I voted by absentee ballot yesterday.
I’m not one to do that, ordinarily. I like going to the polls on voting day. I like the atmosphere of civic duty. I like the people standing around (even in the rain) with posters, hoping vainly to influence somebody at the last minute, or just drinking in the attention. I like the fact that I often meet people I know there from the community, since it’s one of the few things we do as a group any more.
I like the solemnity of going into the booth and drawing the curtain to maintain my privacy. I like to stand there for a moment and savor what I’m about to do, and the fact that I have the right to do it. I’m such a sentimental sap that sometimes there are even tears in my eyes, and not just if my candidate is likely to lose.
I remember noticing as a young child that school was closed on election day because our building was used as a polling place. This gave me a warm feeling about elections right from the start, since I disliked school rather intensely. They’d haul the machines in the day before, with their arcane levers and apparatus that looked a bit like the insides of a piano. It all seemed very adult to me, and I looked forward to the day when I, too, would be a grownup and voting.
But this year I’m going to be out of town on Tuesday, November 2. So yesterday I got an absentee ballot. I felt a grim satisfaction in marking that long row of Republican names, although a couple of the Democrats running are my friends. Straight Republican ticket this year, for obvious reasons.
I’m hoping for a Republican landslide. And then I’m hoping the winners do right by the hope we have invested in them. I say “hope,” because it’s certainly not trust.
