I have this thing about voting – I kind of feel it’s our privilege and duty to do so.
No vote? No right to complain.
I pulled out of my new driveway tonight, and drove down a lovely country road to my new polling place. It was located inside a lovely retirement community; in fact, it was the final residence of my sister’s father-in-law, and I felt a smile as I walked through its familiar corridors. The walls were lined with beautiful artwork, and it felt like I was walking into a comfy, cozy, familiar home.
I followed the signs until I located the room that housed the voting machines. I walked up the volunteers who were sitting in chairs behind a long table, and found the spot where I was to register. I looked at the woman and smiled, “I hope this is where I vote! I have just recently moved in a new home.”
A voice beside her said, “You most certainly have!” I was shocked to see that the voice belonged to the woman who so lovingly tended the house I now live in for the last 42 years. “And we loved your past piece in the paper. It was lovely. Just lovely.”
“Thank you!” I said. "Thank you so much." I was so pleasantly surprised, and gushed about how much I loved the home.
“Are you enjoying the flowers coming up? Have the azaleas bloomed? Did the hydrangea come up?” I answered her questions, sharing the various surprises that have popped up in the gardens surrounding the house.
“I have one question, though," I asked, "What exactly is coming up in the big garden next to the wooden deck? The garden surrounded by rocks? They look like tall, tall weeds, and I almost yanked them but I had a feeling they might be something else.”
“That’s Horseradish!” she said with a smile. "You can dig it up, wash it and I think you soak it for a while. I might have a recipe…”
“Oh, I hope you do! I love horseradish!” I was so excited, and relieved that I hadn’t yanked it all out.
She thought for a moment, and said, “I’ll look for the recipe…"
And then I heard a voice coming from what appeared to be a 100 year-old woman sitting on the far end of the table.
“Oh just GOOGLE it!” she said with a shout.
Yeah. The 100 year-old woman at the Voter’s registration table remembered Google.
I’ve been trumped by a woman with blue hair.