My dad loved Christmas, but I think May and November Election
Days were his favorite holidays of the year.
He was our Jackson 6 precinct committeeman for around 20 years, and of all the things I was proud of him for, that was at the top of
my list, as he constantly reminded us of our responsibility as Americans
to vote -- it was a gift of democracy.
Helping others exercise that
right was his gift.
He prepped for election days early, making sure that every adult
in Jackson 6 was registered to vote. I remember
riding along with him on those days, and he’d point out each house, telling me
if the occupants were Democrats or Republicans.
“Now these people, here,” he’d
say, pointing to a neat white house on Meadowbrook Drive, “cancel each other
out – she’s a Republican and he’s a Democrat.”
In those days - the late 60’s, early 70’s - he was a firm
believer in the straight ticket. He was always
the first to vote each election morning - it took him less than 30 seconds. Clarence Wichman, the
poll sheriff, would check to make sure the machine was in proper order, then
waved dad in with a flourish. Dad
stepped into the machine, pulled the curtain closed, popped a straight ticket
lever and opened the curtain. In later years, I remember he agonized a bit
over crossing party lines to vote for a friend running for county
commissioner. “He’s a good
man, even if he’s a Democrat,” dad said.
Most of Jackson 6 was rural.
It stretched from our farm on the near east side of Seymour, east on US
50 to the fancy new Mutton Creek subdivision, then down US 31 South to where 31
crossed I-65, just past our "bottom ground" that's now a part of the refuge. Dad knew everyone in
Jackson 6, knew their politics, and greeted everyone who came to the polls at
the Union Hall on South 31 by name. He
made them happy to be there, happy to be doing their duty. It was his gift, I tell you.
Election days started early.
Well before 5:00 AM, dad would drive to the Cake Box Bakery in town and pick
up donuts for his poll workers. Each
party precinct committeeman had to supply an inspector, a clerk, a judge and a sheriff. These were always the same people – local
women (and Mr. Wichman) who took their responsibility very seriously. I don’t remember who did what (except Mr. Wichman),
but I can still see those women bending over the Jackson 6 precinct rolls,
finding names and checking addresses, watching carefully as signatures were written
onto cards. There would be no such thing
as voter fraud in Jackson 6.
Dad would be in and out of the Union Hall all day, greeting
voters, picking up lunch for the poll workers, driving elderly voters to the hall
to vote. When the polls closed at 6, he made
sure supper was there for the workers.
He watched as they completed their jobs – signing off on the poll books,
mysteriously taking the vote count from
the machine and closing up the machines until the next election, the judge (I
think) taking
the count down to the courthouse in Brownstown.
Dad would head to Brownstown as well, when all the ladies
were safely on their way home and the Union Hall was put back in order. I went with him once, and immediately understood the thrill of watching vote counts posted in the lobby of the courthouse, candidates, party officials and excited onlookers of both parties all around us.
When I was 12, I stood outside the polls as dad asked me,
and handed out matchbooks and emery boards for Republican candidates.
When I was 16, dad put me to work driving people to the
polls.
When I was 18, he was there with me when I voted for the
first time.
When I was in college, I came home and worked as a real poll
worker for him. I think I was the clerk.
I got a paycheck.
When we moved back to Indiana after living in Akron for 7
years, dad wasn’t the precinct committeeman any longer. But since we lived in a house dad gave us on
the farm, we lived in Jackson 6, and still voted at the Union Hall. I shocked the ladies – some who I knew, a few
who were unfamiliar - at the desk when I asked for a “D” in the first May primary
I voted in. “That’s Georgie,” they
whispered, “Richard’s daughter. She took
a D.” They continued to whisper, and I
smiled as I pulled the lever for the curtain and made my choices, choices I had
decided upon long before entering the voting booth, having studied both the
candidates and the issues, just as dad taught me. And when I left, I told the ladies, “It’s OK,
he knows I took a D.”
Over the years since, I’ve taken D’s in most primaries, but
took an R once to vote for my brother, an R once to vote for a friend. Consequently, I get political mailings/recycle
bin fodder from both parties.
Over the years since, I wish I
still had my dad to talk to about candidates,
policy and elections.
This year, I miss him more than
ever.
This year, I voted early. I live on the same road, on the same patch of land, but am now in
Jackson 7, and vote way across on the west side of town. No curtains to pull - we vote digitally, or electronically, or whatever you
call the method we now use. I
thanked the poll workers there that Friday in October – I know what a long day
it is, and they have so many of them now that Indiana residents can vote
several weeks before Election day.
I have no idea of who my precinct committeeperson is. (I blame myself for this - it would be easy enough to google.)
No one was there to shake our hands and thank us for voting.
No one comes to our door to check on our registration or to tell us the key reasons we should vote Democrat or Republican.
Maybe it’s Harry’s happy greetings that have kept candidates and precinct committeepeople away. (He is a little intimidating, in his big goofy way.)
Maybe it’s Covid.
Maybe it’s just that no one cares like my dad did.
Thanks, dad.
