Vote November 6

I voted today. 

Right now, some of you are probably saying, “Dang! Was that today?”

No worries, you haven’t missed it, Election Day is still more than a week away. I took advantage of the ballot coming ahead of the Big Day and filed it out already.

Voting is a lot easier with mail-in ballots, you don’t have to get out of your jammies to do it, or get a sitter for the kids, or catch a ride, or any of those other, pesky details that are often a part of leaving the house. All you need is an ink pen and your voter’s pamphlet—you don’t even need a stamp anymore!

As convenient as all that is, I still kind of miss heading out to my local polling place—for me it was the Senior Center in Packwood. The line was never too long, and it was fun to chat with my neighbors, and buy some bake sale goodies. Usually, I had to undergo some gentle chiding by the sweet—some not as sweet—little old ladies who were tasked with implementing the voting process. Seems I was always the last in my family to vote and they always pointed it out to me that everyone else had already managed to vote by the time I showed up. “Best for last!” I would proclaim and sign the book.

I can’t say I liked punching the metal stylus into the appropriate slot next to my candidate’s name—on more than one occasion I had to request a replacement ballot. Once because I didn’t properly insert my ballot and so all my votes were “off” and once because—well, I’m very pretty, have I mentioned that?

But the very best thing about going out to vote was getting the little “I Voted” sticker afterwards, sort of a good citizenship gold star. Walking around the grocery or hardware store afterwards, I felt this real sense of shared community, all of us sporting our democracy participation awards.

I think I’ll write a letter to the fine people in charge of elections and suggest they include a “I Voted” sticker with our mail in ballots next time. Some things are just too good to be improved on, and “I Voted” stickers are one of them.

Mobbed Up Commie

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist Party.

I mean, I like parties—especially the kind that serve cake. I often joke that I would join any committee that serves cookies and have served my share of time on a wide variety of committees, with an array of cookie types. For the record, Tea Cakes are my favorite.

I’ve been a lot of things in my life: daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother. I was once—albeit briefly—even a Girl Scout. ‘’Be Prepared, is the Girl Scout motto, and I occasionally was. I was not prepared, however, to *sell* cookies, I was more prepared to *eat* them, and my time as a Girl Scout had a sell-by date.

In the early ‘70’s, I became a card-carrying member of the Young Republicans. I sent Ronald Reagan’s failed presidential campaign a whole dollar—which my father gave me, probably some sort of campaign finance violation, now that I think about it-- and they sent me a Young Republican’s card. Sadly, no cookies came along with it and, perhaps for that reason, political activism took a back seat in my life.

Until now.  

These days, my political activism has climbed out of the back seat, hollered “Shotgun!”—which is what you say when you want to sit up front, but not yet behind the wheel—and started paying closer attention. I care where America is headed.

I subscribe to the radical notion that libraries are A Very Good Thing and that our tax dollars should continue to fund them. I believe that children are our future, that we owe them clean air, clean water, and renewable energy sounds like a good plan to me. I believe that education is the great equalizer. I believe in the humanity of all people, where everyone from every walk of life, has a shot at the American Dream; that we humans have more commonalities than differences; and that elk are the juvenile delinquents of the animal kingdom and are delicious when served with gravy.  Pretty much most of that aligns with the Democratic Party—I’m guessing the Elk Thing, not so much-- and while I don’t have a card proclaiming me to be a “Young Democrat”—or even a middle-aged one—that’s probably how I identify. I don’t think that makes me a member of a “mob”, as the POTUS called me—I think that makes me a person, and American who plans to “vote Blue.”

Carolyn Long, People over Politics

 I have met both candidates for Congressional Dist. #3, but it’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen Jaime Herrera Beutler in person. I have been frustrated with her unwillingness to meet with her constituents and hear our concerns. “We the People” are her boss, after all.

 I am very impressed with challenger Carolyn Long’s background as an educator. The fact that she literally teaches a course in “Public Civility”—how to go out into your community and have difficult conversations—gives me great hope for healing our divide. Heaven knows we have a lot to bridge. 

