. You had to stand somewhere nearby while grown men threw heavy pieces of metal through the air and everyone acted as though this was perfectly normal. Bocce ball seemed safer, a bowling game only without any pins. You rolled balls toward a target ball called a pallino and tried to get your ball closer to it than everybody else’s ball. This was considered recreation. And somehow, it was.

There were no video games. No cell phones. No devices at all, unless somebody had brought a little transistor radio and was listening to baseball or music. We ran barefoot through the grass. We ate too much. We drank lemonade from a big glass pitcher. We chased fireflies after dark. Someone's uncle fell asleep in a lawn chair. Someone's little brother cried. Someone got a bee sting. Someone always got reprimanded for something.

When it was time to go home, the adults gathered up the folding chairs, the leftover potato salad and the half-empty packs of Winstons and Camels. We climbed into the station wagon, usually three kids across the back seat, and headed home with the windows down, and no seatbelts.

Labor Day meant summer was almost over. School was coming. But for one more day, there were two kinds of potato salad, two kinds of dessert, two kinds of cigarettes, two kinds of cars and two kinds of card games.

And that was more than enough.