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Saturday, November 8, 2014

Voting Day: A slice of life

In writing terms a slice of life is when you take an incident, a day, or a thread in someone's life and focus on it. Think a huge photo with a ton of people and then focusing in on the eyes of one person - freezing it on what that one person is seeing for that one moment.

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Our community is in a way the best of both worlds - the country environment and the city atmosphere.

Tuesday was voting day.

The polls are generally always busy around here. Maybe that's a sign pointing to what good citizens we are. The environment is hushed as we unanimously follow the "no talking politics" rule. Unconsciously, we probably take it a bit father than necessary. Even with full polls the atmosphere is usually strangely quiet for the number of people.  Despite the hushed atmosphere, people are very friendly. Complete strangers smile at each other. It's almost a peaceful feel, like the calm before a hurricane.

We walked in and were immediately greeted warmly.  We knew almost everyone there and almost everyone knew us. After we finished voting we walked out of the booths and talked.

But I don't mean talking like in black and white pictures of people in dirty overalls chewing on grass stems and talking about cows. Not that that can't be picturesque and beautiful in its own way. It just that isn't our atmosphere.

Every year without fail the same people run the polls. They are retired teachers and supervisors and social workers. They have masters degrees. They know most voters by name and welcome everyone with a cheery smile.

We're professionals, middle class, run of the mill people. Engineers, teachers, nurses. Modern haircuts, slacks, and sweaters. But somehow in the modern world of chaos and each man-for-himself we've held on to being human in a good sense. We remember more than just names. We remember your dog's name too.

So first we walk in and are greeted by Ms. N. and Mrs. A. Mrs. A. rises even. She wonders if I remember her. I swallow memories. Of course I do. She was Aunt Pat's best friend. Aunt Pat died when I was eight. I really want to hug Mrs. Anne... but in the moment I stupidly wonder if she feels the same way about me. She too hesitates and then wordlessly asks. So we hug and I squeeze my eyes shut and half think, half feel memories of Aunt Pat.

I can just hear some friends of mine laughing at the situation I've just recounted. "How complicated can you make something that simple?" But let me explain. It all happened in less than 5 seconds. It was all so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed. But it epitomizes true beautiful Southern culture. It thinks about the other person rather than one's self. It considers an other's feelings rather than one's own. While Hollywood may romanticize "Southern Belle culture," the real deal lies not so much in hoop skirts and glamor but in quiet everyday thoughtfulness.

We move on to our vicinity table. A lady checks our IDs with the names typed in a three ring binder, then spells them out to another woman who writes them by hand. This proves to be an efficient system and has eradicated voter fraud at the polls (not that I ever heard of it happening before here anyway).

We bump into the couple that lives down the street and say a brief hello, promising to visit each other soon. I reach to hug the lady.

While I'm in the booth I hear someone say, "hello Leslie." Then I hear another voice that sounds like grandma - well the special type of adopted grandmas, in this case she adopted us (for which I'll be forever grateful). Sure enough it's Grandma Z and Grandpa Z. We swap a couple hugs. Meanwhile we converse with another neighbor. She really deserves her own slice of life story. Recently she lost her mother. Right before her death the mother told her to get a dog like she always wanted. So, our neighbor rescued a dog named Maggie and brought her home. Like our little dog when we first got her she's skinny with big, probing brown eyes.

Side note: By the time I get out of the booth everyone knows I'm headed for Dallas and starts asking me about it. It was sweet how everyone cared about me. Also, made me smile at how fast news travels just like in the movies. Only this is good news. Bad news travels too but in the circles like the one I'm describing, it's kept to corner conversations for the most part.

While we talk I see an older couple leaning on each other stop to read a sign directly outside the door. Without their knowing, a towering giant wearing a black vest with a Harvey-Davidson t-shirt underneath and heavy boots comes up behind them. A "biker dude" - not being prejudiced here; that's the term they call themselves around here ;) - in every sense of the word. He was twisting a hat in his hands, though due to his contortions of it I don't know what kind it was. He stood with bent head politely waiting. Mrs. A. noticed within a few minutes and lets him in. Perhaps he was the closest thing to the expected stereotype strangers think inhabit my small town world. But he wasn't the stereotype exactly. He was polite and courteous. It was obvious he was a worker. He added to the kaleidoscope of backgrounds, political views, clothes and mannerisms that make home, well home.

After getting our update on the dog Maggie, we wave goodbye one last time to Mrs. A. and hug Grandma one more time. Grandpa Z's in a hurry but he stops long enough to help an older lady out of her vehicle so she too can cast her vote.

Before we left we heard someone else say the live on our same street. She ends up being parked next to us so we introduce ourselves.

Once we climb into the car, Mom recounts her conversation with Mrs. A. Apparently she still remembers me and really cares because there's that connection with Aunt Pat. I guess we're in the same place. We both care but haven't figured out how to communicate or keep up with each other.

I swallow. Then almost whisper, "I miss her."

"Miss who?"

I rub the edges of my phone. "Aunt Pat. I miss her."

I haven't said that before. I remember her. It was only my second loss. I was young. Sometimes I get angry and saddened because I can't remember as much as I want to. I can talk about other losses. But she is so much harder for some reason. I'm surprised by how much emotion it takes just to say those simple words ten years or more later. But it's also good to say them somehow.

Mom has Mrs. Anne's phone number. I'll see her at run-offs. This time I'll make a point to talk to her longer.