Election Day

Elections have changed since I was a kid. That thought hit me this morning as The Old Goat, Tinker, and I drove down to Stroud to cast our ballots in the primary run-off election. As usual, we were voters #1, #2, and #3. The Old Goat likes being the first person to vote in our precinct. The elections have changed because they are less personal, less like neighbors asking for votes. The Alabama governor's race is downright embarrassing. Two bright guys seeking the nomination by hacking the other to pieces. Candidates don't get and visit anymore. They are polished cut-outs instead of real people. The Old Goat is devoted to a fellow running for county commissioner because he sat on Dad's front porch and talked about how how the weather was. Didn't matter what was discussed, the fact that the guy took the time to talk to Dad was all that it took to gain his support. That kind of personal politics are lost now. No other candidate dropped by the house.

My political maturation was greatly influenced by my Grandfather Simpson and Grandmother Perry (the Blessed Saint Rebecca's mother). In the first instance, Grandfather Simpson, who was illiterate, would save all of the cards given to him by candidates. The cards were nothing more than a business card with a picture of the candidate and some vitals on party affiliation, office sought, and the required line about appreciating your vote. On the back was either the Alabama or Auburn football schedule for the upcoming season. That, in itself, would be reason to keep the card. Don't want to lose track of the football season. Anyway, Grandfather Simpson would stack all of the cards then shuffle through them for days prior to election day. As a little boy just learning to read, I would read each card to him as he weighed the relative merits of each candidate. The candidates for whom he decided to vote he would stick on the right side of the front door jam. One election day, he would take that stack of cards to the polls, give them to the lady who conducted the voting, and she would vote his choices for him. One has to assume that she complied with his wishes but it was all a matter of trust. Election evening, I would sit with him as the results were announced. It was a personal triumph when the results agreed with his choices; it was cause for worry when the majority disagreed with him. I don't think he ever talked to an elected official in his life but he took his job as a voter very seriously.

My Grandmother Perry was a closet anarchist. She complained bitterly about the government. She went beyond cynicism. She had an abiding dislike for things political. I've thought about her animosity and have ascribed it to the Depression, the Great War (in which she lost family), then Korea (where her sons served) and the Southeast Asia experience (when her grandsons served). She was the genuine article peace-nik, no pot or LSD required. Once she was complaining about how candidates were visiting the house, asking for support. She said, "you can't even throw the dishwater out the backdoor without hitting a candidate." I think it pained her that I spent most of my life in public service.