The Great American Mixing Pot

We have a rule here about politics. None are tolerated.
Good reason. We come from all over the political spectrum.
But I think this is legal. I know everyone is sick of politics but I just have to make some observations.

I was a poll worker this past Tuesday. I am a great believer in the political process. Haven’t missed a vote since I was eighteen, not even a minor skirmish on the town council. I am fond of anyone who votes, be they red, blue or polka-dotted.

So there I was at the polls on election day. All day. (And it wasn’t entirely an excuse to keep from writing.) Anyone who doesn’t believe in the process should be a poll worker. It’s certainly a priceless experience for a writer.

There was the man who came in, signed in, presented his voter’s card, took a ballot, went to the machine, then refused to vote.

“No one here I want to vote for,” he said.

Poll workers – bless their hard-working, dedicated souls – asked him why he bothered to come to the polls.

Well, he’d always voted before.

They offered to cancel out his ballot.

No, he wanted to vote. He just didn’t want to vote for anyone on the ballot. Nor did he want to write in.

But he did want to do his civic duty. He finally left, never having cast a ballot for one candidate, and having presented the poll workers with a big problem. What to do with the ballot he took but never used, and which is logged in the registration book? It messed up their count, a sacred responsibility.
But by golly, he would be on the registration rolls of having voted.

Then there were the families that came in. Fathers who brought their
six-year-old son or daughter to show them what it was to vote. They would stand in the partition together. Big feet. Little feet. And there were, of course, the caretakers. The many women who brought in their elderly parents and waited patiently while a poll worker just as patiently explained new-fangled machines to them.

You learn stuff, too. There was the man in painter’s overalls who came in with puzzles. He’d cut out two pieces of construction paper and placed them both on the table, one above the other and asked which was the longest. The bottom one, said all the poll workers cajoled into playing the game. Then move the bottom piece to the top and the new bottom piece is larger. Turns out both were the same size. An optical illusion. Try it. One of the poll workers was a teacher and she would include the exercise in her lesson plan the next day. He also had a sketch of a magical frog that turned into a horse if you turned it slightly. He was absolutely joyful at entertaining the poll workers.

After that entertaining break came someone who had moved from one precinct to another, though it was only an across-the-street- journey of maybe a hundred feet. She had been back and forth three times between precinct locations all afternoon trying to straighten it out. Four hours later she voted. That’s how much she cared.

People talked to each other at the polls but they were very careful, I noticed, not to talk about politics. They were there to vote. And vote they did, but as they waited they talked about families, the weather, the wait. A great American mixing pot. The striking thing was that in a precinct that was politically mixed, not one harsh word was heard. Not one angry complaint about having to go to another precinct or wait the thirty minutes or more it took to discover why a name wasn't on the list.

And the poll workers? Some worked seventeen straight hours and more, and the esprit de corps they have is awe inspiring. It gave me a new appreciation of something that so many of us take for granted. I think I’ll volunteer again next time, especially if there's a work in progress.

UPDATE ON WORK IN PROGRESS

I promised to keep a writer's diary on the new work in progress. I reluctantly report I failed the first week. Miserably.
Goal was to write forty pages. Progress was fifteen. My excuse is partly the above, and partly because the copy-edited version of the book I just finished came in the mail and must be reviewed, corrected and sent back by next Tuesday. Another chance to tinker. It is the third time I have read the book beginning-to-end in a month. Will have to read it again in another two or three weeks when the galleys comes in. (For those non writers out there, the manuscript usually goes through the following processes: submission, revisions, approval (or disapproval) of copy and line editing changes, then a final review after page proofs. Still time to make changes but they are frowned upon at this latter stage.

It is at this time when you (at least me) are sick of the book and honestly believe it is complete junk and will end your career forever. One more read and I’ll burn it.

But the good news is I really love the people in the new, new book. There’s excitement when I sit down at the keyboard. The characters are beginning to take over already, something that usually doesn’t happen until farther into the book. In fact they are chafing at the bit, wondering why I'm not paying more attention to THEM.

Will update you next week.