Working the Polls
Okay, so I know it has been awhile--a long while--since I posted anything. There are various reasons for that, but none-the-less. . .
Yesterday was the Virginia gubernatorial election,, and I worked the polls. Working the polls was fun, and enlightening. Yet, it also had it's downside. The downside I might talk about somewhere else, but the amusing points were rather amusing.
I currently live in small town America, a place I am not comfortable in, and things like election day remind you of some of the more amusing points of life in these parts. Voting places are in schools, churches, and firehouses. These spots are nothing too unusual; except when you listen to the talk of the workers. It seems that everyone wants a poll at a firehouse because you have a kitchen. Yup. You know you are in the country when folks look forward to working a poll at a firehouse so they can cook up butter beans and pots of chili all day. When I took my break and came out to the little pokey town I live in to vote, the workers there had enough food to get them through their fifteen hour work day and Armageddon. They were in a firehouse, and they took use of that kitchen.
As for the poll I was at, I worked the High School Band Room. I hadn't been in the there since 1994, and I won't lie. I took a deep breath before I walked in the door. The walls have a new coat of white paint, the doors to storage, practice, and instrument rooms are bright yellow, and stencils on the walls remind the students of practice in green and yellow (the school colors are green and gold). Shelves lined the walls with trophies of the band, and band composites hung on those newly painted walls. The band I was part of was a small one, that had been defunct for years, and recently revitalized. We didn't take composites my year, but we had a collage of snapshots in a frame. It was still there, with its brown frame and neon yellow and green borders. Two composites and that frame were not hung, as they were propped against the wall in the front of the room. These frames were somewhat obvious, but they were obscured by the voting machines. When I came into the room, and while we were setting up the machines I caught a glimpse of the photos from my year. When I caught a glimpse of myself at seventeen I said an "Oh My God," but that quickly subsided. Voting machines had to be plugged in, voters had to be checked in, and when the day finally came to a close the votes had to be counted. No one noticed the tiny portrait of me, but the day did bring in loads of people I had once known.
That is something else about a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and for most people they hadn't seen me in years. Handfuls of people stopped by to say hello, most didn't recognize me with glasses and red hair, and catch ups occurred all day. Sometimes catching glimpses of people you know is nice, warm, and jovial. Not that I want to stay in this small town much longer, but sometimes the sense of community amuses you on a long, fifteen hour day.
Yesterday was the Virginia gubernatorial election,, and I worked the polls. Working the polls was fun, and enlightening. Yet, it also had it's downside. The downside I might talk about somewhere else, but the amusing points were rather amusing.
I currently live in small town America, a place I am not comfortable in, and things like election day remind you of some of the more amusing points of life in these parts. Voting places are in schools, churches, and firehouses. These spots are nothing too unusual; except when you listen to the talk of the workers. It seems that everyone wants a poll at a firehouse because you have a kitchen. Yup. You know you are in the country when folks look forward to working a poll at a firehouse so they can cook up butter beans and pots of chili all day. When I took my break and came out to the little pokey town I live in to vote, the workers there had enough food to get them through their fifteen hour work day and Armageddon. They were in a firehouse, and they took use of that kitchen.
As for the poll I was at, I worked the High School Band Room. I hadn't been in the there since 1994, and I won't lie. I took a deep breath before I walked in the door. The walls have a new coat of white paint, the doors to storage, practice, and instrument rooms are bright yellow, and stencils on the walls remind the students of practice in green and yellow (the school colors are green and gold). Shelves lined the walls with trophies of the band, and band composites hung on those newly painted walls. The band I was part of was a small one, that had been defunct for years, and recently revitalized. We didn't take composites my year, but we had a collage of snapshots in a frame. It was still there, with its brown frame and neon yellow and green borders. Two composites and that frame were not hung, as they were propped against the wall in the front of the room. These frames were somewhat obvious, but they were obscured by the voting machines. When I came into the room, and while we were setting up the machines I caught a glimpse of the photos from my year. When I caught a glimpse of myself at seventeen I said an "Oh My God," but that quickly subsided. Voting machines had to be plugged in, voters had to be checked in, and when the day finally came to a close the votes had to be counted. No one noticed the tiny portrait of me, but the day did bring in loads of people I had once known.
That is something else about a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and for most people they hadn't seen me in years. Handfuls of people stopped by to say hello, most didn't recognize me with glasses and red hair, and catch ups occurred all day. Sometimes catching glimpses of people you know is nice, warm, and jovial. Not that I want to stay in this small town much longer, but sometimes the sense of community amuses you on a long, fifteen hour day.
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