Cookies would probably - couldn’t hurt, either.

So Very Pretty

In the Sume Family, if one of us does something bone-headed—some might call it “stupid”—we just look at them with understanding and say kindly, “It’s ok, you’re very pretty.”

If I am the receiving end of this comment, I often respond “Thank you.” Usually followed by 

“Hey!” as the meaning behind the perceived compliment slowly sinks in.

Last Sunday---and please don’t think I’m bragging here— I was extra-special pretty. Industrial strength pretty. Capital P Pretty. I was so pretty I even self-identified as pretty.

It’s a long story, and kind of impossible to explain—one of those you had to be there stories--- but thank heavens no one was there to witness it. I won’t try to explain exactly what happened, but I will give you the pivotal pieces of the story and let your imagination do the heavy lifting.

I was hurrying to visit my grandson---a visit that would entail two of my favorite things: holding the baby and watching football. I parked, got out of the car. I was wearing sunglasses that I decided to toss on the dash just as I was closing the door. The sunglasses fell back out of the car, missed being crushed by the closing door and dropped on the grass, unscathed. Pretty lucky, right?

Anyway—some time between congratulating myself on my good luck and successfully securing the sunglasses back inside the car I managed to close the side of my face—specifically my left eye—in the car door.

That’s right. I shut the door—not on my sunglasses—I shut the door ON. MY. FACE.

Who shuts the car door on their face? I mean, how would you even DO that?

The answers to those questions are “me” and “I truly have no idea.”

I was standing there, cupping my eye, leaning my head on the car roof, thinking “Boy, that really HURTS,” trying to decide if I was going to cry or if I should just suck it up and go hold my grandbaby when I became aware that the falling rain was warmer than one would expect in October. As I might have mentioned---I’m very pretty. And pretty bloody. I was quite the sight to see, and my son was dispatched to the drugstore for medical supplies.

Not me, not my eyebrow, not even close.

By the time he returned, I had bleeding under control. As he carefully applied the liquid bandaid to my brow, he very gently broke it to me that my career as an eyebrow model was probably a thing of the past, but--no worries!—I was still VERY PRETTY. 

And, clearly, I am. So very Pretty.

Harry’s Harvest Tradition

I took a trip down Hwy 508 the other day, past Harry’s old gray house near the blinking four-way stop light, accompanying a friend on her annual quest for the perfect pumpkins.

The sun wasn’t coming warm through the windows the car this year, instead, the sky was overcast and gray, the rain more threat than promise.

I looked to see if the pumpkins had been harvested yet--- on this, the opening weekend of the fall decorating season—and they had; all were lined up in orderly groups on Harry’s former front porch, the Honor Can with its bills and coins, standing at attention, ever ready to supply the change needed to pay for your selections.

There they all were, lined up, piled up, group together by size and purpose. Tall skinny pumpkins stood with rounded shoulders among more rotund pumpkins of all sizes, their blank orange faces an invitation to carve, to create, to bring life to all the expressions that imagination can conjure. Tiny baby pumpkins remind me that, in another season or two, my grandson will discover for himself the joy of digging out the seeds and stringy, sloppy slime of pumpkin guts.

The lovely deep red of the Cinderella pumpkins—perfect for pies—shine brightly, waiting patiently for people to come and turn them into something magical. Even now my mouth waters with the thought of spicy pumpkin bread, pumpkin roll-up with a smooth, cream cheese filling, pumpkin dip that pairs perfectly with gingersnaps. Oddly enough, I don’t really care much for pumpkin pie. Try not to judge me.

 There were plenty of white pumpkins—one can’t help but imagine them as ghosts—and multi-varieties of gourds for fall decorating.

Harry has been gone for several seasons now, gone to his reward, gone to that Great Garden in the sky. His daughter, along with family and friends, still carries on the planting and the harvesting in his honor, and I feel blessed to have some of Harry’s Harvest adorning my doorstep.