Election Day

I first voted in a Presidential election in 1972, on November 7, only a month after my 21st birthday. Arthur and I were living in Coudersport, in an apartment above Uncle Roy's grocery store. Our apartment, with its big window looking out on Main Street, was the headquarters for the Potter County for McGovern campaign. It was my first foray into local politics, rubbing elbows with the Galeton Democratic machine and the County Chairman, Earl Howard. To say there were few supporters of George McGovern among the old-school Potter County Dems is an understatement.

Our support of the candidate who opposed the Vietnam War amid all the social unrest in the nation sowed discord within our strongly-Republican families, though some chalked-up our political leanings on our youth and "idealistic" viewpoint. Those times were especially difficult for my father, a World War II veteran with memories of his days as a tailgunner on a Flying Fortress.

I look back on Election Day 1972 with some memories in sharp focus - walking through fallen leaves on the sidewalks of Coudersport in the sunshine, musing how normal that it seemed when the world was falling down around us. Then there was the red corduroy pant suit I chose to wear that day with its wide bell-bottom trousers and jacket with wide lapels, a soft white blouse underneath.

What I don't remember is voting. It must have been in the courthouse and I know it was on a paper ballot but that memory cannot be coaxed to the surface. I remember driving to various polling locations in the Opel Cadet, popping in to places like the town hall in Millport (still remembering that visit every time I drive by there all these years later) to see how the election was going. The old ladies sitting in their semi-circle with the books spread out around them, trying to be polite but smirking at the thought of anyone but Nixon winning the election.

And when returns began pouring it, chronicled on our black and white television by Walter Cronkite, no one was surprised by anything other than the huge margin of victory by Nixon - a man would would later resign in disgrace.

I was indeed idealistic in 1972 and believed McGovern's words: "I seek the presidency because I believe deeply in the American promise and can no longer accept the diminishing of that promise ... I make one pledge above all others: to seek and speak the truth with all the resources of mind and spirit I command. .. I seek to call American home to those principles that gave us birth."

I've voted in every presidential election since 1972, casting my lot with some winners but many more losers. I've spent the bulk of my life amid folks with vastly different world views as Arthur and I raised our family on this piece of land we love. We've claimed our places here, earning our livings, volunteering to bring music to enrich the collective life of the community in the Arts Council, working to support the public library, participating in a faith community.

Through these years, we've sat beside friends with different beliefs at church, in the community choir, in the conference room at work, in the restaurant and in the bleachers at the basketball game. Sometimes we'd talk together, Sometimes we'd keep quiet. Sometimes they would keep quiet. And through those years, while the chill of disagreement might swirl in the air, never did the icy hate threaten the community we've built together.

But in the recent years, things have changed. While we might disagree about how and why things have changed,  I believe we can agree that indeed things are very different. It's the difference between the chilly breeze of November and the icy winds of January.

Today, Election Day 2020, dawned with waves of anxiety crashing in on me despite my best efforts to breathe deeply. I hear the washing machine spinning in the laundry room downstairs. The school bus rumbled by right on schedule. The smell of eggs frying in the kitchen comes to me, mingled with the slightly scorched smell from coffee that's been on the warmer too long. It seems normal.

But there are so many things that are not normal. It's not felt normal for a very long time. These days, there's no way to sit down with folks sharing different points of view, and it's not just because of Covid-19.

This morning, I wish I had the glittery magic mirror Miss Nancy stared out from at the end of Romper Room School on tv: "Romper, bomber, stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic Mirror, tell me today, how are we ever going to find a new way?"